Six Metres of Pavement

by Farzana Doctor

  “Yeah, I’ve seen those.”

  “They seem good. I thought I’d buy us one. Very sanitary.”

  “Yeah, but Mãe, how late were you out?”

  “Not that long,” she said, studying the plate of muffins.

  “You’re still wearing the same clothes as yesterday like you never went to bed or something. And your bed looks like you didn’t sleep in it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I wear black every day. Of course they look like the same clothes I wore yesterday,” she bristled. She rose from the table, and retreated to her bedroom-den. She bounced on her bed a little, rumpled the covers.

  — * —

  An hour later, Celia brought up three cardboard boxes and two green garbage bags from the basement. She dumped them out and fanned their contents across her bed. There was a fuchsia blouse, strappy pumps, and a midnight-blue pleated skirt. She fingered her blood-red handbag, her favourite green dress pants, and a lavender angora sweater.

  Her things were loud, probably too flashy for a widow. She knew she was supposed to start small and slow, with a brooch or scarf, in subtle shades to interrupt the black of mourning. Gradual brightening that would barely be noticed, in mere whispers of colour. A switch to mud brown or dark blue first. Then chocolate and navy so no one would talk.

  The slowness would kill her.

  She surveyed her clothes, stroking cashmere and leather, admiring checks, stripes, and florals. She became reacquainted with dresses and scarves and pantsuits, old friends for whom she hadn’t realized she’d been longing.

  She stripped out of her black skirt, dark hose, and sweater and found an ivory silk robe at the bottom of a cardboard box. It had been an anniversary gift from José, back when he still liked to look at her naked body in daylight. She cinched the belt tight around her waist and inspected herself in her dresser mirror. Her skin was luminous against the ivory of the robe, her figure trim, and her legs still shapely. Wrapped in silk, she didn’t look all of her almost fifty-one years. No, that’s not right, she reconsidered. She felt the way a woman of her age ought to feel, the way she might have felt, had her life not fallen away from under her.

  She took a very long shower, draining the house’s small hot-water tank. She luxuriated in the steam, shaved her legs for the first time in more than a year and scrubbed the rough under her feet. When she returned to her bedroom-den, she climbed into her bed naked, not bothering to move the clothes and bags and shoes she had laid there earlier. Like a multicoloured patchwork blanket, her bright outfits kept her warm, and she fell into the deepest of sleeps.

  — 32 —

  Bruise

  Ismail wanted to see Celia again, but the unconventional nature of their encounters left him uncertain how to proceed. He didn’t even have her phone number, and since she’d intimated that she hadn’t mentioned their new friendship to her daughter, he cautiously kept his distance, waiting for her to part her bedroom drapes or emerge from the front door.

  He found excuses to go outdoors frequently over the weekend, lingering a long while on his porch when getting the newspaper, dawdling in the garden, pretending to inspect the new buds, all the while conspicuously watching her curtained window. He felt like a loiterer on his own property. Her son-in-law appeared a couple of times, carrying lumber and tools into the house. Once, when he left the door ajar to unload something from his car, Ismail peered into the foyer, but didn’t see any sign of her.

  As more time passed, her continued absence riddled him with self-doubt. Had he done something to turn her off? Was there a reason she was avoiding him? Ismail reviewed each of his words and deeds, but found nothing faulty in them. This should have reassured him, but rather, it left him feeling further adrift and unsure; at least if he could have found a social blunder of some kind, he might figure out how to rectify the problem.

  Ismail busied himself the best he could, cleaning his home, changing the bed sheets, and stocking his fridge, in anticipation of her arrival. By Sunday afternoon, he couldn’t keep hold of his anxiety any longer and headed to the Merry Pint. But there was no relief to be found there; the carousing and joking of the regulars didn’t offer sufficient distraction and the advances of the Mary Pinters only repulsed him. He kept to himself and felt further alienated by the revelry around him. Not knowing where else to go, he stayed and ordered another beer.

  — * —

  Meanwhile, Celia slept, and it was only after eighteen hours of comalike slumber that she awoke to the sound of hammering in the basement. The morning before — her conversation with Lydia, her long shower, and her reunion with her old clothes — felt like a distant memory, and so when at first she awoke from her bed with her blouses, skirts, and purses piled on top of her, she was disoriented. Outside, the sun shone. Across the street, a newspaper sat on Ismail’s porch. She put this all together and calculated that she had slept clear through Saturday, and it was already Sunday morning.

  She propped herself up in bed, and found herself naked, her dressing gown a silk pond on the floor beside the bed. Never before had she slept without clothing, and this novel intimacy of cotton sheets on her skin made her think of Ismail. She laid back again and enjoyed the flood of sensations: his lips pressing against her mouth, cheeks and neck, his hands encircling her waist, squeezing her shoulders and back, and once or twice, straying toward her rump.

  She hugged herself, closed her eyes, and her hands tingled. The pads of her fingers recalled the feel of his lean arms, the small of his back, the wiry hair around his temples. She balled her hands into a fist to hold on to the bawdy feeling as long as she could.

  She looked out her window again and saw that the newspaper was no longer on his porch, and supposed that she’d just missed glancing him. Strange. She’d grown accustomed to sensing his appearances even before they happened. A pang of disappointment welled in her chest and she reassured herself that he was near, just across the road. But she would wait to see him again. There were other things she needed to attend to first.

  She rose from her bed, upsetting a skirt and two blouses, all of which slid to the floor. She covered herself with her silk robe and surveyed the jumble of clothing. Brown sandals lying in her way invited her to step inside them. Across the room, a naked hanger swung gently on the armoire’s rod, as though nodding in agreement. Then, a dark green blouse beckoned to her from the pile on her bed. Ever so slowly, she smoothed it out with her hands, placed it carefully on the hanger, adjusted its shoulders, fastened each shell button, and then placed it on the rod. A second blouse greeted her when she returned to the bed. She looked at it for a long time, then shook out the wrinkles, found a hanger, and arranged it beside the first. She repeated the ritual with every blouse, dress, skirt, and pair of pants, as she methodically arranged them in her armoire. Hours passed.

  Trancelike, she turned to her shoes. She looked for their twins and stepped into each, her bare soles absorbing the body memory of other times: high heels that pinched her toes during her daughter’s wedding, sandals that let in sand during a trip with José to Toronto Island many summers ago, the comfortable brown pumps good for taking Marco to the park when he was still a toddler. Finally, when she’d sampled each pair, she displayed them, two by two, on the armoire’s floor.

  Her dozen handbags came next. She had always been a thrifty woman, only buying a new purse every two years and making sure to maintain their good condition. She caressed each, sniffing their smooth leather. Some held souvenirs from the past: dozens of coins; a favourite pen she’d thought she’d lost; and a brochure for the Seniors’ Program at St. Christopher House. She had meant to enrol her mother over a year and half ago, hoping recreational activities might stimulate her appetite. She left the brochure on the dresser, and counted up almost eight dollars in change. Then, on her tip-toes, she positioned the bags in a neat row on the highest shelf of the armoire.

  Lydia passed by h
er room a few times during the day, a silent witness to the transformation. She didn’t comment on her mother’s long sleep, or the clothing brought up out of the basement. Celia noticed her quiet presence a few times that day, but, not wanting to be disturbed, carried on with her work as though she hadn’t.

  When everything was put away, the bed and floor finally clear, Celia looked out her window at the clouded-over sky. Down the block, she saw Ismail’s retreating back as hurried across the street; her second miss of the day. For just a fleeting moment, she questioned where he was going, and pondered the perfume she’d smelled on his collar two days earlier.

  She turned back to her bedroom, for there was still much work to be done. Her mourning clothes hung at one end of the armoire, dowdy and neglected, having been pushed aside as she added the new outfits. With the same ceremony and care she took to unpack and hang the rest of her clothing, she took down each black skirt, housedress, and dark sweater from their hangers. They were neatly folded and placed into bags and boxes to be given away. She kept just one dark outfit for occasions she hoped wouldn’t come too soon or often. When the task was finally complete, the day turning to dusk, Lydia entered the bedroom-den, bringing with her two glasses of wine. Celia, thirsty from her day’s work, was pleased to accept the drink.

  — * —

  On Monday morning, Nabila called Ismail at work to inquire about his first date with Shakila. He had a mild hangover and couldn’t muster much enthusiasm despite her giddy queries. He guessed she was fresh off the phone with Shakila, because there wasn’t a hint of surprise in her voice when he mentioned their plans for a second date that evening.

  “Oh great, where are you going?” Nabila asked.

  He drummed his fingers on his desk, knowing she likely knew the answer to that question, too. He craved the opportunity to speak to his sister-in-law honestly, the way people did over coffee after AA. If only he could confide in Nabila about Celia, and ask her whether he should cancel on Shakila.

  “Sorry, what did you say?

  “The restaurant? Which one are you taking her to?”

  “Oh, right. Beijing House. Look, Nabila, I’ve got to go. I have a meeting in a few minutes,” he fibbed.

  Ismail troubled over his situation, his thoughts travelling in concentric loops:

  I really like Celia.

  After Friday night, I can assume Celia likes me, too.

  But Celia hasn’t contacted me for some reason, so I don’t know.

  Shakila seems to like me. I like her enough, too. I like Celia more.

  Should I keep seeing Shakila? Hedge my bets?

  There may be something dishonest and disingenuous about this.

  I hope no one finds out about my two-timing, especially Celia.

  I really like Celia …

  He arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early, and this time Shakila was already there, waiting for him. They shared orders of chicken corn soup, vegetable fried rice, sizzling beef, and once again made easy conversation. Shakila showed him how to properly use chopsticks, holding her hands over his, guiding his clumsy fingers. Despite her charms, his guilt and indecision were like a four-foot backyard fence rising between them; it permitted friendly conversations while keeping her effectively on her side of the grass.

  Not surprisingly, Ismail was less attracted to her than before, fixating on her heavy mauve eye-shadow and clumpy eyelashes. Her purplish-pink lip-liner, a shade darker than her lipstick, was also was a distraction. His addled brain superimposed Celia upon Shakila, teasing him with visions of her perfect mouth and dark, flowered eyes.

  The waiter brought the bill and Shakila insisted they go Dutch. Ismail appreciated that; he thought women sometimes talked an equality line while expecting men to pay for everything. He’d bought many free drinks at the Merry Pint without ever receiving reciprocation.

  They both had work the next day, and so the date ended early. While Ismail was glad for this, he needed more time to figure out his next steps. Should he ask Shakila out again, or break things off? When she suggested they get together again on Friday night at her place, Ismail shrugged and smiled; a feeble agreement at best. He scribbled down the driving instructions, all the while wishing he could be honest with her. But what would he have said? His thoughts hadn’t developed beyond the repetitive mental loops he’d been travelling all day.

  IreallylikeCeliaWhatshouldIdo?

  Shakila kissed him on the cheek and hugged him for a long time before getting into her car. Ismail held her stiffly, feeling her cheek against his neck, inhaling her strong perfume. He watched the traffic whiz by on Gerrard and wished to be part of that moving mass, travelling westward and away.

  Back on Lochrie Street, Ismail found himself standing in front of Celia’s house. Guided by a gravitational pull more powerful than his shyness or fear combined, he didn’t hesitate. His feet carried him up her walk in decisive strides. His knuckles gave three self assured raps — bang, bang, bang — against the cold wood, preferring the directness of knocks over the subtlety of a bell.

  — * —

  Celia’s internal alarm system was functional again and so she sensed when Ismail’s car pulled up to the curb. She looked at her watch and saw that it was almost nine o’clock, much later than usual for him on a Monday night. Tuesday he comes home late, but not on Mondays. She heard his knock and rushed to the front foyer, but Lydia reached there first.

  “Hello, Lydia. How are you?” he asked formally. “Is your mother home?” Lydia nodded and looked quizzically at Celia, who had just squeezed herself into the narrow entranceway. Lydia retreated to the living room, far enough away to give them the illusion of privacy.

  “Hello,” Celia said, shyly.

  “Hello,” then lowering his voice to a whisper, “was it all right for me to come here? I didn’t have your number to call you and I wanted to see you.”

  “Yes, it’s … fine,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Lydia, who sat on the couch, pretending to read a magazine.

  “You look nice. Different,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she replied, glad that he’d noticed. She was wearing a cherry red, low-cut blouse with a long, navy blue skirt. Silver earrings with red stones dangled from her ears. A touch of lipstick, a hint of mascara.

  “You said you were getting tired of the black, and look at you. You aren’t wearing it anymore.”

  “I’m still getting used to it,” she said, her face made crimson by his compliment. She hadn’t been out all day, and, except for her family, he was the first to see her transition.

  His gaze was steady and she felt her blush travel past her cheeks, down her neck, and across her chest. Celia saw him watching its slow progression, only looking away when the heat reached her cleavage. The warmth continued southbound, over her stomach, and came to rest someplace just above her thighs.

  She pushed him closer to the door, out of Lydia’s line of vision, and reached up to kiss his cheek, landing on the same spot where Shakila’s lips had been less than an hour before. She spied the purplish imprint she knew another woman had left behind. She sniffed the air and smelled a familiar perfume.

  “Who wears such strong perfume and purple lipstick?” Jealousy raised the volume of her voice, surprising her.

  “Sorry? What do you mean?” Ismail asked, backing away from her enough to glance himself in the mirrored closet doors. “Oh,” he moaned, and wiped the lipstick into his cheek until it resembled a small bruise.

  “You’ve been seeing a woman these last few days … and seeing me, too,” Celia brought her voice down to a stern whisper.

  Just then, Lydia came into the foyer, and tugged her away. Celia wished Ismail hadn’t been there to see them erupt into an argument, hear their voices bounce off the living room walls.

  “Mãe! You’ve done all this,” she said, gesturing at her
mother’s clothing, “for him? You came out of mourning for my father and grandmother for that man?” She crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

  “Lower your voice!” Celia said, her own rising to a yell. “No! I did it for myself. Weren’t you the one who told me I should stop wearing black?”

  “How you can disrespect my father’s memory like this? All this time you’ve been carrying on with him!”

  The accusations stung Celia, leaving her speechless. She noticed Ismail peer around the foyer wall, and then retreat behind it once again, like a child hiding from arguing parents. Lydia paced, her silent rage threatening to engulf Celia. She struggled to push it away, turning her back to Lydia, and that’s when she saw him, José. He sat on the sofa, the cushions sagging beneath him. He fluffed a pillow and placed it behind his back. He slowly shook his head, and Celia stared at him to make sense of it. Lydia continued to pace, oblivious. Then José stood, his right arm waving elegantly, his wrist flicking gently open. He mouthed the word, Go. He pointed towards Ismail with his eyebrows. It’s okay. Celia, go! Go! And then he disappeared.

  Although the gesture was a small one, Celia knew it was grand.

  She watched the spot where her dead husband had sat, a part of her knowing that he’d never been there, another part of her waiting to see if he’d reappear. The couch cushions remained unbothered. She turned and went back to the foyer, where Ismail waited and fretted.

  — * —

  Ismail was wishing he’d looked in his rearview mirror before visiting Celia. He should have known the lipstick smear was there; Shakila had reapplied a thick layer of it after dinner and when she kissed him goodbye, he’d felt something pasty on his skin.

  When Celia finally returned to the foyer, his eyes brimmed with unspoken apologies.

  “Will you come over? To my place? I need to explain all of this properly to you. It’s not what you think.” He continued to rub at his cheek, and sweat beaded his brow. Others may have read his perspiration as confirmation of guilt, but Celia seemed to know otherwise. She took his hand and led him out the door, and they crossed over the half-dozen metres of asphalt that separated their homes, hands entwined, in full view of anyone who might be watching. Curtains in surrounding houses swished and swayed and repositioned themselves.