She moves to the window, looking in all directions, but he’s gone. She feels bereft, as though someone has taken something from her.
“I wish I could disappear like that,” she whispers. Sighing, she turns from the window. Once again, the bike presents itself. There’s a subtle invitation: “Let’s ride. Just us. Let’s go. Anywhere you want.”
Ruefully she shakes her head. “Don’t I wish. But I can’t. I just can’t.”
Suddenly she hears the birdsong again. Why is everything free but her? A voice inside her head turns her words around ad throws them back: Why is she not free? Ellen repeats the question to herself. Why not?
“Damn it, he has no control over me.”
Angrily she heads for the bedroom, pulls on her riding gear, and stomps into the kitchen to fill a water bottle.
“I am free. He has no right to say what I can or can’t do. Blast you anyway, Al,” she rants, buckling on her fanny pack. “You don’t have any right to mess up my life like this. I can go riding if I want to. And if I’m late getting back, that’s just too darn bad. And if it wrecks your lunch, I don’t care.”
Ellen grabs her bike, backs out of the apartment, and lets the door slam shut behind her. She’s still muttering as she reaches the lobby and wheels the bike out of the elevator. She leans the bike against her hip as she buckles on her helmet, pulls on her gloves, and tightens the Velcro closures. She doesn’t realize anyone else is in the lobby until she moves toward the door and a hand slides into her field of vision.
“Here, let me get that for you,” a man says, a small smile quirking his lips.
Startled, she looks at him blankly. She doesn’t recognize him. He must be one of the other tenants.
“Uh, thank you.”
Brilliant conversation. Simply sparkling. How could he ever forget an exchange like that? On the other hand, does she care if he remembers her?
She looks again. The smile is still there — a warm sort of smile. Almost friendly. He isn’t laughing at her, he’s laughing with her.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I get days like that, too. You’ll probably feel better when you finish your ride.
He brings the conversation to an end, releasing the door so it drifts shut between them. He does it pleasantly, with a smile and a little wave of the hand from the other side of the glass. He doesn’t stand and watch. She’s free to go.
The whirr of tires and the soft spinning sound of the chain smoothes away her mental carbuncles. There’s a little bit of a breeze now, nothing heavy, but a hint of cooler days to come. She won’t be able to do this much longer.
“Enjoy it while you can,” she mutters.
The texture of the road changes and her tires alter their sound to match. Ellen’s learned a vocabulary of road sounds. Each type of pavement makes its own distinctive music. The road along the top of the dike is compacted gravel that makes a shushing sound. There are a couple of sandy patches that whisper as the bike passes by, flinging tiny pieces of grit against her fender. It’s different from the tink tink of small pieces of gravel rattling against it. Asphalt has a soft sound to it, while cement makes a rigid noise.
Ellen tries to ride around things when she can. There’s a lot of glass on the road. Here and there, ominous piles mark the site of an accident. A pile of red glass is a brake light. Clear, ribbed glass from a headlight marks another collision. Small, green-tinged cubes of safety glass from a window bespeak a more serious encounter. Once in a while there are corroborating pieces of metal and plastic nearby, crumpled bits of chrome, twisted blades from windshield wipers. There’s an ongoing story in the things that lie beside the road. They keep her mind occupied for long stretches of time.
Today, though, Ellen isn’t in the mood for reading the road. She’s tuning in to herself, listening deep inside, trying to envision what might happen this afternoon. What she will do. What he will do. Maybe, she tells herself, maybe if she thinks it through beforehand, if she finds the pitfalls, she can protect herself, rather than being caught by surprise and leaving herself vulnerable.
Somehow, she seems always to be at risk as far as Al is concerned, as far as anyone is concerned. This time, she vows, she’ll be ready for whatever goofy shots he lobs at her.
When she finally turns her wheels homeward she feels at peace, her mind calm and settled and the afternoon no longer a threat.
— 11 —
ELLEN FINDS SOMETHING UNSETTLING in coming back to the place she once lived. The house is familiar, but strange in a way she can’t define.
Al must have been lurking on the other side of the door as she walked up the steps. He catapults across the threshold like an exuberant puppy.
“Babe! You’re here! It’s great to see you again.” He burbles on, making welcome host noises. “You caught me by surprise. I didn’t hear the car.”
“I didn’t drive. I took the bus,” she replies, shrugging out of her coat. A small scuffle ensues as he tries to grab the coat and put it in the hall closet. She does, after all, know where the closet is. She’s hung hundreds of coats in it, including this one.
“No, here. Let me take that,” he insists, out-positioning her with a coat hanger. He turns his mind to her first comment.
“How come you took the bus? Problems with the car?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. No problems.” Damned if she’ll confess that she doesn’t have the money for insurance. “I’ve been trying to use alternate transportation lately. You know, pollution and all that.”
He isn’t buying it. Not for a minute. His eyes are a pair of little computer screens that mirror the thoughts passing behind them. There’s a full stop as he decides whether to pursue this or not. Discretion wins. He’s concerned enough about getting the visit off to a good start that he’ll put up with whatever she says.
He turns away and fusses with the coat. It’s not such a difficult thing to do, really. Just shove one end of the hanger in each of the arms, turn around and drop the hook over the rod in the closet. Somehow the familiar action seems foreign to him, like he’s never done it before, or like he’s being judged on his performance. Should she award a 7.2? Or has it been a 9.5?
She scolds herself. Stop it. The guy’s trying. You’re going to end up making some smart-assed comment and setting off an argument that will, at the very least, throw him into some completely counter-productive, full frontal sulks.
The coat is finally hung and he turns back to her, cupping her elbow in his hand and steering her down the hall, the hall she’s walked ten thousand times before. In daylight. In darkness. With him. With kids. With friends. By herself. She tries to extricate her elbow, but he isn’t letting go.
“Here, let’s sit in the front room.” He propels her through the archway before releasing his hold.
Her eyes skim the room, looking for changes. There are a couple of empty spaces where there used to be photographs that included her, other blanks that once held keepsakes.
“I didn’t change anything, Ellie,” he says, morphing his eyes into cocker-spaniel mode. “I couldn’t.”
She doesn’t know how to respond. There’s nothing to be gained by pointing out the missing pictures or small treasures. She drops her eyes to her lap, examining her hands, demurely folded in front of her. The white line where her wedding ring used to be has disappeared, but the indentation is still there. She wonders how long that takes to go away, or if it ever does. Is this the stigmata of divorce? Deep grooves that can’t be excised?
Al waits for a comment. She obliges.
“So, where do you want to start? In the kids’ rooms? The basement?”
His eyes snap back to normal. “Oh, yeah. I thought maybe we could have a bit of lunch first and then start with the girls’ room, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. Doesn’t matter to me.”
Back to you, she thinks. Serve, lob, return. Your point, her point. But no love.
A small scowl drifts across his face. Obviously she’s lost her place i
n the script he’s prepared for them. Time to regroup. He stands, quickly.
“Hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. It seems more … informal.”
Ellen almost laughs out loud.
“By all means, let’s not get formal. That just leaves you with a sink full of dishes, a stack of napkins to wash, and a tablecloth to iron. And I don’t imagine you’re any fonder of ironing than I am.”
She invites him to share the joke.
“I wouldn’t mind, Babe, if that’s what you want,” he says earnestly.
She’s in serious danger of barfing.
“No, not at all. Kitchen sounds fine to me. Something smells good. Am I witnessing your debut as a chef?”
Now it’s his turn to be flustered.
“Nothing that grand. Most of it’s from the frozen food section. They’ve got great stuff there, you know? All I had to do was bring it home and stuff it in the oven.”
“So what do I smell?”
“Chicken pot pies. The good ones. Not as good as the ones you used to make, of course, but pretty good.”
She nods. “I haven’t made one for ages. It really isn’t worthwhile for one person. Or two,” she adds, hastily.
The kitchen table is set with a bright pair of placemats she hasn’t seen before. There’s a jug of flowers in the middle of the table — small, low flowers, placed in one of her old cream jugs that lost its sugar-bowl years ago but was too good to throw out.
“That’s an interesting idea,” she says, gesturing toward the table. “I never could figure out what to do with the jug. I should have thrown it out years ago.”
He smiles. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you didn’t.”
He’s happy to take credit, but Ellen’s willing to bet the whole set of china that it wasn’t his idea. Nor were the placemats. It’s the first positive trace she’s seen of the Bimbo. Glancing around the kitchen she spots a couple of other items she’s sure also originated with the girlfriend. She doesn’t comment on them.
Al bustles around the stove as she seats herself at the table. He pulls out a pair of nicely browned chicken pies. And he’s wearing new oven mitts. She’ll give him the benefit of the doubt on that one. Doing his own laundry may have made him realize that the stuff that bubbles out of pies and casseroles stains towels and that’s why you use oven mitts. Unlikely, but possible. However, he uses an oven witch to pull the rack out — a hooked stick, this one in the shape of a flying duck, that lets you pull the rack out without burning your wrists on the hot oven. Ellen knows he’d never buy that, ergo it’s left over from Bimbo. Not that it’s any of her business, she tells herself.
He puts the pies on a trivet that sits in the middle of the stove. Things have really changed around here. He turns to the fridge and whips out a salad, neatly covered with a tight film of plastic wrap. The toaster oven yields some crusty buns.
“I’m impressed, Al,” she tells him. “This looks great.”
He basks in her approval.
Lunch is awkward. Small talk comes hard to both of them. Eventually they finish and she begins to stack the dishes.
“Oh, no. Leave them. I’ll get them later,” he says.
“I can at least help clear the table,” she insists, but he reaches out to take the stack from her. They’re back to their formal pas de deux. She shrugs, grins, and moves away.
“Okay, what’s first on the agenda?”
They look at the twins’ room. It isn’t too bad. The girls dealt with most of their possessions, but when they move on to the boys rooms, she realizes they are virtually untouched — posters on the walls, airplane models hanging from the ceiling, even drawers full of outgrown jeans and sweaters.
“Remember this?” Al says, holding up Geoff’s old hockey sweater. “How many hours did we spend at the rink with that kid?”
Everything has a remember attached and Al’s determined to trot them all out. She suspects it’s going to be a long afternoon.
It is. It drags endlessly on as Al examines the minutia and trivia of Geoff’s life. Eventually they move to Robby’s room, where the process repeats itself as the afternoon wanes.
Finally, it’s time to snap on the light.
“Gosh, I had no idea it was that late. And we haven’t got near the rec room or the basement. Now that we’re on a roll, how’d it be if I order something in and we can just keep going?”
Ellen decides lying is the easiest way out.
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” she says, looking at her watch. “But I really have to go.” She scrambles to her feet and looks around the room. “Well, at least we got some of it done. You can call one of the charities and they’ll come and pick up the shoes and clothing. The boys can decide what to do with the rest of it.”
Getting out of the house is like broken field running as she dodges one block after another: No, she doesn’t want a drink. No, she doesn’t want to take the photograph albums. No, she doesn’t want a ride home.
She surreptitiously checks the schedule in her pocket. The bus is due in a few minutes. It arrives on cue and whisks her away. Ellen glances out the window and sees Al, still standing on the porch. She expects the Bimbo to bounce out from around the corner. Has she really gone, or was she just hiding in the basement?
Walking into the vestibule of her building, Ellen sees a friendly face. Tim smiles and nods a greeting. “You’re out late,” he says. Even in the dim light she can see the sparkle in his eyes.
“Yes, I’ve been out visiting …” She pauses. “Just an old friend,” she says, finally.
“Lucky you. There’s no friends like old friends. My old friends are all living somewhere else. I wish I could hop on a bus and see them.”
“Where would that be, Tim? All the time we’ve known each other, you’ve never told me where you’re from.”
“Why, Ireland, of course!”
She’s surprised. He doesn’t sound Irish. She tells him so.
He’s pleased. “It took a lot of effort on my part to lose that accent.”
“Why would you do that?”
“It limits the things I can do.”
How strange. What difference would an accent make for a photographer?
“Have you been in this country very long?” she asks.
He pauses before answering.
“Aye. It’s been a long while now. And too long since I’ve been home.”
“How long is too long?”
“Persistent, aren’t you?” he quips. “All right then, I’ll give you an exact answer. It’s been fourteen years and seven days.”
“That’s pretty precise. How can you know that exactly?”
“Not difficult at all. I left home on my birthday, fourteen years ago. My birthday was exactly one week ago.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t know your birthday was last week. Many happy returns.”
“Ah, that’s not good enough. In a civilized country, a man gets a kiss on his birthday.”
He smiles, expectantly, and she salutes his birthday with a friendly peck on the cheek. Laughing, they enter the elevator.
— 12 —
SUMMER IS COMING TO an end. Neighbourhood lawns show patches of brown. Flowers, once lush and vigorous, wilt in on themselves, their brilliant colours faded by the sun. Hedges stand docile within their sculptured outlines. The gardens are waiting. Even the birds are muted, their morning-song no longer fresh and challenging. They sound like faded road signs, mere formalities standing by the highway.
Ellen stores up pleasure in her rides, like a squirrel greedily hiding tidbits for the long, dreary months ahead. When the rains begin, there will be few opportunities to ride. The very thought is depressing.
Al invites himself to ride with her on Saturday. She plans a sixty-kilometre trip along the river and out into the countryside. It’s a beautiful ride. There’s always something to watch on the river and the road has some nice changes: dead level at times, it shifts to rolling hills with a couple of gut-buster climbs. Good ones. Steep enough
to be a real challenge but short enough to be achieved.
“I’m leaving at seven in the morning,” she warns Al. “Traffic is light then and with an early start we can make a couple of stops if we have to.”
“You won’t have to stop on my account, Babe,” he replies.
Her gear is ready: a nylon shell to put over her jersey in case of rain — an unlikely prospect given the weather forecast, but a precaution she’s learned to take. Both water bottles are full, one with clear water, the other with an energizing sport drink. Her pump is hooked firmly in place under the top bar of the frame. The little pouch under her seat holds a tool kit, a spare tube, an old one-dollar bill to put across a puncture, a credit card for emergencies, personal identification, a power gel, and an orange. There’s just enough room to squeeze in her key chain.
The buzzer snarls out Al’s “shave and a hair-cut” entry signal.
“Hi,” she calls, leaning toward the intercom on the wall. “Are you coming up?”
His voice warps through the buzzes and crackles of the speaker. Remote. Alien-sounding. “No. I’ll wait here.”
“Okay. I’ll be right down.”
Time for one last visit to the bathroom. She’s getting canny at finding bathrooms along the road, but a pit stop is always the last thing before leaving home. Earlier trips were agonizing. She used to feel compelled to order endless cups of coffee that she didn’t drink, simply to entitle her to use facilities in the fast food places that dot the highways. Now she’s less self-conscious. Gas station attendants are miserable about giving their precious washroom keys to cyclists. Ellen points out that she is also a driver whose product loyalty can easily be swayed to a competing station that is more gracious in sharing facilities. Desperation turns her brazen.
On the Rim Page 16
