Stone Woman

by Bianca Lakoseljac

  He breathes a sigh of relief. “What then? You never said you loved me.”

  “Don’t you get it? I can’t say it. I’m afraid something will happen. And I’ll never see you again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. And how could you?”

  “Try me. What is it?”

  “All right. You asked for it. I’ve always believed if I fall in love, something horrible would happen. To the man I love. And I’d never see him again. So there it is. You happy now that you know?”

  “Oh, Liza, that’s illogical.”

  “No, it isn’t. I already told you about my father. My grandfather was also killed. In the First World War. Well, presumed dead. His body was never found. He was twenty one.”

  “War is a people-eating machine, Babe.”

  “Oh, yeah? My great grandmother from my mother’s side died in childbirth. My grandmother grew up in an orphanage. Should I go on?”

  “I thought you said you were worried about me. So I thought the men were the targets. Here it was your great grandmother. In those days, many women died in childbirth.”

  “All of these tragic deaths happen to the ones who were in love. And I am their direct descendant.”

  “I see nothing unusual. In the past, people didn’t live long.”

  “My great, great grandfather died of tuberculosis. I can go on.”

  “Most families experienced what you just told me. You should relax a bit. Live your life. And most of all, love me. Life’s a gift, Babe. And so is love.”

  He draws her into an embrace and gives her a long kiss. Than he looks into her eyes. “Love me, Liza. That’s all I ask. If you can’t, if you don’t feel it, I’ll back off.”

  She frees herself from his embrace. “In my family, love is the killer. I’m trying to cheat fate by . . . pretending . . . that we’re not in love.”

  He laughs. “How about we make a deal. I’m happy to take my chances and love you. Are you?”

  “This isn’t funny, David. Why can’t we leave it alone? Why do you insist I say those words? You should know how I feel. Don’t you know?”

  * * *

  His arm is wrapped around her shoulders as they walk back to Colborne Lodge Drive and turn north toward Bloor Street. The clouds have lifted and the moon illuminates the sidewalk as if it were daylight. David leads Liza to a bench at the edge of the path.

  “Perhaps it’s me that makes you apprehensive. I’m not easy to get along with.”

  “Let’s not go there, David. It’s all your secrets that don’t help. ”

  “The antiwar movement? I have to do that, Liza. For my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “I was married once. My wife was killed. In Vietnam. She was a nurse.”

  It takes Liza a few moments to process what he had said. That marker in her brain that filters out the details and distils the essence is enveloped in a migraine that detracts it from its task. She covers her face with her palms and remains silent.

  David clears his throat. “Once I got drafted, my wife urged me to leave before being sent off to Vietnam. She was to join me in Canada in a few weeks. She needed time to tie up the loose ends. Her job, her family, her friends. Then she phoned me. She’d volunteered.”

  He slides his hand up and down his thigh, pressing harder and harder. “She did it to save her brother from being sent to Vietnam. Only one sibling at a time could be in a war zone.”

  Liza takes his hand and presses it to her face. “I’m sorry, David,” she whispers. “For your loss. For not being more understanding.”

  “No, Liza. I should’ve explained.” His voice croaks as if he has laryngitis. “She called me from Saigon. Told me she was pregnant. Didn’t know it until she got there. Said she’d be returning. Joining me in Canada.”

  “How did she die?”

  “A helicopter crash. Near Saigon.”

  She looks up at him and shudders. His face is a stone mask — grey and cold and lifeless.

  CHAPTER 23

  November

  THE ELEVEN O’CLOCK news is on. Liza reclines on the

  living room sofa, Benjamin Spock’s book on baby care on her lap. Feet resting on the footstool, hand over lower belly, she waits for the baby to stir. Anna is crocheting a white baby bonnet. They sip tea and chat about work — the gossip and curious glances. Although Liza’s pregnancy is no secret, not knowing who the father is eats away at some of her female coworkers.

  The paternity of Liza’s “love child” has become a hot topic. Some in the office believe it could be Armand Vaillancourt. They claim to have seen him devouring Liza with those smouldering eyes during his visits to her office. They blow kisses to each other and feign fainting to demonstrate how irresistible he is. And the mere recollection of his French accent makes them weak at the knees. Others suspect James, the policeman, who has been using his investigation of the missing block of marble as an excuse to continue dropping in on her. Although he does not fit the image of a secret lover, in their words, men in uniform are irresistible to women. Besides, is it not often the unsuspecting quiet ones who should be watched? A few women who came to see the soothsayer at Sculpture Hill think it must be the hippie they saw Liza with on that day. Someone said that, although he looks like a bum, he instructs sculpting at an arts college — Liza would be attracted to an artsy-type. Others said that he is a draft dodger and an antiwar activist, and probably belongs to a socialist party. Liza is a smart girl; she would not be taken in by a communist in disguise. And the most unsettling news about him is that the police have been questioning him about the theft of that block of marble. If Liza’s baby ends up with red hair like that man’s, the question of fatherhood will be clear, they say.

  The freezing rain is icing the window panes. The sticky drizzle seeps into the pores of the city, glazing the streets and sidewalks, the tree branches still clinging to clumps of yellow leaves, and patches of wilted grass.

  “Good thing the freezing rain held off until today,” Anna says as she slips an orange tea-cozy she crocheted over the tea pot on the coffee table. “The kids had a great Halloween, yesterday evening. Those little ghosts and goblins took over the streets and had a ball. More than a hundred Mars Bars — the dentists will be happy.”

  Liza is four months pregnant, and is sure the sensation that feels like an air bubble or a flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach has to be the baby’s gentle, barely perceptible, movement. She shifts her palm over her stomach. “Feel this, Anna. First a bit of a swish, and now the little bubbles. These little taps I’ve come to know.” Anna lays her hand next to Liza’s, and their warm laughter fills the room.

  The screen door squeaks, followed by the scraping on the oak door’s mail slot. Is someone trying to slip mail through? The brass slot had been screwed shut and its function replaced by the mailbox hanging on the porch wall. Liza gets up to check, but Anna cautions her. It’s too late at night, especially on a soggy and drizzly one such as this, to open the door to an unknown visitor. The screen door closes and the mailbox flap drops with a clunk. Anna walks over to the window and catches a glimpse of a slight figure in a hooded raincoat walk down the veranda steps, turn right and continue eastward to High Park subway station.

  “Just what we need,” Anna says. “More junk mail.”

  A sense of foreboding settles into Anna’s bones, as if some great calamity is about to befall her. Ever since Ricky was deported to the U.S., back in September, to face charges for being AWOL, she has been uneasy. Could FBI agents be keeping tabs on her? Could her involvement with the antiwar movement blow up in her face? Could she even end up losing her job? She had pleaded with David not to take part in the Pentagon demonstration in Washington. The situation had become tense and there would likely be many arrests. It was enough they had helped to organize it, she had told him.

  The blo
wup over David leaving had been unlike any of their past disagreements. He took off without a word, and she had no doubt he was heading to the Pentagon.

  To make matters worse, after Ricky’s deportation, the police questioned Anna about a burglary in Yorkville Ricky was accused of. Although she was sure Ricky was innocent, she also knew he was an easy target, especially after being sent back to the States to face the charges as a deserter. She feared being seen as an accomplice, and any knock at the door made her nervous. Soon, her apprehension swelled. She became so tense, as if she were under the mushroom cloud of Hiroshima that was about to engulf her, and forever alter life as she knew it.

  Anna has kept her feelings in check by spending much of her free time with Liza and helping around the house. On weekends, she often stays overnight. In Liza’s words, Anna’s visits offer comfort only David could top.

  Last weekend, Anna helped to winterize Liza’s roses by mounding peat moss over the bases to protect the grafts from the winter frost. The excitement of Liza’s pregnancy has thrown them off schedule, and they made it just before the ground froze. Anna was resolute on protecting the standard Tropicana rose Liza treasures.

  The process was tedious. First they dug a shallow ditch along the edge of the perennial bed where a row of impatiens, shaded by the weeping white birch, flourished over the summer. The first frost which singed the impatiens also signalled it was time to winterize the Tropicana. They gently lowered the rose into the trench and covered it with peat moss and soil. In spring, they will dig it out and plant it back in its place to one side of the front steps, where a profusion of blossom welcomes visitors all summer, and often into mid-fall. Neighbours stop to admire the salmon-red blooms and to take in their fruity scent. And unlike other red-hued flowers, which become nearly invisible at night, the Tropicana blooms take on a fluorescent tinge some of the white flowers are featured for in night gardens. Listening to the icy drizzle outside, Anna smiles, pleased the rose has been protected. They could not let this pride-of-the-street freeze the same winter Liza is expecting her baby.

  Anna tops off the cups with chamomile tea and sets a plate of Graham crackers on the coffee table. Liza picks up a cookie and dunks it in the tea. With a smile of satisfaction, Anna does the same. “I’ll join you and I’m not even eating for two.”

  Liza laughs. “If I keep going, I soon won’t fit through the door.”

  “You’ve only gained a few pounds, and it’s all water and the baby. If you want a healthy child, you’ve got to eat. Plenty of time to worry about your figure later.”

  Liza gets up and straightens out the shirt over her pants. “My appetite’s voracious. And since the morning sickness stopped, I feel so energetic. Never thought pregnancy could do that.”

  On television, the CBC news features the scenes from the Days of the Dead celebrations in Mexico — processions of dancers in skeleton and death masks and floats covered in marigolds, the flower of the dead. The newscaster flashes a footage from Janitzio, a small island in Patzcuaro Lake — the fishermen in their rowboats with torches lighting up the harbour.

  Anna props her arms on her hips. “I’d like to see all that pageantry. And all those marigolds. A trip to Mexico. Some day.”

  “Your Spanish lessons should help. You’d love Mexico. Not to mention tequila,” Liza says and shoots Anna a meaningful stare.

  “Tequila? You mean the spirit of Mexico,” Anna says laughing. She turns to Liza. “Have you put in the application for maternity leave?”

  Liza looks surprised. “No rush.”

  “Better to plan ahead. Give them time to find a replacement. I’ll take a year off after your leave. As soon as you figure out your dates, I’ll put in for time off. So the baby will be a bit older before going to daycare.”

  Liza’s eyes widen in amazement. “No way, Anna. I can’t let you do that. This baby’s my responsibility. And I’m glad of it.”

  “What are friends for, Liza, if you won’t let me in your life? Besides, I’m doing this for myself. I’ve been at this job forever. With hardly a vacation. I need some time off badly. And what better time?”

  Liza makes her way to the bathroom. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Without me? What kind of talk is that? And you’d do fine. You’d do fine in any circumstance.”

  “This bladder’s like a regular tap. I’ve got to pee every minute,” Liza murmurs and pulls the bathroom door shut.

  “Joys of motherhood,” Anna shoots back as she picks up the cups from the table and deposits them into the kitchen sink.

  The CBC newscaster’s words stop her cold. “United States draft dodger living in Toronto died in prison in . . .” Anna’s legs turn numb. Please God, don’t let it be him.

  Slowly, as if on crutches, she makes her way back to the living room, eyes glued to the screen.

  “It is suspected the complications from the injuries he received during the October 21st Pentagon demonstrations, when 70,000 demonstrators came to Washington to confront the war makers were a factor,” the newscaster continues. “What began as a peaceful rally against the Vietnam War turned violent as demonstrators tried to rush the lines of deputy marshals and troops armed with rifles and bayonets. By the end of the protest, 683 people had been arrested. Some demonstrators had been beaten with rifle butts and truncheons.”

  Anna steps closer to the television anxious for more information on the draft dodger. “Prison press release lists a brain aneurism as the cause of death. The identity of the draft dodger has not been released,” the newscaster announces as the bathroom door handle turns. Before Liza walks out of the bathroom, Anna quickly turns the television off and collapses on the sofa.

  “My God, Anna, are you alright?” Liza says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  CHAPTER 24

  THE DOOR KNOCKER thumps gently. Anna walks hesitantly to the door, apprehension rising in her chest.

  The night before, after Liza went to bed, Anna retrieved the envelope which had been dropped off in the mailbox. It was addressed to Liza, with no indication of who the sender was. She slipped it in the lingerie chest in the guest room she occupies. She had a hunch the two were connected — the draft dodger who had died in the U.S. prison and this brown envelope. When would be the best time to show the envelope to Liza? Should she mention the previous night’s news about the draft dodger?

  If it is David, at least Liza would be a bit prepared. But if it isn’t, wouldn’t she be worrying her for no reason? The handwriting on the envelope is not David’s. The letters are large and evenly spaced and the “L” has a fancy scroll, as if written by someone trained in calligraphy. David’s handwriting is different — uneven angular letters that seen from a distance resemble Egyptian hieroglyphs.

  Through the glass door pane, Anna spots a woman on the porch. It’s Helena. The gnawing in Anna’s stomach intensifies as she turns the deadbolt and opens the door. She is blinded by the morning sun shimmering off the icy glaze on the tree branches and rooftops across the street. Anna squints to adjust her eyes to the glimmer.

  Helena steps back. She is pale, with dark circles of sleeplessness beneath her eyes. “Anna? What are you doing here?” she says in a brittle voice.

  “Me? You’re asking me what I’m doing here?”

  Helena lowers her eyes. “Didn’t know you live here.” She turns quickly and begins walking down the icy veranda steps. “I’m looking for someone else.”

  “Wait,” Anna calls out. “And grab on to the railing, girl. It’s sheer ice.”

  Helena stops and rests her hand on the railing. Her blond hair hangs limp under the beret crocheted in stripes of assorted coloured yarn, now matted from wear. Her oversized woollen poncho hangs over a long paisley skirt drooping over moccasin boots.

  “I don’t actually live here. What on earth are you doing here?”

  Helena clears her throat. �
��I . . . dropped off an envelope last night. I thought this was the right place. I’d like to take it back.”

  Helena looks drained, as if she’d been ill for some time, and Anna has a dreadful inkling this visit has something to do with David.

  “Who are you looking for?” Anna says softly as if talking to a child.

  “For Liza. I was given this address.”

  She turns and is about to continue down the steps when Anna says: “You’re at the right place. Wait here. Let me see what Liza’s up to. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Helena searches Anna’s face anxiously. “Does Liza have the envelope? Does she know? I shouldn’t have left it.”

  “Oh, Helena, I sure hope it’s not what I think.”

  Tears burst from Helena’s red-rimmed eyes and roll down her waxen cheeks. “I should’ve talked to her, first. What have I done?”

  Anna wraps her arm around Helena’s shoulders. “I’ve got the envelope, Helena. I was afraid of what’s in it. I heard the news last night.”

  Helena grabs Anna’s hand. “Thank God she didn’t get it. I didn’t know what to do. How to tell her . . . his letters to her . . .”

  “It is David. Isn’t it, Helena?”

  Helena lowers her eyes and nods. “What did they say on television? I called every news station while he was in prison. No help. Now finally somebody’s listening. But it’s too late for him. Too late.”

  “Are you sure it is him? They didn’t say so on the news.”

  “I was there.”

  “You were with him? Why? Were the two of you . . .”

  Helena covers her eyes with her palm. “David is my brother.”

  “Your brother?”

  Helena nods.

  Anna stares at her. “I never thought . . .”

  “Not his fault. I didn’t want to be treated like somebody’s little sister. Didn’t want to be told what to do.”