It was a long speech, coming out of all the pain, depression, and anger. I asked myself if I had encouraged this proposal by my regular visits and by confiding my money problems. I didn’t think so. I was not merely a viable alternative: I was a Hail Mary pass. His proposal was generous. He wanted to share his money with me, money he had acquired by mutilating his brain, and he even suggested helping my mother.
I was not a crier. My last and only outbursts occurred when I feared that I would be expelled from university and when I lost my scholarship. But now I felt my eyes burn. Carl was reaching out. It was bribery, of course, but bribery of the sweetest kind.
“I’ll really think about it,” I said, my voice thick.
“I’ll,” he said softly, “ask you when you come home for Easter, then I’ll never ask you again. I don’t want to be a pest. I’m not a great catch. Not for someone like you.”
“You are a great catch. Look at your stable of girlfriends: Candace, Tulas by the dozen, even Pamela Scott’s a potential.”
“They don’t matter,” he said.
And I knew he was right.
There was only me.
12
MARRYING CARL
AFTER CARL LEFT THE HOSPITAL, I missed him. I had become used to seeing him every day. My spring midterms were coming, then there would be Easter. My exams went well, no distracting papers for plagiarists or hospital visits to interfere with my studies. My social life consisted of hamburgers and fries with Zoly once a week.
“Your guy recovering?” inquired Jo, after we had settled into our usual seats in the cafeteria. “Horrible thing to happen after he signed that big three-year contract. Wonder if it’s got an escape clause?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I replied stiffly. “Anyway, he’s improving.”
But she continued. “These guys sometimes have ongoing damage, the football players more than the hockey players. They get their brains curdled and a few end up killing themselves or being zombies.” This was all contributed without missing a chewing beat.
Insensitive bitch, I thought, and asked myself why I hung out with her. Perhaps, I thought, because she always gave me a dose of reality, unpleasant but at times necessary.
At night, unwelcome thoughts plagued me. All my life I’d been lonely and yearned for communication with someone who’d appreciate and share in my love of books and passion for literature. Now I was contemplating throwing away my aspirations and settling for a companion who could only read with difficulty and who would never ever read anything I’d written or admired. True, he wanted to pay for my education, and he would be proud of my achievements, but he’d be a detached observer. We could, I thought, never enjoy a Shakespearian production together unless I explained the plot first—unless it was King Lear. And if I met my aspirations—and I was no longer limiting myself to high school teaching—and actually produced an original work of criticism, how would he be introduced or accepted by the academic community? Would I say, “Here’s my husband, the former Bruins player, don’t discuss anything remotely intellectual or he’ll leave or sleep, take your choice. He’s not stupid, just not interested. He’s read nothing, not a thing, so limit yourself to ordinary topics, preferably those found in the sports section of the evening news.” And he even wanted to live in Davenport . . .
Then I was ashamed of my own arrogance. He was not a Priscilla, writing doggerel and competing with, and embarrassing, an academic spouse. He was encouraging and supportive of my achievements. And he’d always wanted to make me happy. And who else ever had?
THE DAVENPORT GREYHOUND had a new driver. I inquired about my old friend as we approached the town, turning off the highway and up the pot-holed road to the terminal. I was the only passenger left.
“They gassed him. His ol’ lady’s mother married some rich guy an’ she persuaded the wife to leave him. Not good enough for her anymore, an’ then they cut him off from the kids, guess he weren’t good enough for them either, so he started to drink, an’ had a little accident, nothin’ serious, but he got charged for blowin’ over. And that ended it.”
“Too bad,” I said, remembering how he’d taken one of his kids to emergency for croup at Christmas.
“You from here?”
“Yes.” I did not want to become familiar with another bus driver.
“The armpit of Ontario. I hate the place. A girl said to her dude, ‘Kiss me somewhere dirty,’ so he took her to Davenport. Heard that one?”
I didn’t reply but then said, “It’s got a good sports arena.”
“Yeah, Carl Helbig of the Bruins comes from here. Know him?”
“No.”
I walked from the terminal, down Main Street, and toward our apartment building. It got dark later now, but there was no sign of an early spring in Davenport. It was damp and cold and I passed a packed Tim Hortons and O’Dare’s Bar, equally crowded, thinking that the Dare family had business in Davenport tied up. I sniffed the sour of beer as two locals lurched out, most likely celebrating the holiday weekend. Dull and depressing, I thought, comparing Main Street Davenport with Bloor Street West. And unlike Christmas, I didn’t come bearing gifts but did have my black dress.
“Welcome home,” sang Ma in English upon opening the door. She looked even smaller than usual, shrunken, and when I hugged her bird-like frame her fragility gave me a lump in my throat.
“Good to see you, Ma, and to hear you speaking English.”
I would, I decided, tell Ma about my threatened expulsion, loss of scholarship, and about Carl, whom I was seeing the next day. It would all be conveyed in Ukrainian, as it was much too important to be lost in translation. Ma had surprised me last Christmas and might well again.
“They have Swiss Chalet up the street. We go. I pay.”
“I can still buy you a dark quarter, fries, and even a glass of white, Ma, but things aren’t as good as they were.”
We walked slowly up the street, Ma drowning in her coat with the large fur collar and wearing her matching tam and boat-like boots. She was holding my hand. Large child takes small mother for a walk, I thought with affection.
“I’m not cleaning tonight,” she whispered happily. “Tonight, just you and me.”
We were shown to the last booth available in the large dining room with the smell of barbecued chicken and spicy sauce heavy in the air. I was reluctant to approach the first topic, waiting until our glasses of house white arrived.
“Ma, there are two things, really serious things that have happened. I got caught doing essays for other students and I had to stop. Then I was suspended for thirty days and almost expelled. And I’ve lost my scholarship.”
Ma covered her face with her grained hands and rocked back and forth with despair. “I worry of that Sonja, when you tell me at Christmas, really worry, but you not care.”
“I didn’t think they’d catch me, Ma. It seemed like such a good way to make money at the time, but it was wrong and I should have listened to you. Losing the scholarship is really serious. I had some great plans for both of us, but they’ll have to wait. It’s finished, so now there are money worries again.”
The dark quarters, fries, and pungent sauce sat untouched, but the wine had disappeared.
“Two more glasses.”
The waitress smiled, “A celebration?”
“Of sorts,” I replied.
Once she left the table, I continued. “That’s the bad news. Now, there’s other news, it could be good or bad and I haven’t made up my mind. It’s not all good or all bad. Carl Helbig’s asked me to marry him. He’s been hurt and may not play hockey again. It’s a brain injury and it’s serious. I saw him every day at the hospital. He signed a contract with the Bruins, and even if he can’t complete it he’ll have over a million dollars. He wants me to finish university. He wants to buy a house here—unfortunately—and two cars. In other words, he’s offering me a future. He knows I’m not in love with him in the usual sense, he even said so, but he really cares for me. This brain in
jury, it sometimes makes him very emotional, angry and depressed, and that’s a concern. What do you think, Ma?”
Ma frowned into her chicken, massaging her lined forehead rumpled under her blue tam.
“Sonja, you say you don’t love him, but you do like him, yes? It’s not just the money, no?”
“Ma, he’s so clean, physically—and I like that. And I don’t love anyone else, that’s important. I’m a virgin, Ma, isn’t that crazy? There are no virgins around anymore and I didn’t even try to be one. I’m not religious or very moral, for that matter. It’s just that I’ve never met anyone I’ve wanted to have sex with, unless perhaps Carl.”
Ma had stopped rubbing her forehead and was sitting up straight looking at me, and then she started to laugh, showing a mouth full of tiny, sharp brown teeth, like a little cat.
“Sonja, you so funny,” she said in English, and then in Ukrainian. “Perhaps in time you’ll care for him.”
“I’m way smarter than he is, Ma”
“Not worry,” replied Ma, still smiling. “You’re smarter than everyone. Sometimes that’s not so bad.”
CARL TELEPHONED THE next morning. He sounded better, his voice more vibrant. Was I coming over? Mutti was preparing lunch and then we’d take a drive “around beautiful lakeside Davenport in my new black Challenger,” he laughed. “I’d pick you up, but they don’t want me driving by myself, though the dizziness is gone . . . for good, I hope.”
I could hardly wear my good black dress showing yards of skin and cleavage: it had already made its Christmas impact. It was only lunch, but a special occasion. I was, however, left with only my black pants, sweater, and cropped leather jacket. Although it was Saturday, Ma had already left for her cleaning job, and I did not smell the usual stench of smoke. I had asked her about the smoking, but she did not reply. Perhaps she had stopped, although I doubted it, picturing her manoeuvring her rickety car through Davenport’s chilly streets, her morning Camel steaming between her lips.
I had my usual struggle with the shower, and finally settled on washing in the bathroom sink. I remembered Ma, when I was very young, perhaps six, administering one of her “split baths.” “You go up as far as possible, down as far as possible, then you wash possible.” Said with a chuckle, it was one of Ma’s rare attempts at humour and even funnier in Ukrainian.
It would be so good to have my own bathroom with a bathtub filled with gallons of steaming water, instead of a shower with a lukewarm dribble. I would lie there and luxuriate in the scented foam, or even better a Jacuzzi, with piercing hot jets massaging me into oblivion. I shouldn’t think this way, I thought. Surely I wasn’t considering marriage so I could have a good bathroom. Or was I? It was, I admitted to myself, unfortunately a consideration, as was the car. Never to take the bus again, but to speed along, the radio booming, feeling the power of the engine pulsate through my fingertips, would be a joy. There was no doubt that these amenities—more than amenities, luxuries—were swaying my judgment.
Was I selling out? I had produced term papers for the academically limited, now it was a luxury bathroom and a car—perhaps even a Holt’s credit card. There were, of course, the absolutely commendable goals of educating myself and helping Ma. Surely, there was nothing wrong with any of that. I wasn’t a cheap gold-digger, my goals were much more lofty. Besides, he needed me, needed me to straighten out his tangled life, to try to protect his mangled brain from future damage. Didn’t he say I was his final option, his sanctuary? And I did care for him, more than I’d acknowledged to Ma. In fact, looking back I always had, ever since the tutoring.
We hadn’t even kissed, let alone shared intimacies. What if we had no chemistry? There were, of course, no comparisons. He was big, taller than I was, and well muscled. And his ears shone pink, his teeth glistened, and he smelled of Aqua Velva shaving lotion and Irish Spring soap. These were plusses, and I thought of the way he’d looked at me in my black Christmas dress and the wave of affection I’d felt just seeing him again. His hands were large with their square nails, and rough and warm. I had held them in the hospital room. Perhaps he would hold my breasts in those large hands. I was finally appreciative of my full breasts that I had kept so well hidden until their outing at the Helbig Christmas party.
What if I turned out to be a disappointment? Athletic and toned girls like Tula, who worked out for hours, were no doubt capable of twisting and contorting themselves into all sorts of titillating positions, positions that I’d never experienced, and could excite a man in all sorts of ways, ways I’d only read about, and then only briefly. Was my attraction only that I understood his limitations? It was all very worrisome.
I hated my hair and decided to go to Michelle’s Beauty Salon. It was only eleven and lunch was not until twelve-thirty. Michelle greeted me like a revered client, remembering the $50 Christmas tip, and produced a startling creation that I quickly brushed out at home, pulling my hair behind my ears to show the diamond earrings, which would remind Mutti and Carl of the successful high school tutoring.
My thoughts were running wild as the silent taxi made its way up Main Street, then I had an inspiration. I would present Mutti with an Easter bouquet, some daffodils and lilies—so un-Tula like. It would be gracious and somehow commemorative.
“Could you stop here?” I asked the driver in front of Davenport’s only flower shop.
“I’ll keep the meter runnin’.”
“I’m aware that’s the usual practice,” I snapped, my nerves getting the better of me.
Back in the taxi, with the bouquet in hand, we travelled through Davenport’s streets, past the red-brick rooming houses, row houses, small bungalows, then the better homes, finally reaching Knightsbridge, with its picturesque bungalows. The grass lawns were grey and the trees bare, the sky pale as milk, all seen through a cool April mist.
Carl stood at the door, smiling in his usual V-necked sweater, fresh shirt and jeans, his blond hair longer than usual. He hugged me, something I was not used to, and I smelled the soap bracing as an ocean breeze. I enjoyed the closeness. Mutti appeared from the kitchen, taking off her apron as she walked toward me. She was pleased over the flowers. “Such a thoughtful girl,” she said, darting an accusing glance at Carl.
Mutti served baked sole, a crisp salad, and chilled Riesling, and toasted us.
“To Sonja and Carl, and to Carl’s return to the Bruins.”
I felt the chill of two-fold trepidation. It was not just the joining of us both as in a wedding toast, but it was the fact that Mutti had accepted, perhaps even encouraged, Carl’s return to hockey. She had refused to listen to the information I’d received from Dr. Folkes. It was a repeat of her failure to recognize the dyslexia for so many years. But this was so much more serious than a learning disability. This was a potentially deadly decision.
I looked sideways at Carl. He did not lose his smile and I saw the scar, no longer a scabbed crab, but brightly pink on his right temple. I would argue with Mutti later, now was not the time. He had told Mutti of his future proposal, and Mutti as usual had not only predicted my acceptance but was congratulating us both, no doubt taking full credit. I took a long swallow of the Riesling, but nothing helped the tightening in my throat.
Mutti kept getting up from the table, topping up our glasses of Reisling and serving Carl extra sole. On occasion she rubbed my shoulder, as if I’d met, and would continue to meet, her approval and expectations. Finally Carl and I finished lunch, and after bidding a beaming Mutti goodbye, we drove down the street in Carl’s recent purchase.
“Like it?” he asked as he revved the engine of the new Challenger, engaging in a playful burst of speed. “You can go 180 clicks an hour in this car.”
“Not with me in it, you can’t,” I said lightly, my mind on other things, boring things, like permanent brain damage and tau protein scattered porridge-like through the brain in a future autopsy.
“Why are you going back? Why didn’t you listen to me? I told you and Mutti about Dr. Folkes’ re
commendations. He said anyone who insisted on playing in spite of the chance of future brain damage was a suicidal idiot. I can’t understand them taking you back. Dr. Folkes wouldn’t give you clearance.”
“I’ll pass the ImPACT test. Can we change the subject?” His voice had an edge. “This was supposed to be about something really important, remember?” He revved the engine again and the Challenger roared like a lion.
We were heading toward that part of the lake where the original port had been some fifty years ago. It was fringed by a forest of spruce, from which an occasional Davenport resident would illegally cut a small Christmas tree, and there was a crumbling wharf that broke the waves. It was a good choice, the only part of Davenport I liked, isolated, with the smell of spruce and the muddy water from the lake sucking boisterous against the rough rocks on a cold day in early spring.
As we drew near the lake we were both silent, and remained so as Carl expertly parked the car as close to the water as possible.
“April is the cruellest month,” I murmured.
“Nothing cruel about being proposed to.”
He displayed the ring with a proud smile.
It was a beautiful ring, with a large square diamond, at least two carats, I estimated, set in smaller diamonds with a platinum band.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Picked it out myself, I went to Tiffany’s in Toronto last week. I had Jerry wait in the car. There was nothing good enough for you in Davenport. Try it on.”
I tried it. It was a little tight, but that was good. It was not a ring that should be lost.
“You haven’t asked me.”
“You didn’t say no.”
It reminded me of the comment I’d made to Ma. “I don’t love anyone else.” It was all being done by default.
Sonja & Carl Page 13