by John O'Neill
“Oh my. What happened? You all right?”
“I didn’t actually see him. He left a note. I’m worried he’s going to make some accusation. I’m not sure what Alison told him. He’s her father, after all. I’m not sure she wants to threaten that relationship.”
Mavis looked into Leonard’s eyes, removed her hands from his folded arms and turned away. Picked up the pile of photocopies and began to flip through them, pulled her lips against her teeth, almost a grimace.
“You’ve said it all, Leonard. Walk away. Alison’s not a girl anymore, but she’s young. Who knows what her father is thinking? You and Alison can still be friends, later. He’s willing to come here, to where you work. Not good.”
Mavis again put her photocopies down, hugged him strongly. Her hug was a compassionate directive, an instruction to shore up his strength and do what needed to be done.
“Walk away,” she said. “Let things be.”
She stood close to him, as if he might at any time collapse, though she was the one who suddenly looked haggard, drained by his news.
Paula Snow appeared in the doorway, in her usual panic. She was the business teacher, slim-hipped, frizzy-haired, weak-chinned, always in mid-twitch, always showing the whites of her eyes, the proverbial and perpetual deer caught in the headlights, one of those people who contaminates anyone nearby with her anxiety. And who, it was well known, had no control over her classes.
She said to Mavis, oblivious to her drawn look and the solemn conversation taking place: “You have much to do, oh, I’ve a test to run, I’ve abandoned my class, oh, do you mind?”
Leonard pictured Paula’s students building a bonfire in their teacherless room, or dangling one of the niners from the second storey window.
“Go ahead, dear,” Mavis said. “I’ve got more to do, but no rush.” She nodded at Leonard: “We’ll talk later.”
He returned to his desk. As he did he heard, above the sound of the photocopier, Paula’s voice go high, as it did when she was particularly anxious: “Mavis, how is your daughter Sophie doing?”
Silence. Sound of the photocopier’s groan and shuffle. Leonard moved closer, listened for Mavis’ response. Soft as rain, barely discernible above the machine: “Thank you. Not very well. We’re taking her in for some more tests. She may need surgery.”
Leonard heard Mavis’ voice catch, resume again: “She doesn’t seem to be improving. David is at home with her. I wish I was.”
Leonard considered going back into the small room, to inquire about Mavis’ daughter. Was perturbed that someone had intruded upon what he thought was a private camaraderie between him and Mavis, an intimacy that separated them from the rest of the staff. Paula had upstaged him in the concern department. He took solace in remembering how her classes routinely tormented her, how students would speak louder than necessary when answering questions as if she were deaf, how they’d conspire to distract her, one of them feigning illness and stumbling into the hall, drawing her away, while the rest shared their multiple-choice test answers. Leonard learned this from a senior student who felt pity for Ms. Snow, and confided in Leonard in the hope he could do something about it. Leonard decided it was her own fault, for he believed, lifting the catchphrase from Dr. Phil, that we teach people how to treat us. But he saw that this would be an obvious, inopportune time to ask Mavis about her daughter, in the wake of Paula’s sincere inquiry. He packed up his things and left before either of the two women emerged.
Part II
FALLEN
Send out the raven ahead of the dove.
– Leonard Cohen
1
VEGETATION
Leonard arrived at his provisional home to find the front door ajar. Ellis’ bedroom door was shut and his light was off, so Leonard concluded that his nephew slept, having forgotten to close up after returning, perhaps, from a trip to the convenience store to replenish the cereal supply. Leonard found no messages from Alison and stood for a long time in the kitchen with the phone in his hand, staring at the pile of dishes and wondering: how to proceed?
He phoned Alison. He didn’t want to talk to her about their relationship (he did), about their last unsatisfying liaison (he did), but needed to tell her that her father had visited the school that day, his workplace, goddamn it, and that if Alison couldn’t prevent him from interfering, Leonard would. Why didn’t she tell her father that the brief affair with her former teacher was over? Leonard would take Mavis’ advice and walk away. He’d betray no emotion when he told Alison.
The phone rang several times and Leonard put his hand out against the kitchen doorframe, finding a smear of peanut butter, recent evidence of Ellis transporting a stack of sandwiches. Was expecting the answering service to kick in. But someone picked up. The voice was familiar but breathy: Beverly, he thought, interrupted in some task, maybe the overdue cleaning of their kitchen. Strangely, her breathy hello put Leonard at ease. He was ready, now, to set Alison straight and by his evenness of tone to communicate he was willing to accept that their relationship was over.
“Hello, hi, is Alison there?” he began.
“There’s no one here, by that name.” Pause. “Um, Leonard, is that you?”
Leonard hesitated. A fright ran through him. “Leonard? Leonard, I know it’s you. It’s Cynthia. You must have dialled the wrong number.” He stayed silent. “Jesus Christ, Leonard, say something. I can see your nephew’s number on the call display.”
“Sorry, Cynthia. Sorry, sorry. I must have got confused. I’ve had a bad day.”
Leonard was crouched against the wall, head lowered. His eyes followed a centipede rippling across the kitchen floor.
“Bad day?” Cynthia said. “Anyway, it’s fortuitous, I do need to talk to you. Can you come over?”
“What, now?”
“Tonight. Now, if you can.”
Leonard surrendered to the destiny that had made him punch in Cynthia’s number. Before he left, he had to be sure his nephew was home. Leonard knocked twice on his door, entered. Dirty socks, popcorn aroma; whiff of aftershave; of stale bread; of mildew. Piles of laundry on the carpet, stacks of unopened mail, a huge soft-covered science-fiction novel The Wake of Cereus, The Trilogy, its cover 1950ish with a depiction of Saturn and a shapely space-suited woman seated demurely on its rings. On the bed, sheets twisted around a lump that may or may not have been Ellis. Leonard moved closer, spoke his name.
An arm sprang free, a patch of hair; Ellis’ eyes, mouth, nose, whole scrambled head.
“What is it?” his nephew asked.
He told him the front door had been left open.
“Just checking if you were home,” Leonard said, backing out, detaching himself from the smell.
Cynthia’s house was humid too, a little mildewed. She’d introduced more foliage, more flowers, had taken some of the pictures from the walls to accommodate another tree whose uppermost branches curled against the ceiling. The photo of his bird, the snowy owl, was gone; hers, the family of warblers, remained. In the living room, Cynthia had placed lawn chairs where the end-tables used to be, and the lamps were missing, more light entering through the windows. His wife had removed all the curtains. She guided Leonard through, as though he might lose his way. He sat on the couch, while Cynthia, perched on a lawn chair, asked if he’d like some water. This, too, was strange, as their shared drink of preference had always been Earl Grey.
Leonard declined, fearing that the drink might arrive murky, interlaced with roots. Nature was slowly but surely taking over the interior.
She was wearing cut-off jeans and a brown t-shirt. Her hair was tied back, and a twig protruded from where the elastic held her ponytail. She was in gardening mode, again, and there was a proficiency in the way she straightened her arms on her thighs, leaned forward, kept turning her head, as if she was inspecting the house’s interior garden, searching for flaws, for something to trim, clip or root out, but finding her husband was the only intrusive thing.
“Leonard, wha
t do you want? What are you hoping for? Leonard, what are you after?”
Leonard hadn’t expected this, another talk. The truth was, what he was after had become indistinct, something he couldn’t articulate. The only sentence that came to mind was I’m trying to parlay my lust into a lifestyle. But he knew it was more than this. That Alison, good or bad, was inevitable. Everything in him increased when he thought of her. She was like how Cynthia’s house had changed, had become humid, dark, alien, with the possibility of new life and insulated from the seasons. Alison was both impossible and essential, and destiny was wearing her clothes, moving with her hands. Had stars on its back, constellations behind its eyes. It all sounded like bullshit.
“I don’t know, really. I don’t. Things just happen. There’s no big reason. I know it’s a mistake, Cynthia, but I feel as if I have to make this mistake.”
“That’s bullshit. You don’t have to do anything. How could you not resist? How could you surrender so utterly to something you know can’t have a future? You think I don’t have desires, Leonard? All those times when I asked you to rub my back, when I got close to you on the couch, I was trying to make contact. Lots of couples have trouble with sex. But in the absence of that, in the absence of that. You at least owe me allegiance. You think there hasn’t been sacrifice here? You think my mind doesn’t fill with other possibilities, things I’ve given up? But I said yes to you, and learned to live with that. Now, you say yes to someone else? Are you going to give the rest of your days to that, going to take all the days before, leading up to now, replace them? Fuck, Leonard. You can’t have thought this through. You have a brain as well as a dick, you know.”
Cynthia stopped then, and it was as if the liquid of her eyes, the mistiness, had taken over. She’d lost definition, her words the only things of substance. Leonard couldn’t speak. There was no way of responding, her words, herself, would require much more than what could be contained in a few sentences, an admission, even in a protracted explanation, a begging for forgiveness, or years of fresh, unwavering devotion. The only allegiance he could give her would be to let her words stand. They’d replaced him. He was redundant. Cynthia was the wife of the depth of her own feeling about what had happened, was happening.
“I don’t understand it myself,” Leonard said lamely.
He saw himself on the midnight porch of Alison’s house, dumping gasoline from a drum onto it, inhaling the ruinous smell, then standing impassively against the railing and lighting a cigarette (Leonard didn’t smoke), calmly letting it arc from his hand onto the gasoline. As the light consumed, and Alison strained from her window for rescue, a dark princess, Leonard strolled onto the sidewalk and watched the flames fill the night sky, fire climbing right into the universe.
“I really don’t, I can’t explain better than that,” Leonard said.
But Cynthia was gone. She walked past him out of the living room, returned carrying a brown manila envelope.
“I have to get on with things, then,” she said in a whisper. “You’re a ghost to me now.” She placed the envelope on the dining room table. “Read this over, sign it. You can take it home and think about it, if you want. I prefer we do this quickly.”
Leonard went and sat down, slipped what appeared to be a legal document from the envelope. Separation agreement.
“This is standard procedure, Leonard. There are legal implications. I have to move forward.”
Leonard felt relief. That Cynthia had spent her anger, had moved into resignation. That she’d made her last argument, and now was initiating a peaceful, though legalized, truce, a calming period until more serious proceedings, a divorce perhaps, could be initiated. He began to read. The title page began with a series of practical points:
This is a separation agreement made this 12 day of September, 2003, between:
Leonard Edison
- and -
Cynthia Edison
WHEREAS:
(a) The parties married on May 14, 1993, in Toronto;
(b) The parties have no children;
(c) The parties have agreed to live separate and apart and have in fact lived separate and apart continuously since August 1st, 2003.
NOW THEREFORE, the parties agree as follows:
1. DEFINITIONS
In this agreement:
(a) “Leonard” is Leonard Edison and is one of the parties to this contract;
(b) “Cynthia” is Cynthia Edison and is one of the parties to this contract;
(c) 115115 …“Tax” and “taxes” includes tax, interest, and penalties owing under the provisions of the income Tax Act and any tax owing under similar federal or provincial legislation. It includes tax on both income and on capital gain;
(d) “property” means real or personal property or any interest in such property and has the same meaning as used in the Family Law Act, 1990;
Each line was static, cold. Was about other things, not him and Cynthia. Leonard skipped to the section SPOUSAL SUPPORT, which began to touch on things more personal, though still in cool language:
(1) Leonard and Cynthia cohabitated for approximately two years and were married for over ten years. During that time Leonard acknowledges that Cynthia provided emotional, practical and financial support to Leonard while Leonard attended school and while he worked. Leonard agrees to provide spousal support to Cynthia as recognition and repayment of this support and to ensure that the separation does not result in a decline in Cynthia’s standard of living.
(2) Leonard agrees to pay Cynthia periodic spousal support in the amount of $400.00 per month.
(3) Leonard acknowledges that the emotional, practical and financial support provided to him by Cynthia throughout the duration of their marriage contributed to his work as a teacher ...
Cynthia stood beside him. Stood closer than she had since the night she’d returned from England. Leonard felt she was about to place a hand on his shoulder, to reassure him that what he was reading was a mean necessity. Her breathing increased as he turned a page:
DISPUTE RESOLUTION. (1) The parties wish to settle between themselves any difference which may arise under this agreement. The parties wish to resolve these differences without recourse to the Courts except after exhausting all other reasonable avenues for dispute resolution.
She was letting empathy claim her, imagining, despite herself, what he might be feeling as he let the words sink in, their long-term implications. He had the sense she was using the agreement as a kind of bluff, to get him to reconsider. The notion softened him. This was the moment to give Alison up, faced with this document’s sad legalese. Did he really want to formalize his estrangement from his wife of ten years, this woman standing by his side, ready to support him if something in the agreement disturbed him? With her right fist, and the leverage of one of her feet against the large tree pot below, Cynthia punched Leonard in the head. He half fell onto the chair beside him, upset a small cactus. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his chair into the wall.
“Jesus Christ, Cynthia, for fuck’s sake, that’s really fuckin’ helpful.”
Cynthia hadn’t moved from her spot, was leaning toward him like a boxer ready for an opponent to rally. But her face was something Leonard hadn’t seen before, disfigured by anger, sorrow. She was unrecognizable, weirdly gaunt, her skull asserting itself from beneath her flesh. He could not speak, afraid of the face that had risen from her face. He focused on a simple task, narrowed his attention.
He moved forward, lifted the manila envelope with his left hand, saw that it was shaking, slid the separation agreement inside with his right, saw it was shaking, then, with both hands, shaking, retrieved the fallen chair. Moved around the table, other side from his wife, picked up a placemat and used it to lift the cactus from the floor, which had exploded from its pot. Cynthia began to move, let her raised arms fall, turned toward the couch, pushed her left leg forward, then her right, left again, turned back in Leonard’s direction, back toward the table and lowered herself slowly into th
e chair he’d just put right. Placed both her hands on the table, as if offering them up to sacrifice, and indeed, with her soiled forearms streaked black, and the dirt below her fingernails, they looked as if they’d come to the end of a long, laborious life, were about to be set free.
He finally managed to speak, said: “We need to calm down. I’ll read this over. Cynthia, things are bad now, but it’ll be all right.”
“I don’t know what it is, Leonard. I don’t know what things are. Things don’t exist, Leonard. But, I know. You haven’t done anything wrong. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
He paused here, his hand on the doorknob. Paused blankly, a pause that contained something he didn’t understand. He felt his lack of facial expression like an ache. Had to force himself through the front door, needed to break free from that moment, from Cynthia’s most damning statement, more upsetting than the violence: “You haven’t done anything wrong.” Leonard had to lift his feet, one at a time, down the stone steps of their house, onto the driveway. His car looked like a boulder. He had the sense he might have to carry it.
2
THROB
He thought of driving downtown. Instead, he drove home to Ellis’ and immediately punched in the number without thinking of what he was going to say. Three rings, then the answering service: “You’ve reached Frank Corvu, leave a message.”
“Mr. Corvu, this is Leonard Edison. Please fuck off. If you ever come to where I work again, I’ll staple your balls together. If you ever phone my house again and bother my wife, I’ll eviscerate you with her garden shears, hang your intestines from our trellis. Fuckface, your daughter is a grown woman and can make her own decisions. How did such a fine young woman ever sprout from the mistake of your sperm? What’s your problem? Still mind-fucked because your marriage ended, that your wife had the good sense to leave you? I don’t give a fuck. I’m enjoying myself, asshole. Every time I fuck Alison, every time I fuck your daughter, and believe me I do so with enthusiasm, every time she wraps her lips around my ancient dick, buries her whole self between my legs, and I remember when she was one of my students, sitting bright and attentive in my classroom in her short plaid skirt, every time I come in her mouth, then wake up an hour later to fuck her again, I think of you watching us, how angry and humiliated you’d be, and I come even harder. And there is nothing you can do about it, because your daughter loves me, and can’t get enough of my big hard cock. But be forewarned, if I ever hear from you again, or even sense your presence, you will regret it, in more ways than you can possibly imagine. Your body will suffer. Your mind will suffer. Your daughter, in the face of your threats, will retreat even more into my arms. So do yourself a huge favour and leave me, and us, alone. Take this threat very, very seriously. Oh, and did you know that your daughter likes to put her fingers under my balls and stroke them very lightly when she’s blowing me, and that she’s kept her school uniform and wears it when we fuck? Bye for now.”
