If Clara

by Martha Baillie

  Julia

  As curator, I am too directly involved. I select the works, envision how they’ll converse, shape the visitor’s approach within the gallery, and then there’s the artist’s ego – handling such a bomb, I stop sleeping at night; not every artist gives me insomnia, but still.

  This morning I deliberately arrived before my colleagues. It always happens this way. A day comes when my longing to experience the show as if I’d come upon it by chance propels me out of bed even earlier than usual and I race across town. The installation must take me by surprise. If this does not happen then I know that the work is lacking.

  A set of five wooden steps, painted white, leading to nothing but a pair of binoculars mounted on a white wall. Though the binoculars point into the wall, presumably they will reveal more than white paint.

  I approach the steps and unease ambushes me. I raise my foot and feel I am climbing to a gallows or guillotine. The small platform at the top of the steps is large enough for one person to stand safely, not more. I turn my back on the empty gallery; doing so increases my feeling of vulnerability. I peer into the binoculars. A sunlit brick wall, close enough for me to touch, and a portion of flat roof, overhung in one corner by leafy branches bending in a breeze, becomes the visible world. The clarity of the world presses against me. A sparrow shoots across the blue sky. The scene shocks me, as it should. How can I be gazing at the real outdoors from inside a windowless ‘white cube’? Possibly the mobile leaves, their restless shadows, and the sparrow in flight exist only as video footage? No. I feel in my gut that I am bearing direct witness. I am not viewing a visual record of what once was but is no more.

  Of course, I know the answer. The gallery, originally a school library, was lined with tall windows, which we concealed when we acquired the space, needing for our purposes not sunlight but solid, blank surfaces, and artificial lighting under our strict control. Through the hidden windows, the binoculars installed by our current artist now give access to the outside world. I’d witnessed the installing of the binoculars. My surprise at the disconcerting immediacy of the outdoors scene – the trembling leaves, the passing bird – told me his art was successful.

  Across the room a second pair of binoculars waited. I descended the stairs, feeling many eyes upon me though I was alone in the room. I was not alone. In an art gallery one is never alone. Art observes you as you pass through the space it inhabits.

  The second binoculars thrust a street scene into intimate focus. A young woman, shoulder-length hair, cycling helmet, abundantly freckled arms and legs, sailed in then out of the frame. Two narrow doors, identical except in colour, one blue, one black, both leading into the brick duplex across the street, did not open. I wanted them to open, and continued to stare, willing them to do so. A massive man with rounded shoulders and a polished head ambled into the scene, from right to left, followed by a Great Dane on a pink leash. Clouds drifted and leaves fluttered as they do on all but the most still days. I could have kept watching. I would have. Either the guilt of being a voyeur or the guilt of knowing how much work was waiting on my desk pulled me away from my viewing post.

  I’d sat down at my desk and was smiling in the direction of my colleagues, who were drifting in, sipping coffee, then leaning forward to turn on their computers, when my phone rang and I scooped it to my ear.

  ‘Coffee? Lunch?’

  ‘Lunch.’

  ‘Time? Place?’

  ‘How about we meet here, then go somewhere on Queen? Say, one o’clock?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Come a bit before, so you can see the new show.’

  ‘You think so? You know how little I’ll understand.’

  ‘Bullshit, Maurice.’

  Maurice

  I presented myself in front of her desk, stood mutely staring at her.

  ‘You were gone awhile.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You liked the show?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can forgive you.’

  ‘Really? What for? No. Don’t tell me. I’m famished, let’s go find food.’

  Once we were outside the building and walking, Julia fixed her dark eyes on me and demanded I explain her crime.

  ‘What is it I’m guilty of, exactly?’

  ‘He’s divine. The man you invited me to spy on.’

  ‘Was he leading a Great Dane on a pink leash? A heavy, bald guy, with bad posture but impressive?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact, he had grasshopper legs and was wearing two-tone shoes. Twice he tripped and nearly fell coming down his own front steps. If he’d broken his leg, what would you have done?’

  ‘What would I have done?’

  ‘You’re the one aiming a pair of binoculars at his door.’

  ‘No I’m not. The artist is.’

  ‘Chosen by you.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I agreed to the binoculars. I love them.’

  ‘He stepped through the doorway onto his front porch, in his gorgeous two-tone shoes. His hand shot through the air, flipped a lock of auburn hair out of his eyes, and I wanted to kill you. While he turned his head and looked down the street, I stared at his long nose. He scratched behind his ear, into which I longed to stick my tongue.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’ve caused all this.’

  ‘I disagree. But go on.’

  ‘He glanced at his watch, sat himself down on the top step of the porch, and opened his briefcase. Soft leather with two metal buckles. Out came a bible, a pair of handcuffs, a yarmulke, a copy of the Quran, and a banana. Seconds later everything went back into his briefcase but the banana, which he peeled. I watched him eat it. I focused the binoculars on his mouth, on the pale fruit and the rhythm of his lips. When he’d done he stood, trotted down the stairs, tripped, caught hold of the railing, made it down two more steps, tripped again, regained his balance, and walked out of existence, stage right.’

  ‘Did he enter through the blue or the black door?’

  ‘The blue door. His blue door.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone come or go, not through either door. You’re lucky. I was dying for one of those doors to open, but I had to stop watching because of the work piled on my desk.’

  ‘You are responsible for all of this, Julia. I’m going to drop by the gallery every day and stare through those binoculars, waiting for him to appear. I won’t be able to stop myself. I’m sure of it. As sure as I’ve felt about anything in a long time.’

  ‘Is that so bad?’

  ‘It will be if he doesn’t show himself again. The rabbit showed itself and the hunter fired his gun. See what you’ve done to me, Julia. Bang, bang. I want to have him all to myself. Bang, bang. You are despicable.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be thanking me?’

  ‘I will be thanking you by coming every day to the gallery and spying on a stranger to see how often he trips coming down his front steps.’

  We’d arrived at the restaurant and were shown to a table on the patio. I opened the menu, considered my options, and ordered a mint tea.

  ‘That’s all you’re having?’

  ‘My stomach. Anything more would nauseate me.’

  ‘Because you’re in love with Mr. Fancy Shoes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re in love and I can’t decide what to do about my sister.’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned her in ages.’

  ‘Because she hasn’t spoken to me in over six months.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I need your advice. Our mother, Clara’s and mine, she’s fallen. Amazingly, she hasn’t badly broken any bones, just a hairline fracture in her shoulder. They were more worried about her heart and moved her immediately out of Orthopedics, where she shouldn’t have been, and into Cardiology, where they kept her for a few days, monitoring her heart and trying to determine the cause of her fall, which was likely dizziness. She couldn’t remember what had occurred and so couldn’t tell them, which didn’t prevent every new doctor from asking her all over again. As
soon as they got her medications adjusted, they decided to send her home, though the tiny fracture in her shoulder meant that she couldn’t dress or undress on her own, nor reposition herself in bed, not without a lot of pain, as I pointed out to them repeatedly. Hospitals encourage repetition. They relented and sent her to a retirement complex to mend. To my complete surprise, she likes it there and has decided against moving back home. In the retirement complex Alice feels safe and less alone. Many of the residents get parked in the hall, slumped in their chairs, silent or yelling. But others come and go, pushing their walkers, intent on reaching their destination. Alice is herded off to bingo and singalong sessions and movies, though she can’t hold a tune, dislikes playing games, and detests conformity. She’s become a willing participant, a smiling ethnographer, noting the likes and dislikes, the alarming behaviours and tranquil habits of her fellow residents. Yesterday, a talkative woman, who survived the firebombing of Dresden, then escaped Germany by cycling down tiny rural roads, avoiding the main thoroughfares, where, she explained, the likelihood of being raped was considerable, befriended Alice. For Alice she demonstrated the gestures to make and the tone to use to convince a farmer to let you sleep in his barn. She has also taught Alice how to obtain an extra serving of ice cream with every meal. I doubt this will last, Alice’s newfound contentment amongst strangers. It would be good if it did. But soon, I’m guessing, she’ll want familiar faces. I’ve placed her on the waiting list for the home where a few of her old neighbours live, not close friends but people she’s known for decades. For now, she’s tolerating the bland food, narrow hallways, and crowded, unreliable elevators with impressive grace. Someone comes every morning to help her dress, to ensure that she takes her pills and finds her hairbrush, and to change her diaper. I could hire someone to live with her, but that’s not what she wants. ‘My time in my own house is over. If I can’t live by myself, I’d rather live here.’ She’s clear, much more so than I am. I’m not ready to face what to do with the house. It’s where Clara and I grew up, if we did grow up. So, here’s my question: do I tell Clara about Alice or not? She’s asked to be left alone. She’s ordered us to respect her need for solitude. She’s warned us of consequences, should we stupidly disobey. I’ve stayed away. But now, I feel she should know about Alice. I feel. But what does Clara feel?’

  Daisy

  I returned home, the leg not mine. I could not accept it as a part of me; it remained alien. They’d wrapped the limb in fibreglass from ankle to top of thigh. In place of my familiar foot, fluid-swollen flesh protruded from the narrower end of the cast, and sent the message ‘prickle’ to my brain. Bone and muscle had been brutalized. Now, they hid. Two windows framed my world, one facing east, the other west. I watched the branches of a tree sway in currents of wind that could not touch me, and I felt contentment. Time passed. The light behind the leaves and behind the clouds intensified. The sky darkened and electric lights came on. Every day, I hopped between my three rooms. So as not to fall over, I pushed a metal walker in front of me. My hip hoisted the leg, and in this way the foot hovered above the floor. The gaps between pieces of furniture acquired immense significance. From here I could reach to there but not to further over there. If a vessel contained liquid but possessed a secure lid, I could carry it in the small backpack I took to wearing. I sat on the sofa and drank tea. The tea tasted as tea does on the summit of a mountain. Friends brought food. Taking the key from under the mat, they stepped out of the summer heat into the cool of the house. While they visited I enjoyed their company, and when they left my solitude pleased me. Much entered through the internet: confounding, labyrinthine forms to be filled so that I might receive a small monthly sum from the government in compensation for being unable to work, and bills to pay, and experimental films to watch. A Belgian director had recently taken her life. I watched her run up flights of stairs, twenty years old and singing to herself, and I watched her sit naked on the floor of an apartment, eating sugar from a paper bag before pulling on a coat and hitchhiking to another apartment in another city to make love to her girlfriend. The internet also brought me messages requiring answers. For example, an invitation to give a reading and a talk at a literary festival, which I would have to decline, and an invitation to have the staples removed from my leg and a new cast put on once the staples were gone, which I would accept. On the evening news, a female journalist in a grassy Hungarian field stuck out her leg, intentionally tripping a male refugee as he ran carrying his child in his arms. I watched the refugee and his son collide with the ground. I closed the lid of my laptop. I opened it again. An Israeli dance troupe, comprised of fifty men and women dressed in tuxedos, moved in intricate, rippling unison, on and off chairs. Together they formed a whole, with the exception of one dancer who repeatedly fell and sprawled on the floor before struggling to regain his chair. Again, I closed my laptop. I read books in fits and starts. The leg made demands. The foot, when not being instructed to pump up and down, swelled. The bones of the foot vanished from sight and its toes refused to bend. Pumping the foot prevented a blood clot from forming in the veins of the calf, and from travelling upward in the direction of my chest, then onward to my brain, or so I was told. Concealed within the fibreglass cocoon, two long incisions were healing, scar tissue forming, bone knitting between metal strips and bolts, muscles shrinking, sinew tightening, liquids pooling in a drama I was spared from observing. I received only clues: a twitch of pain, an itch, the sensation of something trickling from knee to ankle, the latter a nervous illusion. My buttocks ached from too many weeks of sitting. I bathed while perched on a chair, soaking my washcloth in a deep bucket filled with warm water. This was made possible by Ralph Nguyen or Aileen Baird or Rivka Wechsler, on those days when one of them dropped in and offered to fill the bucket at the sink, then to carry it, then to set it on the floor beside my chair. They were loyal friends. Other days, I stood in the kitchen, balancing on my good leg, gripping the sink while washing bits of my body with my free hand. I could have filled out more forms, and the government would have sent someone for an hour a day, not more, one hour. The thought of further forms exhausted me. I was enjoying my privacy. Nonetheless, for the sake of my friends, who were doing more than they could manage in the long run, I would soon apply for the hour a day of free assistance rightfully mine. One month slipped by, then another. Soon, I told myself, I would search for the forms.

  I slept in the dining room. Rivka and Ralph had disassembled and removed the table. My bed occupied the liberated space. A commode, rented by Rivka, stood against the wall. Once a day, she, Aileen, or Ralph, more generous than any friend should be, came to empty my urine and feces from the commode’s plastic pail. Were it not for Rivka Wechsler, Aileen Baird, and Ralph Nguyen, I could not have lived at home, not with only one quick visit a day from a hurried home-care worker. I’d have been sent to wither in an institution for the aged. The boom leg, the pirate limb, unready for the active regime of a proper rehabilitation centre, I’d have landed in a home for the elderly, though I am not yet old, only broken. My friends saved me from purgatory.

  Books formed towers beside me on the sofa where I spent my every waking hour. Intricate shadows appeared on the walls at certain hours. My mind was free to wander. Its meandering journeys could have enriched or leavened the novel that I’d begun writing before the accident, but instead the plot collapsed inward and my prose became rubbery. The texture ruined, there seemed no point adding more sentences. ‘Before’ belonged to someone else, to a person I recognized as myself, a person in focus yet untouchable, often seen running or climbing stairs. None of the words I typed on the screen of my laptop held weight or meaning. To continue writing felt futile. I stopped writing. I would have liked to go out through my front door, to descend the many steps from my porch to the path leading to the sidewalk, and hop along the sidewalk, in the shade of the trees, through the pleasurable heat of late summer, until my home disappeared behind me, for good, forever. I looked down at my cast. To escape w
as impossible. For quite a long time I’d not wanted to leave. I’d lain on my bed beneath the benevolent ceiling, had stared sideways through the benevolent window and looked down at the benevolent floor. The caress of home had filled me with wonder. Now I longed for torn clouds, and movement. I forced myself to search through mounds of words. I was looking for ideas but found none. Though present, they refused to reveal themselves. I did not know where to begin. Who could I trust to select an appropriate starting place?

  One early September evening, Ralph Nguyen dropped by with a carton of milk. He didn’t want me to have to drink my morning tea milkless. ‘I’ll put it in the fridge. I can’t stay. I was meant to be somewhere else an hour ago,’ he apologized. On his way to the kitchen, he handed me a parcel. Over his shoulder, he informed me, ‘Someone left it for you on your front porch.’ He advised me, ‘When you get up, be careful. I don’t want you to fall. Wear that little purse Rivka brought, so your cellphone is always with you. When you go hopping around to get dinner or whatever, be sure to wear Rivka’s purse. Promise?’ Having secured my promise, he went on his way, leaving me in the embrace of his inexplicable kindness.

  My name was on the parcel, inscribed in black marker, in a handwriting I did not recognize. I hauled myself up from the sofa, took hold of my metal walker, and headed for the kitchen, where a pair of scissors hung from a hook.