by Ann Birch
“Let’s stop here,” Carl says. “It’s probably got a quiet bar and washrooms that don’t smell of embalming fluid. And I want to order some wine right now and put you across from me at a tiny table, so we can have a good talk.”
“As long as you’re paying, my lad. I’ve only been in here once and they stiffed me twenty dollars for a not-so-great club sandwich.”
“Then remember the joys of Visa,” Carl says. “Let’s live it up.”
They enter the revolving main doors and turn left for the bar. But as they pass the washrooms, Roberta says, “Give me a minute, will you, in one of those toilets you’ve been touting?”
She’s just had an idea. It came to her a few minutes earlier when they passed the Medical Arts Building where she got the Valentine poem from Big Chris.
She’s carrying the black bag she always carries. She surely had it with her on Valentine’s Day. It’s a large, satchel-like thing — “my suitcase,” she calls it — with many zippers and compartments. On bad days, she can never find a thing in it. At the counter in the washroom, she rummages, unzipping and searching. In one seldom-used compartment, she finds an old subway transfer, a Starbucks gift card, and yes, there it is at the bottom: Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem, “How Do I Love Thee?” She takes it out and puts it in a side pocket of the purse where it will be easy to find.
Then she looks at herself in the huge, unforgiving mirrors over the sinks. Not bad. She’s glad she took time to iron the green linen shirt that matches her eyes. She pats down her wavy hair that has blown about in the spring breeze, and applies fresh lipstick.
Then she joins Carl.
They settle into comfortable leather banquettes and Carl orders a litre of Sauvignon Blanc and the cheese platter.
He smiles at her and raises his glass. “To the end of our winter of discontent.”
“To springtime,” she responds, clinking her glass against his. “To rebirth and renewal.” There are tiny purple and yellow violas on each table, and she looks over them, seeing Carl in a way she had not been able to in the flickering light of the Wing-On Funeral Chapel. The slate-coloured sweater cools his ruddy cheeks and brings out the deep blue of his eyes, and there’s something else….
They drink their wine, eat the cheese, and smile at each other over the violas.
“Your braces,” she says, finally getting it. “You’ve had them removed. I’ve always liked your smile, but now it’s dazzling.”
He leans across the table, takes her hands in his, and squeezes them.
She pulls the poem from her bag then and puts it in front of him. “I’ve had it all these weeks,” she says. “It’s the one I bought from Big Chris, the one he inscribed for me.”
He looks over the first line on the page, saying aloud, “To Carl, I love…” He stops and shoves the page aside. “Who are the other two?” he asks. His voice is a growl, and he’s turned his lips downwards into a grimace that fortunately seems more fake than genuine. “Out with it, Roberta. I have to know the truth, however devastating.”
It is not the romantic moment she planned. “What are you talking about?”
He shows her the page. She reads, out loud: “‘To Carl: I love three truly….’ Oh my God. Big Chris’s mistake. He was trying so hard with his calligraphy. I just put it in my purse and never even noticed.” She bursts into laughter.
“Forget the excuses, Robbie. I’m still waiting for an answer. Who are the other two?”
“Charlie and Ed, of course.” She points to the poem. “But come on, read the rest of it. The other lines refer to you alone. Isn’t that enough of an answer?”
“It’ll do nicely, thank you,” Carl says, changing the fake grimace into a smile. But he doesn’t read what’s on the page. He looks into her eyes and recites from memory:
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right:
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
His voice, a deep bass, is soft and compelling, and for a moment, there are just the two of them in this wide world. When he finishes, his eyes glinting with tears, he says, “When Big Chris told me that story tonight, I couldn’t believe what I heard. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I guess there was so much going on in our lives, I didn’t know for sure that I loved you. Or that you loved me. And I didn’t want to rush things, to push you into something you weren’t ready for.”
“But we know now, don’t we?”
“Yes.”
They sit in silence for several minutes, legs entwined, and drain the last drops from the wine decanter.
When they finally struggle to standing position, Carl says, looking down at the floor, “I’ve undoubtedly had too much to drink because there’s something relevant to the moment that I’m trying to remember. What was it that the Porter in Macbeth had to say about drink?”
“‘It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.’” She puts her arms around him, luxuriating in the feel of his broad shoulders and slender waist. “Shall we check it out?”
They go to the reservations desk. “No, we haven’t booked,” Carl says, staring down the supercilious clerk. “We just need a room.”
“You want help with your bags?”
“No bags,” Roberta says. “All we want is the key card.”
In their room on the twenty-first floor, Roberta makes a quick call to Charlie and Ed. “I won’t be home tonight,” she says to Ed who answers the phone. “I’m with Carl.”
“Go for it, Ma,” he says and hangs up.
In a moment, they have moved to the bed. “If I’d known about tonight, I’d have worn everything with Velcro tabs,” Roberta says, as their trembling fingers fumble with zippers, buttons, belts, hooks, and ascot. At last, there’s nothing separating them.
Later, much later, she whispers in his ear, “I think the Porter got it all wrong.”
At daybreak, they get up, shower together, prepare cups of coffee from the packets on the shelf, and dress. “I don’t think the kids will notice I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes,” Carl says. He runs his hand over this chin. “But I may have to make up something to explain the stubble and the unmarked tests.” Then he adds with a catch in his voice, “Oh Robbie, I won’t forget this night.”
Roberta puts her arms around him and holds him tight for a minute, then stretches up and says, “I love you,” into the hollow of his throat.
“And where do we go from here?” he asks.
“I’m thinking about Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” she says. “When she and Robert met, she was a semi-invalid with an injured spine. He took her away from a wretched father and a wretched life and gave her new hope. In fact, he saved her.”
“And…?”
“You’ve given me the will to move on. I don’t believe in that silly word, closure. But you’ve helped me cure my broken spine; you’ve helped me put the pieces together again. In spite of all the messes I’ve been in, especially with that wretched book, I feel hopeful now.”
“I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Carl says.
“‘I love thee freely,’ my darling, you know that. But now, I must strive to find Right, just as Elizabeth says.”
“And what does ‘Right’ involve, Robbie?”
“I want to write a script. Perhaps it could be a take on Euripida’s tale of Galatea. The story of a strong woman who faces the challenges of a
tough life would go far towards wiping out memories of that sad little story of Mira and her stepfather. I’m going to think about it. What I know for sure is that it’s got to cover the things I’ve learned in the months since James’s death. When I get it done, I’ll have sorted out the complexities of my life. Or, as Big Chris would say, I’ll have made it less of a fucking mess.”
“And when you do find Right, will there be a place for me in your brave new world?”
“Count on it.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This novel has undergone several metamorphoses since its inception at Humber School for Writers over a decade ago. I thank Richard Scrimger for his witty and perceptive commentary on its progress all those years ago. Since then, I have received valuable advice from Canadian novelists Barbara Kyle and Gail Anderson-Dargatz. My West Coast writing group—Laurel Hislop, Annette Yourk, and Carolyn Gleeson—also contributed their insightful wisdom during this long writing process. Laurel Hislop made useful comments on the finished manuscript.
I am indebted to many other people as well. Among them is Mandy Birch whose knowledge of horses and eventing enriched the opening chapter of this novel. Irma Fiacco gave input on the Italian references. Regan Olinyk helped me with the financial aspects of Roberta’s husband’s life. John Birch offered advice on the legal issues raised in the book. Hugh Birch introduced me to the street youth in the KYTES program to whom I taught poetry for several years and from whom I gained insight for the creation of important minor characters.
Carolyn Thompson gave constant feedback, and her belief in the novel sustained me. I am also grateful to Sylvia McConnell who encouraged me in the process and to my husband Nicholas Birch who undertook a hundred mundane household tasks so that I could sit at my keyboard.
Finally, my thanks to the folk at Inanna Publications—especially Luciana Ricciutelli, Renée Knapp, and Val Fullard—for their support and help in getting the manuscript out to a wider world.
CREDITS:
“Crossing the Bar” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson and “How Do I Love Thee?” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning are taken from Representative Poetry, Vol. II (University of Toronto Press, 1946).
Photo: Sheri Belanger, Despar Designs
An award-winning educator, Ann Birch was an associate professor in the teacher-training programs at York University and the University of Toronto. She was Head of English in several Toronto high schools, and author of the best-selling text, Essay Writing Made Easy. She holds a post-graduate degree in CanLit and is currently a fiction writer and editor. Her first novel, Settlement, was published in 2010.