“Hey, gal, where’ve you been? Sing along, I’m playing something wondrous,” he would have said.
Huge, gulping sobs suddenly engulfed her and she fell to her knees by the fireplace where, gasping for breath, she grabbed onto an arm of the sofa. Then, she found herself entwined around a huge pillow.
“Jerry,” she wailed. “JERRY.”
My love. My love. That had not changed. She had loved him and still did.
When she finally calmed down, she went into the kitchen where a pile of dirty dishes on the counter glared at her. She put them in the dishwasher, then began to peel and chop carrots for soup. As she sliced onions, her eyes started to water. After that, she took a shower and scrubbed and scrubbed until she felt bits of skin coming away with the soap. Perhaps she had been foolish to see Hans again rather than friends who knew her already. Friends from the school where she taught or from the gym. But since the early days after the funeral, most of them had not called. Nor did she take the initiative. Jerry would not want her to grieve too long, but she thought he might be hurt by her lack of discretion in seeing a married stranger, especially one with whom she thought she might already be slightly in love. She picked up a book when she left the bathroom, but after reading a few lines of a chapter on Picasso, let it drop.
Was Hans also thinking about her as he fed the animals? As he walked across the fields? Would he thrash in his bed at night, his wife beside him, until a cat jumped down onto the floor? She was not sure if he had mentioned a cat. It would be Heather’s cat. The dogs probably slept in the barn. She thought of his stories. A man who had said it was impossible that he would get a new car even though that was what Hans had predicted. Then called later to say he had landed a new job with a car as part of the package. The woman he had told would study law. And that she would go to Africa where she should listen to what she heard. She wanted to, but thought she was too old. After that reading she had gone anyway, and, while there, had visited a small village where the people had taken her to a witch doctor. He told her she was going to help others sort out messes between people, which for her was a good enough description of a lawyer to be the deciding factor.
Sue fell asleep and dreamed about Jerry, his voice and touch so real he could have been there.
“You’re doing fine, Bird,” he said.
In the dream, she wanted to argue with Jerry that because of Hans she was not doing well at all, but he insisted she had nothing to worry about. And when she woke up, she felt peaceful.
Calls from Hans came when Sue was not there to pick up the phone. Then she would find his messages, disappointed to have missed him again.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said one day in a new message.
Sue replayed it a couple of times, listening intently to his voice. She wished she had not ever encouraged him as his interest now made her nervous. Yet she knew his attention took the edge off her loneliness. And something else, too, she was drawn to him.
Two days later, unable to get through to him by telephone and not wanting to talk to his machine, Sue wrote a note. A butterfly in bright colours on the outside of the card suggested happy news was enclosed, a cheerful note that conveyed only good wishes.
As she went out onto Bloor Street, Sue thought Hans might go to some of the small restaurants or shops in the neighbourhood like the Thai place with the golden lion in the window where they had had lunch or the sushi place or the Hungarian deli that had been there for decades. She might even run into him, in which case, she could give him the note with her invitation.
What was more likely was that she would not see him and with no other choice she would go to his office and slip the card under his door. Quickly, even stealthily. But when she arrived there, she was greeted by an open door through which she could see the Chagall painting on the opposite wall. Likely he was in the washroom or down the hall. Having looked for him in the faces on the street, hoping to see him, now all she wanted was to be able to leave her note and disappear. Dropping the envelope onto the floor just inside his open door, she went hurriedly down the stairs.
What about dropping by for a chat and tea or coffee on your way into the office one day, she had written. Sue.
She imagined him looking at his face in the mirror on the back of his door, at his longish, curly hair. At his moustache. He would grimace and a small grin might then creep up into his eyes. Whether or not he intended to accept her invitation, she somehow knew those eyes would sparkle. She was not surprised to get a telephone call later that afternoon.
“What about if I come by on Thursday after my day is finished?” he asked.
It was not what she had intended. Her thought had been if he came on his way into work he would not stay very long. She was worried about the longing she felt, about how she might allow what she would regret later. But weighing it over quickly, she decided he was unlikely to do anything unless she let him.
“Okay,” she said.
When he called on Thursday to tell her he was finished his appointments, Sue gave him directions.
“Not that far from your office,” she said. “Just north of the supermarket and the church on Bloor Street, up the first block.”
In less than fifteen minutes, he walked up onto the cedar porch, holding lightly onto the wrought iron rail. A small gas lamp lit up the number. At the sound of the bell, she opened the door. Could he tell she had been waiting expectantly?
“The No Flyers sign worried me,” he said, pointing at the mailbox. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t let me in.”
“I’ll make an exception.”
He sat on the sofa and she on the armchair covered in striped material. Both of them were tentative, even awkward.
“Coffee? Something to eat?” she asked.
“Just coffee.” He followed her to the kitchen. “Your house has a good buzz.”
She supposed he knew there were almost too many memories and was grateful he did not say so now. She could see him watching her as she moved. It was so long since a man had done that. It was disconcerting, and yet, what she wanted was for him to notice her.
“It’s nicer in the day time with the sun streaming in,” she said. “But I’d like to move. I don’t know where or why or anything.” Saying so surprised her, because she had not thought of it before except for the vague notions about living on English Bay.
“If the spirit demands it, you will.”
He followed her to her studio. No longer was she using the ironing board in the kitchen now that she had turned Jerry’s office into an art room. Her paints were out on the desk.
“May I?” he asked, moving closer to the canvas on the easel.
Studying the animals in bright colours, his body leaning forward slightly, he moved his head at different angles. It was as if he wanted to see it from as many perspectives as he could.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Keep it up.”
Sue smiled and nodded.
“Do you have a pencil and some paper?” he asked.
Sue reached for a pad of paper in the top drawer of the desk. Taking the pencil she handed him, Hans put the pad on the desk beside the canvas and began to sketch her scene in black and white, shading details as he drew animals resting on the jungle floor, a tangle of vines and trees behind them. She watched how his perspective happened so naturally, was surprised to see a new angle she could emphasize in her work.
“That’s amazing,” she said.
“I’m just doodling,” he said. “If you were a racehorse, I’d put my bets on you. You’re the artist.”
“Well, that may be a stretch,” she said. “But thanks.” She smiled as they proceeded down the hall past the guestroom and bathroom. As they passed her room, he peered in at the large bed where she and Jerry had slept. A new green-and-white duvet was flung over it. Paintings hung from floor to ceiling and a hanging plant was suspended in one corne
r. She had moved many things into another room and changed the colour scheme of the walls to a pale grey with underlying highlights. She had bought new linens. She was not about to mention anything about these changes, but she did point at her CD player.
“Because of what you said last year, I bought that.”
“What kind of music do you like?” he asked.
“Classical best. But I have pretty eclectic tastes. Jazz.”
“Me, too. Why don’t you put something on?”
“Like what?” Sue asked, aware of not wanting to go into that room.
“Oh, something you like.”
“Well, I could, I guess,” she said. “There are speakers downstairs connected to it so we can listen there.” She moved quickly across the room and picked out a disc. The Trout Quintet. After starting the player, she walked to the door again. He did not move from the spot just outside the room.
“I heard from my husband’s son again,” she said.
“Oh,” he said.
“You said I would.”
“I did,” he replied. “But that’s not what I’m thinking about.”
She looked down at the floor, inspecting the lines of the hardwood.
“Right now I’d like to kiss you.”
Her eyes widened and she could feel her heart beating hard and her throat constricting. At the same time, her body ached from the absence of touch. She took in a long breath, slowly letting it out again. The silence hung there as a kaleidoscope of images rushed through her mind. Jerry. In his blue dressing gown. In a familiar sports shirt. Corduroy trousers. Blue jeans. It was ridiculous to be standing in the door of their bedroom with another man and a man who had just said he wanted to kiss her. Yet Sue knew she could smile and step quickly out into the hall. It would be as if his words had not been spoken. She knew that was what she should do. But she did not move.
Hans put his arms around her lightly and their lips touched. She sank against him, his arms encircling her and tightening a bit. Mouths slightly open, bodies warm against each other. The kiss went on and on before she drew back to find him staring gently at her.
“It would be easy to make love to you,” he said, almost in a whisper.
She sighed, afraid of what she might answer.
“Because I already have. In my mind.”
“Well, it’s different as long as it stays in your head,” she said. “It doesn’t turn your life upside down. It doesn’t change you from the person you are to someone you might not want to be.”
“It wouldn’t change who I am,” he whispered. “It would just add something wonderful to my experience.”
Sue scarcely breathed as he leaned forward and kissed her again, and then ran his fingers down her nose. Over her lips. Around her chin. It seemed natural to move with him to the bed where they sat on the edge. His fingers traced her breasts tentatively and she ran hers down his shoulder. Lifting her sweater upwards, he reached to undo her bra. She undid the buttons of his shirt. Gradually, after removing one layer after another of clothing, they lay beside each other. Leaning forward again, he kissed her breasts and traced a line down to the hair over her pubic area.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said.
“Do you know that music?” she asked.
“Umm. It’s Schubert,” he said. “Trout Quintet.”
She did not show she was surprised.
Their bodies started to move together. He reached out to his trousers for something, then tore open a small package. She was relieved when he put on a condom as she had not thought about protection. As he entered her and moaned, she heard herself moan also.
“It was wonderful,” he said afterwards as they lay still in the dark in the cold room, barely touching. “Even better than I imagined.” He ran a finger over the lines around her eyes and down beside her nose to her chin. It was as if he were sculpting her features and it surprised her to sense that his mind had moved elsewhere.
What have I done? she wondered. So soon after Jerry’s death. To have made love so wantonly to a married man. He would never be able to see her except in short intervals. Everything they did would forever have to be clandestine.
“The dogs,” he said. “They’ll be hungry and barking to go out.”
*
As he buttoned his shirt, Hans looked at a photograph in a pewter frame on the bedside table.
“Your husband,” he said, although he knew he was stating the obvious.
“Yes.”
Hans leaned toward her and ran his fingers gently through her hair, breathing in a mild scent that could have been her shampoo.
“I thought I’d become used to his dying,” she said. “You think you’re prepared and I guess you are in some ways after a long, lingering illness. But even so. Even though we met late and were married ten years, not twenty or thirty or something, for a while it was as if my whole life was taken away from me.”
“What’s your sign?” he asked.
“Gemini.”
“I see.”
“What’s yours?”
“Scorpio,” he said. “I’m going to be sixty, but I feel about twenty-three right now. Still, sometimes I wonder if the knowing is gone. It isn’t that I have a problem doing readings, but some days it is harder than it used to be. I wonder then what it would feel like not to have the gift anymore. I’ve seen it happen to others and I’ve started preparing myself.” He watched her slip on a mauve T-shirt and a pair of navy sweatpants. “I always thought I’d be sad or frightened at the prospect,” he said. “But instead I’m excited. It’s bizarre.”
She reached out and ran her fingers down the arm of his shirt, then turned to the door. He followed her downstairs to the kitchen where she plugged in a kettle and took out some herbal tea.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“Sure. Okay,” she said as she followed him to the front of the house. He stopped to pull on his shoes. “Do you know where we’re going?” she asked.
“I leave that at the office,” he said. “Except if I have premonitions, I don’t ignore them. The first was when I was a young child. I saw my uncle’s skull with a date on it. Can you imagine? I told my mother. ‘I think Hans has something,’ she said later to my father. She sounded worried. I don’t think she knew I was listening.”
He had not known what they were talking about. Later, his uncle died on the date he had seen. “But I don’t want to be seen as extraordinary. When I leave the office, I go fishing. And catch bass. Or catfish. Trout. Maybe a pike. I plant vegetables and flowers, clean out the barn and walk the dogs. Just ordinary things.” He was often frustrated by people’s expectations that his entire experience might be removed from the rhythms of regular life.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I knew from the beginning that you were just another person. You might have a gift not everyone has, but is that so different from your talent as an artist?”
He sighed and before he opened the front door to leave, he kissed the tip of her nose and touched her breasts fleetingly. Turning to wave when he reached the sidewalk, he saw her watching through the window, and felt her eyes still following him as he opened the door of his car. He crawled in behind the wheel. Something visceral was rising in her, he sensed. Something like a scream. Still missing her husband so much she could barely stand it. To her, he was a stranger and he could almost hear her strangled cry. He had lied to her about leaving everything at the office. Mostly he did, but sometimes he had these insights and they told him something he could not ignore. So, although he had just told Sue he would call her, he was not sure he would. The last thing he wanted was either to hurt or complicate her life.
There was a red light at the corner of Bloor Street and as he waited for it to turn, he thought of Heather arriving at the farm and finding he was not yet there. Then he recalled that she had a meeting after work that would keep
her downtown so late that she was staying over with a friend. That was why he had felt free to drop by on Sue, not constrained by a designated dinner hour. He would pick up a pizza for himself on his way to the farm.
When he arrived, Rusty barked and ran to the door on Hans’s side of the car. Jumping against it, dark nose pointing upwards, it was as if the dog were saying, “C’mon, get out of there. I want to play,” just as he did every day.
Hans turned off the engine and stepped out onto the gravel road. “Hi, Rusty,” he said. “C’mon.” The black, rust, and tan mongrel always ran beside him when he fed the animals, barking at the horses. It was a game for him. When Hans drove the truck, Rusty sat right beside him and peered out the front window as if he were driving. Sometimes, someone in another car would look startled at the sight of the dog, leaning forward like a person without a seat belt. He reached under Rusty’s chin and tickled his neck, then bounded along beside the dog to the house. There was one light on in the hall and the door was slightly ajar. The dog pushed in ahead of him.
He had forgotten again to pick up the mail from the box at the edge of the highway. As soon as he fed Rusty, he would walk down to get it. He seemed to think he had seen the small flag pointing upward that indicated the postman had left something. A letter from his family in the Netherlands? His sister used to write more often than any of the others, but there was an occasional note from one of his brothers.
As he headed out the door, Rusty was on his heels, and then dashed on ahead of him. Every so often, the dog came back to look up at Hans as if to check he were still following him. Rusty stopped at the road and waited while Hans looked into the metal box with flowers and a horse painted on it. Just a bill and a flyer. The mailbox an excuse to walk outside in the fresh air and bask in the sounds of the country. Crickets. When he headed back the way he had come, he heard the horses in the barn. Time to feed them, too.
Would I Lie to You Page 12
