“Oh Lord,” brayed Priscilla. “You’ve become so insufferably pompous, Bertie, we’re going to have to cross the pond and parachute you back to Derbyshire to bring you down to earth. I do hope he’s treating you well, Sonja. As women we must stand united. When we’re undermined, I think of Margaret Thatcher, the very best of our prime ministers. She actually had Ronald Reagan take notes of international meetings like a schoolboy. She was unfortunately destroyed by her greasy male underlings.”
“Professor Latham’s been very fair,” I said, feeling a rush of affection for Priscilla Myers-Lewis, whom I loved from her sheep-like face and crooked teeth to what I felt sure were her thick ankles.
“Bertie will have a Manhattan as well,” said Priscilla. “He likes to play with gin-laden martinis, as dry as dust, but this is a night for a robust Manhattan. You say your bartender makes a fine one?”
“He’s very robust with liquor,” I assured her, taking a quick glance at the unsteady Peter.
“Where’s the chef from?”
“He’s British, near London, I believe.”
“Rather unfortunate,” sniffed Priscilla, “but I hope he’ll rise to the occasion when he learns we share his heritage. What do you say to some overcooked mutton chops with mash and undercooked Brussels sprouts? It’ll make us homesick, even bangers and mash will do it. Of course, we’ll have to wash it all down with some fine French Chardonnay—nothing from Niagara, please.”
Professor Latham merely grunted. Priscilla reminded me of a British version of Mutti.
Bertie didn’t have a chance.
“The strongest and biggest Manhattan you can muster,” I instructed Peter, who reached under the counter and produced an unopened bottle of Crown Royal, which he used to fill up his largest cocktail glasses, merely adding a dribble of sweet vermouth to each and two cherries.
“These are on the house,” I said, keeping my voice low enough to bypass Greenley’s acute hearing and attempting to avoid my usual inept spill caused from my serving anything remotely liquid.
“How absolutely dear of you, Sonja,” sang my new friend Priscilla. “Bertie, you can’t be kind enough to this girl, remember that.”
Edmund hustled up the desired typical English meal, even thawing out a frozen fruit pudding by boiling it in sugared water, and Peter produced a long-forgotten bottle of Chardonnay, far superior to our house white.
At the end of the meal, as they stood up and got ready to leave, Priscilla addressed me.
“Bertie tells me you found yourself in some difficulty as a result of your talent and entrepreneurial nature. Don’t let this dissuade you from your goal, Sonja. As women we are programmed to prevail, remember that.”
In my mind I heard the distant playing of “Hail Britannia” interspersed with “I Am Woman.” My eyes met Professor Latham’s. Then we both smiled.
THE NOTE WAS left in my mail slot at the end of the last week of February: Professor Latham would see me at four regarding a personal matter. I knew it was the expulsion ruling. I phoned Greenley and told her that I might be an hour late, and she hung up in my ear after snarling that they might just manage to limp along without me. I was surviving there, I knew, solely because of Magda’s support.
Professor Latham was sitting behind his desk as usual and did not get up to open the door, merely thundering, “Enter” to my hesitant knock.
“Sit down, Sonja,” he ordered.
“I’ve been hearing about you on a daily basis from Priscilla, who’s taken up your cause as a feminist rather than a moral issue, typical of these types, I fear. So unfortunate that superb complimentary Manhattan loosened my tongue.”
He leaned back in his chair and fixed me with his cold, enamelled eyes, much as he had during our previous office meeting. “I’d ask that you keep this conversation confidential, although you’ve already been made privy to some of Priscilla’s somewhat cringe-making propaganda. Her background may clarify matters. She’s the daughter of Lord Myers-Lewis, who, although living in a decrepit mansion burdened by debts and taxes, and demented beyond belief, is still considered British aristocracy. She attended Roedean, a private school for girls akin to Eton for boys, but she didn’t make Oxford or Cambridge. You’ve heard the adage ‘a little learning . . .’ I’m sure.
“Two years ago, she self-published a volume of poetry known as The Convoluted Toad. I knew nothing of her plans or the poems. If I had, I would have attempted to stop her. The volume lacked one original symbol, image, or thought, the poems inadvertent doggerel. It was an abysmal and humiliating effort, and she was at a loss to explain the title, which might be just as well. She sent copies to every member of the English Department, and saw that it was carried by the University Bookstore. It’s become a matter of hilarity among the staff, and many a faculty luncheon has been brightened up by a rib-tickling discussion of Latham’s wife’s The Convoluted Toad. Suffice it to say I’m still attempting to live it down among my colleagues. Luckily I can bask in the success of the trilogy, which incidentally she very much resents, seeing herself as my literary competitor and combatant—short-sighted and ridiculous in the extreme.” Professor Latham sat back and closed his eyes, as if to attempt to erase the entire situation from his mind.
I would not, I decided, disclose to Professor Latham under any circumstances my affection for Priscilla. It would be seen as yet another indication of my bad judgment, worse even than promoting plagiarism.
“I’m telling you this so you’ll realize Priscilla has no influence on any decision I’m taking part in when considering your expulsion.”
I looked at him and our eyes met. I did not believe a word he said. The wretched poetess Priscilla was still Lord Myers-Lewis’s daughter, a bastion of British nobility, and a product of one of Britain’s most prestigious private schools. He was still Bertie Latham from Derbyshire, with what I suspected was an acquired accent from Oxford, where he had probably attended by means of a scholarship. I had much more in common with Bertie Latham than I had with Priscilla Myers-Lewis, yet I liked her so much more. And of course he listened to Lord Myers-Lewis’s daughter.
“I understand, Professor Latham,” I lied. “It never occurred to me that you’d be influenced.”
“Actually,” he said, “I had a cursory meeting with the other two board members of the advisory board at the beginning, and we’d tentatively agreed that you were to be made an example for bringing shame—even notoriety—on the university. But then, when I saw you in your pink waitress uniform at Matheson’s, carrying out your clumsy duties, I must admit to a swelling of compassion. It saddened me.”
“I’m a terrible waitress,” I muttered.
He nodded in agreement.
“I even read over your Shakespeare exam and term paper yet again—not your plagiarized creations, but your own work. You may not be as brilliant as some others, including yourself, I fear, think, but you do have a unique turn of phrase and interpretive talent that I find sad to be wasted.”
I sat waiting. I felt little of the panic I’d felt before. I felt almost . . . flat. The scholarship was gone, and that placed a financial burden on me, making an academic future difficult, if not impossible. But I did not want to be expelled from the university. It was a disgrace I could never live down.
“To get to the point,” said Professor Latham, suddenly becoming enlivened, “I argued against expulsion. I was the sole dissenter. They’re all angry with me, and perhaps rightly so. You can dedicate your first literary effort to me, it’s the least you can do.” He gave me a rare smile and I noticed his teeth were much straighter than Priscilla’s.
“I’m very grateful,” I said. “I’ve given it all a lot of thought and I’m ashamed of what I did. I was sick of being poor and I let making money override everything else. It’s probably all futile in any event as Imperial Oil has cancelled my scholarship.”
“Yes, I saw that,” he said. “We received both your letter and their reply—sanctimonious bastards with their billions in profits. Y
our letter, of course, was duplicitous in the extreme, euphemistically saying you’d helped others out of a surplus of academic generosity rather than committing to line your own pockets. It shocked the other committee members. You have, I fear, Sonja, a streak of the fraudster, which surfaces at opportune times. You must attempt to curb it.”
I did not answer, and we sat silent; there was nothing to be heard but a group of students chatting and exiting a far-off classroom.
“I admit I tried to put a spin on it, but being honest wouldn’t have helped, it would have been even worse. But I appreciate the advice. As it is, I may not be back next term, let alone next year, and my reputation is ruined.”
“I wouldn’t fret too much about your reputation, Sonja. People are largely self-absorbed, and things pass and become distorted with time. Plagiarism and The Convoluted Toad will fade into the background with the success of other things. You have only to write a literary masterpiece, and all will be forgiven and forgotten, like winning an Academy Award after being convicted of grand larceny.”
Professor Latham got to his feet and smiled again. I suspected he was glad to end the interview, but at least he could report its favourable outcome to Priscilla.
“And as for continuing your education, don’t cancel it out, Sonja,” he said. “You’re a very resourceful girl. Perhaps you should try tutoring.”
I RETURNED TO Matheson’s at six, feeling relieved but not happy. Everyone was there and Zoly was back, sitting at the corner table looking paler than ever, but cough- and pneumonia-free.
We were having a rare busy night, probably because Edmund had advertised a new series of “The Cheapest Meals in Town” in the window. Tonight’s monstrosity was an esoteric combination of onions, hamburger meat, Hamburger Helper, kidney beans, tomato soup, the remnants of the week’s leftover soups, and tablespoons full of chili pepper and garlic powder, with Minute Rice on the side.
At nine, when the last diner left, I went over to Greenley, who was checking cash receipts.
“You always complain of lack of notice, so I’m giving you three days. I’m returning to university as of next Monday.”
“Wrong,” she spat. “You’re leaving as of now; you’re the most incompetent moron of a waitress God ever made. You’ve been here by the grace of Magda, nothing else.”
“Fine,” I answered dully.
But I did not want to leave. I went to the kitchen to say goodbye to Edmund, Alistair, and, most importantly, Zoly. He was gone from the table, and Edmond nodded toward the small staff toilet with a sad shake of his head. Greenley’s ultimatum had reached the kitchen before I had. I went to the door and heard muffled sobs from the inside. I opened the door and we hugged, my little boyfriend of five-foot-two and one hundred pounds. I was his sole friend, and he’d been the man in my life for four weeks.
“I’ll take you out once a week for hamburger and fries and you’ll tell me everything that’s happening,” I whispered against his wet cheek. Magna had taken him to a barber, and I missed the bangs but had assured him he looked much more mature.
Magda and I embraced, and she lifted me off the floor with her mighty arms. Edmund patted me on the back, and Peter offered me a shot, which I accepted, choking down the last of the Crown Royal that he’d been nipping since the Latham dinner. Alistair wished me well and called me “a good lass.”
I felt sad leaving them all, although I knew I’d keep in touch with Magda and Zoly. They were like family and I felt much more comfortable with them than I did with anyone at the University of Toronto, or at Davenport High, for that matter. This said many things, as they were all members of the marching army.
There was a month’s work to catch up on, and I accepted Janet Murdock’s kind offer of class notes. Janet had turned out to be a real friend. I’d missed the turn-in date on two term papers, and I’d attempt to get extensions. I’d spend the weekend working, just surfacing for meals. If I were forced to leave, at least I’d go on a passing, if not high, note.
11
THE HOCKEY PATIENT
“SONJA.”
It was Mutti’s assertive voice, taking no prisoners on a freezing morning in early March. The bare black branches of the maples were ensconced in tubes of ice and a neon sun cut through the chill, causing the icicles rimming the eaves of the grey-bricked student residence to bleed crystal globules. Two people crossed my mind: Ma and Carl.
Mutti was staying at the Sutton Place Hotel. “How soon can I see you?”
“My last class ends at four.”
“Then I must wait until then,” muttered Mutti.
They were serving High Tea in the Sutton Place dining room, with warm scones, dishes of various jams, together with whipped butter and clotted cream. The thin, flowered porcelain cups were filled periodically with steaming tea, poured from large embossed sterling urns that looked like English or Scottish heirlooms. Mutti sat, her face rigid with irritation. Or was it fear? She wore a mink tam, which was a similar colour to her light-brown mink coat. Away from Davenport, her affluent aura was less, and she looked more like a reasonably well-off housewife in the city for a brief visit, perhaps to see an old friend or relative.
“You have heard of Carl?”
I hesitated before answering. I had been so busy at Matheson’s and then at doing catch-ups. I never read the sports sections of the daily newspapers, and always turned off any sports coverage after the nightly news, but it would not do to show my lack of interest to Mutti.
“I’ve been writing exams and studying, so I haven’t been watching anything lately. As I recall, Carl always goes back to the ice.”
“Of course he goes back,” snapped Mutti. “Our Carl is not one to give in, never, especially now he sign contract with the big bonus. He let no one down. Not our Carl.”
I sat silently, waiting.
“Two nights ago, he hit again. Leafs enforcer blindside him and knock his helmet off. He stay on the ice. Doctors say he must not play again until he better. One doctor say he must not play—never again. He is at the Toronto General in what they call trauma unit. He much depressed. He asks for you.”
I sat shocked by this information. Mutti was obviously immersed in the hockey culture with words like hit, blindside, and enforcer tumbling easily from her mouth. I placed my fingers against my temples and rubbed them as if to wipe out the thought of Carl lying in the trauma unit. “Guess it’s Hollywood or the military,” he had once said when I had explained the prevalence of dyslexia among movie stars and five-star generals. But then he had added, “Good I can skate.”
It was about five when we left Sutton Place, Mutti insisting that I finish at least two of the buttered scones before our departure. Outside, the traffic on Bay Street was heavy, and after fruitlessly attempting to hail several cabs, we trotted, bent against the wind, across Gerrard to University. Mutti clutched my arm as I towered above her. The icy air was smudged with the oncoming darkness, and the hunched figures surrounding us, carrying briefcases or backpacks, shuffled quickly. Above, bees of snow encircled the lights of the street lamps.
“I should have brought car,” complained Mutti, “but Carl’s father say he drive me. After he see Carl, he go back to Davenport.”
I kept quiet, my mind on Carl and what Mutti saw as my role in all of this. We climbed the steps of the Toronto General together and then took the elevator to the trauma unit. Carl was in room six. Mutti introduced me to the ward nurse as “Carl’s girlfriend” and the nurse gave me a nod of acknowledgement. I accepted the label. It was, after all, what I’d been promoting to my two university friends all year. But outside the door of room six I felt a sense of nostalgia, and then a reluctance to go further. Sonja and her little hammer primed to fix the damage. But this time it was different.
The room was dark, with only a small lamp at the corner giving light. “Light hurt his eyes,” whispered Mutti.
I softly approached the sleeping figure. He looked so young, so vulnerable, lying there, his short fair hair showing
too much pale scalp, his ears, as usual, pink like the inside of seashells. On his right temple was a festering brown crab. It had no right there: an ugly interloper. I felt a wave of tenderness and concern.
“That where head hit ice,” whispered Mutti, pointing a stubby finger at Carl’s temple. “They let air get to it . . . for healing. He cannot get up . . . he dizzy. Yesterday he said head and neck give much pain. He must be very quiet and still, that’s what doctor say . . . he not ready to be moved.”
Then, in a loud voice contradicting all her whispered information, “Carl, Sonja, she come to see you.”
His lips formed a very faint smile.
I took his large, warm hand in both of mine and moved it gently back and forth. “No need for formalities,” I whispered in a strained attempt at humour, “I’ll forgive you if you don’t get up.”
The smile broadened.
“See,” crowed Mutti, “the first time he smile since hit ice. We need you, Sonja. You help us get through this.”
I sat by his side holding his hand while Mutti obsessively cleaned all available surfaces with a washcloth and soap she’d resurrected from the adjoining bathroom.
Carl seemed to be sleeping again, so after an hour I carefully released his hand and started to leave. To my surprise I heard the word “Tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I assured him. “I’ll come again tomorrow, for sure.”
“Bitte you talk to the doctors, Sonja,” instructed Mutti as we rode back together in a taxi. “One doctor say Carl never play hockey again. Not to play kill Carl. You tell them it important he play hockey. I tell them soon you will be Carl’s wife, then they listen.”
Mutti, irrational and stubborn as ever, and Sonja, unveiled plagiarist and future impoverished dropout, with her little hammer and screwdriver, was to cure what well could be found to be incurable.
Sonja & Carl Page 11