The Case of Lena S.

by David Bergen

  Then, one afternoon in early January, Lena’s father came into The Nook. He was wearing a dark overcoat and black gloves and he stood inside the door and removed his gloves and then he went to the back booth and sat down. Julianne served him. She came into the back and said, “Another mortician.”

  Lena looked, said, “Oh, man,” and stepped back into the kitchen. She looked at Julianne and said, “He’s a banker. My dad.”

  Julianne pushed Lena out into the restaurant and said, “Well, go serve him then.”

  Lena walked up to the table and said, “Hi.”

  Mr. Schellendal picked up his gloves and laid them neatly by the napkin holder. “Hi, Lena,” he said. “I thought I might as well see where you work.”

  “Not much,” Lena said. “Good food though.”

  “Well, sure it is. What would you recommend?”

  “You want lunch, there’s minestrone and garlic bread. Or a salad. We serve breakfast all day. If you want that then have poached eggs on rye. It’s the safest. The bacon’s okay, just not top-quality. Ham’s too salty, try the sausages.”

  “Okay, that’s good. I’ll have the sausages and eggs. Will you have a chance to sit down? Just for a bit?”

  Lena shrugged, said she’d see. She went to the back and Julianne said, “Go, talk to him.”

  So Lena sat and she drank coffee and Julianne brought the food and Lena said, “Dad, this is Julianne,” and her father reached out a hand and shook and Julianne said, “Hiya.” Lena watched her father eat. He seemed ill at ease: he dropped his fork and Lena fetched him a clean one; he offered her a slice of toast, which she refused; he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and then studied it, as if expecting to find some surprise there; he told her an uninteresting story about one of the cashiers at the bank. When he was finished eating, Lena lit a cigarette and blew the smoke at the ceiling. He looked at her but didn’t say anything.

  He asked, “Do you like it here?”

  “Yeah, I like it.”

  He said, “Your mom and I were talking the other day and we both agreed that we were happy you haven’t quit.”

  “I don’t want to work here the rest of my life. I figured out that I serve at least 100 eggs a day. At five days a week over the next thirty years that would be about 800,000 eggs.”

  Mr. Schellendal seemed at a loss. He said, “Julianne’s a friend.”

  “Yeah. We work together and sometimes hang out. She lives on her own.” She made a slight O with her mouth and exhaled smoke and looked up at the ceiling. She asked, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  Her father said that he’d been at a meeting in this area and he was passing by and he’d seen Lena in the window and decided on a whim to stop.

  “On a whim?” Lena said. “Wow. That must be a first.”

  Her father’s mouth went hard and he looked at her and said, “You’re so angry.” He pulled a pamphlet from his pocket and slid it across the table at her. “Here. I found this. It’s not like I think you’re going to do something foolish. It’s just I read it and I thought you should read it, so there it is.” He moved his hands nervously across the tabletop and he picked up his gloves. Lena asked if he wanted more coffee. He said he didn’t. He said that Nana wanted to take Lena to a movie some time, would that be okay? She shrugged and said Fine, and then she said she had to work. She stood and took his plate and his cutlery and his dirty napkin and carried them to the kitchen. He watched her go and she knew that he was watching and she imagined that he saw the shape of her calves below the hemline of her dress, and the Band-Aid peeking above the heel of her shoe, and her hair pinned up, and her exposed neck.

  Later, after closing time, she looked at the pamphlet her father had given her. It was called “Youth and Depression” and there was a cartoon figure of a teenager looking glum and there was a definition of depression – a very deep and prolonged feeling of hopelessness – and there were the symptoms – withdrawal, anxiety, and turning to alcohol, drugs, promiscuity, and suicide – and finally there was the suggestion that God might be able to help. Lena threw out the pamphlet and that night, in her room, she made a pencil sketch of a girl on her back with her legs spread, knees bent, and beside the drawing she wrote the dictionary definition for “promiscuous”: “casual, as in casual shoes, casual labour, casual sex. Or: indiscriminate, as in promiscuous massacre, promiscuous hospitality.” The word massacre attached to promiscuous interested Lena.

  Lena’s grandma called her the following Saturday morning and asked if she wanted to go to a matinee. “I’ll pay, dear,” she said. Her grandmother went to the movies almost every day. Her choices were arbitrary, until she stumbled upon a movie she loved and then she saw that movie six or seven times, memorizing the lines, telling everybody what a wonderful film it was. “You must see it,” she would say. She was seventy-four years old. Sex and violence did not bother her. She liked a good story, she liked romance, adventure, action. She admired certain actors; she loved Sean Connery and Anthony Hopkins. Her husband had died fifteen years earlier. He hadn’t liked the movies and she liked to say she was making up for all those lost years. Movies, she said, were magic.

  She picked Lena up at the house. Lena wore a short skirt and pale pink tights and black boots and a leather jacket and as she settled into the car her grandma looked her over and said, “You look lovely.”

  “Really, Nana? Thank you.”

  They went to Grant Park, and waiting in line to buy tickets, Lena’s grandmother said, “I don’t know this movie, though I’ve heard about it. The girls in it are young so I thought you might like it.”

  They found seats and Lena’s grandmother gave Lena money to buy treats. She returned to the foyer, bought popcorn and drinks, and then ferried them back, sat down, and asked, “Are you okay, Nana? Do you have to go to the washroom?”

  “Perfectly fine. I peed before I left. Your father thinks you’re sad these days. Are you?”

  Lena shrugged.

  “Don’t worry. Your father sees darkness everywhere. He needs to relax.” She sighed. Said, “I don’t know what happened to him. Your poor mother. Thank you for the popcorn, sweetie.”

  “You’re welcome, Nana.”

  Lena thought the movie was too out-there. The main character was a terrible dresser and she liked to make a point of wearing clothes that clashed and at times it appeared she might be depressed but it was never quite clear and then she had a fling with an older man and ran away. It was all too easy. After, when her grandma asked what she thought, Lena said, “I loved it.”

  “See. I knew it. Let’s go eat something.”

  They went to the Pizza Place in the mall and sat in the smoking section and Lena drank Coke and ate garlic bread while her grandma nibbled like an ancient rabbit at Caesar salad; torn bits of lettuce fell around her plate. She wiped at her mouth with a paper napkin. Lena noticed some girls from school. When they looked at her, she turned away.

  “Do you know those girls?” her grandma asked. She was putting on lipstick, angling her compact, and brushing away the trace of Parmesan at the corner of her mouth.

  Lena said they were from school but she didn’t know them. They were very popular girls who knew they were popular.

  “I was never popular,” her grandma said. “Didn’t matter though. Certainly doesn’t matter today, does it? I was in love with a boy called Ralph who wasn’t popular either but very handsome indeed. He died parachuting. He was seventeen and loved to fly. But you’ve heard this story before.”

  “That’s okay, Nana.”

  “He was going to land on my yard for my birthday. I don’t know, but I had the feeling he was going to propose after he landed. You know how instinct works, well I had that instinct. And I would have said yes. As it turned out, he landed in a sheep farmer’s field a mile away. I didn’t go to look at the body.”

  “Oh, Nana, that’s terrible.”

  “It’s okay. I survived.” She snapped her compact and stuffed it back in her purse. “Smoke,” s
he said. “Go ahead. You’re going to anyway so you might as well have my permission.”

  Lena lit a cigarette and asked, “Remember Mason, from our house?”

  “Of course I remember. A sweet handsome boy.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Sure I did. Though he was scared of your father.”

  “Of course he was. Dad doesn’t want me to see him.”

  Her grandma sighed. Waved a hand at the wafting smoke, said, “No, no,” when Lena said, “Sorry,” and then said that her son was too strict, too enamoured with building a fence around his family. “Where will that get you?” she asked. “Everybody just wants to climb the fence and escape.” She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a Kleenex and blew her nose and put the tissue back. “Do you like this Mason?”

  “Very. Though I think I will send him away.”

  “Why? Because of your father?”

  “No. Because I have to stand alone. That way I will become a better person.”

  “Oh, Lena, sweetheart, you already are a better person.”

  “No, I’m not, Nana. I’m not.”

  After, they walked out into the din of the mall and wandered past the shops and Lena took her grandma’s arm and guided her into a card shop where they bought cards with flowers and spring scenes and bright colours. One was a water-colour of a Winnipeg scene, so Lena bought it and sent it to Mason. Inside she wrote, “To my local boy.”

  One night, after work, Julianne suggested that she and Lena go check out a new club on Bannatyne. Lena had her mother’s car so they drove over to Julianne’s apartment where they drank some wine and showered and put on fresh clothes. Lena wore a leather skirt of Julianne’s, and a tight black top and a belt with studs and high boots. They sat on wooden chairs in the living room and smoked a joint and at one point Julianne lifted her hand, announced that tonight she wanted to get laid. Lena felt a brief dizziness that turned quickly into resignation. She said, “I feel so peaceful.”

  The club was full; people seemed to know each other and Lena sat with Julianne and watched couples dance and talk and drink. A man sat down beside her and said that his name was Steve. Lena looked at him. He was holding beer. Julianne patted Lena’s arm and stood and walked over to the bar.

  Steve watched her go and then he turned to Lena. “Are you talking to strangers?”

  Lena shrugged. “If they’re interesting,” she said. He had big hands.

  “I’m interesting,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What makes you interesting?” Lena was already tired of this man.

  “I scuba dive.”

  “Wow.” Lena looked around the bar as if there might be someone to help her. Julianne was talking to a short man with glasses. They were leaning into each other and laughing.

  Steve said, “Every time I dive it’s like I’m reborn.”

  Lena looked at his face. It was square and soft. He had perfect teeth. He was at least thirty.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Twenty-three,” he said. He touched her arm.

  “I doubt it,” Lena said.

  “I saw you here and I saw you drinking Caesars and I wondered why you’d sit here drinking by yourself. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-seven. I’m not by myself. Besides the girl who was just sitting here, there’s my family too. They’re just in the washroom.”

  Steve looked around. Lena studied his mouth and wondered what it would be like to touch him. This was probably what he wanted. His head, his neck, his shoulders, they were all bigger than Mason’s. Mason was a string.

  “Let’s dance,” Steve said.

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Just friendly, nothing to it.”

  Lena shrugged. She said she would drink one more and then she might be ready to dance. She lit a cigarette. Steve seemed pleased with her answer. He turned his stool so his knee touched her leg. She didn’t pull away. The band played a loud number and Steve leaned in close and talked in her ear. About nothing. At one point Lena excused herself and went to the bathroom. She walked as if she knew that Steve was watching her and assessing her. She saw Julianne and pointed at the washroom. Julianne nodded. In the washroom two women were talking.

  “She doesn’t shave.”

  “Maybe Carl likes that.”

  “Would he?”

  “Brush me off here.”

  “There?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She must give off a smell or something that men like. It can’t be her looks.”

  The women left. Lena wiped and flushed. She adjusted her skirt and stepped out and saw herself in the mirror. She said, “Practise your beauty.” Her face was pale. She looked plain. “Hi, Steve,” she said. When she spoke her mouth went slightly crooked. Mason liked that. She rinsed her fingers and dried them. Went back into the bar and saw the two women from the washroom. They were dancing together. She couldn’t see Julianne. Steve looked up from his beer and watched her come. She sat down and said, “You were watching me. When I left. Did you like my ass?”

  Steve looked around the bar. He said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. What do you think we’re going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we won’t do anything,” Steve said. He looked disappointed. Ready for flight.

  “You’re hopeful, though.”

  “I guess. Aren’t you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Lena paused. Ordered another drink and said, “You don’t know me.”

  “What’s your name, then?”

  “Lena.” She lifted her glass and drank and watched Steve watching her. She put her drink down. Steve was pushing against her thigh again. She looked him down and up. She said, “You think you know me, don’t you. You think that life is simple, but what else do you know about me, other than the colour of my hair or the size of my tits.”

  “You’re quite vulgar.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I have a boyfriend. Mason Crowe. He’s sixteen.”

  “Sixteen?”

  “That’s right. My father, if he knew I was here talking to you, would kill you. I have three sisters. My voice range is three octaves. I don’t shave my armpits. I see a doctor every second Tuesday. Lena Schellendal is my name, Canada is my nation, Winnipeg is my dwelling place, and heaven my expectation. I like to memorize things. Do you know James Joyce?”

  Steve said he didn’t.

  “Why should you? He was my boyfriend for a while. Before Mason came along. A perverted Irish boy who liked to have sex standing up. He went blind.”

  “How old was he?”

  “A hundred and three.”

  “Jesus, you’re full of shit.”

  “Am I? Well. Come.” She took Steve by the elbow and pulled him out onto the dance floor. His pants were too tight and he was clumsy. His nose was big. He tried to take her hands but she pulled away and danced alone across from him while he watched and shuffled his feet. Once, he leaned forward and pushed his mouth against her ear and called out, “You can dance.” The feel of him, his chin on her cheek and his hand against her hip. Later, at the bar, he kissed her hand and then took her face and turned it towards him and looked into her eyes and kissed her on the mouth. She let him. She didn’t open her mouth, though he wanted this, and she kept her eyes open and she saw the ring in his ear, his shirt collar, and his neck. Soon after that she pulled him out onto the dance floor again and they kissed then too, except Steve kept moving his hands around on her back and she tried to let him know, through sharp movements of her shoulders, that she didn’t want that. She didn’t like him, but she liked kissing him.

  When they were sitting and drinking again he told her that both his parents were dead.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said. “You want pity.”

  “No, I don’t. But they are dead. They were killed in a car accident. I live with my little
brother. I should be home right now taking care of him but sometimes I just want to go out and be bad.”

  “Oh, so this is being bad. Naughty boy.”

  He took her hand. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his forearms were large. With her free hand she touched his arm. She thought, in a giddy moment of drunkenness, that he was good-looking. They sat like that and drank while Lena studied Steve’s neck and his arms. She pushed her finger against his forearm and then lifted her hand and drank again. At some point their hands came together and stayed put and that’s how Julianne found her. She pushed her body against Lena’s back and said she was tired and wanted to go. She said that the little man with the glasses was a loser. “Too perverted for my tastes,” she said. “Whatcha gonna do?”

  Lena said that she was going to hang on to Steve for a while.

  Julianne looked at Steve. She whispered in Lena’s ear, “His head’s too big.”

  Lena giggled.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Julianne said. “Like drive him home when you’re drunk. You don’t know him.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Julianne said she’d take a taxi home. She squeezed Lena’s elbow and passed a hand through the air at Steve. Then she slipped away.

  At 2:00 a.m. Lena and Steve left the club and stood on the sidewalk. Two prostitutes in fur coats across the street, a neon sign advertising a restaurant. Steve said, “I took a taxi here. How about you?”

  “My mom’s car, you want a ride?” She didn’t want him to, but asked anyway.

  “Sure.” He was happy. He said, “You want me to drive? You drank a lot.”

  She waved him away. “No, no, I’ll go slow.”

  In the car he talked. He said he loved Winnipeg. The rivers, the smallness, the chance to meet a girl like her. “Lena,” he said.

  “Be quiet,” she said.