Six Metres of Pavement

by Farzana Doctor

  While he munched the cookies, he chided himself for his misguided desire to spend more time with Daphne, via the writing class. He took another gulp of tea, this time burning the roof of his mouth and a momentary fit of vengeance overcame him. Perhaps he’d send Daphne a bill for the course registration, or maybe a bitter-sounding letter. How would he word it, though? He put fingers to keys, but his mind remained blank. He ate another cookie.

  Then his real desire for signing up for the course — the true motivation — came to mind. He’d been envious of Daphne’s positive changes, her sober and positive thinking. She’d seemed to procure for herself a sort of fresh start, complete with pastel yellow dresses that exposed bare knees in the grey of winter. The promise of getting over his terrible past, just as she’d been able to do, was what Ismail coveted. He abandoned the tea and biscuits and returned to the computer.

  Ismail closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and willed the memories forward. He listened to his restless breathing for over a minute and waited. Then, they stepped forward slowly at first, tottering forward with reluctance, like a child just learning to walk.

  —

  On the morning of her death, Ismail put Zubi in her car seat, strapping her into the complicated array of belts that always confused him. He shut the door and watched Zubi reach for the “Baby on Board” sign hanging on the window to her right. She grabbed the bright yellow diamond, testing the suction cup that held it in place.

  Rehana had dressed Zubi in a light pink summer dress and tiny red sandals. She snapped two yellow butterfly-shaped barrettes in her hair. The daycare’s air conditioning had been malfunctioning that week, so Rehana made sure to dress Zubi in clothes that would keep her cool.

  Ismail’s next memory was at the morgue. She was still clothed in the cotton dress and sandals, but one of her barrettes was missing. He found it later on the back seat of the car, a single hair stuck into its clasp. He imagined her yanking at it while she cried out in distress for her mother to come and take her home. Eventually, as the car grew hotter than any kind of hell Ismail could imagine, the barrette fell to the floor.

  He only had a minute or two with her at the morgue. After that, his memories of her came to a full stop.

  For some time, Ismail kept that barrette with him, in his pocket, or briefcase, like a kind of talisman. He’d take it out sometimes to look at, imagining he could still smell the scent of her baby shampoo. Later, when he bought a new car, he placed it in the glove compartment, a keepsake and a reminder of an old love and an enduring mistake.

  While Ismail slumped at the kitchen table, the barrette left his mind and other memories took their place in the queue, jostling noisily to be seen and heard: the police investigation, the funeral, the marriage breakdown. They rushed forward in quick staccato flashes; Bill Todd’s blue eyes, the imam saying a few prayers on a sweltering August day, Rehana’s brother-in-law loading her suitcases into the boot of his Ford. These were all things Ismail knew well and were not what he wanted to write. These things had nothing to do with Zubi.

  What was evading him was Zubi’s life, the time before. He rubbed his closed eyes, trying to massage out a mental picture of something earlier, something of her playing, or eating, or her living. What were her favourite songs? Her best-loved toy? Ismail couldn’t come up with any GESTURES, INTERNAL, STRUGGLE, CONFLICT TO BE RESOLVED, AND HABITS. After so many years, it was hopelessly difficult to remember her brief eighteen months of life. He focused on physical description. What shade of brown were her eyes? He became paralyzed with the unbearable thought that he could — and had already started — to forget her.

  And so he began to type, hesitantly at first, his fingers tapping out a few letters at a time, followed by an insistent reach for the backspace key. Then, gaining momentum, words skittered over the screen, paragraphs colonizing blank spaces. He furtively wrote a fiction of a baby who became a toddler, who grew to be a preschooler, a young child, an adolescent, and then a young adult. Ismail wasn’t able to parent the real child, but he could grow another, make-believe, child in his head. She was beautiful, and made friends easily, like Rehana. Although she had many male admirers, she was wise enough to hold off until she was older for a serious relationship. She studied engineering in university. He filled five pages of fantasy and then, disgusted, closed the document without saving it. He had an urge to throw the laptop across the room, smash it with bare hands. Instead, he forced himself into stillness, holding his head, breathing fast. He lamented that Zubi, his dear Zubeida, would forever be missing from his story just as she had been missing from her own.

  And this is what finally allowed Ismail to cry. It wasn’t his usual regret and crusted-over self-loathing. It was sadness, for Zubi, for Rehana, for himself. True sorrow, for what hadn’t been and what wasn’t going to be. Before this, there hadn’t before been any room for Ismail and sadness to cohabitate, for he’d always believed it was a luxury, a privilege he didn’t deserve. Since he built the oven in which she burned, and sent her to her death, he felt everyone else could be sad. But not him.

  But there it was. And he took it, accepted it for himself, for the first time. Finally.

  There was nothing else to do but to weep and there was no stopping it even if Ismail had wanted to. The tears took him over, forcing their way forward and he bobbed in their waves, holding onto the edge of the table so he wouldn’t be pulled under. He sobbed tears that had waited patiently, almost two decades, to arrive. He crumpled over the computer and cried until his chest hurt and his throat was sore.

  Eventually, Ismail raised his head to see that afternoon’s light had softened into evening’s dusk. He listened to the quiet around him. It might have been a relief to hear the ladies on his street yelling across their gardens to one another, or calming to listen to the drone of his neighbour’s television through the thin walls. But all was silent that day, and Ismail was left there in the hush, all alone. The noisy memories had left the building for the moment, too, and without them careening and screeching through empty rooms, his home was a vacant frame.

  And then the doorbell rang.

  — * —

  From the living room, Celia could hear them bickering. She strained her neck to peer over the top of the couch and saw Lydia and Antonio sitting at the dining room table. Lydia held a calculator and sifted through a mess of receipts while Antonio glanced at a magazine. Celia listened awhile and although the couple’s quarrel was fairly circular, she was able to ascertain the crux of the matter: money.

  Lydia wanted more money to go to Marco’s education fund, while Antonio was resolute about the need for a new car. Celia judged them for their lack of compromise. Buy a cheaper car and put a little more in the fund. What’s the problem?

  She and José used to have money arguments in the early days of their marriage, each digging heels into the shag carpet of their bedroom. She could barely remember what they fought about now. As time passed, they argued less, their wisdom leading them away from the need to be right or to have their own way. But was that it, really? The convenient explanation made the skin on her lower back itch. She scratched and reconsidered things; in time, she and her husband learned to avoid the issues that made them tense, she distracting herself with one chore or another while José went out to God-knows-where. Now she knew where he disappeared to. Now she wished they argued more about money. Boy, could I ever use a good argument with you now, you lying bastard.

  The sound of Lydia’s chair chafing against linoleum shook Celia from her thoughts. She watched her daughter cross the living room to the foyer and deposit an envelope on the front hall table. She muttered, loud enough for Celia to hear, “This is for number 82, not us. The mailman needs to pay better attention to his sorting.”

  “Babe, just look at this model,” Antonio said, pointing to a glossy photo in his magazine, “If we go cheaper on the car, we’ll just end up regretting it later. We won’t f
ind this deal again.” Lydia glanced over at her mother, who was pretending to mind her own business, and released a dramatic-sounding sigh, before returning to her argument with her husband.

  Like a thief, Celia crept to the foyer. She picked up the envelope, carried it with her to her bedroom-den, holding it tightly to her chest. She shut the door and fingered its sharp edges. She read his name and address: Mr. I. Boxwala, 82 Lochrie Street, Toronto, Ontario, M6K 2B1. She balanced the weight of it in her palm, sniffed the address label’s dried ink. While holding it up to the light, she saw it was a credit card bill or donation solicitation, nothing so interesting. She allowed it to rest on her lap.

  Her eyelids grew heavy. Her lungs flooded with something dark and burdensome and her eyes welled with tears. She sighed, put the envelope on her bed and reached for the tissue box. By now, a widow for over a year, she was used to this force rising up in her, was well acquainted with its spontaneous and pushy nature. She expected her tears to flow without any prodding at all, and, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop them, she waited for the storm to pass.

  She wiped her eyes with a tissue, took a deep breath, recovered a little. She picked up the envelope again. Once more, her eyes became wet, and her breath caught in her chest. She dropped the letter and the sadness released her from its hold. She picked it up again, dropped it, picked it up. The tears started and stopped twice more, like a faucet turning itself on and off. She frowned at the letter, pushing it farther away from her on the bed.

  No, it couldn’t be. Really, it was just a plain white envelope, a stamp, an address! She reviewed all the things that usually made her sad: Mãe? Could it be José? Was she missing her old house? None of these called out to her.

  She looked out her bedroom window, scanned the empty street, and saw a light on at Ismail’s house. She hastily found a sweater and, not wanting to go back to the front door and be questioned by her daughter, she snatched up the first pair of boots she found in her armoire. They were from her pre-widow days, an impulse-buy from a spring sale a few years ago. She fingered the soft leather as she pulled them on, admiring their contrast against her black tights.

  She crept out the side door, closing it quietly behind her, and, in long, determined strides, she crossed the street to number 82. She marched up the steps, and rang the doorbell. Then, she stood on his porch, and waited.

  — * —

  Often, Ismail didn’t answer his phone and sometimes ignored the doorbell. Those who interrupted his privacy were likely to be telemarketers, Greenpeace canvassers, or door-to-door evangelists, anyway. On Hallowe’en, he turned out the lights and went upstairs before the children could come begging for candy. And so, at first, he remained in his chair, expecting whoever-it-was to go away. But the doorbell didn’t stop, its melody playing over and over, like a manic organ grinder.

  Ding-dong-ding-ding, ding-dong-ding-ding, ding-dong-ding-ding, ding-dong-ding-ding.

  He assumed his caller was leaning on the button, and he grew irritated, and then infuriated with their gall. He rushed to the door, wiping his damp face and runny nose with his sleeve. After some fumbling with the lock, it swung open, and there stood the widow, smiling up at him. The doorbell played on. She clutched a white envelope with both hands.

  “Sorry to bother you … I think this is your mail,” she said. Ding-dong-ding-ding, the bell continued.

  “Wait a minute. It’s stuck,” Ismail said, leaning out and poking the doorbell button with his thumb. Mercifully, its noise stopped. “Excuse me, what were you saying?”

  “Um … the postman, he delivered it to number 81, my daughter’s house, but it should have some to you, 82 … this is you, yes?” She said tentatively, holding up the letter for him to see. Her soft voice seemed to echo in his silent foyer, and her face was like a bright beacon against his dark mood. He studied her features, her olive skin, the crows’ feet around her dark eyes. It was a strange thought to have then, but he imagined what she might look like in Indian clothing instead of her widow’s frock. Mentally redressing her, he pulled a green kameez over her head, the colour bringing out the luminescence in her amber eyes. He looped a yellow dupatta around her shoulders and head, a golden halo that covered her greying hair.

  Ismail smiled stupidly at her. She thrust the letter into his hands. The kameez and dupatta fell away, leaving only her dull widow’s garb. He took the envelope and they both stood there a moment, two awkward strangers.

  “Well, thank you for this — Celia, right?” He stumbled, not knowing why he asked. He already knew her name, and without knowing why, had repeated it to himself many times since they’d last met. He liked the double “s” sounds her given name and surname made when spoken together.

  “Yes, that’s it. Celia Sousa.”

  “Yes, I remember your last name, too,” Ismail said, almost defensively. She shivered in the night air. He hadn’t noticed the cold until then.

  “OK … good night then,” she said, her halting rhythm betraying her words. With a warming around his collar, Ismail realized that perhaps she didn’t want to leave so soon.

  “I do appreciate you bringing this over,” he attempted, knowing his words were not quite right. His mouth gaped open, wishing for more syllables, but his brain was too sluggish to respond in time. Celia turned slowly and crestfallen, Ismail watched the black angel cross the street to her house. She looked back at him just before she closed her door behind her, and he managed a wave. She waved back, and that’s when he noticed them. Her boots were purplish red, the colour of a fine shiraz. He cursed himself for not asking her in.

  — * —

  Celia glanced over her shoulder, and saw his hand raised in a wave. His cheerless expression strained towards friendliness. Having noticed his grayish pallor and soggy collar, she wondered what the matter was with him.

  When she entered the house, she found Lydia sitting on the bottom two steps of the staircase, resembling a mother awaiting her tardy teenage daughter’s return.

  “Mãe, you went out? Where’d you go?” she asked.

  “Just across the street to give Ismail his letter,” she said casually, bending over, unzipping her boots.

  “His letter?” Maria asked, observing her mother’s dressy boots.

  “Yes, the one the mailman delivered here by accident. I heard you tell Antonio about it. I thought I’d be helpful and take it over. You two seemed busy.” Celia shrugged off her sweater.

  “Oh right. Thanks. So … you know his name?”

  “Yes, I know his name,” she answered, guardedly.

  “I always forget it when I see him. What’s it again?”

  “Ismail. Ismail Boxwala.” Celia locked and chained the door behind her.

  “Funny surname. How’d you find out his last name, too?”

  “We’ve said hello once or twice on the street. Besides,” she sniffed, now defensive, “it was on the envelope.”

  “Huh.” Lydia exhaled, looking intently at her mother.

  “What? What’s that look mean?” Celia asked, her face growing red.

  “Oh nothing. I’m not giving you a look … I was just thinking that I like those boots,” she said, with a faint smile.

  “Yes, they are nice,” Celia said, relaxing a little. “Nice, soft leather. I found them on sale years ago, at Dufferin Mall.”

  “You haven’t worn them for while. Not since …”

  “No, not since …”

  Each completed the sentence in her own mind, grief clouding over the foyer and settling on their soft shoulders. Lydia almost said good night then, almost went upstairs to watch Law and Order SVU. Celia almost walked past her daughter to return to her bedroom-den where she might have crawled under her covers for the rest of the night.

  “So you’ve chatted with him, on the street,” Lydia ventured.

  “Hmm?” Celi
a asked, her husband still on her mind.

  “Ismail. The neighbour-guy across the street,” Lydia tried again. Celia shrugged at her. “Well, he seems nice enough.”

  “Yes, a nice man,” Celia agreed, noncommittally, and picked up her boots, intending to return them to the armoire in her bedroom-den.

  “But strange, too. Lonely. Always by himself. I think it’s just him over there. No wife or kids.”

  “Maybe. Maybe lonely,” Celia said quietly. She distractedly put the boots down again. Lydia watched her mother’s eyes well up. Celia had come in the door smiling, and now looked as though she might weep.

  “You should wear them more often,” Lydia said, wishing to steer her mother out of any murky feelings.

  “Huh?” The subject once again had changed more quickly than Celia’s emotions could accommodate. Lydia pressed on.

  “And you have that nice lavender-coloured blouse that goes well with it. I brought it upstairs from the basement. Is it still in the box? You should unpack those things.”

  “I don’t know … not yet.”

  “Come on Mãe, it’s been a year now. No, more than that,” she said, counting on her fingers. “It’s been sixteen months. You can do that now. A little bit at a time. It’s the twenty-first century — you don’t have to wear black your whole life.” Lydia cajoled.

  “Maybe. Maybe in a couple of months. Not yet. I’m not ready yet,” she said, walking away, and back to her room. Lydia sighed, turned off the front lights and stomped up the stairs.

  Celia’s pretty boots remained in the front hallway of 81 Lochrie Street, temporarily forgotten.

  — 17 —

  Point of View

  Ismail really hadn’t planned to return to Busbridge’s writing class, feeling like there was no point without Daphne being there. Besides, he’d missed the second session and hadn’t even completed the homework from the first. He didn’t like falling behind.