Stone Woman

by Bianca Lakoseljac

  “There’s a lot more to this stone woman than meets the eye,” Helena says proudly, as if she’s talking about a close friend. “She’s a champion for women. To do their best. So she’s here. Encouraging. Inspiring.”

  Jane places her arm under mine. “So, you saw her face, Bloss? In your dream last night.”

  I nod. “It’s funny. I never thought I’d get to see it. And last night, in that surreal world at the ocean floor, the figure turned. Our eyes met — for only a moment. It was eerie. Now, when I close my eyes, she’s there. And this sculpture . . . there’s something about this piece.”

  Jane tilts her head and squints an eye as if she’s observing me through a microscope. “Did she resemble anyone you know, Bloss?”

  “It’s Liza,” I say quietly.

  “Liza?”

  “Not the way I knew her. She’s different, somehow. Strange.”

  Helena brushes the front of her skirt with her palms as if she’s removing lint — the way Anna used to when feeling out of place. “We honoured our code of secrecy — in memory of David and what he stood for.” She heaves a sigh. “But now it’s time for unveiling. Those muffins and coffee Chester suggested? We better get going. He might be there by now.”

  * * *

  We approach the door, and it slides open. On the other side, coming in, is James. Helena props her arms on her hips: “What on earth are you doing here?”

  He is leaning on his cane, awkwardly. He raises his bushy eyebrows. “The new home. For Femina. Gotta see it for myself,” he says. “It’s a festival, isn’t it? I lived the sixties too, remember?”

  We exchange brief pleasantries as we always do when we see James taking his walks through the neighbourhood. After the incident at the reinstallation of Flower Power, I invited him over for tea a few times as a way of thanking him, but he used one type of excuse or another until I gave up. He encouraged me to press charges against the reporters, which I did, and he offered to serve as a witness, along with Helena, Chester and Jane. But the case was settled out of court, and I am glad that I have not been accosted by them since.

  Helena stares at him, puzzled. He shifts his weight and his shoes squeak and remind me of Anna’s funeral. He looks a bit haggard, as if he has been ill, and seems to have aged since I last saw him, a few months back. He gestures with his eyes toward the sofa and says to Helena: “Wanna chat? For a bit?”

  She continues staring at him, then turns to us. “You go on. I’ll be there in a flash.”

  CHAPTER 49

  AT STARBUCKS, WE huddle around the square granite-topped table overlooking the street. Jane and I sip tea and Chester holds a mug of hot chocolate. Helena arrives about forty minutes later. She looks anxious. Distracted. Perplexed.

  “What was that about?” Jane says. “Why was James there? Why is he interested in that sculpture? And what did you two talk about?”

  “Give me a minute, dears, will you?” Helena says.

  Her coffee arrives. She scoops a teaspoon of cappuccino froth and savours the cinnamon laced topping. She folds her arms across her chest and leans back into the chair. “We swore an oath of secrecy, Anna, Liza and I. We knew some day the truth would be told. What I had done. And why. What David and I stood for.”

  She gazes pensively through the window. Silence encapsulates us and blocks out the cacophony of chattering customers as if they exist in another realm. The stories about David have been told and retold so often, I imagine him as a guru who, even in death, carries on his struggle for peace.

  Helena scans the crowd in the coffee shop — medical staff, hospital volunteers, and visitors. A group of young Festival goers — bell-bottoms and tie-dye shirts and oversized sunglasses. “On the outside, we’re just like them,” she says. “But on the inside, I’m alone. With memories not shared.”

  Helena takes a deep breath. “David needed to realize his vision. If in this whole mayhem of existence I could make it come true, then I would. If I were to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. The first time he laid eyes on that block of marble, he sensed a form only he could bring to life. Then he realized it was not just any figure. It was of Liza. His want of that stone turned into an obsession. And moral agony.

  “I told David he should steal it. He laughed.

  “David and I had a huge argument over my missing classes. I told him he had no control over me. Never to treat me like his little sister. If he told anyone I was his sister, I would move back to the states and enlist in the war.

  “I told a few of our protest organizers — how David fell in love with that block of marble. I was angry at him — it felt good to make fun of him. One guy worked for a construction company and had access to a flatbed truck. ‘Let’s steal it,’ he said, ‘and give it to your bro as a gift.’

  “We were high most of the time and thought it hilarious. Stealing a block of stone from a park. It became an in-joke. For a few weeks. One evening our friend said: ‘It’s now or never. Got it all arranged. Me and a few guys.’

  “He was not joking. ‘Where do you want it?’ he said. He had the keys to the truck and a fork lift already loaded and a few friends who wanted in on the excitement.

  “We covered the license plates, drove into the park shortly after midnight, and took it. It was ridiculously easy.

  “We didn’t know what to do with it. We drove it around Roncesvalles for a while, covered under a tarp. One guy knew of a dilapidated shed in Parkdale. It was once a car-repair shop. When we got there, it looked abandoned. And had a huge wooden door. The guys managed to get the fork lift right through it.

  “Afterwards, we returned the truck and piled into our friend’s car and drove back to the park. We drank some beer and smoked a few joints, and it was dawn by the time we dragged ourselves home.

  “We heard all the commotion, and about a week later went back to the shed at night to see that the stone was still there. We couldn’t believe no one saw us. We thought we’d be thrown in jail. I almost wished it just to spite David. I wondered if I’d ever get the courage to tell him.

  “A few weeks later, David and I had another argument. He found out I dropped out of school. And he saw me with some Vagabonds. When I reminded him he was friends with the Angels, he said that was different. He did it for a reason. And I had none. I was a girl, and it was not safe for me. He told me that sooner or later things would get rough for me. Seriously rough. And I would regret it.

  “Then I told him I had a gift for him. I took him to the shed. He became so angry I thought he’d have a heart attack. I’d never seen him that enraged.

  “After several days, he told me he’d arrange for the stone to be returned to the park. I freaked out. I was convinced he’d get caught. And returned to the States. And sent to the war. And got killed.

  “I begged him to reconsider. Promised to do anything he wanted of me. Promised to go back to school. To stay away from Vags. To stop dating ‘losers’ — I was tired of all that anyway.

  “He said he would think about it.

  “One night, I rode my bike to that shed. It was past midnight. The place was deserted. I waked in and there he was. David. Sleeping next to that stone.

  “That night, for the first time since we were children, we had a real heart-to-heart. About his wife who was killed. About my fiancé who met a similar fate in Vietnam. About the horrors of war and why he and I do what we do. Why we organize the demonstrations. And how in spite of everything, we believe peace could happen without war.

  “I told him he should keep that stone and turn it into his vision. For his dead wife. For me. For Liza with whom he was in love. It should become an inspiration to all the women, past, present and future. It was meant for him.

  “Femina, he said. We could call it Femina. But he couldn’t do that, he said. He was an artist. He couldn’t take another man’s stone.

  “Then he gave in. A figure of t
he woman he loved was trapped in that block of marble, and he had to give it life. He began to work on it. He’d go all night with no sleep.”

  Helena props her chin in her palms and remains quiet for a long while. “After the second beating in the prison, David knew he wasn’t going to make it. While I tried to get him into the hospital, he wrote letters to Liza. He went on and on about failing her. She was all that mattered. He made me promise I would finish the sculpture. He gave me a letter for a colleague at Toronto Arts College. She was one of the movement leaders. He told me to tell her everything — to hide nothing. She guided us every step of the way. One thing about the movement is how it brought us together — friends from diverse backgrounds — ethnic, religious, educational. We made a pact to continue our work with the antiwar movement. And to realize David’s vision. David had done much work on Femina. ‘Make it count, Helena, use it for a good cause,’ he’d told me. He’d gone on about the importance of not getting caught. Of making sure none of us could in any way be linked to it. I returned to my studies. I enrolled at Toronto Arts College. The program was hands-on, and I dove in with a zeal I never knew I had. I was told I had a talent for sculpting, a good eye for scale, shape, and dimension. What started out as a promise to David became my calling. The dilapidated storage shed in Parkdale where the sculpture had been stored was slated for demolition. A condominium complex would be built. We moved the figure to Anna’s garage — Anna insisted — where I could work on it. After losing David, all my thoughts ran into sorrow. Once I took on his project, my grief drove me to sculpt. He’d done a lot of work on it, and I followed a copy in plaster he’d cast as a model. Made sure it would be as he’d envisioned it. I fell in love with Femina. Shaped her as if the chisel in my hand was guided by some invisible spirit. We let the hype over the stolen marble in High Park settle down.”

  Helena clears her throat, nervously. “Liza was worried about the curse. She told us about her family legacy — that she was not meant for love. That she was to blame for David’s death. That the stolen marble would bring the curse on to her child. So we found the fortune teller. Asked her how to remove the curse. She said she couldn’t help. Then she told us, if the stolen marble was used for a good cause, the curse might dissipate on its own. It’s the all-seeing eye, the higher power, the good and the evil forces at battle. At the end, the good always wins over, she’d said. Anna and I couldn’t believe — that did it for Liza. We ordered another block of white marble for the Toronto Arts College. It took a year for it to arrive from the mountains of Carrara. This way, the college had a piece to work on — as well as a record of a purchase with an agreement of anonymity by a private benefactor, while the cost was covered by David’s estate. It took a few years, one step at a time. When we felt safe, we brought Femina to a warehouse which served as a work area and storage for the students. In the meantime, we donated the new block of marble to another arts school with an agreement of anonymity. We engaged a number of students in putting the final touches to the figure, then had it donated to the Women’s Centenary Hospital. And the rest is history as you know it. Femina has been an inspiration to women to be the best they could be. She’s doing good work.”

  Helena shrugs and smiles. “And I kept my promise to myself as well. I resolved to create for the common folk. My pieces would be affordable. I didn’t go after large commissions. Nor prestigious ones. That little shack by my trailer in Coral Gables is what it’s about for me. Carving small pieces. Selling at art festivals and beach stands. I’ve done some garden figures. I love working with white marble. Reminds me of David.”

  My head is exploding from all this. I would like to ask how Liza could have kept this from me. How could they do this to me? But I cannot. Somehow, in some deep chamber of my mind, it all makes sense.

  I try to say something, but the words don’t form. I am tongue-tied. I gaze at Chester and Jane — they are silent and still. As if we’ve all been turned to stone.

  After a long pause Helena gets up. “One more thing,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

  She walks to the far corner of the coffee shop where James sits at the table, reading the newspaper. Jane, Chester and I exchange dubious glances. Jane says: “Didn’t I just ask Helena what she and James talked about? And there he is.”

  Helena picks up James’ coffee and walks toward us. James gets up and leaning on his cane, follows. Chester pulls up another chair.

  We sit quietly for a few long moments. Helena looks at James. “This is it. All cards on the table.”

  He shrugs. “Not much to tell. Except I know.”

  Jane shakes her head. “Everything?”

  His eyebrows gather. “No, not everything. But enough. I found out a couple of years later, when the sculpture was moved to Anna’s garage. I went in . . . broke in . . . was determined to solve that case . . . and I couldn’t bring myself to report it. As Liza used to say, it was only a chunk of stone that was stolen, like a lump of clay, and not a piece of art.”

  “Liza kept it all in. Never said a word,” Helena murmurs.

  James shrugs. “Liza and I thought that was best. For all of us.”

  “All these years. We thought you were still looking for that stone,” Jane says.

  He laughs and gives Helena a meaningful stare. “Never did find that stone. Found a sculpture, instead.”

  Helena claps her hands, her face beaming. “And now, we have a pact. Lift your cup, James, my friend.”

  Chester nods. “Sure do. We’re the family with alligator hearts.”

  We clink our cups. “Tick-tock the croc.” And our secret is etched in stone — literally.

  EPILOGUE

  AT THE ART Gallery of Ontario, we study the wall of photo­graphs with “significant” motifs of the sixties that capture the spirit of innovation and socio-cultural awakening — antiwar demonstrations, scenes of Yorkville, of Paint-ins and Love-ins and Be-ins — that draws waves of enthusiasts.

  We proceed to the special collection of sculptures acquired by the Gallery. Helena pauses at a piece displayed on a column that positions it at eye-level. The figure cast in bronze is about thirty centimetres high. It features a young woman with a garland of daises on her head, waist long hair evoking an image of being blown by the wind, and a skirt swished in a twirl-like pose. In her hand, she is holding a disproportionately large daisy and fitting it in the barrel of a gun pointed at her by a teenage soldier.

  Helena stands motionless. She grabs my hand with an iron grip. “Blossom, my girl! The exhibit in Boston. David’s exhibit.”

  Jane and Chester huddle closer. Helena continues. “This was David’s prized bronze. It was the centrepiece of the show. And it disappeared during the event. We never found out what happened to it.”

  She covers her eyes with her hands. “I can’t look. I don’t want to know. This is David’s piece. No one else’s. All these years. And now, someone’s claiming it as their own?”

  Helena stands still and takes shallow breaths.

  I read the inscription first to myself, and then out loud:

  “Child Soldier, by David Gould (1934-1967), a sculptor born in Boson, USA. He immigrated to Canada as a draft dodger and was one of the leaders of the antiwar movement . . . Child Soldier, donated to AGO by a gallery in Boston, on behalf on an anonymous donor, is part of the AGO’s collection of significant art of the sixties.”

  Helena claps her hands, her luminous smile rejuvenating her face into blissfulness, the way I remember her as a child, which tells me all is well. She enfolds us into a hug and whispers: “Everything David did was for love.”

  Non quo sed quomodo, Not what we do but how.

  Acknowledgements

  In the process of researching and writing this novel, I have encountered so many wonderful people who have provided valuable information, who have read and critiqued excerpts or the whole piece, and most of all, who have inspired this novel along
the way, that I feel indebted to all.

  My immense gratitude to my editor and publisher Michael Mirolla for his insightful and meticulous editing of this novel and for entering the lives of its characters with compassion and editorial rigor that helped bring it to life on the page, to Connie McParland for her guidance and inspiration, to both for their continuous support, and to all at Guernica Editions — a staunch proponent of multicultural voices for over 35 years.

  To David Moratto for the quirky book cover I love; Gabriel Quigley for a whimsical book trailer; Anna Geisler for her tireless advocacy on behalf of the writers.

  Special thanks to Bethany Gibson for peering deeply into the shadows of the earlier draft of this novel and for offering detailed and constructive feedback.

  My gracious thanks to Frances Gage, a true Canadian icon, for sharing with me her wisdom and knowledge as a sculptor and what it took — her joys and sacrifices — to follow her calling as an artist. Frances revealed to me that Woman is her favourite piece: “To me, Woman is all women,” — our conversation of Feb. 20, 2016.

  My special thanks to Karen Yukich from Friends of High Park for providing valuable insights on High Park history, art, and natural habitat, and for her ongoing support and encouragement as well as her kindness and patience with my endless questions over the years.

  Kind thanks to David DePoe for sharing his experiences of the 1960s and 1970s Yorkville, and for providing valuable insight into the challenges draft dodgers and deserters faced during that time. During the 1960s, David was the leader of the community activist group known as The Diggers. The group helped provide food, shelter, and employment for the youth living on the streets as well as newcomers and the Village residents. Under DePoe’s leadership, the group also organized a number of protests such as the Sit-in — an attempt to deal with traffic gridlock on Yorkville Avenue; the Love-in at Queen’s Park; and the Talk-in with Toronto City Council.