“Okay,” the reporter says. “I have just a few questions. Do you think parents should have the right to influence, or even set, school curriculum?”
“That’s a hell of a start,” Tulah says.
The reporter is a narrow-framed, dark-haired woman with an incredibly smooth complexion. She is fashionable in her trousers and blouse, and Tulah can’t help but notice her nails. They’re French nails and they are immaculate.
Tulah leans back against the doorframe and smiles. “All curricula? Or one part in particular?”
“Let’s start with all curricula,” the reporter says.
“Okay. No. Parents alone should not have the right to set curricula. Most people are not qualified to design a curriculum.”
“Including you?”
“Yes. Including me. A group of students, parents, business people, community members and subject-area experts should do it together. In fact, I believe that’s how it’s done.”
“Okay. What about designing curricula around creation theory and the theory of evolution?”
“You mean the story of creation and the theory of evolution, right?”
“Okay,” the reporter says, but Tulah can see she is not okay – she has no clue about why a scientific theory differs from a story about creation.
“All creation stories should be taught,” Tulah says. She looks at the reporter, who doesn’t seem to be writing much down in her notebook.
“You teach a science class, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you teach the theory of Intelligent Design in your class?”
Tulah smiles. “I do not teach my students about creation. Intelligent design is a synonym for creation, but then, I think you already know this. Look, this is not a Christian charter school. That’s why creation is not taught in science class.” She considers explaining the difference between a scientific theory – an idea that has been tested and proven and is generally accepted – and the word theory in everyday usage – a ‘guess,’ or ‘assumption.’ Tulah is about to start to explain but she has begun to suspect this woman is not a reporter. It’s her nails. Her nails are long and perfect. Tulah knew a reporter once and her nails were never maintained. Long nails like this woman’s were not good for typing. “I think all the creation stories should be taught in a religion class or a theology class, so…”
“…but you won’t teach your students about creation theory.”
“Was that a question or a statement?”
“A question.”
Tulah sighs. This woman is definitely not a reporter. “Why? Because creation isn’t a scientific theory. It’s the same reason I don’t teach them Hansel and Gretel, or Snow White, or Goldilocks.”
The so-called reporter steps back and looks hard at Tulah. “You’re comparing the Bible to a nursery rhyme?”
Tulah opens the door and steps inside. “Yes, I am. Give my regards to Ms. Smith and her cult,” she says.
“Wait,” the woman says. “If everything started with the Big Bang, what was going on before that?”
“Certainly not an elderly man with a white beard, plotting human existence on a chalkboard. There are things we can’t know…” She stops. “Oh why bother.” Tulah shuts the door. She lets herself slide to the floor, her back against the door and when she looks up at Ray, there are tears in her eyes. “It’s the twenty-first century,” she says. “And we can’t seem to escape these barbaric, backward superstitions. We’re still a bunch of ignorant monkeys grunting in the jungle, looking into the night sky, completely filled with fear.”
“I’m sorry,” Ray says.
“What’s wrong with us?”
“Us?”
“Yes. Human beings.”
“What happened out there? What did she do?”
“She’s not a reporter. She’s some sort of fundamentalist church woman inflicting her beliefs by asking idiotic questions.”
Ray helps her up and hands her a glass of wine. He is angry that Tulah has been hurt – and he feels protective.
“She should leave,” he says. His voice is a growl as he strains to get a look at her through the window.
“She’s harmless and pathetic. It’s just…it’s so disheartening.”
“You’re not alone, you know.”
“I know that.”
“I have to get the girls,” Ray says. He scoops his car keys from the table at the front entrance. “They stayed late at school for an audition. There’s more wine on the counter.”
The woman is standing on the sidewalk, half way to the curb. She’s on her phone and when she sees Ray she moves toward him, and follows along, getting closer with each step.
His first impulse is to ignore her. “We’re done here,” Ray says.
“But I have just a couple more questions for your wife.”
“Can’t always get what we want, can we?” he says.
“What is your wife afraid of? I just have a few more questions.”
Ray stops, turns and looks hard at the alleged reporter. She takes two quick steps back, almost falls. “No,” he says. “You have dogma, and canon, and some sort of idiotic faith.”
“Are you accusing me…”
“…of being a superstitious idiot who would probably like nothing better than for us to march right back into the Dark Ages? Yes, I am.”
“These are innocent questions. The public has a right to know. I just want to know what your wife has against Christianity. Why is she attacking the Christian faith?”
“What did you just say?” Ray’s voice is barely above a growl.
“I…” She takes another backwards step.
“You said you were a reporter. A reporter with what publication?”
She hesitates. “I was talking to your wife.”
“What newspaper do you work for? What media?”
“I was talking with your…”
“…You’re not a goddamned reporter. You’re some sort of mental fucking defective. You should try thinking for yourself.”
“I’m with the Herald,” she says, quickly.
“The Herald what? We don’t have a Herald. Show me your ID.”
“I don’t have to show you my ID.”
“Fine, you’re not a reporter. You can talk it over with the police when they get here.”
“You called the police?”
“No, I didn’t call the police,” Ray says. The woman looks relieved. “My Christian-hating wife called the police. She told them you have a gun.”
Ray smiles at the incredible timing of a distant siren. It comes at the perfect moment and it makes it quite dramatic as he gets into his car and drives away. He glances back and can see the woman hustling down the street toward her car.
* * *
Somewhere in the middle of all this, after children, and before affairs, and in the midst of abandoned intimacy, Ray follows Tulah into the lingerie section of a large department store, which is a labyrinth at the butt end of a massive shopping mall. He finds himself standing and looking at racks of nylons, and leggings and tables filled with colourful panties. There’s a bin of umbrellas next to a table of panties, and Ray does not question this. In this store, umbrellas are apparently feminine. And everybody knows that when women think about panties, they also think about umbrellas. Tulah is one aisle over leafing through piles of lacy panties and she stops on a bronzy brown pair. She holds them up in the air and tilts her head. Buying panties is not something they have ever discussed. Tulah knows what she likes and Ray has never developed an opinion about panties other than he believes white lingerie is the sexiest colour for lingerie. Tulah has never asked for his opinion. She turns to look at him and smiles. There is such a soft ease in her smile. In this moment, Ray loves his wife. As she is elbow-deep in panties, he adores her. He wants to spend a hundred years figuring out ways to
make her smile just like this.
“These are nice,” she says, holding them up for him.
“I’ll fight you for them,” he says.
“What?”
“I’ll fight you for them.”
Tulah is confused, but when Ray pulls an umbrella from the rack, and holds it up, she figures it out.
“You think you’re that good, do you?” She steps toward the rack and pulls out a purple umbrella.
“En guard,” she says, thrusting the pointy end toward Ray.
Tulah thrusts first and Ray parries it aside. He pushes his sword toward her heart and she glances it away then twirls and catches him on his left arm. He deflects her umbrella downward and raises his to just under her chin. Tulah backs away, raises her sword, her eyes fierce and engaged.
A dark-haired woman with a name tag is standing at the edge of the section and she appears to be uncertain, hesitant.
Tulah does not lower her sword. “Do you give up?”
“You can have them,” Ray says. “This time.”
Chapter 8
Meeting The Lover
Tulah’s Snow Journal
Tuesday, June 6, 2008 #388
The snow feels new, as if it’s a first snow in the fall. As if we skipped summer altogether. It is wet and heavy, and beautiful. The weather came from the east and that always means something weird. It’s not unheard-of, but it is strange for it to snow in June. Traffic has stopped and it is so quiet. Every now and then you can hear clumps of snow thumping to the ground, and sometimes, the sound of tree branches breaking under the weight. There are branches down across the city. Some neighbourhoods have lost power. I’ve decided not to worry about my pots. They were on sale. It’s too late to run out there and cover them up. Anyway, I read somewhere that marigolds are resilient little bastards. Not sure about potato vines, and begonias. And the violas I think are not going to do well with this snow cover.
The birds in the trees grin and bear – they must be freaked out. Most people have removed winter tires. Summer tires and all-season tires are useless in this. I can hear tires spinning all over the neighbourhood – people stuck on the side streets. The city waits for the bruised snow clouds to pass and June to force itself into existence.
There are still swatches of snow on the ground, but it’s mostly gone. There’s a story Tulah read once about a snow storm and a bush that usually blossoms in the spring – she can’t recall the kind of bush it was. This bush was budding and about to burst into bloom but a cold snap arrived and the buds died – they disappeared. A few weeks later, the weather warmed up and the buds appeared again. A monk noticed these appearing and disappearing buds and asked the questions – what has happened to those unborn buds? Were the new buds the same as the old ones? It was a story about manifesting and not manifesting. The monk decided the buds were not the same and they were not different. When conditions are sufficient they manifest and when conditions are not they go into hiding. Things wait until the moment is right to manifest. This barely recalled story seems appropriate today because the apple tree in the back yard had just come into bloom before the snow came.
Tulah steps out onto the back deck, which needs to be stained this summer, and looks at her potted plants, and at the apple tree. She takes a sip of coffee and wonders what the tree will do now. Will there be no apples? A few apples? Or will it send out blossoms again?
In the shower, she shaves her legs and does her best to curtail her pubic hair with a dull razor. She writes ‘razors’ on her shopping list, underneath ‘AA batteries.’ She’s going to meet The Lover at a hotel downtown. He’s here for two nights. She’s meeting him at 10 a.m. for coffee. Teachers never get to call in sick. At least not at this school. The night before, Tulah pulls up lesson plans, arranges for a substitute and briefs her substitute by email. She drops the girls with her mom for the day.
In the café, she sits at a corner table near the window. She likes the way the trunks of the trees along the boulevard turn black when they’re wet. It’s been drizzling, on and off, all morning.
A blonde woman sitting at a table near the bar has placed her glasses on the table next to her cappuccino, and she is reading a book. She is alone at the table but Tulah thinks the woman is lonely. There’s something about her posture that seems defeated and isolated.
Outside, a couple hug and kiss and seem genuinely pleased to see each other. The man is wearing a grey tuque. The woman has an umbrella but it is unopened. They come inside and sit at a booth along the far wall. They have to ask for the booth and the waitress seems irritated by this request.
* * *
Tulah remembers the first time she met The Lover. It was a year ago in a bar at the airport. She was going to visit her sister in Chicago. He was flying to some country in South America. He’d dropped a book beside her table and she noticed. It was a book of Zen koans. She had no idea what a koan was, but it sounded exotic. She scooped the book from the floor, handed it to him, and he smiled his gratitude.
“I’m always losing this book,” he said. “It’s like it doesn’t want to be with me. It keeps jumping ship.” She can’t place his accent. It makes his ‘b’s bigger than normal but she can’t place it.
“Do you think books have that sort of willpower?”
“No. They only have power.”
“Is this a good book?”
“Third time it’s fallen out of my bag. I’ve been reading it for three years. It’s not the kind of book to read in order. You just open it up…” He handed her the book and she followed his instructions. “Open it up, and flip until you feel like you should stop. Then read that koan.”
Tulah stopped on a koan called: “If You Love, Love Openly.” It was about a group of twenty monks and one nun. The monks and the nun, whose name was Eshun, were practising meditation with a Zen master. Even though her head was shaved and her dress plain, Eshun was quite pretty and several of the monks secretly fell in love with her. One of them wrote her a love letter, asking her to meet with him in private. Eshun did not reply but the following day the Zen master gave a lecture to the group, and when it was over, Eshun stood up. She turned toward the monk who had written to her and said, ‘If you really love me so much, come and embrace me now.’
“I don’t know what to think,” Tulah said.
“Don’t think. Just live with it for a while. See what comes.”
They had drinks. They had more drinks and then they rebooked flights, rearranged schedules, and wound up in a hotel at the airport.
The Lover opened another bottle of champagne and filled her glass.
Tulah was curled between his legs. They fell into each other and lost track of themselves. It was constant and exhausting. They devoured each other, and the champagne. And then more champagne. She took possession of him because he was so willingly hers. He surrendered and it was as if everything he was became part of her being. She had a penis and testicles, and her arms were covered by tattoos – her right arm a snarling bear, and her left, a haloed Mary – the mother of Jesus, holding a haloed baby Jesus. These tattoos stopped just above his wrists; when he wore a suit there were no visible tattoos.
She knew this sudden sexual joining with The Lover was not public and it would never be public. It was not the open embrace Eshun was demanding of her smitten monk. It was all about secrets and deception and lies.
A little after 3 a.m. he leaned up in the bed. “I am a little in love with you, Eshun.”
“That was fast,” Tulah said. But it was what she was feeling too. And his voice was her voice anyway, so she was saying it to herself. “And this is insane. You know that, right?”
“Do you think love can be slowed down?” The Lover asked. “Do you think it sticks to a schedule? Do you think it behaves like a good brown dog?”
“No,” Tulah said. “Of course, not.”
“You know that love is insane,
always. It’s a mad dog. It’s a form of insanity.”
“Good. I have a steady supply of insanity. I get it from Mexico. I have a guy who sells it to me in a baggie.”
“Yes? What’s his name?”
“Jesús,” Tulah said. “His name is Jesús.”
The Lover brushed her thigh with his fingertips and Tulah shivered. He nibbled her neck, and she let her legs fall open like a sigh. “Jesus,” she said. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the donkey.”
* * *
For a while, Tulah becomes more sexual. She enjoys her body. She meets The Lover, sporadically and with little difficulty. She arranges time because it feels good to indulge this desire. She does not question its importance. She does not want to think about what it means to have a lover. For a few hours, they are everything and anything to each other, and then she goes back to her life. And he goes back to his life.
Tulah finds that she wants Ray while this is going on. She salivates when she thinks about making love with him. The walls to their lovemaking disappear. She no longer cares about anything but pleasure – giving it, and receiving it. She feels closer to Ray, happy with him, happy with their life.
Tulah does not think about The Lover. She does not yearn. She does not crave more of him. She denies him. She creates a complex and delusional room, and she only goes there minutes before, during, and scant minutes after meeting The Lover. Beyond their liaisons, she denies all thoughts about him, every memory, and even his name. Someone will say his name – not naming The Lover, but rather, someone with the same name as his, and Tulah will be surprised. The utterance of his name will shock her because she will remember his body, her pleasure, and it comes too quickly for her to deny. It gets past her defences. She will lose her way in the conversation. People will ask her if she’s okay.
* * *
The Lover shows up, ten minutes late.
“Traffic,” he says. “Everything is backed up. They’re pruning trees at the end of the block and half the road is blocked.”
This Is All a Lie Page 21