Sonja & Carl

by Hillier, Suzanne;

  I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t been drinking and watching Pattie make such an obvious play for Carl. And Jerry was, after all, Carl’s best friend.

  “Silly bugger,” scoffed Jerry, “he’s got you that high on a pedestal that he’s afraid to risk it, afraid somethin’ may go wrong, and you won’t go through with the wedding. Never thought he’d be such a nutter. He wants you two to be special. But he loves you, no doubt about that.”

  “So ridiculous,” I stormed. “What could go wrong? It’s not rocket science, it’s pretty basic stuff. It’s not as if he hasn’t had experience. Perhaps I don’t compare to Tula and the many others.”

  “Naw, that’s not it. Too much respect for you, Sonja, you’re such an intellect. It’s not that he don’t want to, he was on about you in the black dress that night after the party, I couldn’t shut him up. But he doesn’t want to lose you—or ‘spoil things,’ he says. Want me to talk to him?”

  “Never. Promise me you won’t.”

  Jerry shrugged. “Perhaps you should come on to him really strong . . .”

  But Carl and a smiling Pattie had returned to the table.

  On the way back to Davenport my anger surfaced. “Not nice, not nice at all, you grinning away at Pattie Beaumont doing a bump and grind against you in front of your best friend, who she’s supposed to be dating, and of course me—although we both know I don’t really count.”

  “You’re jealous,” he said, obviously delighted.

  “Not really, just disappointed with your lack of sensitivity.”

  He paused before he spoke and sighed, driving with one hand and reaching for me with the other. “Pattie, she’s a certain kind of girl; I’ve met a number of them. They’re into professional jocks, and they don’t discriminate. They’ll go from football to hockey to basketball. It’s got nothing to do with sex, though it’s a preliminary. They like the money, but mostly the glitz. Jerry won’t last; she’d never want anything permanent with an electrician. I love the guy, and I don’t want him hurt. He’ll be lucky to be rid of her. They’re not in our category. You can’t compare yourself with her. You’re not on the same planet.”

  “No, she’s the kind of girl you’d have sex with,” I observed sourly.

  “Right. And it wouldn’t mean sweet fuck all,” he replied.

  “I’VE OPENED AN account for you at the Commerce on Bloor,” Carl said casually, handing me a debit card as we were driving back to Toronto. “It’s a debit account. You’ll need some money for a wedding dress, perhaps a car, and other stuff. I don’t want you embarrassed about money. The trouble you got into at the university really bothered me.”

  I shouldn’t have told him I was embarrassed about money. And then when I saw the $100,000 he had placed in the bank account, even more so. He was giving me a portion of his signing bonus.

  “I can’t take this,” I gasped. “This is outrageous.”

  “I wanted to be sure you wouldn’t change your mind,” he laughed, clearly pleased by my reaction.

  I finally kept it. Bought and paid for as usual, I thought as I kissed him with a renewed passion only money, together with my own soaring longings, could buy.

  We were standing close together in the cool mist in the student parking lot outside the residence, and I could hear the sound of the tires of the passing cars as they travelled on the damp asphalt of University Avenue. I had my arms inside his leather jacket, and my fingers rubbed the soft skin of his lower back as I felt him hard against me.

  “Come upstairs,” I whispered into his warm neck. “My roommate’s never there. We won’t do anything: I just want you to hold me. I promise I won’t have a panic attack.”

  I was lying. I had much more in mind.

  “It’s only another two months. It’d be too hard on me just to hold you . . . it’s not a good idea.”

  “Can’t I even show my appreciation for your generosity?”

  I was trying to keep it light by being playful, but it didn’t help. In fact, it bothered him.

  “Do you ever listen to yourself?” he said, removing my arms from inside his jacket. “Connecting my giving you money with our making love.” And then, aping my speech after our double date with Jerry and Pattie, “Not nice, not nice at all. I’m surprised at your lack of sensitivity.”

  I gave a forced laugh. It wasn’t as if I were charging for my services. But at least he had listened to me, a good omen for the future. I placed my arms around his waist again and pressed against what had been his erection. I was becoming so bold. “Are you sure?”

  At least he hesitated before he said yes.

  LATER, I SECLUDED myself in my room, grateful for the absence of my roommate. Lying on the bed, I made a mental to-do list: Ma needed a dentist with a good hygienist for cleaning or, as a last resort, veneers; a wedding outfit for Ma. I would, I decided, give her ten thousand for her own bank account. Then there was my own wedding dress, and honeymoon clothes, but what kind? We’d never even talked about our honeymoon. I needed a BlackBerry, a Mac computer, a printer, and some spring clothes. Carl would be visiting, and I had promised to return to Davenport once more before school ended. I would make a car purchase, nothing too showy, a Honda perhaps or a Toyota, even a demo with a few miles on it. If I took driving lessons, it would cut down on the insurance. I needed top-of-the-line hair styling, nothing too radical—he liked my hair. I would make arrangements for a September apartment, with two months’ rent in advance. I would lose weight, just a piece of fruit for dinner should do it. And I would get some birth control pills, no babies yet. I had to get my degree first; he was supporting me in that. But we would have children, he would be too good a dad to go to waste. The irony of a virgin obtaining birth control pills didn’t escape me, especially a virgin now becoming ever more anxious each day not to be one. I clasped my pillow and buried my face in it, giddy with excitement. I couldn’t remember ever feeling that happy, and it was all because of Carl.

  The hockey season was now almost over. I hoped he wouldn’t insist on returning before next October. I would have that long to persuade him to retire altogether, and I was now convinced that he’d listen.

  “Quite the rock you’ve got there,” said Jo at dinner that night. “Guess he’s going to try to go back. Hard to carry on without the big bucks and the big rush, and with these guys it’s been their whole lives. Nothing else matters. Did you hear about Clive Anderson? He quit the Penguins after five concussions. He just got killed in Montreal, a car accident, blood alcohol four times over. His wife wants them to examine his brain. She says he never stopped complaining of headaches and he was living on booze and painkillers. He didn’t know his ass from his elbow and he was twenty-eight with three kids. His wife said he couldn’t even remember their names.”

  “Thanks, I really needed that, so kind of you to keep me up to date on every casualty in the NHL.” My voice was edged with sarcasm, but I felt nauseated and pushed my plate away.

  “I think that’s really insensitive, Johanna,” fumed Janet, “really inappropriate talk when Sonja’s just gotten engaged and we’re eating dinner.”

  “Shit happens.” Jo shrugged, cutting into a piece of steak with a crimson gash in the middle and depositing it in her large, lipstick-free mouth. “You have to be realistic, that’s the chance you take with these guys. The big bucks don’t come without a price.”

  I had, I decided, had enough of Jo and her clichés. No more shared meals; it was time for me to start my diet, with my apple or pear and a grapefruit as replacement for dinner. I left the table without another word.

  Doubts still plagued me at times. Was I selling out at only nineteen? Perhaps not in the millions like a professional athlete but for a comfortable lifestyle with all the fringe benefits, for me and Ma, all contributed to by a smiling hockey player with a history of concussions that I’d be insane to ignore. Women didn’t marry this young anymore, and I wanted a career, now as a university professor rather than as a high school teacher. I had listened
to Professor Latham, who had recommended it. Carl would encourage me: he was like that, not a bit jealous or controlling. And I would escape the rigid nine-to-five schedule of high school. But still . . .

  THE FINALS WERE in May, but life had already become busy apart from academia. I gave Magda $2,000 toward Zoly’s university applications after checking with Carl. I took driving lessons and received my ninety-day permit, and put a deposit on a last year’s model Toyota at a discount, after discussing it with Carl on my new cellphone.

  “You should have gotten something better, with more class,” he insisted.

  “Not appropriate,” I replied, but he merely laughed.

  This time, I thought, I would drive back to Davenport free from the army of humanity and chatty bus drivers.

  The wedding dress, plain white satin with long sleeves and a plunging neckline, was selling off at a store on Spadina. It was not the strapless version so currently popular.

  “I bought my dress,” I informed him.

  “Great,” he said, and the eagerness in his voice made my heart lurch.

  A few days following the last exam I received written notification that I was the recipient of the Shakespeare Award of $1,500. Professor Latham had come through in spite of the plagiarized essays and the criticisms he’d face. Or was it Priscilla again? I had, I thought wryly, after all, produced more Shakespearean work than anyone else, although in a less than orthodox way.

  The week before I was leaving I secured my new apartment at the Manulife Centre on Bloor. It was a small apartment with reasonable rent, and I decided to only purchase a sparse amount of furniture, a bed, a computer desk, and a set of table and chairs for my three-year stay. It was pointless to duplicate furniture that we would be buying for the Davenport house. My one exception was a large television set, which dwarfed the wall of the bedroom from where Carl could watch sports.

  I felt sure that following our marriage I could convince Carl not to return to hockey. We could, I told myself, live in Toronto during the week and Carl could attend a community college. I had helped him before and would do so again. He could become a real estate salesman, one of the many options I’d persuade him to consider. Who in Davenport would not buy or sell a house from hockey hero Helbig? And I could help with any purchase and sale agreements.

  I deliberately chose the Manulife Building, which I’d visited in the past. The building had its own self-contained little world. Downstairs there were dozens of specialty shops and the flagship of Chapters, a bookstore that carried thousands of books. There was even a movie theatre with six current films that I’d visited during first year, and across the street was Holt’s, made accessible by an underground walkway. And it was near enough to the university so I could walk to classes, and Carl to an assortment of colleges. Matheson’s was across the street, just in case Magda and Zoly were still around.

  The wedding was June 10, and Mutti was masterminding everything. “All you have to do iss show up mit your dress.” I was to submit a guest list, but there was only Magda, Zoly, Janet Murdock, and Jo, whom I had not yet completely forgiven. Both Janet and Jo were out of town. Then I remembered my two high school luncheon companions and gave their names to Mutti. I had no maid of honour. I had thought of Miss Steinbrink, my former favourite teacher, but feared she would be shocked by the mismatching of her favourite student and Carl Helbig. I was sure he was still memorable for his disruption and lack of academic interest, but I would invite her as a guest.

  “Perhaps Carl’s sister Helga could serve as matron of honour,” I suggested.

  “Gut idea,” agreed Mutti with enthusiasm.

  Encouraged, I continued, pleased that the entire conversation was by telephone. “I really only want a very small wedding,” I explained carefully, “just a family wedding would be fine—and I don’t believe Carl cares.”

  There was a deafening silence. “Nein,” sputtered Mutti, “Carl has many friends. It would be insult not to invite them. This is big important wedding.”

  “Can you control your mother?” I pleaded with Carl that night. “I really only want a little family wedding. I will still wear my white dress, which is unfortunately very appropriate. I have very few friends and I have always thought of a wedding as an intimate exchange of vows. I never wanted a walk-down-the-aisle effect, with a shower of rice or confetti. It’s just not me at all. Can’t we simply elope?”

  The voice on the cellphone laughed. He would try, but there was the problem of upsetting Mutti. He would attempt to keep the list down to a few dozen, but there were no guarantees. Jerry Henley would be best man. “Would you like Candace Stewart as a bridesmaid?” he asked. “Or Tula as maid of honour?”

  “Hardly, too close to the groom, unless you want a ménage à trois following the wedding.”

  “What?” He sounded shocked.

  Too bad that his literacy and knowledge of French were as lacking as his sense of humour.

  “Are you mad?” I asked, feigning indignation. “We are probably the only engaged couple in Davenport, perhaps even in all of Canada, who haven’t had sex. I’d hardly be suggesting a threesome after the ceremony.”

  IT WAS A thirty-minute ceremony at the Lutheran Church, then an endless reception line and a sit-down five-course dinner at the Davenport Golf Club, with at least one hundred and eighty guests, and Ma’s new veneers chattering with nervousness. A toast to the bride celebrating her scholastic achievements, including her recent Shakespeare Award, was made by Carl, who addressed the guests and confessed to them that he did not know what such a brilliant girl was doing with a klutz like him. A row of Bruins applauded, while I hoped he wasn’t right and longed to be elsewhere. But the deed was done. My bridal bouquet was aimed directly into the waiting arms of Candace Stewart.

  The next day there it was, right on the front page of the Davenport Guardian, “Davenport Hockey Hero Weds Local University Student,” together with a picture of the two of us, slicing into a three-tiered cake, with a hockey figure standing close to his bride on top. The honeymoon, the Guardian stated, was to take place at “an undisclosed locality in Europe.”

  We left at ten before the serious drinking from the open bar started, both limp with exhaustion and with throbbing champagne headaches.

  “Surprise tomorrow,” Carl murmured. “We’re going to Paris for a week.”

  Somewhere, sometime ago, I had mentioned to him I’d love to visit Paris, and he had booked a first-class Air France flight leaving at six the following night from the Lester B. Pearson International Airport in Toronto.

  “Oh God,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Disappointed?” he asked, obviously anxious not to disappoint.

  “No, of course not, how could anyone be disappointed seeing Paris? But I wish you’d told me. I don’t know if I’ve got the clothes.”

  “Where did you think we’d be going?”

  “Jamaica, Florida, anywhere ordinary, but not Paris.”

  “You’re tired out. Maybe we both should just take some Tylenol and sleep.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “No. We’ll go change at the Sinclair, walk to the drugstore, get some Tylenol and spearmint gum, then walk back.”

  I had waited long enough.

  IT WAS A cool early June night and we walked briskly to the Drug Mart wearing jeans and light jackets. The silvery orb of a moon seemed as near as the street lights, and there was the barest sprinkle of stars, bright but so far away. The cool air was pleasant and I sniffed the new grass growing on the front lawn of the Sinclair. Carl took my hand and I felt a tingle—anticipation or the foreshadowing of new intimacy, I wondered.

  “Sonja Helbig—do you like that?”

  I didn’t. It was a hideous Russian-German combination. I’d stick to the Danychuk, but this was the wrong time to tell him. We bought the gum, Tylenol, and small, icy bottles of water from the corner machine and by the time we returned to the Sinclair our headaches were clearing.

  I sat on th
e side of the bed and smiled, undoing the upsweep that Michelle had spent hours perfecting that morning, and shaking my thick black hair that bounced off my shoulders. Carl stood by the bed, looking down at me, big, blond, and muscled, frowning his concern.

  “What’s your experience with virgins? That’s what this long wait’s been about, isn’t it? To keep me as the Virgin Queen looking down from her throne.”

  “I knew you were, but Jerry Henley said no after he saw you in the black dress at the Christmas party.”

  “Nice to have you discuss my virginity with Jerry Henley, who wouldn’t know a virgin if he saw one. I’m sure my panic attack after my first kiss convinced you, although I’ve been trying to have sex with you ever since.” But I kept smiling, he was so obviously worried.

  “You haven’t answered me. What’s your experience with virgins?”

  “Never had one.”

  “Not even Candace Stewart?”

  “She was no virgin.”

  “When I got my birth control pills, I told the doctor. He was suitably impressed and wanted to make a little cut, just to make things easier for you. But I told him I thought you’d be up to the task—all those pucks you put into the net.”

  He didn’t smile; in fact, his frown deepened.

  “Let’s wash,” I said. “It was a sweaty wedding.”

  I LAY IMMERSED in the frothy bath water, watching him behind the glassed-in shower. As long as I could remember I had longed for the luxury of a steaming bath, and now I was lulled by the bliss of having the lavender foam creep slowly up and cover my legs and belly. He was finished before I was and I kept watching him, drowsy from the heated water, as he rubbed himself vigorously, his now grown-out hair falling damp over his forehead. I liked it longer, so much better than the military brush cut he had when he was playing hockey. He was not, I decided, as heavy as I had thought. His arms were well muscled but not large, his stomach flat, and I estimated his weight to be little more than 210 pounds. A 260-pound enforcer could and had inflicted serious damage. His arms and legs were covered with golden fuzz, but his chest was smooth. I wanted to see the rest, but he had tied a towel around his waist.