City police are parked in front of the building. The sky has turned grey and sundown is imminent. There is a skiff of snow on the ground. Janet wonders if the cruiser has a connection to the girls. It could save them in the long run, stop them in their shady tracks. She has wondered what she should do. Leave them to fate and avoid reprisals or report their business to the police? Identify herself as a busy body in case the police have been called here to deal with some other complaint? She checks through the blinds often, like a regular snoop, until she spots Blonde and Brunette coming from the Jeep in visitor parking across the lane. They are younger and scruffier than Janet expected now that she sees them whole. It is cold outside but Blonde just wears a top with off-the-shoulder straps. She is always cooling down. Brunette at least has her arms covered. They are like skittish mule deer as they eye the police car and then look up at her window. She quickly steps back as they slip into the building, then she listens for the elevator bell registering a stop on her floor and for footsteps along the hall. She does not know whether the girls live here or are frequent visitors. If they are visitors someone must buzz them in. She hears nothing.
Two For The Road with Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney. Janet hasn’t seen it in forty years. It brings on nostalgia for the sophisticated death and resurrection of love and marriage, the transition from being an unencumbered single to a preoccupied parent and spouse. They travel through the south of France, in itself fuel to youthful yearning for adventure and romance, first backpacking, then in a series of cars. You can figure out their age and status in life by the car they are driving. A Mercedes-Benz, an MG, a Triumph, a Volkswagen bus, and a Ford station wagon are driven but not shown in chronological order, all to the music of Henry Mancini with someone singing about feeling fancy free.
Janet wasn’t married when she watched the first time, but she had shed her teenage vision of marriage before sex. And Jack, her on-again-off-again boyfriend, who had gone to the movie with her, seemed elated to find in Audrey and Albert similarities in their own turbulent relationship. Even hope. They had walked, hitchhiked, bused, and eventually travelled in a second-hand Caprice, sometimes stopping along the highway between Edmonton and Calgary to satisfy horny desires. And they sang “Drive My Car” from The Beatles’ Rubber Soul.
Elation was temporary and, like Audrey and Albert, she and Jack skirted fidelity. As they grew their hair long, they favoured freedom from commitment. Finally they married others when they didn’t know what else to do.
Janet drives a new Ford Fiesta. It symbolizes a new beginning. She wanted red but settled for the less conspicuous ingot silver with a titanium interior. She rarely has passengers, except when her granddaughters stay, and they still always ride in the back. Twelve- and thirteen-year-olds who like their smart phones and their earbuds with their music kept private. They are the age her daughter was when she and Rich split. She adores them. Rich adores them too. Janet and Rich are retired, he from Cooperative Finances, she from The Gallery. Their two-storey house, a sanctuary for their daughter in the early years, holds a new generation family now. They have tried to cram history with divided belongings into their respective two-bedroom apartments. They have gone full circle back to the living arrangements they had when they first met, but the contents no longer know boundaries.
Henry Mancini’s eerie and oppressive track, “Wait Until Dark,” plays in minor-mode. No lyrics. The movie is a thriller. Audrey Hepburn is on the verge of divorce from Efram Zimbalist Jr. She is also newly blind from an accident, perhaps a metaphor for lapses of judgement in her life. At Kennedy Airport Efram, who travels regularly as a photographer, encounters a fashion model who asks him to hold a doll for her. Then she disappears. He takes the doll to his apartment, unaware that it is stuffed with heroin, and then he is tricked by the hoodlums, who have dibs on the dope, into going away again, leaving Audrey alone. There are many twists and turns, half of which Janet has forgotten. She is anxious and breathless and grateful for a commercial break to ease the tightness in her chest and the clamping of her fists, all in spite of the fact that she has seen this movie before, albeit forty years ago.
A dog is yapping down the hall. Janet looks through her door’s peephole but sees no movement either way. That dog is lonely for sure. It too listens for the elevator bell. It is left in that apartment while its owner takes off in his SUV. His Nissan, always sparkling white, seems to be his baby, though the pavement underneath his tires is loaded with dirt and gravel. This she knows because their stalls share underground space between two posts and he tends to hog the space. It can be a tight squeeze to align the Fiesta, which she admits is often dusty or mud-spattered, into her spot.
Wait Until Dark is back on. Men come and go, impersonating police or friends of Audrey’s husband in order to extract the doll from her. Janet realizes that Audrey does not seem to lock her door. She braces for the movie’s climax. Heroin trafficker and psychotic killer Alan Arkin faces off with Audrey Hepburn, who smashes all the light bulbs in the apartment to put them on an even keel. However a stream of light is emitted when he opens the fridge door and violence ensues. Oh lord, Audrey stabs him with a kitchen knife and hides behind the refrigerator and pulls the plug. Janet hides her own face behind her afghan even though she knows what happens next.
There is a knock on Janet’s door. She sits petrified in her chair and clicks mute on her TV controls in the hope that no one hears a sound from her apartment. The knock persists. No one ever comes to her door from within the building. Well, there was one time when a resident came to take the census before the provincial election. The woman was all business, not even commenting on the weather.
The sun has set. Janet sits in the dark with only an exterior light filtering in through the narrow openings of the blinds. The back of her dining room chair is levered just under the doorknob. Earlier she looked across the street to see the girls’ jeep still in visitor parking. The police car is no longer in sight, but perhaps they are all being watched surreptitiously.
She puts on a bathroom light, due to the necessities of being human, in the windowless backside of the apartment. She is not blind so when she turns the light off again and goes back out she realizes the muted TV is casting shadows across the living room wall. The hallway is quiet and its lights still beam under her entry door. She decides to look through her peephole even though she knows it is inadequate, providing a limited range of view. Paper is at her feet. Someone has slipped it under the door. She turns her lights back on.
6:45 p.m. Parking stall # 24. Accidental dent and scratch in the side of your Ford Fiesta Licence # LTU 501. Contact my Insurance at 403-555-2211. Realize you were parked over the line. T. Holden Apt 312.
Janet hates dealing with issues. Should she go through the rigmarole? Tomorrow, when the world is awake, when the day is new, when light comes from the sun, when she feels safe, she will get dressed and go down and inspect the damage.
She always remembers that Gap commercial. It’s back, the skinny black pant. The ad that uses AC/DC’s song, “Back in Black.” Audrey Hepburn dances in her black flats and her black turtleneck and black cigarette pants, back from the dead thanks to digital technology and to her dance routine from the movie Funny Face. Audrey says she just likes expressing herself and that she dances for release. Janet can certainly relate to that.
Police and Matisse
HE DIDN’T SOUND LIKE A COP. Janet’s phone rang and displayed the name of her apartment building. Someone was buzzing her line to let them into the building. It was hard to hear all that he said, but she did hear “Police Sergeant somebody or other” and “I need to get into the building.”
“Pardon me? Did you say police?”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t know that you are.”
“Okay.” He didn’t push.
She is pleased with the way she handled that call, then wonders if he will get in by buzzing someone else. Maybe he h
as a domestic restraining order and he is intent on revenge and murder. An apartment building holds so many possibilities and security is up to its residents.
She continues with her coffee and cheddar cheese and toast spread with crab apple jelly, catching a bit of the morning show on TV. Then it hits her that he might be legitimate and she might see a police car out front. She looks out across her balcony to the deserted road and to the identical apartment building across the way, then angles her view sharply to the left, leaning her cheek against the venetian blinds, and sure enough there is a city police car. It seems she has obstructed an investigation.
On the other hand she has heard of officers who are involved in their own domestic disputes. She has been following the case of that Winnipeg Mountie, Dietrich, who made jealous email threats toward his fellow officer, Donaldson, who is now married to Dietrich’s ex-girlfriend. Donaldson transferred to Alberta out of fear for his life. Dietrich had threatened to “shoot and kill” and was now suspended from duty with pay and awaiting trial. These can easily be comments made in temporary madness.
She knows this. Her own ex-husband said similar things when he discovered her so-called “affair” with her director at The Gallery. Richard talked about getting a gun, which was a ridiculous notion. He had never had one in his hand. It was his own reputation he was worried about, and he used the very outdated “cuckhold” as reference to himself. His fellow accountants were a conservative lot, so it was all understandable that he would be concerned about their opinion. Artistic people tend to be more open minded, less judgemental, she likes to think.
Janet has tried to learn the details of Dietrich’s trial, which was put off for three months because Donaldson’s responses to the threatening emails were deleted. They were deemed critical to the defence and needed to be recovered. It is hard to find any further information in the news, even in online gossip. It is easy for her to see what else Dietrich could be. Investigating antisocial behaviour over several years with a gun in tow could surely bend the mindset of certain individuals. Perhaps if he had become a plumber or an electrician instead his view of relationships would revolve around a domestic life that expected order and function and safety in the pipes and wires and connections that held a household together.
The fact remains that, whether Dietrich is convicted or not, whether or not his intentions were to follow through with murder, he did send the emails. And the fact remains that Janet’s “affair” was discovered when Richard snooped through her emails, both sent and received, whether or not her intentions were to follow through beyond the flirting messages.
Janet does not consider herself a flirt. She doesn’t bat her eyelashes or use innuendos. She did however elevate Marc Chagall over her favoured Henri Matisse just to indulge her director’s preference. He argued that Chagall’s use of colour and dreamy content was the true representation of human connection, including humour and fantasy and love.
She was especially drawn to Chagall’s lovers, who floated and embraced and caressed and even swooped for joy. She fantasized about herself in such scenarios with her director. She tried, however, to ignore Chagall’s circus characterizations. For her, clowns and acrobats are symbols of folly, even psychological damage, but she still secretly follows stories like the criminal case of RCMP Officers Dietrich and Donaldson because of the mental distortion involved. Why do people resort to such drastic measures when simpler solutions are obvious? Why does anyone obsess about an ex-lover who obviously has moved on?
Richard was right that she was in her director’s thrall but not right to confront him in the studio. How embarrassing for all. Though her retirement from The Gallery put an end to speculation, there was no going back to the marriage. And there is no longer reason to wax on Chagall. She has heard that her director is involved with the performance artist Sabine, who is known for taking her inspiration from Matisse’s naked nymphs in Joy of Life and La Danse.
Janet second-guesses herself for the rest of the week. Police Sergeant so and so is probably legitimate, and he plays on her mind, though she has no idea what he looks like. She watches for a cruiser at all times of the day and night. She considers letting him in the building if he tries her again, though she knows she has probably warned him off of her number. Still it might bring her into the facts of his case. Guilty or innocent? That is always the question but never the whole story. If he does try her apartment again she could ask him to step out in front of the building so she can see him before she buzzes him in.
Snow comes down in stellar flakes, blowing toward the west and in sudden swirls. Ice coats the windshields of cars parked outside and crusts onto wipers. It is officially spring yet Janet can hear the scraping of a windshield. She looks down and across the blanketed road to see fresh paw prints followed by boot prints. Small dogs suitable for small spaces are routinely taken out to do their business before their owners leave for school or work. The loneliest dog, the one on her floor that barks nonstop when it is left alone, suddenly squeals, then stops its noise altogether. The eerie silence confuses the start of her morning. Should she call the police due to lack of noise?
Instead she reads the Herald with her coffee. There are no reports on Dietrich and Donaldson. She looks for information on The Gallery’s itinerary or even her director’s picture in the social pages, and she never misses the obituaries. She looks for him there just in case accident or illness has befallen him.
It seems like a good day to stay inside, to redo her apartment. Janet has gathered fabrics and cushions and throws and rugs in what she considers the style of Matisse. She read that he was born in a weaver’s cottage and later collected fabrics throughout his travels, including his visits to Algiers and Morocco and Tangiers, and that his paintings depict exotic scenes because of the bright coloured stripes and diamonds and florals. Even his models are draped in patterns or sheers; the aura is harem-like.
Snow eclipses external sights and sounds. Janet, in a kind of fever, pulls out her mother’s old Singer, determined to remember sewing skills learned years ago in Home Ec. She has settled on plum, azure, and tangerine for her colours, patterns à la Provence, with a mischievous touch of tartan, a bit of damask, and tapestry along with solid cottons and faux-silks. She forgets to have lunch, and when she finally looks out on her balcony, she sees a drift of snow hugging the planters. If this is today’s version of spring, she’ll block it out with her floral drapes. She unplugs the sewing machine and sets it back in its case, gathers scraps of cloth for the garbage, packs some of the old cushions and rugs for the thrift shop, and realizes she is starved. But first she changes into her new silk robe and pours a glass of Beaujolais to honour the occasion. Matisse would be comfortable here for sure. She opens a small round of boursin, breaks off chunks of baguette, cuts spears of pear, and sits in the most upright chair. Her silk robe gapes in the front as she poses her bare legs together at an angle.
The building is unusually quiet. She has not paid attention all day. The lonely dog, just three doors down, has not uttered a sound. She pours another glass of wine and contemplates explanations. Was it on some kind of vacation? Did those who complained about the barking and threatened to call SPCA succeed in having it taken away? She would miss that dog even if it sometimes annoys her too. It is, in a way, her warning system for activities in the hallway. Maybe its owner was home this day, never leaving its side. She can see that life could be lonely if you are always left behind. She looks around at her new boudoir and tries to imagine who would sit amongst the cushions, who would share a glass of wine, who would enjoy the silk of her gaping robe, who would happily pass the time. She pours wine again.
A knock on her door cuts through reverie, in fact startles her enough to spill wine on her robe and down one leg. She hesitates. It is repeated. She goes over and checks through the peephole. A cop stands dead ahead. At least he looks like one. This time she opens up.
“Hello, I’m Sergeant Hall.” He pulls
out his badge.
Janet has no idea what to check for. “Yes?”
“Did you notice anything unusual in the hallway today?”
“No, I’ve been really busy. Redecorating.” She sweeps her right arm to the area behind her, as explanation, while her robe slides down her shoulder. “Why? Has something gone wrong?”
“There were complaints about a dog. Are you aware of any threats?”
“Well, yes, someone posted a note of complaint outside the elevator, but I have no idea who it was. Has something happened? To the dog?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Here’s my card. If you think of anything, let me know.”
“Sure.” She pulls her robe a little tighter after she locks her door. She watches through her peephole and listens to the knocking on neighbours’ doors along the hall. There is fear and excitement on her side of the door. It calls for another glass of Beaujolais and is followed by a slip into oblivion after such a busy day.
Her head aches in the morning while her stomach calls for food. She tends to both with aspirin and eggs, and then tries to read the Herald. She looks for news about her apartment building but guesses it is too new. But there is something else, finally. An update on Dietrich and Donaldson. It is about their latest day in court. Dietrich claimed he was just venting and never meant physical harm. He had no intention of killing Donaldson. She checks the obits in case her director is there, and then thinks about that poor lonely dog. What terrible harm has been done? It usually starts barking around this time when its owner leaves for work. Everything is quiet. Her new décor is impressive, but she can’t seem to decide where to sit. She has to know what happened to the dog. She showers and dresses and makes ready to interrupt the janitor when he does his daily vacuuming along the hall.
“Hi,” she says, her voice raised, as she opens her door. “Do you know what happened yesterday to the dog?”
Dear Hearts Page 15
