Violence turned cliché.
Brenda glanced at his face then, at features lamenting that he had been capable of no other life but the one gone wrong. Felt her own frustration. There was nothing she could do for him.
As the clock ticked steadily towards midnight she learnt tidbits about men in incarceration that she would have paid hard-earned money to remain ignorant of. Suppressing shock and disbelief, setting aside ready judgment, she concentrated on being a gracious hostess. Took cheap comfort in the realization that however little she had to offer, it would be far more than he was used to.
When he eventually fell silent, a sigh escaped him. Brenda suppressed her flicker of compassion, instead taking the opportunity to call it a night. She worked up the courage to bid him goodnight, thinking it best to do so without mentioning the word “bed.” Readjusting her black shawl to a tighter fit, her face somber, her voice void of emotion, she left the room, trying to look like she had grown fangs and was floating off to sleep in a coffin.
Closing the door to her room, she jammed a chair under the handle in a noiseless, covert operation. She had a perfect right to feel safe in her own home, yet the barricade nagged her like a shameful secret.
Apart from the man named Desmond Gorchek, to whom she still had half-forgotten legal ties, she had never been alone with a man at night.
She lay so rigid in bed she barely touched the mattress, alert to the slightest noise. Every time she heard Gordie turn over in Donna’s bed, she was ready to leap up and toss herself out the window. Imagined herself turning into a bat, flitting off into the darkness, strong elegant wings silhouetted against the moon.
Soon the only sound from Donna’s bedroom was a steady snoring punctuated by soft grunts.
He could be faking it to lull me into a false sense of security.
The minutes dragged.
Brenda woke up to find the sun splashing anemic light through her window. From the street came reassuring Saturday morning noises. Kids shrieking. The neighbour’s dog yapping. Mrs. Rosato’s loud voice talking on the phone downstairs. The wet whoosh of traffic up on Main Street indicated it had rained during the night.
The apartment, on the other hand, was dead quiet.
Aware that she could not stay barricaded all weekend, she forced herself out of bed, put on her floor length bathrobe and tied it securely with a double knot. Soundlessly she removed the chair from under the door handle, slapped a semblance of a smile on her face and went to see what her guest was up to.
Gordie was sitting in the living room, fully dressed, drinking instant coffee, smoking and staring at the TV. The TV was not on. His eyes did not come alive until he noticed her standing in the doorway.
“Oh . . . Morning, Brenda! Say, listen, I made myself some coffee.” He held up the mug: exhibit A. “Is that all right?”
What if it isn’t? “Of course. You must make yourself at home . . . Would you like some toast?” Well, he has to eat, doesn’t he?
“Say, that’d be real nice!”
You’d think he’d been offered Beluga caviar and champagne the way he’s grinning.
His vote of confidence provided the burst of mental energy she needed to make toast, using Donna’s sliced Wonder bread, put out plates and knives, jam and peanut butter. She even put on a tablecloth, making it special.
All too soon they were facing each other at the breakfast table like it was their regular morning routine, Brenda on the left hand side, Gordie on the right. Gordie downed three cups of coffee and five slices of toast in no time at all. When he was done most of the jam and peanut butter were gone.
A squirrel appeared on the windowsill. Noticing movement on the other side of the glass it stopped in its tracks and peered in at them with alert black eyes, nose twitching.
“Lookit that little guy!” Gordie beamed and pointed. “He thinks he’s at the zoo.”
And you’re grinning like it’s your firstborn come to visit. “Squirrels are a real pest around here.”
“A pest? Cute little guy like that?”
Don’t contradict him, for God’s sake! “No, no, not that one! That’s a different kind.”
The squirrel turned around and jumped onto the nearest tree branch, its tail a waving plume.
The incident changed the dynamics of the breakfast, adding something that made Brenda awkward again, insincere. She wished she too could scoot up a tree and disappear. Felt she ought to apologize to Gordie for not wanting him there.
“So, Bren . . . whatcha up to today?” The question was diffident, his face expectant. “You busy? I mean . . . whatcha usually do Saturdays and all? . . . Not like I want to be in the way or nothing, I just want you to know that. So, you know, if you’re busy and stuff . . . ”
“That’s okay. Really.” I never do anything much. Once I was married and planned for the future. Now I can’t seem to get organized. “I usually take a walk downtown to the market. You know, get some veggies and fruit and things.” Women’s stuff, nothing you’d enjoy.
“Yeah?” He stared at her, intrigued.
You’d think I just described a trip to the moon. “Yeah. It’s a nice, big market. They have fresh fish and seafood too.” Then I spend the rest of the day doing nothing. Wondering if the phone will ring. If it doesn’t, come evening I heat a can of soup, have a salad, and drink too much wine. Then I fall asleep in front of the TV.
Gordie lit up. “I like fish. Mind if I tag along?”
You bet I do. “No . . . no, of course not . . . You don’t mind walking all the way there and back?”
“Won’t be doing much walking where I’m going, will I?”
Damn! “Oh . . . Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” His smile at her discomfort was kindly.
Gordie insisted on doing the dishes while Brenda showered. It was the longest shower she had ever had. When she was done, Gordie had both washed the dishes and dried them. “I put the clean stuff on the table, didn’t want to mess around in your cupboards.”
Afterwards they headed downtown, talking about this and that, how Hamilton had changed over the years, which part of it they had grown up in. The conversation was not without awkwardness, but somehow it flowed easier out of doors. Brenda strolled slowly with the intention of making the trip downtown last as long as possible. The usual half hour walk took nearly an hour.
Once they entered the market, Gordie transformed. Stepping lightly and sprightly all of a sudden, he kept stopping to admire the scenery, acting like he was in some glorious wonderland. What the hell did he find so fascinating? The red hills of plump tomatoes? The yellow and orange citrus fields? The green rolling meadows of broccoli and cucumbers? Those foothills of red and orange and yellow peppers leading to a bumpy eggplant mountain? What was it his shining eyes beheld?
“Say, Bren, what are those purple things over there?”
“Eggplant.”
“Eggplant? I never heard of those.”
His solid bulk softened as he made his way from stand to stand, Brenda following a step behind. He took his time, his fingers stroking every surface, from the smooth satin eggplant to the unshaved coconuts. He wanted to taste everything, he declared, buy everything. And he tried his best, insisting first on familiar fruits, apples and pears, oranges and plums. “Just one or two, eh?” Then a bit of broccoli, peppers, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber. Bananas and raspberries. A jar of homemade jam. Rhubarb and strawberry the label said. “Sounds good, eh, Bren?”
I thought you had no money. “I don’t need all that food.”
“Oh come on, you can always use jam, can’t you? Seeing as I ate all yours for breakfast?”
“ . . . I guess.”
A loaf of homemade bread and then two pieces of baklava because the name intrigued him. Beaming now, he told her not to worry, he would pay, he would carry and, “Hey, what are these here weird little lumps?”
“Chestnuts.”
“Chestnuts? No kidding? You can eat those?”
“Yes. This ki
nd you can. You roast them in an open fire, or in the oven, until the shell cracks.”
“Is that right? Say, let’s get some and do that, eh! You guys have a fireplace. Can we roast them in there?”
Well, it’s something to do. At least he’s easy to please. “I suppose.”
“And Bren, what are those green and red things over there? The ones the black woman in yellow is selling?”
“Those are mangoes.”
“What?”
She explained what mangoes were. He insisted they get one.
“Mangoes,” he mumbled, savouring the name. ”Mangoes. It has a nice sound to it.”
“They’re delicious. And see those yellow ones beside them? Those are papayas.”
“Popeyes?”
She was about to smile, but caught herself. “Papayas. They’re a fruit too.”
“Well, what do you know? Wanna get one? You only live once, eh?”
They walked over to the stand. The Jamaican woman’s eyes slid inscrutably from Gordie to Brenda and came to an unspoken conclusion. She saw no reason to hide her amusement.
They ambled on through the crowd, Gordie’s lips moving silently, a little smile twitching his lips. Papaya. Mango. The sheen had become visible on his face again, that slightly greasy coating of the weary traveller.
The woman at the fish stand was intent on selling them fresh oysters. Demonstrating, she held one up, pried it open and let its live slippery content slide down her throat. “Good for making babies!” she hooted, smacking her lips.
Gordie blushed.
The woman laughed.
Brenda found her gesture obscene. He’s not my husband! I’m just con-sitting. He’s going to jail on Monday. For aggravated assault! If not worse, for God’s sake! Murder even! Ashamed of her thoughts, she declined the raunchy woman’s offer, instead choosing two rainbow trout, cold, grey and dead.
After that, unable to carry any more, they headed east on King Street with their loot, an odd couple on their way home to prepare Saturday evening dinner. Brenda hoped they wouldn’t run into anybody she knew. So far she had been lucky. Then again, she didn’t know very many people.
It had turned into a sunny afternoon. The leaves on the maples in Gage Park sported russet and gold, dancing in the breeze. “Pretty as a picture, eh?” said Gordie. The sky was cloudless and blue, though already the sun was showing signs of fatigue. The shadows were lengthening.
Soon this day will be over.
She was desperate for a glass of wine to dull the edge of her anxiety. A glass? Make that a bottle, a jug, a cask. When they passed by a liquor store she stopped and said, “Let’s get some white wine to go with the fish.”
Gordie told her awkwardly that he was not supposed to drink alcohol, but figured maybe a small glass of wine would not affect him like a case of twenty-four.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” His smile was friendly. “Say, Bren, don’t sweat it, eh?”
Oh, I’ll sweat it. “It was a stupid idea. Let’s skip the wine,” she said. “There’s pop in the fridge.”
He looked embarrassed — there was a blush in his cheeks — but he did not object.
Gordie parked himself in front of the TV while Brenda prepared dinner. He did offer to help, but she declined, wanting to be alone. Besides, this was her job. First she made — no, she didn’t make, she created — a lavish salad that included most of the vegetables he had insisted on buying. Topped by thin slices of peppers in autumnal yellow, orange and red, it was a work of art. That achieved, she whipped up a cheese sauce for the broccoli, using two kinds of cheese, provolone with a bit of parmesan, taking her time, stirring until her arm hurt.
However I look at it, this is my life. It will be what I make of it. I have a guest for dinner tonight. He might strangle me later, but there must be no lumps in the sauce.
She grilled the fish with butter, lemon and slivered almonds. It was to be followed by a fruit salad. Papaya and apples and pears, oranges and plums, arranged in a manner designed to impress, topped with a handful of ruby raspberries. She left out the mango. That one she would slice for breakfast, its flavour best enjoyed on its own.
When called to the table, Gordie sat down and for a suitable length of time let his eyes behold the splendor. Then he threw manners to the wind and applied himself to the food like an industrial vacuum cleaner. The expression on his face was one of weepy pleasure. Which was as it should be. It was the most generous meal she had ever prepared, a lavish exhibition of something she did not feel.
A bottle of chilled chardonnay would not have gone amiss.
Afterwards she brewed some of her good coffee to go with the baklava. Later they watched a movie on TV. It was an old Cary Grant comedy, Arsenic and Old Lace. Twice she caught herself laughing along with Gordie.
When the movie was over they roasted chestnuts. Gordie pronounced their taste too weird, but had serious fun roasting them, insisting Brenda eat them all. By then he looked so goofy with contentment she decided she better halt the harmony and bid him good night.
“See you in the morning.” Once again, acting as though the stroke of midnight would transform her, she swept herself in her black shawl and floated down the hall.
Having silently slid the chair into place under the door handle, she lay in bed feeling wretched.
In Donna’s room Gordie was soon snoring.
Brenda lay awake for a long time, thinking that when dawn arrived, it would be Sunday. Gordie would be leaving to go to jail where the familiar sound of metal gates would slam shut behind him. While she would get her freedom back, be able to relax and think unhindered whatever thoughts came to mind. She had been a gracious hostess, and it had worn her out.
A lackluster light was seeping into her room when a sudden noise jolted her awake. It was the creak of Donna’s bedroom door quietly opening and closing. Followed by the sound of Gordie’s heavy footsteps. They were coming her way.
No.
He was heading in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen. A few seconds later the door slammed and footsteps tramped down the stairs. Gord had up and left.
He didn’t even say thank you.
She was still lying in bed pondering the unexpected development twenty minutes later when slow footsteps came up the stairs. The kitchen door opened and closed. There was the scraping of a kitchen chair against the floor as somebody, presumably Gordie, sat down. After a while — eleven minutes and sixteen seconds according to her alarm clock — there was another scraping of chair before footsteps headed down the hall.
This time they were coming straight towards her room.
No.
They continued into the living room, stopped briefly, then returned to the kitchen, in no great hurry. There was a moment of quiet, then a very loud crash made the house tremble ever so slightly. It was followed by dead silence. Brenda lay in rigid terror until she heard the back door shut quietly and the sound of feet plodding back downstairs, heavier this time.
Now she dared get out of bed. She ran to the window, aware of the lightness in her movements. Leaning over her desk she could see him. He was heading towards King Street, away from the wind, head down, ox-like shoulders hunched. The posture of defeat, the gait of an old man. As if he had aged so much overnight he’d had to escape to hide it. Not once did he look back or slow down. The childish velvet collar was turned up, a useless shield against the wind. The suitcase hung like a dead weight in his hand. Swirling autumn leaves, like taunting street urchins, followed close at his heels.
The sun, too, had run out of steam. It looked as if the day would not grow any brighter.
A minute later he turned the corner by the gas station and was gone.
There was a deep dent in the wall by the kitchen door where Gord had slammed his fist before leaving. Some tiny red spots indicated that he had broken the skin of his knuckles from the sheer force. Bits of plaster lay scattered on the floor below. Brenda stared at the mess while she made a pot
of her good coffee. She poured a cup, grabbed an apple and went into the living room to puzzle over her guest’s sudden, ungrateful departure, and what he had hoped to accomplish with smashing a fist into the wall. The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke; she had not dared ask a chain smoking felon to butt out. Later on she would give the place a good airing. While the fresh air swept through it she might go for a brisk walk, put some colour in her cheeks, before vacuuming and doing the dishes. Eat lunch. Leftover salad and fruit.
She almost did not discover the ivory envelope propped discreetly against one of the empty coffee mugs on the cluttered table, half hidden by the plate where only some crumbs from last night’s baklava remained. Her name was neatly printed on its front. She picked it up and held it unopened, weighed it in her hand like a clairvoyant. Mulled over the fact that Gordie had sneaked out, thinking she was still asleep, to go down to the all-night drugstore and buy her a card.
She tore open the envelope. The front of the card featured a rotund guinea pig, bashful but jolly, holding out a basket heaped with flowers. Roses and daisies, lilies and bluebells. Dapper in a checkered vest and bright red bow tie, the guinea pig stood smiling at her.
She almost smiled back.
Inside Gordie had put into words what the weekend had meant to him. How swell it had been. Going to the market to buy all that great food. How weird it must have been for a terrific lady like her to be stuck with a guy like him. He wanted her to know how ‘greatfull’ he was. It was the only misspelling and she was not proud for noticing it. “I hope you don’t mind I took some fruit to have on the bus?”
The card was signed “Gordon O’Hara.”
She stared at the guinea pig for a long time, imagining Gordie on a bus somewhere in rural Ontario, cradling a leftover mango on his lap, stroking it like he might a favourite pet, his grazed knuckles red and swollen.
From the card in her hand, the irritating rodent stared at her, adoringly, provokingly, continuing to offer his basket of garden-fresh blooms. Brenda kept hoping its outstretched arms would grow tired, but it was a tough little critter.
Leaving Berlin Page 5