Mankind & Other Stories of Women

by Marianne Ackerman

  She ran to his side, got down on her knees and said his name, but his eyes stared straight ahead, lips parted like a fish on land. She slapped his cheeks, nothing. Put two fingers to his throat, waited for a pulse, checking the beats against her nurse’s watch. The rhythm was uneven. He was breathing, just. His eyes were glassy. Gustav growled. She rubbed his throat and pried the phone from Hart’s hand. It was bleeping — busy. She pressed it off and on, found a dial tone and called 911.

  Once out in the street, Lena broke into a sprint. Gustav followed, too well trained to make a sound. His tongue slipped out between his teeth. He could have run like that all night. He hoped they were heading for damp woods, where they could catch their breath and keep on running away from the rank, unfamiliar smells of this unknown place. Cacophony meant danger. Unfamiliar smells were always bad. Only nature could restore the scent of security. But they did not come upon leaves. Instead, Lena drew him closer, holding the leash tight. She was a good runner.

  Why there was no trace of the young woman and her dog when the ambulance arrived is a question the actress could not have answered, but in any case, no one bothered to ask. When she answered the door, they assumed she had made the call. The older of the two attendants recognised her immediately, and took time to compliment her work in the Academy Award-winning picture for which she was remembered. He’d seen her in a couple of made-for-TV dramas; his attention warmed the room. She told them everything she knew about the man who could not speak for himself. Without exactly lying, she held back on details that might have sparked conversation. She enjoyed playing the lead in the drama of Hart Granger’s collapse.

  Gustav felt the leash pull tight around his throat. Lena had spotted a doughnut shop, and insisted they go in. A well-lit place, the tile floor smelled of chemical cleanser and the imprints of other beasts. They stood in line for a while, then she took a seat and dropped him a sweet morsel, which he swallowed in one bite.

  As soon as she collapsed on the chair, she started to cry. Nothing to attract attention, a few tears leaked out and were quickly wiped away. She sipped hot chocolate and gave Gustav the rest of her doughnut. In the distance she heard a siren, hoped it was the ambulance coming for Hart.

  She regretted her decision to run. It was an impulse ingrained from an early age. Running meant she could never tell anyone what happened. A listener would want to know whether he recovered or not. The lessons of prudence dictated silence. She looked down at Gustav, who was resting at her feet. He’d forgotten already.

  By the time she woke up, a tragic event had happened in New York City, in another time zone. When she came down for breakfast, the youth hostel staff and guests were gathered around a wide-screen television set in the lobby, watching what she thought at first was an action movie. A plane crashed into the side of a skyscraper, then another, then the buildings fell. Terrorists, bent on death and destruction, willing their own death and the destruction of America. As she watched the scene repeated throughout the day, she thought of her parents. If she called now, they would insist she come home. If she didn’t call, they would suffer. She thought of Hart, lying feet up, maybe dead, and if so, missing a day that even on the day itself people said was momentous. Her premonition that this day would somehow be significant had come to pass. A beginning, an end, maybe both.

  On the afternoon of September 11, when everyone else was transfixed by a public spectacle of terrorism, the actress was called to the LA Memorial Hospital to identify the body of a man who had arrived by ambulance the previous night. Her friend and neighbour, dead of a heart attack. A Canadian, whose next of kin could not be reached. His father Terrance was dead, his mother Kitty was in a nursing home, unable to speak. His sister Amanda was attending a publishing conference in Beijing and, in the middle of a global crisis, couldn’t get a flight into LA. The actress assumed the role of intimate friend, and was believed by all.

  In the days that followed Hart’s death, the newspapers were devoted to the coverage of disaster in New York. Nevertheless, saturation did not prevent the actress’ agent from placing a small item in the Los Angeles Times, beside a flattering picture of his client taken in the soft shadows of late afternoon, under a headline that read: Actress Finds Screenwriter Dead.

  Lena saw the report of Hart’s demise as she and Gustav were waiting at the airport, bound for Berlin. She felt bad, as if in longing for an event to mark the fulcrum of her life, she had somehow willed his death. The side of her that could have been an actress saw the world in dramatic terms.

  As the Lufthansa flight took off, she went over the details of the accident, recalling how his racing pulse had declined to near normal, more or less what might have been expected from a healthy man who fell head over heels backwards in a swivel chair. His eyes were glassy, face red, but he had been breathing. She tried to remember a textbook chapter on shock, the various types and terms, but her memory was vague. She had not paid close enough attention. She wondered what more she might have done to help. Without thinking, she looked down at her nurse’s watch and took her own pulse. She was ashamed to realise she knew so little. If she had known more, this fulcrum of her life might have turned out differently.

  While the silver Pacific disappeared behind her, Lena Aurbach, the daughter of career bureaucrats, borderline hypochondriacs, decided she knew a little but not nearly enough about the mysteries of the human body. She had not known how to pull a man back from the brink, the correct procedure during crisis.

  She remembered a café on Unter den Linden where her mother often treated her to hot chocolate and a pastry. The afternoon, years ago, when they’d come out of the café and found an old woman collapsed on the sidewalk. A man kneeling at her side was taking her pulse. A few people slowed down but most walked briskly in the other direction, pulling their collars up against the cold. She had wanted to stay. Her mother dragged her by the hand. “It’s not our business,” she said. “He’s a doctor. There’s nothing we can do.”

  Suddenly the memory meant something else. It struck her that what is hidden cannot be revealed by the game of blindness. Unseen forces can sneak up on a country or a man and cause great damage. New Yorkers running toward the camera lens, jumping to their deaths from a burning skyscraper. Hart slumped over, feet up and red-faced. In such cases, greater knowledge of procedure is necessary. Such knowledge requires years of study.

  By the time the aircraft reached the Atlantic Ocean, Lena had chosen her destiny. In future, if an old woman collapsed on a street or a man capsized, she would be the one to stop and kneel. If someone tried to drag her away, she would break free and say: “I’m a doctor. I can help.”

  KITTY

  THE COTTON SHEET rubs against Kitty Granger’s knees while she sleeps, leaving sores. She shifts position. Something hard in the mattress, a spring or a wrinkle of cloth, pokes her thighs. She cries out. Every joint aches. A niggling litany of pains comes and goes without warning, the mind smothered in complaints from a worn-out body, time frittered away on fussing. But there are worse fates, she knows. The muddled, drooling sentence of senility would be worse.

  On a bad day, she grits her teeth and fixes her attention on a single, vivid thought to be turned over, followed through in the next clear patch of lucidity. So much to think about, so few good days. Raising her head from the pillow, she looks around the room. No one has heard her cry. She sinks back, relieved. The slightest grievance can bring on some new medication, leading to fog or sleep, a further waste of time.

  Across the room, a lump lies hidden under blankets. She can tell it’s a man by the wheezing spurts and rasps of breath, intimate male sounds, volcanic and foolish. The nurses say this is the ladies’ floor. She suspects they’ve been told to lie by the management of St. Joachim’s, a beige, sick-smelling place, somewhere foreign, like New Jersey. It was Amanda’s decision, stuffing her mother in with strange men and Catholics. That’s what comes of marrying one! In no uncertain terms, Kitty outlined her views to the lady in the next bed, but n
ow that bed is empty.

  The windows are sealed, the air is hot and stale. Grasping a corner of the sheet, she begins the laborious task of uncovering her legs. It takes hours and never fails to cause a stir, the sight of a small, immobile bundle of bones wrapped in paper skin, naked and exposed. The nurses cannot fathom why a naturally modest woman would insist on removing her clothes. She’d be mortified if she knew.

  Kitty keeps her eyes shut and listens to their talk. The corner of her brain struggling to manage pain knows very well who draws those sheets away, and why: for the pleasure of revenge on the ravaged body holding down her mind.

  The stroke damaged her power of speech, but her mind - she is sure - remains clear and furious. Lacking the power to respond or interrupt, she must suffer one-way conversations fit for an idiot. Dear this, dear that, pointless chatter full of coos and kisses. Only Amanda still bothers to articulate. She comes in every day to read from the newspapers and drop off new books on tape. Kitty takes to words like exercise, determined to keep her mental muscles firm and up to the tasks of memory. A faithful daughter is a blessing, she concedes, even one who tends to lecture: “You were a crackerjack nurse, Mum. Remember? Why not give these girls a smile? Tell them they’re doing a good job.”

  Kitty pretends not to hear, but after Amanda leaves, she savours the picture of herself as a young nurse, sitting with the others on their break, drinking coffee, smoking, clucking tongues, telling jokes on the cranky ones. Before she was Mrs. Dr. Terrance Granger, she’d been one of them, so cocky and sure they would never turn into old crows, helpless bores with nothing to do but wait. She had not known then, so can hardly cast blame: the old do not lie idle, waiting for death like teatime. Dying isn’t waiting. It is work. Before extinction comes recollection, a duty to remember, a story to be told to the end.

  * * *

  Summer, 1945. A small white house in a quiet Montreal neighbourhood, Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, En-dee-gee to its stolid anglo inhabitants who are uncomfortable with foreign-sounding names.

  On her way out to the garden, Kitty Woodhouse slams the screen door shut, a gesture aimed at her mother who is sitting at the kitchen table, crying into a handkerchief embroidered with violets. A terrible disgrace has fallen on the Woodhouse family. It is Kitty’s doing, yet Ellen suffers shame as though the fault were hers alone.

  Her father’s portion is tainted by ambivalence. Siding with his wife, he damns the brute that did this to their only child. But the act itself arouses something akin to admiration. Try as he might, Frank Woodhouse cannot fully embrace the link between fecundity and shame. At night, when his wife has fallen asleep in her tears, he lies awake wondering: when and where did this happen? Under this roof? Were they swept up, carried away by an urgent, unstoppable force? These questions make his blood race. His night thoughts are free of judgement, but when morning comes, he will fix a look of resignation on his face, prepare to obey the rules of humiliation.

  Kitty rejoices at the sound of an angry door, heads for the garden, climbs onto the swing built by her father and freshly painted every other spring. With one foot, she gives the ground a push, leans back against the wooden slats and settles into the familiar rhythm of summer. An ocean sky of clouds calls for wishes. She offers up Neil Roberts, twenty-two, tall and gorgeous, with black hair and a wicked sense of humour. Her heartfelt wish is to see Neil sitting at the dining room table, telling one of his stories. Her mother will resist at first but then her famous rippling laugh will catch hold and carry her off. It doesn’t happen often, but when something strikes her funny bone, there is no more beautiful woman on earth, and it’s easy then to forget how often and how easily she cries. Kitty wishes they could pay someone to make her mother laugh, but there’s a war on. Money is tight, parental laughter is in short supply. She is as sure as she can be that Neil will see her through. Any minute now, he will roll into the driveway in the Chevy, open the passenger door and take her away from a cheerless house where no one ever tells a joke.

  Only years later will it dawn on Kitty that her mother knows all about Neil and the famous blue Chevrolet, which belongs on the car lot and isn’t his at all. It is one of the reasons she is crying. She cannot abide giving her only child to a used car salesman’s feckless son. She is English, a member of a family that puts great store in who one is, what one does, details that creep out between the lines of letters from abroad. When she was Kitty’s age, she cast her lot with a man whose dreams did not come true. But she knows better now. She is not prepared to sit idly by while more mistakes are made. From now on, Ellen will insist on dignity, synonymous with comfort, and not just a brave face worn to cover despair.

  In the weeks that follow Kitty’s announcement, nothing goes as planned. True to her wishes, Neil pulls up outside the house. He is quickly sent away. When the telephone rings, Ellen gets there first. Finally, it stops ringing. Kitty howls and pleads, threatens to run away, but mostly she sleeps, each day, a small surrender. Long evenings and empty afternoons yield to the time zones of pregnancy, where the past is a fairy tale, the present, a heavy swoon. She pins her hopes on a distant future, after delivery, when she will return to real time. Only X-more days to go. By the fifth month, she is too numb to worry about where Neil’s gone, too tired to care.

  * * *

  No one at St. Joe’s is allowed to escape the mid-morning snack tray of biscuits, fruit and tea. Kitty hears the approaching cart, and groans. A rude, unwelcome break from reverie. As the duty nurse tucks a fresh pillow behind her head and carries on about the weather, she is surprised to learn it is snowing outside. She had thought the season was summer. Then she remembers: the season of memory is summer.

  By the time the tea tray disappears, she is alone again, ready to drift back to the garden swing where by now leaves are falling.

  * * *

  A crisp autumnal day, the suitcases are packed. Frank waits in the front room, overcoat buttoned, hat in hand, while Kitty twirls once more through the dry grass and gives the dog a goodbye hug. She is glad to be on the move, excited by the prospect of new landscapes and people she does not know.

  He takes her to Windsor station on the bus. Gripping a suitcase in each hand, his shoulders sag; he wheezes and stumbles on a crack in the pavement. Walking beside him, Kitty feels bulky and strong. She tries to take a suitcase, but he refuses. For weeks, he has treated her like expensive china, rarely speaking above a whisper.

  This journey is the first time they’ve been alone in months. She tries to read her father’s thoughts, but his face is blank. Does he blame her? Despise her? Is he heartbroken or angry? Will he ever forgive, or at least forget? Her mother’s arc was clear. Tears and shouts gave way to muted phone calls; plans were made and quietly announced. Kitty listened with her eyes shut, knowing there was no way forward but to slip back into childhood, obey, and wait. Her father stayed in his workshop, making birdcages.

  On the platform, he sets down the suitcases, checks his pocket watch, sputtering about the cold. Kitty fishes in her purse for the ticket. When she looks up, their eyes meet. This time he does not shy away. His gaze is sad, as though he believes she will be gone forever.

  She is tempted to say, I’m sorry. So sorry, poor man, sorry I have made you suffer. Hatred of Ellen has kept her strong, but now, confronted by wordless love, she crumples.

  “Daddy . . .”

  He shakes his head.

  The porter heaves her suitcases into the railway car and tells her to get aboard. Frank’s shoulders slump. “She’s to get off in Sherbourne, down in Vermont, ” he murmurs gravely. “You’ll tell her when it’s her stop?”

  The porter winks at Kitty. “Is she deaf? If not, she’ll hear the announcement.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She smiles, grateful for an exchange that is untainted by the unmentionable presence in her womb.

  Before Frank can think of what to say, she dusts his cheek with a kiss and disappears into the train. The whistle blows. These last few minutes should pass quickly. But
nothing goes as planned. Alone on the platform, he scans the windows for a last glimpse of his daughter, but she is nowhere to be seen. For weeks he has been paralysed in her presence, caught up in the lugubrious spell of Ellen’s disappointment. Now her absence shatters the spell. He is galvanised. He knows exactly what to say and do. He climbs on board the train and plants himself in the seat next to hers. She whispers a protest but he stays rigid. The whistle blows, final call.

  She is frantic. “Daddy, please!”

  The porter rushes forward, demanding Frank get off the train, this instant. Frank is beyond reasoning. He folds his arms, stares straight ahead. The train lurches forward. The porter shouts. Possessed by a memory of the night she was born, he is ready to fight. The midwife had done her level best to keep him away, but he put his foot down, stayed by the bed and held Ellen’s hand throughout. He saw the whole bloody ordeal from beginning to end. He knows what lies ahead, knows more than his child. He will not abandon her. Then he is standing in the aisle, arms flailing. The porter grabs at his arms, takes an elbow in the nose. Blood spurts out, but they are moving, chugging, inching forward toward the light. Victory! He will be there when the time comes, to hold her hand. Suddenly, a jolt, they are thrown forward. Three thick men in uniforms clutch at his arms. The train stops, inches back into darkness, stops again. The men drag Frank away, down onto the platform, holding him tight as the car door slams shut.

  The train begins to move. He goes limp, does not think to buy a ticket, or follow her on the next train. He will regret this moment forever. Through tears, he finds her face, framed by the window.

  Both hands pressed against the glass, she gazes at a crumpled little man on the platform. She does not want him to follow. She smiles, and waves goodbye. Blows him a kiss, and is gone.