We march the procession through High Park, playing Louis Armstrong’s “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the saxophone resonating through the valleys and along the trails, and the walkers pause and swing to the tune.
We stop at the majestic ginkgo on the west side of the maintenance building — the tree Anna saw as sacred. She often marvelled at its lyre-shaped limbs, and called these branches the Portals to Heaven, the hidden gateway between worlds. Here, Jane and I recall how Mother Teresa’s devotion to helping those in need had been Anna’s life-long guiding principle.
James the policeman approaches the coffin — I had not seen him until now. He was not part of the procession. He kisses the tip of his finger, places it gently on the lid, and holds it there for a long moment. His large frame in a black suit, topped with a black fedora, evokes an apparition from another epoch. He bows and backs out of the gathering, awkwardly leaning on his cane, his polished black shoes squeaking each time he rests his weight on his injured leg. He stands rigidly behind the group, as if on guard duty. Our eyes meet and he nods to Jane and me — a twitch of a smile. Helena walks over and they shake hands. He bows to her, then slowly walks away. Jane and I exchange looks of consent — it’s a glorious send-off, one Anna would have approved of. Everyone agrees she might have even shed a few tears of happiness for having such thoughtful friends.
That evening, I invite Chester to stay the night.
CHAPTER 40
April, 2009
IT IS LATE afternoon on a windy first day of April, and I take a walk to Sculpture Hill, to my thinking place by Flower Power. Another school year is winding down and I need to make some decisions about the summer.
Blossom dear, you should take some time off and travel. I hear Anna’s voice in my thoughts. I enjoy teaching summer courses, but Chester has suggested we plan a trip together. He has a long list of places. His idea is to travel to Belgrade, then on to Holland to search for my grandparents’ distant relatives. Visit Nuenen. Who knows, I could find myself related to Vincent, the famous painter. He has suggested that we visit Ireland and Scotland and search for David’s roots. Chester’s family is as Canadian as could be — French, English, and First Nations — and everyone accounted for going back a few hundred years. We’ve also talked to Jane about driving together to Florida to see Helena. Chester tells me I haven’t been myself since Anna died. A visit with Helena would do me good.
Walking through the park, I am fascinated by how changeable this time of year is. One moment the sun is shining hot as if it were July, and just as I take off my jacket, a gust of wind whips across the clearing, and a flurry of snowflakes scatters over my face. They are not soft and fluffy, but sharp and icy, grazing my cheeks and clumping on my eyelashes, coming down from the heavens since there are no clouds in sight. Suddenly, the snow thickens, and the sun’s rays turn pale and cold, as if cast by an abandoned fridge light. I waltz full circle, bewildered. This place I know well, this landscape with tall bare oaks and maples and triangles of red I-beams of Mark di Suvero’s sculptures silhouetted against the sky, feels surreal.
It is surreal. Empty. Missing a fragment of itself. Wide-eyed, I scan my surroundings. Flower Power is not there. The sky which held the red I-beams ever since I can remember is gaping. On the brown grass, the gargantuan body of an uprooted sculpture is heaved on its side, its cement-clad roots jutting into the air. I hear rumbling close behind, and as I turn, a large truck advances along the rutted path gouged in the grass, toward the upturned structure. A portion of the sculpture has already been removed. I feel as if something has been upturned in me as well, part of me severed.
I make my way down the hill, where an attractive young woman with a tripod and camera is filming the scene. A few workers are milling about. I greet the woman and soon discover the sculpture is being shipped to the artist in New Jersey for refurbishing. It will be brought back to Toronto and reinstalled at another location, a more prominent one near the CN Tower.
The second piece, No Shoes, has already been disassembled and stored on the truck.
I am happy Mark di Suvero’s sculptures are being refurbished. But having them reinstalled somewhere else?
The image of my mother sitting on the grass, her back pressed against the red I-beam, surfaces in my thoughts. Am I about to lose that vision, and with it, to lose my mother all over again?
“There have been a lot of complaints over the years,” the photographer says. “About safety. And about how unsightly they are.”
Why did people see them as an eye-sore? Could they not see beyond the peeling paint?
“They’ll be restored. Placed where people will be able to appreciate them.”
I nod and she continues: “I heard the artist has become well known. Apparently, he was just a beginner when these pieces were commissioned. It was way back . . .”
Her voice blends with the wind whistling through the bare trees, and I feel it entering my bones.
The disparity of our experience of these sculptures stuns me. This young woman is learning about them only now, as they are being removed. How different she and I are, and how at this moment our lives are intersecting — for her, the removal just a job that leads to mild amusement by these structures. She is unmoved by them, by what they stood for — what they stand for — and especially by the fact that they were envisioned, designed, and constructed for this park, and this is where they belong. How could I tell her that these sculptures are a link to my mother, a link no one could ever conceive of? How could I tell her that Flower Power has been my thinking place since childhood?
* * *
When I get home, I take out Liza’s scrapbook and read her poem about di Suvero’s sculptures.
Below the poem, I add the following lines:
Dear Flower Power and No Shoes:
I paid my visit to Sculpture Hill as I often do
And found you — departed.
Six half-bolts, two braces, a quarter inch thick
palm-sized steel plate, all with flaking
orange-red paint is what you left behind.
What new cause, or old, has captured you?
The next morning, as I pick up the newspaper from my porch, I am faced with the front page photo of the upturned Flower Power, a write-up about its removal, and a reference to the article about the sculptures created during the 1967 Art Symposium that still remain in the park. I flip to the article. It includes photos of the remaining five sculptures: Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Temple, Three Disks, November Pyramid, and The Hippy. It also features Burman’s incomplete one — comprising of the two granite blocks set on a base, with a subheading: The unsolved mystery of the missing Carrara marble. My heart beat quickens. I scan the article and spot the lines that refer to David Gould, a draft dodger who was a sculptor and a lecturer at the Toronto Arts College . . . and a suspected marble thief. The piece goes on. And I cannot believe my eyes. It talks about Liza Grant, who was the project coordinator for the 1967 Art Symposium in High Park, and whose “love child,” sources claim, was fathered by David. It is believed that David and Liza’s offspring, who is now a woman in her forties, still lives in the High Park area of Toronto, and is currently a lecturer at a local university. The article concludes with: “David’s sister, who currently resides in Florida, is suspected of being an accomplice in the theft, but no proof of any of the allegations has been found, and no charges have ever been laid.”
I call Chester, and while I wait for his arrival, I call Helena.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” she reassures me. “It’s that hound that used to badger Liza when she worked for the Ministry. He tried to question Anna, but she put him in his place. And me when he could find me. He’s a real paparazzo, that one. What the heck is he looking for, beats me. Back then, he said he was determined to find the truth. But I don’t buy it. I think he’s obsessed with that case because he couldn’t dig anything up. Liza even
filed a complaint against him. He was banned from entering the building where she worked. And he never gave up. I thought he retired some time ago. Is there anything some of those reporters won’t do for a story?”
Chester arrives and begins a Google search for a lawyer. Helena suggests that we contact Anna’s attorney who is a friend and an activist from the sixties, and has been familiar with the case of the missing marble. He is handling Anna’s estate which is being contested by her relatives.
“Our lawyer-friend has bailed out many a protester in the sixties,” Helena says. “He knows that reporter.”
She fills me in on the status of Anna’s will. Anna has left her house and all her possessions to Jane. But these relatives Anna had seen only a few times in her life, while her parents were still alive, claim that Jane had coerced Anna into leaving the property to her alone. They insist that Anna’s illness caused her to be emotionally unstable toward the end of her life.
“Anna was never unstable in anything, least of all her will. She was the most organized person I’ve ever known,” Helena says. “I’ll call the lawyer first thing Monday morning. He’s semi-retired, but he’ll help. He’ll know what to do. He’ll make that reporter eat his words.”
A few days later, the newspaper issues a retraction of the article and an apology from the editor. Unfortunately, this type of info does not make it to the front page, but rather in the section only those who have been wronged like me look, hoping to find justice. I am satisfied that this will not reoccur. Hopefully.
A couple of days after the retraction, The Villager, a small neighbourhood weekly paper publishes an article about a fortune-teller who proclaimed the stolen Carrara marble cursed. The write-up provides a brief retelling of the Sculpture Symposium, and the theft that shocked the Toronto community. It includes a photo of the fortune-teller — standing by the two blocks of granite still in crates — her arms raised in the air. She is surrounded by a large gathering. I peer closely, hoping that I don’t recognize Liza. And I don’t. The photo is of poor quality, and for once I am grateful for inadequate technology.
Over the next week, a sense of dread sets in me. I wonder if my colleagues at work know about the articles. What do they think of me? Do they think that I am the illegitimate daughter of a criminal? That I come from a family of thieves? My mind conjures up assumptions and speculations and accusations — and pure malice. When I see them talking, I think they are gossiping about me.
“Chances are not many people read the articles,” Chester says. “And if they did, how would they make the connection?”
“My last name. How difficult is it to make a connection?”
“There are many people with that last name, Bloss. Besides, that was the sixties. It’s rather cool to be the daughter of a hippie. Don’t you think?”
“David wasn’t a hippie. And Liza wasn’t even close to a hippie.”
“What’s the worst case scenario, Bloss? Let’s say, somebody does make a connection. So what? There is nothing there. Not even an arrest. Nothing!”
“I have a feeling somebody knows something. Somebody always knows something.”
* * *
I telephone Helena. “I think you know more than you’re letting on. I’m part of this. You owe me an explanation. I need to know.”
“Nothing to know, my girl. And that reporter won’t bother you anymore. Believe me.”
“I wish I could believe you, Helena.”
“Don’t worry about the piece in The Villager. That’s harmless. But the other reporter, the hound? Our lawyer-friend will take care of him. Trust me.”
CHAPTER 41
November, 2009
THIS PAST SUMMER, Chester and I cancelled our travel plans. I was not feeling well. I was unusually tired and unfocused, and my doctor insisted on some tests.
More tests followed and each time I spoke with Jane, I found myself evading her questions about the results. Not telling her has been my way of escaping the truth. The more messages she left, the more I tried to dodge the phone calls — as if revealing to her that I have been diagnosed with leukemia would make it that much more real. When my doctor booked me at the hospital for more tests I was glad — glad I would not be home to dodge Jane’s calls.
I’ve been at the hospital for a week now, and have not checked my answering machine. This way, I don’t have to feel guilty about not returning her calls. It’s not like me to be so inconsiderate, but this game has helped to keep the reality of my illness at bay.
Not long after Anna died, Jane accepted a tenured position as Associate Professor at Carleton University’s School of Journalism in Ottawa. After the move, the responsibilities of the new job combined with raising her three teenaged children filled her days, with hardly a minute to spare. We kept close contact for a while, with phone calls or brief visits between Toronto and Ottawa. This past summer, however, Jane had been immersed in professional development, and in the fall, in addition to teaching, she had taken on the position of acting coordinator for the Communications program, and has been busier than ever.
We agreed to keep in touch by phoning and visiting, and not through email or Facebook or Linkedin. Electronic communication is too impersonal. Yet, she sent an email asking me why I have not returned her calls. She said that we are not in the dark ages and she should be able to reach me. I have not replied. I am in the dark ages. I don’t know what the future brings.
It is past ten on a Thursday night, and Jane is likely at home. I long to hear her voice. To bare my fears.
I used to think how unlucky Jane has been with her three failed marriages and the responsibilities of a single mother. But now I see it differently. Now I think how fortunate she has been and what a fulfilling life she has had. Securing a tenured position was a dream-come-true. The competition had been fierce. Many of her colleagues, including me, have been teaching our whole life on contract. And here she is, already holding the position of an acting coordinator in her department. And although she sees herself as unlucky in love, her three wonderful children, now teenagers, have been her anchor. She’s always had supportive friends.
The National news is on television, and the meteorologist features Wellington Street on Parliament Hill in Ottawa, not far from where Jane lives, glazed in icy rain. On an evening such as this, I imagine Jane snuggled on the sofa in her twelfth storey condo, the view illuminated by the city lights stretching beyond to Hull and the Gatineaus across the River. I picture her marking student essays and listening to the rain frosting the window panes. The job security has changed so many aspects of her life. She received mortgage approval for her condominium. And her concerns about her three teenagers living within the confines of a high-rise were quickly put at ease — they love the central location and would not give up the downtown and move to the desolate suburbia for any amount of space. In the past, the only savings she could put aside were for her children’s education. But last time we spoke she was going through the automobile ads that offer incentives on a van she could now afford. She’s always wanted to take her children on a road trip across Canada while they were still young enough and enjoyed travelling with her. Next summer is a possibility. She had asked me to plan ahead and join her. She also hopes Helena would come along, for although she now lives in her Florida trailer, she has kept David’s apartment where she has spent many summers. In Helena’s words, her heart remains with us in Toronto. And although money is not a problem, as she has inherited her parents’ and David’s estate, the superintendent — a life-long friend and a pacifist — has kept the rent frozen in the sixties, and she does not have the heart to let the place go.
All these wonderful plans. Sure I’ll take the summer off next year — whether I want to or not. Not only did I have to cancel my travel plans for the summer, I had to give up teaching the fall semester as well. What hope do I have of returning to work?
An urgent need to talk to Jane tenses every n
erve in my body. I pick up the hospital phone on my night table and begin to dial. If I used my cell phone, I’d press the icon with her name and would not get the chance to change my mind. I hang up before the last digit.
My cell phone rings and it’s Chester. I am relieved. My temptation to call Jane has passed.
In a silver frame on the night table sits a photograph of Jane and me as little girls. Next to it is a photo taken about the same time with Anna, Liza, and Helena. Chester brought the pictures from my house to make me feel better. We look like a happy family — we were a happy family — still are. Liza used to say, death does not end the love we feel — love is eternal.
* * *
A patient from the next room, sporting a flowery turban and hot-pink lipstick matching her housecoat, is leaning against the footboard of my bed. She is chatting about the luncheon menu, and the new chef who is determined to turn bland hospital fare into gourmet cuisine, and the nurses who make up excuses to visit the kitchen and get a glimpse of the gorgeous new “culinary hunk.” She rhymes off the colours of, in her words, the “designer” hospital gowns, and encourages me to try the “new fashion” rather that cling to my own. She lists the names of patients who prefer one colour over the other. I am grateful for the cheery monologue as it breaks up the boredom of the hospital routine. She slips out of the room just as impetuously as she came in, fluttering her hot-pink fingernails in a friendly wave, and flip-flops down the terrazzo hallway.
I stare at the empty doorway, her Barbie-doll pink imprinted in my vision. Another person appears in the doorway and for a moment I wonder if I am hallucinating. Do I miss Jane so much, I conjure up her image at my hospital room? It is Jane. Long strands of her dark hair have escaped her ponytail and are framing her flushed cheeks. She is dripping wet as if she’d just risen out of a swimming pool. She looks as stunned as I am.
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