She squinted at his red front door. It was ajar, and the screen door was wide open, too, letting in the cold breeze. She watched his house a minute or two, waiting for him to come and shut it — perhaps he’d just had his hands full and would be back soon. She watched and waited, and still Ismail’s entrance remained open, unprotected. She left her tools and gloves on her front step, and crossed the street. She pressed the doorbell and heard its ding-dong-ding-ding. Then she knocked on the door frame, her knuckles all urgency and hardness. She called out his name, her voice box tight, her tone too shrill. Then, she rushed in.
She found him on the floor, sprawled out, a tangle of limbs. His skin was pale, his body still. She froze, mistaking unconsciousness for death. A widow’s wail rose within her, but caught in her throat so that all that came out was a faint whimper. She held on to a nearby chair, felt herself pulled into a dizzy stupor. Within an instant, Ismail and Lochrie Street dropped away from her, and she was once again in her own kitchen on Shannon Street, standing over her motionless husband, again, too late. She should have hurried, come sooner, not dallied. The past swirled before her, obscuring her vision. José, on the floor, his heart stopped, the breath no longer in him, was all she could see.
She clasped the chair’s back, her fingers somehow knowing to hold on. Her lungs willed her to breathe. After a moment, her husband receded enough for her to see an unfamiliar kitchen: yellow walls, stainless-steel appliances, bamboo floors. Like a latch coming undone, the past released itself, freeing her. José stepped away and she saw Ismail. Relief, but panic too: Wait! José, are you still there?
She kneeled down and gingerly felt Ismail’s moist forehead, leaving behind traces of garden soil above his brow. Heat radiated from him, the fire in his body fuelled by something she couldn’t recognize and knew better than to touch too long with bare hands. At the sink, she rinsed a towel with water, wrung it out, fashioned a cold compress. She wiped his forehead, sensing his fever’s reprieve, and repeated the process twice more. His eyes fluttered, but his body remained limp.
She pressed the towel against his cheeks, down his neck, and then unbuttoned his shirt to place the towel on his chest, over his lungs. She left her hand there too long and she thought she could feel his sorrow burning inside him. Then, a panic rose within her. She said aloud, “Ismail, where’s your phone. I’m calling 911.”
She rose, and Ismail’s eyes fluttered again. “Don’t call an ambulance. I’m okay,” he moaned.
“Are you sure?” she asked, but he went silent again, brewing in his pain. Finally, there was a slight nod, no more than a tremor, and she understood. She let the phone drop beside her and sat with him on the floor holding his hand, waiting for his fever to stop its burn behind his eyes and within his heart. Her mind wandered. José, did you suffer like this? What memories fluttered about while you lay alone on the floor?
Tears streamed past Ismail’s dark lashes. They washed over his cheeks, dripped off his chin, slid down his neck, and were absorbed by the collar of his shirt. Eventually, his tears became indistinguishable from the sweat that had already poured over him and soaked him through.
— * —
Celia floated above Ismail, a frown pinching the skin between her eyes. He felt her hand against his palm, cool skin against hot. His hair and face were drenched. Salt stung his eyes.
“You sure I shouldn’t call an ambulance?” She gazed at something behind him and at first Ismail thought she was talking to someone else. He craned his neck and saw they were alone.
“No, don’t do that,” he whispered and groggily wondered how she had gotten into his house. Had he left the front door unlocked?
“Are you having any pains? In your chest? Down your arms?” she asked, tapping lightly on his bare breastbone. He noticed that his shirt had been unbuttoned, and her cool breath raised goosebumps on his skin. He watched as she looked down at her fingers on his chest, and brushed over his scar. It seemed to thicken and pulsate under her touch. Ismail pushed himself up and onto his elbows.
“No, I just feel a little nauseated … and dizzy. I think I passed out,” he ventured, feeling suddenly silly for all the fuss. He fumbled with his shirt buttons, but couldn’t make them work.
“Good, no pain. Wait. Don’t get up yet. You just came to. You might faint again,” she said, the pads of her fingers strong now, pressing him to the floor.
“Really, I think I’m all right. I’ll just sit up a little.” He waited for her to ponder his proposal, lest she push him down again. After a moment, she held out her hand and hauled him up to sitting, one of her hands in his, the other firm against his back. “How long have I been out?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only been here maybe five minutes or so,” she guessed, frowning, looking again at the wall behind him. “I don’t quite know. Not long … how do you feel sitting up?”
“Fine,” he said, although really he was a quite light-headed, the blood thundering down too fast. His head sounded like old plumbing, pipes ready to burst.
She remained pensive, her gaze unfocused. She sighed and with their faces only a few inches apart, he felt her exhalations on his face. Finally, inexplicably, she smiled, the gap between her front teeth gleaming. She stroked his forehead with her fingers, tenderly, not like a stranger would, and Ismail hesitated to say anything more for fear of interrupting her.
“Oh, you are going to be just fine,” she sighed again, her tone almost wistful, childlike. Ismail nodded, cleared his throat, ruined the moment. Celia blinked hard, backed up, and scanned the room, as though looking for something, someone. She shook her head, then turned her gaze back to Ismail.
“Yes, really I think I’m fine. I’m not dizzy anymore. I think I can get up now,” he replied. He waited for her permission once more. She nodded her assent, stood, and then helped him to his feet. Ismail felt her arm encircling his waist, and noticed that her touch had turned stiffer, more formal. He swayed, lost his balance, and she clutched him more tightly. He steadied himself and she released him and looked away.
“Are you okay? You seem …” Ismail couldn’t name what seemed to be ailing her.
“Oh, it’s nothing … I’m … fine. What were you doing that made you faint?” she asked, turning her head to the kitchen table, looking at the jumble of newspaper articles spread upon it.
“Just … just reading.” He wanted to sweep the articles off the table, to make them disappear, but her eyes were already locked upon them. Helpless, he watched her read the headlines.
“Oh! This is terrible. These are terrible things … some of these look like they’re from a long time ago.” She rifled through the articles, her hand coming up to her mouth in dismay. Ismail could tell the moment she saw his daughter’s name, recognized the surname that linked them, for this was when her eyes stopped roaming the page and her breathing became more shallow. “Boxwala,” she murmured quietly, pointed to the letters in courier font in the centre of the table. “Zubeida Boxwala. Ismail, is this about someone you know, a relative of yours?”
His eyes blurred with tears and he slumped into a kitchen chair. She watched as he slowly gathered the articles together into a messy pile and shoved them back into the manila folder. “Did I leave my front door unlocked?” he asked, evading her question.
“Not just the lock. The door was wide open. Even the screen door, letting in all the cold air. That’s why I came over. Something looked wrong.” She sat down in a chair beside him.
“I’m sorry for frightening you like that. I guess I was a little distracted when I got home.”
“Distracted by this, yes?” she asked, pointing to the closed folder. “May I … look at it again?” Her eyes were gentle, kind. Ismail looked long at the flowers in her eyes and surrendered to them.
She pulled her chair closer to the table and read the article that bore Ismail’s daughter’s name, continuing where she
had left off. Her eyes widened with each scanned line, her skin holding taut her pained expression. Ismail submitted to the reality that she now knew his secret. And so did Fatima. But how could this be happening? He’d guarded his privacy for so long, allowing the tragedy to almost slip away. Strangers could imagine him without that ugly past, and in their company, he could almost pretend it away. Almost, but not quite.
Ismail waited for Celia to finish. He closed his eyes and sat up straight, bracing for the inevitable verdict: bad father, baby killer, murderer. A vision danced underneath his eyelids, memory coming alive.
After a terrible week of staying at home avoiding the telephone, Rehana and Ismail had cabin fever. The media had finally stopped calling, the newspapers slowly, mercifully, losing interest in their lives. Rehana begged Ismail to go out for a walk with her, to escape the heat and the claustrophobia of their house. They stepped onto Lochrie, vigilant for the neighbours they didn’t want to see. They’d already had their fill of explaining the accident to everyone in their circles: supervisors who had approved time off, their families, the police. The story had been repeated, the facts laid bare. Now that Zubi had been buried, Ismail and Rehana didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
They walked down Brock, and under the bridge, just as a train came rumbling over them. They climbed some steps onto a dead-end street with a ghostly grey cement parking structure they’d never before noticed. The found their way to Lansdowne, then back up to Dundas. The evening air was like a humid blanket, but still they enjoyed the liberation of being outside. They admired gardens, watched teenagers playing ball in a park, window-shopped, as though their lives were normal again. Then, as they sauntered along St. Clarens to the alleyway behind their house, they saw him: Rob Gallagher. Their chatty neighbour would have normally stopped them, drawn them into conversation. But that day, he met their eyes, turned and walked away, his back gate clattering shut. Rehana dissolved into tears, leaning heavily against Ismail. Look how people are treating us, Ismail! He held her in the alleyway, his anger toward Gallagher a boomerang that returned as self-hatred.
A week later, when she was alone, Gallagher stopped Rehana on the sidewalk and offered her sympathy, telling her he blamed her husband for everything. Ismail didn’t know why she chose to repeat his words. She never mentioned if she challenged Gallagher’s viewpoint or agreed with him.
— * —
While she read, Celia glimpsed him out of the corner of her eye. José. He paced the kitchen, back and forth, watching her, trying to get her attention. She chided herself: Come on, Celia, you know he’s not there. Stop being crazy; it’s just the déjà vu of the situation. Meanwhile, Ismail stared into his lap, his lids heavy and his expression blank. When she glanced up again, her imagination took hold of her once more. In her mind’s eye, José had stopped his pacing, and was studying Ismail.
What are you doing here, José?
I could ask you the same thing. She recognized his tone, the accusatory look she’d seen on his face before.
What? What are you saying? He’s just my neighbour.
Yeah, right. I’ve seen how you look at him. How you’re always watching him.
It’s nothing, José. And what’s it matter to you, anyway? You’re not here. You left me a long time ago, remember? You left me alone with your debts. Remember?
And then he was gone, her shrill thoughts chasing him away. She turned back to the newspaper article, and read about a sweltering car, the suffering of a child, the shock of a mother, a father’s regret.
— * —
Finally, Celia raised her head, and pushed the manila folder back toward him. He saw her look of compassion, her eyes brimming with tears not yet released. Still, he judged this to be an initial reaction and waited for it to shift, for her to speak sharply, to walk out of his house.
“She was yours, wasn’t she? This was your daughter?” Her voice was soft. She remained planted in her chair. She blinked, and a tear escaped her left eye, and travelled down her cheek to her chin. Overwhelmed by her kindness, Ismail’s throat went dry, and he couldn’t speak. She waited.
“Yes,” he finally managed to say, his voice barely audible.
“These ones,” she said, pointing to the oldest, most yellowed articles, “these are from nineteen ninety … almost twenty years ago. Such a long time ago.”
“Yes, almost … in August … it will be twenty years,” Ismail responded, stumbling over his words. There were so many things he could have said to her, a jumble of words that were getting caught in his throat. It’s so long ago, but it never goes away. Never.
“But still like yesterday, yes?” She leaned toward him, took his hand and squeezed lightly.
“Like today,” he said, looking down at their hands, olive skin wrapped around brown. He couldn’t recall anyone ever holding his hand so gently.
“It’s hard to remember, isn’t it? To be in the past with ghosts.” She looked off into the distance, like she’d done before, and then, not finding what she’d been seeking, she faced Ismail again.
“Yes, it’s very hard. The hardest thing …” He couldn’t find the words to finish his thought.
“You know, last year, more than that now, almost a year and a half,” she said, haltingly, and then stopped, her eyes moistening again. “My husband … he passed away. I found him on the kitchen floor, just like I found you. And then soon after … my mother ...” Another tear escaped, following the trail left by the previous one. He watched more tears stream down her face. Her sadness pulled him from the grip of his own sorrow.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, watching her eyelashes darken as they grew wetter. He passed her a clean handkerchief, watched her dab her eyes, wipe her nose.
“I am a widow, and before that I lost my father, and then after, my mother. I’ve been mourning a long while now. I’ve been all in black for a long while,” she said, gesturing to her clothing. Ismail studied her cotton dress, glanced quickly at her lean arms, the rise of her chest. He couldn’t help himself and took a quick look at her shapely legs in their dark pantyhose. Then, he looked at her wavy hair, its shade somewhere between auburn and scarlet, hair that was not meant to be overlooked. He turned over her hand and admired her polished nails. The hue of ripe lychees, just a little chipped at the ends.
“But not all in black. Not quite,” he said, smiling weakly, gesturing to the bursts of crimson in her hair and nails.
“No,” she said smiling shyly, “I suppose I have been growing tired of it. Being a bit of a rebel. I don’t like being a widow. I suppose I want to be finished with it. ”
“Yes, I understand,” Ismail whispered, and he meant it. She squeezed his hand again, and her touch sent a tingle up into the cool caverns of his chest. He reached out for her with his other arm and she leaned in, completing the embrace. They remained there a moment, holding the other stiffly. Then, she exhaled, and she pressed her palms into his back. He felt her head rest on his shoulder and his ear reach down to feel her soft hair. He allowed the pads of his fingertips to gingerly caress her ribs. Then, all too soon, her body released his.
“Well, I should get home,” she said, looking down at her shoes. He followed her eyes down her legs to her leather boots. A warm blush crept up his face.
“Yes, well, let me see you to the door, then,” he said, avoiding her eyes.
“Are you sure you are fine now? Not feeling light-headed anymore?”
“I am, thanks. And you?”
“Yes. Thanks for the talk.” Her fingers rose up to his forearm in reassurance and he was grateful to be touched again.
“Well, thanks for coming to check up on me. And for picking me up off the floor,” he grinned shyly.
“That’s what neighhours are for, right?” she said, returning the smile. And with that, she said goodbye. Ismail stood on his porch, watching her cross Lochrie Street. He
r house was brightly lit and he guessed her family was home, waiting for her. She paused as she opened the front door, puffing up her chest as she took in a deep breath. Ismail felt the cool evening air on his skin, breezing through his damp clothing.
He returned to the kitchen, and surveyed the mess of papers on the table. He gathered them all together, straightening their edges until they formed a tidy pile. Then, he placed them back into the manila folder and was about to take them upstairs to the cabinet. But then he stopped. As he held the weight of those articles in his hands, he realized how much he hated them. He’d kept the folder all those years, filling it with miserable stories as though it was his obligation, his duty, a penance. But they didn’t even hold the truth about the children who had died, and certainly didn’t capture Zubi’s life with any kind of grace. He couldn’t stand the folder any longer.
He turned back to the kitchen, and carried the file to the garbage can. He planted his foot on the pedal-lever, and the lid yawned open. He stared down into the darkness of its bottom, hesitating, gripping the papers. Then, slowly, they slipped through his fingers in a steady stream. They landed at the bottom of the bin with a whoosh, and he let go of the pedal. The lid clattered down upon them.
— 28 —
A Good Friday
Ismail didn’t see Celia for a few days after that night at his place. Although he knew she’d been at his house, he questioned if he remembered the interaction correctly. Did they really share an embrace? As the days passed, paranoid thoughts wormed through his mind: Could she be having a delayed reaction? Was she avoiding him now?
Six Metres of Pavement Page 20
