Sticks and Stones

by Janice Macdonald

  “We haven’t examined the content of the messages scribbled on the department doors. I choose not to, and I don’t want you to think it’s because they are too disturbing to deal with. Let’s just say I probably won’t be discussing Mad Magazine with you either, and we’ll leave it at that. The doors are washed, class is almost over, and the mid-session exam is looming. Thursday, I promise we will be dealing with Andrew Marvell and Robert Herrick’s reply. Please have them read, and your texts with you. If you want to comment further on the happenings around here and how they’ve affected you, feel free to record them in your journals. That’s all.”

  A couple of people wanted to talk about their extensions on the essays, but most of them left quietly. Students for the next class began to pour in as mine left the room, and I mouthed a silent apology to Arno as I ushered the remaining students into the hall. I hadn’t known he had the classroom after me. I wondered briefly if he’d heard anything of what I’d been discussing. It wasn’t exactly on topic, although sometimes you have to go where the class leads you instead of being locked into a syllabus. I just hoped Arno wasn’t going to score points with some stickler for rules by turning me in. Besides, I wasn’t sure if I’d defused the tension or not. I felt winded but tingly, the way I used to after a five-kilometer race. Pontificating will do that to you. The same small voice in my head muttered that I shouldn’t be feeling so cocky. I’d taken a stand and supported my argument, but maybe making a shot across the bows wasn’t such a bright idea when there was a loony loose. The thought made me look up sharply, but all I could see was a hall filled with ennui-laden students.

  No psychotic eyes trained on me. I felt no menace from the third row. I shivered and giggled slightly at the same time. The situation was really getting to me if it could make me believe freshmen had anything more on their minds than beer and essays, in that order.

  16

  WEDNESDAY BROUGHT FRESH SNOW AND A blindingly bright afternoon, the sort of day on which I’d like to go crunching down the walking trail in my clompy white moon boots with sunglasses on and bird seed in my pocket. Instead I was cleaning my apartment madly and deliberating about what to wear for my dinner with Steve. I was holding off on cleaning the tub till I’d washed my hair and shaved my legs.

  The hausfrau efforts and the combined tension of the last few days kept me in the shower far longer than my neighbors would have liked had they been home to hear the pipes thrumming. I let the hot water pound out the iron bar that seemed to be wedged between my shoulder blades. After slathering on some hair conditioner, I leaned down to tackle my legs.

  Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks were wrong when they did the skit about the two-thousand-year-old man. The greatest invention known to man is not Saran Wrap; the greatest invention I’d come across was shaving gel. After squirting the pink goop onto my leg, I rubbed it up into a thick foam and pulled the razor through, confident that no nicks would occur. Some oil in the potion made my denuded limb feel soft and silken. I could understand now why men hardly ever complained about daily shaving. This little ritual had such immediate and positive results.

  I tend not to shave my legs once I’ve packed away my summer clothes, relying on opaque tights to see me through any formal occasions. This change of habit brought back a conversation I’d had with my mother when I was about fifteen. I’d asked her about shaving then, since my legs were beginning to show my direct lineage back to Leakey’s Lucy.

  “A woman needs to shave her legs only if she intends to go to bed with a man.” My mother had smiled. I think she meant this to be one of those complicit mother-daughter moments we would look back on fondly as we sipped our International Blend coffee over old photo albums. Instead, it had the reaction of making me feel vaguely guilty about the act of ­depilation, something to be done clandestinely, if ever.

  Remembering the moment now made me giggle, wondering if Steve would take my silken legs as a sign of pre­meditation. Thinking about what it was I was premeditating made my stomach clench. I was definitely out of practice in the seduction department. Did this qualify as our second or our third date? Should I have made preparations for safe sex? Should I ask for a blood test? How did one go about having a romance any more?

  I thought about calling Denise to get a crash course, but decided against it. Talking to Denise these days was like inviting Betty Friedan to tea. You know it’ll be good for you, but you’re not sure how much fun it’ll be. Denise was planning a vigil near the memorial garden the university had planted to honor the slain women in Montreal. Every year on the anniversary of the massacre a ceremony was held there in the morning, with readings and speeches. I’d been to a couple of them and had been very moved.

  This year Denise was planning a candlelight vigil to go through the night before and into the evening of the ­anniversary. She was going to beat a small gong once every ten minutes to signify how often women are beaten, abused, harassed and killed in our supposedly enlightened and advanced society. From what I knew of Denise, it would make a tremendously powerful statement. Whether or not it would change the minds of those who weren’t already converted, I couldn’t say.

  In any case, Denise was probably not up to giving me tips on how to get a man into bed. I’d have to figure this one out on my own.

  “Don’t worry, Randy. It’ll be like falling off a bicycle,” I said out loud, startling myself. I wasn’t sure which to be more worried about, the talking out loud or the screwing up of metaphors. At this rate, I’d probably drop my plate of curried chicken in my lap and all of this premeditation would be ­academic.

  That was the one unbeatable aspect of the night ahead. We’d be eating at the High Level Diner, the best restaurant in Edmonton as far as I was concerned. I spent most of my “eating out allowance” there, since it was just down the block from my apartment. During the summer, there was nothing nicer than sitting on the outdoor terrace and starting a day with a bowl of their multigrain porridge. Summer evenings with a banana frappa out there were a close second.

  We wouldn’t be eating on the terrace tonight, but the ­interior was lovely as well, especially the tables that looked out on the river valley through the denuded branches of the bordering trees. Local artists hung their work in the Diner, changing often enough to make me feel that I was keeping abreast of the scene. The menu changed from time to time as well, but the curried chicken stayed on by popular demand. I regretted the loss of the Diner’s chocolate eclair, a sinful platter of hot fudge and cool whipped cream over a pastry filled with vanilla ­custard, but my waistline probably couldn’t have taken one more year of them. Lots of university folks ­frequented the place, but so did business types and people from around the area, so there was always a healthy mix of humanity. If there was one thing I could get sick of in a hurry, it was homogeneity.

  I was on a greeting acquaintance with most of the staff, who looked Steve over pretty carefully as Sheila showed us to our table. I hoped they liked what they saw; I certainly did.

  Steve looked around, admiring the casual comfort of the place, the friendly bustle of the staff and the buzz of happy patrons. It was crowded, but thankfully we hadn’t had to wait.

  “You know, I’ve never been here, even though I meant to—especially after the first write-up they got.”

  “It’s great. I’ve been eating here for about three years and have never been disappointed.”

  “You look great, Randy.” Steve smiled, and I was glad I’d shaved my legs.

  “You too.” I felt a bit embarrassed, not really used to this part of the mating dance any more. I took a gulp of water and felt an ice cube escape and land on the table. Great.

  Steve sensed that it was not appropriate to laugh. He busied himself with his napkin.

  So much for breaking the ice. I grabbed the menu I already knew by heart.

  Steve suggested we order wine, and asked if white was all right with me. I admitted that was all I drank.

  “Because of the histamines in red wine?”
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  “Partly, though somebody told me that there were red wines that didn’t give you such awful hangovers. Actually, though, I think it had more to do with signing my first damage deposit than with my health. White wine spilled on the carpet just isn’t half the headache, if you know what I mean.”

  We segued from wine into our meal without spilling anything. Steve ordered the tostada, but begged a bite of my curried chicken. This was another check mark in his favor. I’ve never understood couples who both order the same meal at restaurants. They might as well just stay home and eat out of the same pot.

  Part of me didn’t want to talk shop, and I could sense that Steve had somehow decided that since we had become an item, as it were, it was no longer proper to discuss the case with me. However, there was something I had to tell him. I waited until Jody, our waitress, brought our coffee.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you—” I started.

  “That I have beautiful eyes?”

  “Well, there is that, but actually it has to do with Gwen.”

  Steve’s beautiful eyes looked a bit somber suddenly. “Randy, I don’t think we should be discussing things any more. It just isn’t kosher, and if my superiors ever got wind of it—”

  It was my turn to interrupt. “I don’t want to discuss it. I just want to say that there’s something you should see, although I don’t think it’s of much importance, but anyhow—” I found myself taking a deeper than needed breath—“it’s come to my attention that Gwen’s journal is in my possession.”

  “Her what?” Steve spluttered. “You’ve got her diary and you haven’t said anything?”

  Steve’s voice was carrying, and I looked around the ­restaurant, hoping that we weren’t causing a scene. No one seemed to be looking our way. Maybe the jazz background music had muffled his yelp. Jody, the waitress, saw my look and reached for the coffeepot, heading our way. I admired the way she threaded her way through the crowd of tables, like some sort of Gauguinesque water bearer. She slid, without causing a frond to shiver, between a palm tree and a table for two with one man sitting at it, his back to us. The back looked familiar. It’s that sort of a restaurant; no one minds coming in alone to eat, and eventually you begin to nod at other ­regulars.

  Steve didn’t say anything while Jody was pouring coffee and reaching for our cream pitcher to take it in for a refill. After she’d left, he resumed in a quieter tone.

  “I can’t believe you’d withhold this. What did you think we were after when I first asked for anything you had of hers?”

  “It’s not a diary,” I muttered back at him. “The journals are a writing assignment I have my classes do to warm up for the class. I put a topic on the board and they write for about ten minutes, that’s all. They’re only worth ten percent of their mark, so most of them don’t take them too seriously. I haul them in a couple of times a year to check how their extemporaneous writing is coming. I think it makes them better at writing exam essays. It’s not as though they’re writing anything personal in them.”

  “And you read this journal?” Steve seemed to have calmed down a bit.

  “Sure, that’s how I knew to tell you about the therapist.”

  That was the wrong thing to say.

  “She’s writing about her therapist in it and you don’t think it’s anything personal?”

  I winced.

  “Steve, I’m sorry. I read it, and then put it away and forgot about it. I only remember it when you aren’t around.” I shut up then. I could hear the slight edge come in to my voice that indicated there would be tears soon if I didn’t get a grip. I ­didn’t want this man mad at me. Especially not tonight. Heck, I’d shaved my legs! As soon as the thought entered my mind, I was mortified. Steve was concerned with finding a killer and all I was thinking about was my own gratification. Luckily, the lights in the Diner were gentle, and my flush might not be too noticeable. The appropriate penance came to mind ­immediately.

  “We could go to my office after this and I’ll give you the journal.”

  Steve looked a bit startled. “Now?” Maybe he’d shaved his legs too.

  “Well, if you think it’s so important …” I trailed off. Penance was penance, but I wasn’t about to be a martyr. I’d let him decide.

  He took a moment and a long swig of water.

  “Oh, hell, I can just as easily pick it up tomorrow. As you say, it’s not likely that relevant. And, after all, they say one of the first elements of a good investigation is not to mix business with pleasure.” He grinned, a bit like the wolf does in old-fashioned fairy tale illustrations.

  Honest to god, my toes curled.

  17

  STEVE HAD PARKED ON THE STREET IN FRONT OF my apartment, so we strolled back from the Diner. The back door to my place was more than a stone’s throw from the parking lot reserved for Diner patrons, but a good ball player might have nicked it. We were almost out of the lot when a car pulling out and spinning gravel made Steve draw me close to him. A dark Taurus whipped past us and down the alley to the stop sign. As it waited momentarily under the alley light, I caught sight of the man driving.

  “Steve! See that guy?” I nudged him furtively, although the driver probably couldn't see us.

  “Who, the guy that almost ran us down? Yeah, when I’m on foot I really hate drivers. But then, you should hear what I say about pedestrians from behind the wheel.”

  “Yes, him. I think that was that reporter. Paulson. Do you know him?”

  Steve released the grip he had on my shoulder, but not by much. He glanced after the now receding car.

  “Oh really? That’s quite a coincidence.”

  “Maybe. I’m pretty sure he was in the Diner while we were. I thought there was something familiar about his back, but I didn’t place him till now.”

  “I wonder which one of us he was keeping an eye on,” Steve said as we reached my door and he held it open for me. I was waiting for a lecture on non-secure buildings, but I guess he had other things on his mind. The reporter, and whether or not I felt my personal life infringed upon, melted out of my mind like the snow slipping off the toes of my boots onto the door mat in the warm interior.

  Steve riffled through my record collection while I put the kettle on for tea. I came back to the melancholy Dougie Maclean singing “Silently Sad,” which I usually reserved for long bubble baths, but seemed suddenly appropriate for a cozy evening in a warm place with a warm man. Hell, “Seventy-Six Trombones” probably would have done the trick at that point. Steve was sitting on a floor cushion, propped against the couch with his arm draped over the seat cushion. I placed our mugs of tea on my coffee table, a shellacked backgammon board on legs, and lay down on the couch so that my head rested on his upper arm. He stroked my hair with his hand, and sipped his tea. It felt like a romantic scene from a ski movie. I just wished the old gas fireplace in the hearth actually worked. Still, for a budget picture, it was pretty good.

  I shared my film vision of the moment with Steve, who laughed.

  “You know, Randy, there are people out there who just live their lives, instead of always analyzing the scenes they’re in.”

  “There’s more than one historic example of life imitating art, you know. There just doesn’t appear to be one handy for me to wound you with at the moment.”

  Steve laughed again and I smiled. I tried to hold the mock hauteur by sniffing in my best Victorian fashion. I took a deep breath and felt my nose tingle with the scent of Steve, a ­subtle aftershave mixed with heat and a freshly laundered shirt. Thank goodness for the sense of smell; until they came up with a Scratch ‘n Sniff version of the World’s Classics, I could anchor myself in the real world. I giggled as I imagined that edition of Moby Dick.

  Steve looked at me with a half-quizzical smile, as if it would be okay to share the joke if I wanted to but not really necessary. I decided not to break the mood. I leaned into him and we kissed.

  A long time after that I realized the record was over and my tea was cold. I
straightened up to get more, but Steve beat me to the cups.

  “You pick the music this time.”

  I thought for just a moment before pulling out Joni Mitchell’s Blue, figuring not to argue with a successful mood. The cover picture made me think again of seeing Mark Paulson in the light from the alley.

  As Steve rounded the corner from the kitchen, I said, “You know, if this were a movie, Mark Paulson would have to be the villain of the piece.”

  Steve set down the tea and moved toward me, taking me in his arms and swaying me to the beat of “My Old Man.”

  “I’m willing to dump the press into it any old time. But what is your reasoning for this, my dear Spielberg?”

  “Elementary, my dear Lucas. He was sitting in the smoking section of the Diner.”

  “Your logic escapes me.”

  “Haven’t you noticed that these days only the bad guys smoke? You really notice it when you catch an old TV show and all the protagonists are lighting up. Now you only see Jack Palance or some Mafia hitman puffing away.”

  “Hmmm,” Steve murmured into my hair. “Maybe this isn’t a modern picture, though.”

  “No?”

  “Maybe it’s one of those old-fashioned shipboard romances where two people meet through strangely cosmic circumstances and realize they're made for each other.”

  “Hmmm.”

  18

  ON THURSDAY MORNING I SAILED THROUGH “To His Coy Mistress.” I was in the mood to seize the day all right. Some of my enthusiasm must have worn off on the class because they almost seemed interested. Mind you, I could have been cheerfully teaching the phone book. Steve had left my place at about five in order to get home and report to work at some ungodly hour. I felt like Scarlett O’Hara after the trip up the staircase, and let the rosy mood carry me through both classes and on into office hours.