There is a moment of silence. “You won’t laugh?” he asks.
I lift my right hand in a three-finger-salute. “Scout’s honour.”
He extends his hand to me. “Chester. Chester Cuttail.”
I stifle a laugh. “You’re putting me on, right?”
“Not at all. You can laugh all you want. But before you do, I’ve got to tell you. I had a cat named Blossom.”
I laugh and it feels good even now, recalling the moment. I wish I could laugh like that more often. What has changed within me? Why?
I pace the floor thinking of a good excuse I could give Chester for missing our dinner. Then I realize, it’s just as well. We have been seeing each other so often I am becoming dependent on him. And I am not ready for what that leads to. Commitment. Then a heartbreak. I am not about to replicate Liza’s fate. I prefer my life uncomplicated.
Instead, I press Anna’s number. She picks up on the first ring.
“Bloss, dear, you must be telepathic. I was about to call you. Have you seen the write-up in today’s paper? About the graffiti in High Park.”
She fills me in on the week’s worth of news since we last spoke and we set a time for our usual Sunday dinner. I am tempted to tell her about my bizarrely long sleep but it would only lead her to worry. She has noticed I haven’t been myself lately, and has been insisting I have a thorough checkup. Since Liza died, Anna has been my pillar of strength every step of the way.
We hang up, and I grind some coffee beans the way Liza and Anna used to as a special treat on weekends. As I listen to the spurting of the percolator and inhale the aroma, I flip through the paper in search of the article Anna mentioned. I pour the coffee into the rose china mug — one of Liza’s flower collections — and get comfy in my favourite chair overlooking the backyard garden. The trees and shrubs, although still bare, are mantled in secret leaf-buds waiting for the first warm day to burst into their fluorescent hues. As I sip the flavourful brew, I recognize the photo in the paper. The large cubic sculpture in High Park is Bernard Schottlander’s November Pyramid. Some time ago, someone had painted it a brilliant blue. It had been cleaned of the unwanted “art” and repainted back to a neutral brown. Now it has received a new ambush of graffiti.
The article brings to mind my trip to London, England, in 1999, around the time the sculptor died. I was at a conference when I came across his obituary in the newspaper. It mentioned his contribution to the 1967 Art Symposium in Toronto. I found it strange to be so far away from home and see a reference to sculptures almost in my own backyard.
The obituary had described Schottlander as one of the most stylish, technically accomplished sculptors who worked in Britain after the Second World War, though he received little recognition. He focused on public commissions and held few exhibits, so his work became familiar, but not his name. He had been known to point to an ashtray at a cocktail party or a light fixture on a street corner and say, I made that — say it casually, as a way of informing, without emphasizing his part in it. He had been an ordinary man with an extraordinary talent.
This all reminds me of the sculptures in High Park. Liza had a story on every piece. Many of the artworks are still there — a familiar sight to park visitors. Yet, very few people know much about the artwork and have even less appreciation for it. A few pieces were well used from the day they were completed. Schottlander’s large stack of metal cubes had instantly become the children’s favourite climbing place. Hubert Dalwood’s “Temple,” a maze-like construct of stainless steel cylinders, is another popular spot for children and grownups alike. But a number of the artworks appear abandoned. Some are scribbled with graffiti, a few are dilapidated, and some overgrown with vegetation.
For me, they have a certain incongruous flair — original and highly contemporary, and yet seemingly forgotten as if much time had passed. Names such as “pyramid” and “temple” are reminiscent of some ancient epoch. At times, as I stand in front of Bill Koochin’s statue of a hippie, now with a broken nose, I imagine him as old as Michelangelo’s David.
The Hippy holds a certain mystical power over me. I envision Liza standing in front of it, arms crossed on her chest, head tilted to one side, with this wistful look on her face, eyes penetrating the black granite figure as if staring at it hard enough would bring it to life. I can still hear her voice. If I could only make him breathe! I didn’t quite understand what she meant. She promised to tell me the secret behind this sculpture. While she was ill, I did not have the heart to ask, although I thought she simply could not find the right words. I catch myself staring at The Hippy as she used to, wishing the mystery would reveal itself to me.
A bit farther east where the park is left natural, fewer visitors come — mostly dog walkers who keep to the periphery of this section. I often sit here, on a sunny slope near one of the sculptures and feel right at home. Am I drawn to them because they are unappreciated? They seem to exist in a world of their own, mysterious and misunderstood and mostly ignored, except for the complaints about the safety of some of the pieces that had been partially disassembled. In my own quasi-philosophy where all animate and inanimate objects have some form of soul, these artworks, some created by sculptors who have since become world-renowned, seem forlorn.
I decide to spend the day at Sculpture Hill catching up on all the work I should have done yesterday. I roll up my picnic blanket — the handmade quilt Liza bought for my white “princess” bed when I was still in grade school — stuff it in its matching bag, then stash a bundle of student papers waiting to be graded next to it, and head to the park. As I make my way along the path to the sculptures, my eyes follow the trunks of the oaks and maples to the bare crowns, and I envision them lush and green as they will be in another month. To my left, near the Forest School, is Wessel Couzijn’s piece, Midsummer Night’s Dream. The story behind the artist’s inspiration Liza told me makes me smile. Behind me is Menashe Kadishman’s, “Three Discs.” I am amazed that it is free of graffiti considering its inviting circular surfaces — six blank canvasses-in-waiting.
Strange how some places make one feel at home. Here, I feel as if I am in my own living room — but more inspired — as if the air I breathe is infused with an inspiration the artists who created these sculptures instilled into the landscape.
I take my quilt out of its bag and unroll it. I fold it with the flowers inside and the mint green on the outside, as Liza used to, then lay it over the bag so it does not get stained by the grass. A few months ago Chester asked me if I had made it, and I told him how Liza and I, who were not into craft making at all, told everyone we had sewn it, and how we laughed about it afterwards. My first impulse was to stash it safely into the cedar chest, but Liza would want me to use it.
Soon I am sitting on the quilt and marking reports, my back propped against one of the red I-beams — what is left of Mark di Suvero’s Flower Power. It had been cordoned off as a safety precaution. Yet, I am comforted, as if the space encircled by the yellow tape is reserved for me. Passers-by give me looks of disapproval and walk away, say nothing. Just the way I like it.
CHAPTER 30
THE PHONE RINGS. I am stir-frying tofu and snow peas and cooking brown rice, so I let the answering machine pick up.
“Blossom, dear, I was about to ask you if you could come over for dinner. I called earlier but didn’t leave a message. I see you’re not home.”
I drop everything and grab the phone. “Anna?” She is still on the line. “Come on over. And don’t eat dinner. I’m cooking.”
After Liza’s death, Anna took a year off work. She said she needed to reflect on what mattered in life. She spent most of her time with me. I was twenty-two, certainly old enough to take care of myself. But Anna’s friendship got me through some tough times. I know that now.
I continued to live in the house my mother had left me, except I could not think of it as my house. It was always my mother’s house.
And everything in and around it. But Anna helped me to see things differently. She weeded the flowerbeds with me and reminded me of the stories behind certain perennials.
The pink bleeding heart had been planted as a memento of my first crush on a boy who came to my seventh birthday party. I smile fondly as I recall his chubby cheeks and unruly black hair and especially his mischievous, dark eyes. My girlfriends and I came up with the idea his eyes were smiling from the heart — a rather grown up notion — and we all declared our love for him. He was a bit shorter than other boys his age, and since none of us wished to give him up, we agreed to share him. We held him so he couldn’t run away, and took turns kissing him. He squirmed to free himself, and then began shouting until my mother came to his rescue.
The purple Echinacea had been planted one spring when I had whooping cough and was given some Echinacea drops to build up my immune system. The standard Tropicana has been the centrepiece of our front garden for as long as I can remember. It won the prestigious Canadian Rose-Fragrance award the year I was born. The pink peony was David’s gift to Liza. And the birdbath with a winged woman was my gift to my mother when she became ill and I wished her to grow wings of strength. Anna reminded me of all the love shared and fond memories infused in every corner of my home.
Soon after returning to work, Anna felt her once exciting job had lost its lustre. Some years later the Department offered an early retirement option and she took it. She was only in her early fifties, and “living life to the fullest” became her mantra. I wondered what that meant. Most of her time was spent either helping me or taking care of Jane’s children. I set a table for two. It would be nice to have company for a change.
“I haven’t seen you for a few weeks,” I say to her over dinner. “You haven’t called.”
“It’s end-of-semester for you, dear. You have a busy schedule.”
I think it a bit odd. We usually have our Sunday evening dinners together, even during the busiest times.
After dinner, we sit with a pot of tea. Anna’s hands are wrapped around the steaming mug and only the tips of violet blossoms imprinted on white china peek over her tight grip. This is her favourite cup, matching Liza’s.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a metal flask, the one with her name engraved on the side. She unscrews it and pours some liquor into the cup.
“Rum?” I say.
She nods. “The best. John Watling’s Buena Vista. You still have yours?”
“The one you brought me from the Bahamas?” I point to my liquor cabinet. “My collection from your trips is all there. All I have to do is take an inventory of the bottles to recall where you’ve been.”
She laughs and taps the flask with her finger. “They call this the spirit of the Bahamas. I even took a tour of the distillery. They use the water from their own deep well for fermenting.”
“Anna,” I say gently. “You’re diabetic. I thought you gave up the spirits long time ago.”
She shrugs and sips her tea, then takes the medication from her purse and pops a few pills into her mouth. She looks at me for a long while without a word. Behind her apparently calm façade there is a storm brewing, as if she is mustering the courage to tell me something.
I am tempted to remind her that medication and rum don’t exactly go together. I can smell cigarette smoke on her as well. But she seems anxious. No, I better not.
She sets the mug on the coffee table, reaches in her purse, and pulls out an envelope. She gazes at it for a moment, and hands it to me. “Don’t open it now. Later. Think about if for a while. Then we’ll talk.”
I turn the envelope in my hands, tempted to rip it open. It’s not like her to be so secretive.
Anna is silent and remote. Her heart shaped face and large brown eyes are void of the usual cheerfulness. The bags under her eyes are puffy and she looks drained as if she has speed-aged over the last couple of weeks. Has she been crying? No, not Anna. The only time I’ve seen her cry was when Liza passed away. Her dark hair, still without grey well into her sixties, is pulled back so tight I can see her skin stretching at the temples.
“Is everything all right with you, Anna? You seem pensive.”
She gives me a long intent look. “I don’t know how to tell you, dear. But I have to.”
My heart is skipping beats. “What is it, Anna?”
“They found a lump. Well, I found it. But you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know what you mean!” I hear my voice rise to a high pitch. I feel anger welling up in me — anger against Anna. What is she trying to tell me? Why is she doing this to me?
“I’m sorry, dear.” She rises and brushes her hands along her pant legs the way she usually does when feeling out of place. Or not knowing what to say.
We stand, staring at each other as the white envelope slides out of my hand and lands softly on the floor.
CHAPTER 31
I TRIED READING IN hopes of getting Anna’s lump out of my thoughts, but that didn’t work. All I can think about is Anna. How could this be? I cannot imagine her going through what Liza went through. Does Jane know? I need to talk to her about this. But I can’t be the one to tell her. It has to be Anna. I am tempted to call Anna just to hear her voice. But how can I? Any conversation that doesn’t include the lump is trivial. Perhaps Jane is waiting to hear from me in the same way as I am waiting to hear from her. Perhaps she’ll call. Or perhaps she’s already called and left a message while I was in the shower. I glance at the answering machine, and there are no messages. Chester! I could talk to him about this, just to get a perspective on the situation, just to get it off my mind. No, I can’t call him. He’s been cool toward me ever since I missed our dinner. I never did explain, and the more time passes, the harder it is for me to do so. I could ask if he’d go for a late night walk. God knows I am not about to fall asleep. Not after all that’s happened today.
I love night walks. Chester knows. He is one of the few people who enjoys them as well. Darkness softens the sharp edges of the world. It soothes the too-harsh colours. The sky recedes, the universe expands and opens possibilities of great adventure: the still air, the coolness, the quietness. Being one of the very few people out on the streets gives me freedom.
Chester and I are buddies. We were getting to be more. We were more than that. We used to hold hands and kiss but that was all. Most people we know saw us as a couple. But we were not, not really. I preferred to keep it that way. Sex ruins everything. Now I wonder if I’d been wrong. Perhaps I should’ve given the relationship a chance. No, I cannot call Chester. Hard to believe how people change — one minute you’re a kindred heart, and the next a complete stranger. What would I say to him?
I get out of bed and walk down to the living room. It is close to eleven. I cannot call Jane and wake up her kids. I text her, and the next moment, my phone rings.
“So, you know,” Jane says.
“Yes.”
A long minute goes by and we remain silent.
Jane clears her throat. “Anna is a tough lady. She’ll beat this.”
“I don’t see how, Jane. After two heart attacks. And she’s got diabetes. And high blood pressure.”
“She’s a fighter, Bloss.”
“Sure. So are the soldiers in Afghanistan. And they’re dying as we speak.”
“That’s not fair, Bloss. I want Anna to beat this as much as you. She is in good hands. The Women’s Centenary is a great hospital. She has a good doctor. And I don’t mean just competent. I mean caring.”
“I think she’s still smoking. And this evening, she poured a shot of rum in her tea. Then took her pills with it.”
Jane sighs. “She’s a grown woman. She’s always done things her way. You can’t change that, now.”
After we hang up, I start tiding up, just to keep busy. When I turn on the television, the eleven o’clock news is on,
and the National’s almost finished. More bombing in Iraq. Eight American soldiers dead. The news moves on to Afghanistan. A Canadian soldier killed by friendly fire. Then on to the Gaza Strip. Hamas fired another missile into Jerusalem. One Israeli dead. Three wounded. Two of them children. Israel retaliated with an onslaught of bombing. A suicide bomber killed six and injured eight people at a girls’ religious school in Pishin District of Balochistan. A bomb-laden car exploded in Peshavar killing nine people and injuring three. Death and chaos. Chaos and death. Young lives, wiped out, just like that. Peter Mansbridge announces the upcoming local news. New research on breast cancer is promising. The use of new technology is seen as more effective, less damaging to the immune system.
The local news begins. Another shooting in Toronto. One person dead. Two wounded. It happened at a crowded intersection. No witnesses have come forward. A child missing in the Junction area. An eight-year-old girl. Four days have gone by with no leads. Another announcement of the new research in breast cancer to be revealed during the same news segment is aired. It’s illogical — news reporters repeatedly advertising the news they’re about to disclose. By the time the news piece is aired, it had been promoted by the newscasters four times. I keep count, fold a finger for each one. It’s an old habit I try to overcome. I hide my hands under my sweatshirt just so I could fold my fingers without others noticing. It helps me to keep my hands busy. Now, it helps me to keep my thoughts of Anna at bay.
The feature medical report is finally presented. The reporter explains why the recent method of breast cancer treatment referred to as brachytherapy is becoming more effective. It involves inserting “radioactive seeds” into the affected area of the breast, in the tissue next to the cancerous cells. These implanted “seeds” release medication to the affected area with minimal impact on the immune system. The patient can continue the usual activities, even continue her job while receiving the treatment. The method was being studied along with one of the conventional approaches, “the external beam radiation.” The researchers are optimistic — in the case of early detection, brachytherapy could possibly be used as the only treatment.
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