by Cecelia Frey
“You could cut your marking time in half! If you marked like most other profs.”
“The sooner you shut up and let me get on with it, the sooner I’ll be finished.”
“Then can we get out of this hole? Go down to the Rose and Crown?”
“I can’t go down to the Rose and Crown tonight,” Benjamin mumbled, trying to concentrate on what he was reading.
He had cleared an island on the table for his work. Around this island, like jungle growth constantly threatening to take over, was the mess of his life: plates smeared with jam and peanut butter or ketchup and mustard, brown-stained cups, half empty potato chip bags, a miscellany of scissors, knives, cigarette packs, broken-leaded pencils, dried-up ball point pens, piles of books. Beyond, was more jungle: flaking paint, curled wallpaper, a cluttered mantel over a fireplace long devoid of its gas element. A lumpy armchair with torn upholstery and oozing padding was strewn about with newspapers and old magazines, its broad arms lined with overflowing ash trays, books, and empty drink cans. The only way out was through a badly scarred door into a dim corridor.
“Well, I can’t stay in. No fucking way. I’m too depressed. I’d slit my throat.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. Life is such shit.” Veronica was back at the window. “What’s the point of going on with this farce? You don’t know how close I come at times.”
Benjamin had just read the same sentence five times and still had no idea what point the student was trying to make. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘we all come close sometimes’, but then he remembered the awful consequences of not paying attention, really paying attention, to what other people were saying. “Why don’t you find something on the television?” he said instead.
“I can’t focus on anything. Before I fell in love with you I could concentrate. Now I can’t even watch a fucking sitcom on TV.”
“Go to bed then. Before you know it, it’ll be morning. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“I’ll go to bed if you’ll come with me. You can mark papers in the morning.”
“I can’t mark sixty essays in one day. I have to pace myself.”
“I can’t stand this dump! I can make it down to the Crown. It’s only a couple of blocks. I’m going stir crazy.”
“Can’t you see I’m trying to work?”
“I’m hungry.” She turned her head toward the kitchen area of the room, which comprised a stove, a long counter with sink and cupboards and a fridge. The sink was piled with dirty dishes, the back of the counter was lined with empty beer bottles, the counter was littered with empty tins, jars and bottles. “What did you have for supper?”
“I can’t remember.” Benjamin looked over to the counter and spied the latest addition to the collection of pots that held a miscellany of dried up bits of food. “Kraft dinner. There might be some left.”
“Kraft dinner! Gross! That’s pitiful. A grown up person having Kraft dinner for dinner.”
“Well, make yourself something else.”
“What is there?”
“I don’t know. Look in the fridge.”
Veronica flicked her long thin body, which appeared even longer because of tight jeans and a close-fitting top, away from the window toward the fridge. She opened the fridge door and took a step back. “What’re you growing in here?” She stretched a long arm into the interior and pulled out a plastic carton labelled cottage cheese. She pried open the lid and sniffed the contents. “Ugh, Crap!” She looked at the due date. “September 10th! Good Christ, that’s more than two months ago!”
“Well, throw it out.”
She pitched the container from where she was standing into an overflowing black garbage bag huddled like a sullen invertebrate near the sink. With the other hand she slammed the fridge door shut. “Oh, Jeez, there goes another nail.” She straightened and examined the splayed fingers of her right hand. “My nails are in such bad shape, splitting and peeling. My body’s a total mess. My body’s falling to pieces.”
“You have a lovely body.”
“How would you know?” She moved to where he was sitting and placed her hands on his shoulders. She rubbed the back of his neck with her thumbs.
“Look, Ronnie…”
“You never look at it these days.”
“I have to get these essays marked. And I’m tired.”
She lifted her hands abruptly. “You’re always tired. You make me sick with your fucking tiredness.”
“You shouldn’t have taken up with an old man.”
“You’re not old. You just act old.” Veronica was rummaging on the table for a cigarette pack that wasn’t empty. “Old and cold. You wouldn’t recognize an emotion if it smacked you in the face. No wonder your wife left you.”
“Leave my wife out of this.”
“Oh, I suppose she’s too good to be discussed by the likes of me.”
“No. It’s just…”
“It’s men like you who’ve made me the way I am.” She gave up on her search and turned away.
“There’s no point…”
“If you’re so hung up on her why did you let her go in the first place?”
“People, intelligent people, don’t ‘let each other go.’ People are free agents, free to do as they please.” Benjamin’s voice, usually quiet, was raised. It had taken on a hard edge, as though he were speaking through gritted teeth. He pushed the student’s essay away from him and a cup and saucer and plate went over the edge of the table with a crash. He looked at the pile of broken crockery on the floor. He took off his glasses and drew a thin hand down over his face, scooping in at the eye sockets, curving out and down the bony cheeks and bringing thumb and index finger together at the chin. “Why don’t you watch something on television?” His voice was quiet again. “Give me another hour to get something done here.”
“Then can we go down to the Crown? Where I can get some fries and a burger?”
“Maybe I could for half an hour. But I have to go to the Drop-In Centre tonight.”
“You and your Christly Drop-In Centre!”
“Tonight will be a bad night down there. They’ll be crowded. Volunteers might not make it in.”
“Well, you can go to your fucking mission for all I care. I’m going to the Crown.” She crossed the room to the front-door closet. “Maybe I’ll pick up some mental case who’ll drag me out to the back lane and murder me.”
“Don’t talk such rot.”
“It’s not rot. You think everything I say is rot.”
“I don’t think that.”
“You didn’t used to think it. At least, you pretended you didn’t. You used to like me.”
“I still like you.”
“You don’t want to sleep with me any more.”
“I told you why not.”
“Oh yeah, sure. Moral reasons. If you really wanted me you’d sleep with me, moral reasons or not.”
“I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“That’s never stopped any man before.”
“That’s just it. You’ve been treated badly by men. I don’t want to be another man who treats you badly.” Benjamin’s concentration was firmly broken. His head remained up from the table. “And we didn’t really sleep together, ever,” he said thoughtfully.
“I don’t know what you’d call it then.”
“We’ve had sex a number of times. And I admit the fault was mine. That should not have happened. But having sex is not sleeping together.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s a physical act which relieves tension.”
“No, I mean the other. The sleeping together.”
“Sleeping together involves trust and companionship. It involves giving solace and nurture to the other person.”
�
�Well, it’s all above stupid little me, I’m sure.” Veronica slung a scarf around her neck and reached into the closet for her coat.
“You’re not stupid. In fact, you’re very bright.”
“I am stupid. If I wasn’t stupid, I’d walk out of here for good. I’d forget you ever happened, just like you’ve already forgotten me.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I shouldn’t forget. It happened. I was weak. I drink too much. I don’t want it to happen again.”
“Why don’t you like me? What did I do?” In a sudden switch, Veronica’s voice changed in tone, taking on a pleading quality.
“You didn’t do anything. You’re a perfectly charming attractive young woman. Much too good for me. That’s why you should leave, find yourself a nice young man your own age.”
“I don’t like men my own age. They’re all stupid.”
“In any case, you should get out of here. You can do better with your life than waste it on me. You should meet some people your own age, of both sexes.”
“You didn’t say that two months ago when you asked me to come here and stay.”
“You didn’t seem to have any place else to go.”
“Oh yeah, Mr. Saintly Motives. It didn’t take you long to jump my bones.”
“Of course I was attracted to your body. Who wouldn’t be? But I also thought I could help you.”
“And now you’ve given up on me.”
“No. But I can’t seem to help anybody. I can’t even help myself. You need someone who’s kind, who won’t mistreat you even when you ask for it. You might learn to feel secure with such a person.”
“Men are such a bunch of sleaze balls. And you’re no better than the rest.”
“It’s so easy to treat you badly. You demand to be mistreated. And how do you think that makes the fellow feel? Not good about himself. Naturally, he wants to get out of the relationship. You demoralize your partner and you demoralize yourself. But we’ve talked about this before.”
“I’m afraid all this psycho hype stuff is too deep for me. At least at the Crown I can hear some normal conversation. Even hockey scores are better than this.” She bent to put on her boots.
Benjamin watched her zip up one boot and reach for the other. “I wish you wouldn’t go.”
“Surely I don’t detect a note of concern.”
“You know I’m concerned about you. God knows what trouble you’ll get yourself into. I don’t like you drinking too much with complete strangers.”
“What does it matter? If you don’t love me what does it matter?” She straightened and put on her coat. “I spoke to that relative of yours today.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Martin. Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t tell him who I was, that is, that I know you. He’s kind of cute.”
“Cute?”
“Good looking.”
“Is he? Perhaps. I suppose he is. He must be nearly fifty by now. I can’t believe it. We’re all getting old. But we’re not related.”
“You told me you were. When I was telling you about taking his course.”
“Just by marriage.”
“I wondered. He seems like a real nice guy.”
“George? Yes, he is. His wife is very nice, too. She’s totally devoted to George.”
“Sounds like my pet spaniel.”
Veronica wrenched open the door. She stopped a moment and looked back over her shoulder. Her face, framed by her ash blonde hair and a red woollen toque, with its sly fox-like evasion abandoned a moment, was open and vulnerable. “What would I want with old George,” she said. “It’s you I’m crazy about. Don’t ask me why. You’re not much of a prize.” She banged the door shut behind her, leaving him finally in silence and peace.
He could no longer mark papers. His energy and motivation had been destroyed by the scene. He got up and went to the window, his movements tentative. Although he was of average height, he had a slim build and, besides, was so thin, he didn’t seem to have much weight or substance behind him.
With the nail of his thumb he scraped ice from the glass and watched Veronica come out of the building and head down the street, into the storm. He turned back into the room and gathered up the student essays into a pile. He picked up the broken dishes and put them in the garbage bag. While he did these things, as so often happened, his thoughts drifted to images of Helena, the way she had looked bent over the sink washing dishes or before the bathroom mirror brushing her hair, or the particular way she used to step into her bath, lowering herself slowly into the water. Sternly, he cleared his mind. Such thoughts were against the rules of survival.
He looked at his watch. He may as well go.
He arrived at the Centre to find his predictions correct. Only one other volunteer was there. Victor, who was applying for graduate school in the social work program and needed volunteer hours to add to his resume, was sitting at a table with one of the regulars playing checkers. The usual assortment of street people lay about on couches, sat in armchairs or at tables, smoking, drinking coffee, reading newspapers, staring into space.
Benjamin pulled up a chair beside Victor. He looked over the group. “Where’s Bruno?” he asked.
“You know Bruno,” said Victor. “He won’t come in unless he has to.”
“A night like tonight, you’d think he’d have to.”
“He’s probably curled up in his cardboard box over his vent.”
“There’s Sammy,” said Benjamin. “If Sammy’s here, Bruno should be here.”
Benjamin went over to where Sammy was sitting, smoking and working his moist lips loosely over bare gums. Low growls and mutterings came out of his throat as his damaged brain transported him to another space where he fought apparitions. Regarding him, Benjamin knew that there was no point in questioning Sammy about his roommate’s whereabouts.
He got his parka and returned to Victor. “I’m going out to have a look,” he said. “The old guy’s over seventy. It’s only two blocks to his place.”
From a half block away, he could see the cardboard structure. As he got closer, he could make out the dark shape of Bruno huddled over the heat vented from the system of an office building.
“Hey, Bruno, you can’t stay out here on a night like this.” He took a step closer. “Bruno.” He bent closer still. “Hey, man.” He shook his shoulder. Bruno fell over sideways. In the street light, Benjamin could see that the old man’s beard was stiff and white with frost. Patches of white blossomed on the skin of his cheeks, thin skin, all that stood between blood trying to pump and the brutal night. “Hey,” Benjamin knelt in the snow. He pulled Bruno up and held him in his arms. Bruno’s head fell back against Benjamin’s shoulder. The eyes opened. A vapour of breath escaped his mouth. Bruno motioned to Ben to put his ear close. Benjamin heard a faint, hoarse whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“For what? What’re you sorry for, man?” Benjamin attempted to keep the other man talking but the head fell loosely to one side. Benjamin stared as the white vapour stopped. He felt for a pulse. His own hands were so cold it was difficult to feel anything.
“Hey Ben, Ben, are you there?” Victor’s voice called through the dark.
“Here.” He heard the crunch of Victor’s footsteps and felt his presence behind his shoulder. “What are you doing out here? You’re gonna freeze your ass off.” His voice was a little angry. He felt both sad and angry, sad at Bruno’s senseless death and even more senseless life, angry at a god who dispatched his victims so callously.
“Someone wants you on the phone.”
“Couldn’t you take a number?”
“She insisted on holding. She’s darn near hysterical.”
She. Ronnie then. What sort of trouble had she gotten herself into now? He turned back to the man in his arms. “Here, give me a hand.”
“Bruno?”
“Yeah, silly old bugger has frozen himself to death.”
II.
What Happened After
1. A Winter Morning
I. HELENA
HELENA WAS SUFFOCATING. Water filled her mouth, her nostrils, all the cavities of her head. Her lungs were about to burst. Then she felt herself rising to the surface, face up. If she could only hang on a moment longer, one more moment. She broke the surface. She gulped, taking in great draughts of air. She knew that she must move her legs and arms. She knew that she must swim. It was the only way she could save herself. But when she tried to move, an arm, a leg, something restricted her movements. And the air was not right. It was not cold, fresh, salty. It was warm, too warm.
She opened her eyes. A black wall slapped her in the face. But it was not water. She was dry. She was warm. She was between dry, warm flannel sheets. It was only a dream. A nightmare. Amanda was not dead. She had not killed her sister. Thank God. She made a vow right then and there to be nicer to Amanda and to visit her more often.
But she was in a strange place. Where? She hoped that she was not at some man’s apartment, some fellow whom she could not remember. Had she drunk a lot last night? She couldn’t remember. But she sometimes did. One thing she did know, one thing in the here and now, was that she was too warm. No wonder she had dreamed that she was suffocating. Her hands could feel layers of blankets, a quilt. The sheets were cloying. She brought her left hand out from under the sheet and held the back of it close to her face. It was too dark to see. She hoisted herself up onto her elbows and looked around. Ahhh, there we go, red, on the night table. 4:10. She thought a moment: morning or afternoon? Winter or summer? If summer, it would be lighter. Winter then. Or possibly spring. Or fall. Early spring. Late fall. She slid herself across the sheets and felt around on the night table for a lamp. A switch. Good. She clicked the switch. The light came on in a subdued glow. She looked around her. Drapes hung in folds across the window; a dresser sat across the end wall and another stood to the right of the bed. She lay back down, her head squarely on the pillow and closed her eyes. She breathed in a remembered smell of scented bed sheets, lemon furniture polish. She knew where she was. Esther’s. In the guest bedroom. She had surfaced into the house of her sister.