by Byron Rempel
Her breath came in shallow gasps. She coughed once, and then she couldn’t stop, she would choke to death here on the landing, and they would find the letter in her hand. Her best revenge.
She was already down on one knee, dizzy. Someone called her name. A hand on her shoulder.
“Professor?”
She recognized Sanjay’s shoes. He lifted her up.
“Should I call an ambulance?”
She would live. That would be better revenge. File an appeal. For the students. She lived for her students. Every day of this life. This life, almost over.
“That’s better,” said Sanjay. “Deep breaths. And blow out, like blowing out birthday candles.”
She looked down at her hand, tight in a fist. Unfolded her fingers to find the letter crumpled into a ball. She made a wish, and blew on it, and it tumbled down the stairs to the gutter.
[
The university continued its life. The world could not bring itself to stop spinning and throw everyone off from loss of gravity. But in the History Department, gossip spun and orbited, its faculty, administration and students not fully aware of the events that began in the last days. Neither were they aware if those events involved only one great man, or were a product of the university society, or, as was usually suspected, if history itself was somehow to blame. But as the sun warmed the corners of Coleridge Park, most in that frozen city were glad to sit and soak up the sunlight filtering through their respective windows.
Dmitri sat on his office love seat and stared at the glass of vodka on top of Anna’s letter. The liquid was amber in the sun, and shimmered as Dmitri bumped the side table. He wanted to call Anna, but from where he sat he found it impossible to reach his phone. He’d supported the Dean’s decision, even though he found it difficult to say out loud. Anna’s work had taken a downward trajectory (his phrase, and proud of the way it cushioned any blows), and her behaviour over the last half year could at best be described as erratic. He was as concerned about how she might behave now, with a copy of the letter in her hand. When he could reach the phone, if it happened today, he would caution her to not burn bridges, or act impulsively, or blame everyone else. Better that she imagined other pursuits. The terrible truth was that no one wanted to hear about the birth of romance. No student would get a better job because of it. He sighed, and reached for his glass. Half of it lined his throat. These were not romantic times.
Christophe sat outside his front door, fresh from one of his final ski trips in Mont Royal park. The sun painted golden everything that was normally grey and brown. He couldn’t bring himself to get up and open the door to go inside. He was tired, yes, but energized too. His skiing obliterated the memories of the hateful Chair and Dean for at least an hour, and were replaced by the gleeful memory of exposing Anna’s romance novel. Now he would be there for her, and she would see how the rest of the faculty was deluded. A saviour in tights and tuque. The gesture, despite its initial pain, would turn out to be the most romantic.
The Dean sat in a sun dappled restaurant in a corner booth, finishing a late lunch with the university’s top brass, including the Chancellor. She did not want it to end at this moment, and so stretched out the story she’d begun about how she’d saved the reputation of her department, and the university, and perhaps the city. She believed she painted the colours of her triumph in golden hues, flecked with the garnish that she had also saved the university truckloads of money by sidestepping another tenured prof. It was only History. The brass laughed, ironically. The sunlight on her skin and hair made her look…well, if not romantic, at least it softened a few edges.
Former Professor Anna Eden Hill sat by the window of her turret and stared at nothing.
[
“Oh it’s not that bad Anna,” said Dotty. “You’ve got to get out and do things. Instead of sitting in your house all the time. What about that Frenchman?”
“Haven’t heard from him.”
“Or that nice neighbour?”
“Deserted me and the renovations. I never see him.”
Dotty sighed. “Just get some fresh air then.” Dotty was a great believer in fresh air. “We’ll see you soon anyway. Tomorrow.”
Anna had no plans to go back to the suburbs, but she said see you soon too, and then almost by instinct, or more likely by ingrained obedience, she took off her sweatpants and put on real clothes and walked down the quiet streets. She did feel better. She noticed the sun was out. Anna kept walking. Her toes didn’t get cold, not as soon. In half an hour she noticed she was halfway down the road to La Falaise and her Aunt Pearl. She wasn’t exactly at the right point in her life to go cheer up her aunt, but at the least the two could commiserate and stare out windows together. She could finally meet the mystery woman, maybe push her chair to the windows to feel the sun. When Anna arrived at the front desk a woman made a quick call, her voice low, her eyes checking on Anna. If she could wait a minute, please. Anna said she didn’t want to be any trouble.
“Oh, no trouble at all.”
The director appeared, and took Anna into a small office. “I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this,” she said, easily. “Your aunt died last week.”
Anna crunched her forehead. “Last week? No, I talked to my mother today. You mean someone else.”
The director arranged pens on her desk. “Well the thing is. The thing is your mother knew. She asked that we keep it quiet. Because of your. Because of your…situation. She said you had some personal affairs to take care of.”
Anna started to say something, but found that once again she couldn’t breathe. Her mouth was open and into it dripped a steady stream of salty tears. She had no idea she was crying. She didn’t even know her aunt. She didn’t care.
“Deep breaths,” the director said.
“Where is she?” Anna sniffled. “My aunt.”
“At the funeral home, I’d expect. The funeral is tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Anna forgot about not breathing. “You were going to tell me this when?”
“You’ll have to talk to your mother about that. She said you and your aunt weren’t that close.”
“Closer than most,” Anna said.
“Your husband—or who I thought was your husband, apparently he’s your ex-husband—was with her in these last weeks. She was transformed. Lived every day as if it were her last.”
“Good timing, at least.” Anna wiped her tears with the tissues on the desk.
“We encourage mobility. Appropriate risks. Otherwise seniors can experience low self-esteem, feelings of hopelessness.”
Anna pressed her fingers to her eyes, hard.
“She wanted to do so many things. That’s how she died. She was helping outside…”
“Outside?”
“We always support independence, to avoid depression and isolation. Your aunt formed new friendships.”
“With Zap?” What the hell had he wanted from her. There was no money.
“He wasn’t there, unfortunately. He would have loved it. But she was out there, shoveling snow like a trooper…”
“Shoveling snow? In a wheelchair?”
“She did fine on her plastic leg. There were handrails.”
22. Ghastly, Unexpected Ends
Anna wondered if there should be dancing at funerals. A huge symbolic prosthetic leg at the front of the church, to replace the god nailed down who couldn’t move. At her funeral, white lilies would line the walls and pillars. Mourners and lovers and every student whose lives she touched would fill the pews, dance to the chorus of angels in the cheap seats. Singing the joy she brought to hearts, proclaiming the example she set for women everywhere by rising up from certain defeat.
Her funeral wouldn’t look like this. Twelve people, including the priest and his apprentice or whatever they were called.
This would normally be the time to reflect.
To assess what was important, judge her behaviour. She put off seeing her aunt, and now looked what happened: closed casket. Didn’t even get face to face. But she wasn’t in the mood for grand realizations, or taking stock, or marvelling at the frailty of this precious life.
Anna sat on a bench behind her lying mother, and kept her head down as if deep in prayer and mourning. Perhaps she did pray. But not for departed souls.
What she wanted was simple. To use this church for its true purpose. Marriage. To fulfill that vow, taken months ago while dressed in the habit of a virgin bride. What she wanted had not changed. Her near misses only made it stronger. Romance was still an empty chamber in her heart. She made the sign of the cross.
She wasn’t old-fashioned. She didn’t believe marriage would save her. Nobody got married in Quebec anymore. Or entered a church. And nobody was happier, or sadder, or more pregnant, or less faithful. But she could see herself skipping down this aisle, a crown of flowers in her hair, Christophe at the altar, sober and gorgeous and passionate. He would take her in his arms. She would have found someone to love, and someone that loved her. The bells would peal.
She remembered her cell phone was on, fished in her purse and turned it to mute.
The bells would peal, and they would share their lives. That was all she expected out of marriage. That and to be held. And that only sometimes.
She took advantage of her position to pray for her job back. Specifically she prayed that Dmitri and the Dean would meet ghastly, unexpected ends this weekend. In the wilds of the Laurentians, or in the glacial waters of the Saint Lawrence Seaway. Or even in the supposed safety of their corner offices. Their decision would be forgotten in the outpouring of sorrow. For her part of the bargain she promised to come to their funerals. She might dance.
In front of her, people rose and sat, chanted and sang, prayed and wept. Anna stayed where she was. She warmed up to this. Piety felt good. She might pick up this religion thing. She put a curse on Zap, who couldn’t find it in his spirit to finish her turret, and hadn’t showed up for his new best friend’s funeral. She wasn’t sure if curses were part of this church’s program, but religion was a personal thing. Anna cursed the roof of Zap’s house. She prayed that it would leak, and that the leak couldn’t be found, and that the paint on the walls would form bulbous wet blisters of damage. Then she quickly took that back, since it was so close to her house, and she didn’t want any jinx spillage. She prayed for patience instead. Beside her, late mourners filed into her pew, but she kept her focus and her closed eyes. She already felt more patient. People stood and sat, stood and sat. Someone put their hand on her shoulder. She slapped it off.
“Putain.”
Christophe sat down. He shook himself like a wild thing.
[
“Maybe they had a point,” he whispered.
Anna looked at him.
“You do have to admit, you have accused everyone else of causing your problems, but not yourself. You accuse even me.”
Dotty turned and shushed Anna.
“It wasn’t me talking,” she said. She pointed at Christophe. Dotty smiled at Christophe. He put his hand on her shoulder, and she turned back. Then he put the same hand on Anna’s hand, and placed it on his leg, and slowly moved it up.
“You know you’re the only one for me,” he said.
Anna yanked her hand away. Do that again, and I’ll leave you. She thought.
He took her hand back in his. Anna stood up and was ready to storm out of the church on her own. Halfway down the side alley she realized she pulled Christophe along. She stopped behind a pillar.
“You’re upset,” Christophe said, “and of course you should be. They have been hard on you.” He didn’t let go of her hand.
“What have I been doing all these years?”
“You should not have gone into History. Not just anyone can do it.”
“Lord have mercy upon us,” the priest said.
“Christ, have mercy upon us,” the people said.
“You really think so?” said Anna.
“No one else is on your side. Not even your mother, hiding things from you. They’re all lying to you. I have the truth.”
“And what is your truth?” The church was silent as everyone bowed to pray.
“The truth is, I have cancelled my project, la Grande McGill. They do not deserve it. I did it for you.”
“What?”
Everyone in the church turned towards the pillar they now stood in front of. The priest cleared his throat. Anna crossed herself, just in case. “What do you mean for me? she whispered.
“In solidarity.”
“I just now told you they denied my tenure.”
“Of course. I saw it coming.”
She leaned back against the cold pillar. All he had to do now was kiss her. She would understand everything.
That kiss might have happened too, amid death and candles and prosthetic legs, had it not been for the voice of one crying in the wilderness.
“Oh death,” he began, “where is your Spitfire?”
At the back of the church, alone on the balcony.
“Great leader of the Ferry Command!”
The meagre audience turned in shock. Zap stood with his arms spread, wearing a top hat and a robe normally reserved for the choir.
“Is he drunk?” Christophe asked Anna. “Or is he just an egomaniac?”
“We are not finished the service,” the priest said. Zap didn’t notice.
“Were you a fighter pilot, as you claimed? Or did you fight
off pilots?”
“Isn’t that your friend?” Dotty said to Anna.
“Did you deliver Spitfires, or you did you spit fire yourself? Did they spin you on the Gravity Machine, oh grey angel; did the Mosquito bite you, did you love men you weren’t supposed to love, flight instructors, commandos?”
Most of the mourners thought the service had taken a turn for the better. At least three of them had got to know Zap at La Falaise, and had also been moved by his advocacy for the enjoyment of life. At this age, their minds were open to a more malleable belief in what constituted a funeral. So successful was Zap’s tribute that one gentleman, who claimed to be a close student of history and aviation, startled the others by proclaiming that he too could fly, and would soon join Zap on the balcony to prove his belief.
“You were a spy, a spy in the house of the unloved,” preached Zap, “you lost one leg in the war against age, and a breast too, and then they took your memories.”
The priest sent his acolyte up to the otherwise empty balcony. But the director of La Falaise stood and said she would take care of it.
“People are asked to talk about the deceased after the ceremony,” the priest suggested.
“Killer!” Anna shouted.
Zap leaned over the balcony. “I want people to live,” he said. “You should be so lucky.”
“You’re a liar and you’re a thief,” she said.
“Let it all out,” he said. He doffed his top hat to her.
Two mourners left. That made five still in the pews.
Christophe stayed silent. He let go of Anna’s hand.
“I would like to say a few words,” Zap said.
“Don’t you know respect,” Anna said.
“Pearl said she loved you,” he said. “She said she respected you. I respect you.”
“Give the girl a break,” Christophe said. “She was just denied tenure.”
“Oh thank you,” Anna said. “Would you like a microphone?”
“It’s just five people and a priest,” Christophe said. “They
hardly count.”
“Hey,” said Zap. “Pearl said she was a pilot in the war. But she didn’t want to do it. You can be talented at something you don’t want to do.”
“I’m n
ot sure that was entirely true,” said the director, who now stood beside Zap in the balcony.
“You see?” said Anna. “You’re making up these stories. You have no shame.”
“Respect,” he said, “is not about keeping your voice down. Respect is raising your voice. Respect proclaims the dead.”
Dotty beamed. “Hello Mr. Zap,” she said. She waved.
“Don’t let the world be you coffin, Anna Hill.”
“Get off that balcony,” Anna said. “Get out of my life.”
“I am your life. I am the way. The truth, the light.”
The priest shook his head, crossed himself.
“I am also the death of you. I am the lost, the lie, the dark.”
The priest now prayed, fervently.
“Never come to my house again,” Anna said. “Or I will call the police. I will call the police now.”
Christophe pulled at her hand. He dragged her to the doors.
The director appeared on the stairs. She guided Zap to the doors too, and kept Anna from him.
“You ruin everything,” Anna said.
“Not true,” he said. “I saved your turret.”
“Connard,” Christophe said, but kept Anna in front of him.
The last mourners watched as they went through the doors. A kind of peace descended on the church. Dotty motioned for the priest to hurry up and finish.
Outside the church, Zap was finally quiet. But Anna still howled at him, the root of all her problems. Christophe tried to let go of her hand and back away, but she didn’t let him. She pulled him closer, though he cringed the closer he got to Zap. The director stood in front of Zap and tried to make peace. She said, “You know, Mr. Zap was a comfort to Pearl.”
“He’s a con man.”
“You’re smart,” Zap said. “You’re an amazing researcher. But I know your secret. You want to create, too. I read it you know. I saw myself there.”
Anna lunged at him, and Christophe reluctantly stumbled behind her. But the director was large and not easily moved.