Six Metres of Pavement

by Farzana Doctor

  — * —

  Celia fed Marco his lunch. He seemed to have forgotten that she wasn’t home that morning, and any distress Lydia noticed in him had long dissolved. She wasn’t surprised. He chatted with her about all the day’s preschool news (he played trucks, the teacher scolded a boy for kicking a girl, he ate his snack). Celia sat close, running her fingers through his hair, nostalgic for the days when Lydia was that small, their mutual adoration simple, their roles clear. She kissed Marco’s cheek and her mind travelled to Ismail. She contemplated him as a father, almost two decades ago, imagined him feeding his daughter her lunch on a sunny afternoon. Her eyes welled up, unable to imagine her own children’s deaths coming before her own.

  Marco babbled on awhile longer, and then, realizing his vovó’s mind was elsewhere, he jumped up out of his chair. After a moment, Celia followed him, and saw he was already distracted by his after-lunch television show. She left him to change her clothing and ready herself for her daughter’s return. She would fix Lydia’s favourite meal to ease their reunion that evening. She took out the chicken to defrost, chopped an onion, a tomato, a clove of garlic. She headed down to the basement for wine for cooking and drinking.

  Over the weekend, Antonio and his friends had started framing and dry-walling. She wandered through the outline of new rooms, her slippers leaving behind evidence of her trail in the dust. At the far end of the basement was an area that housed the furnace, washer, and dryer. Beside it was a roughed out washroom. Finally, she came to the pantry. She pushed aside cans of tomato sauce, a large bag of rice, and stacks of toilet tissue. She fingered a nine-dollar merlot, but then saw a twelve-dollar bottle, a favourite of José’s. She guessed Lydia had picked it up before his death to serve when they’d last come for dinner. Celia rubbed the dust off the bottle with the edge of her apron, imagining a genie José springing forth from it. She waited, but the bottle yielded nothing. She studied its label, admiring the seaside scene that harkened back hometown memories for José and made him sigh each time he looked at it. She would use only a little for the recipe, and then put the rest aside to go with dinner.

  She walked to an open space at the far end of the basement, the place she guessed was designated to be her bedroom. She stood at its centre, imagining her bed and dresser shoved up against the outside walls. Perhaps there would be room enough for a chair, too. A small, dirty window brought in a shaft of light, illuminating the cement floor. She stood in that weak sunshine for a moment, considering which houseplants might be able to survive such inadequate conditions, but couldn’t think of a single one. She gazed out the window and caught a glimpse of Lochrie’s asphalt surface, her mind travelling along its width to Ismail’s house. Oh yes, she thought, perhaps a nice fern, or maybe even a dracaena.

  — 35 —

  Endings

  Ismail arrived at the empty classroom much too early. After a few minutes of nervous clock-watching, James finally bounded into the room, and he gradually relaxed as the rest of the students drifted in one by one. As usual, Fatima arrived last, rushing in with smoke on her breath. He noticed that she wasn’t lugging her heavy backpack, and thought this was probably a good sign.

  “How are you, Fatima?” he whispered.

  “Not bad,” she said tiredly. “So, tonight’s the last class. I’ll be glad to have this evening free. I’ve got term papers piling up.”

  “Yes and … it’s my night to read something. I suppose it will be good to have that out of the way.” Ismail told her that the pages she gave him the week earlier had, in part, inspired his own writing.

  “Oh yeah. I’d almost forgotten I gave that to you. So … what did you think?”

  “I think … that you are quite perceptive.”

  “So you liked it?”

  “I wouldn’t say I liked it. Not at first. But it was true.”

  “Huh,” she mumbled, looking thoughtful.

  James concluded his final lecture, appropriately on the topic of story endings. Then, he asked Ismail, the last person left to read, to share his work. Ismail wiped his damp palms against his trousers, and carried his pages up to the front. He breathed in for one count and exhaled for two.

  “So, er … my piece is still sort of in rough form. I’ve been procrastinating the entire eight weeks, because I’ve been terribly nervous about doing this. So,” he cleared his throat and continued, “here it is. Please be generous with me.” His admission raised a few laughs, and this calmed him somewhat. He took a deep breath and started:

  The widow kissed me!

  Ismail read slowly, wanting his words to be heard and understood, especially by Fatima.

  Was it fate or something more mundane like proximity, the fact that we are neighbours, and if we left our drapes wide open, we could see right into one another’s lives?

  With each pause, he looked up from his page and met Fatima’s eyes.

  The sort of kiss that at once satiates a longing never before acknowledged while leaving behind a desire that simmers long …

  Fatima’s expression shifted from neutral, to wide-eyed, and then, a broad grin spread across her narrow face.

  I’ll never wipe it away.

  Ismail wasn’t sure what the others thought of his piece; he doubted it had any literary merit. Fatima led the applause, and didn’t stop clapping until after he returned to his seat.

  “Bravo,” she whispered, as he sat down beside her.

  Ismail followed Fatima outside for the break, still euphoric from his reading. A few of the other students had offered him positive feedback, and he felt proud for having faced his fears.

  “Congratulations,” she smiled while lighting up, forcing her cigarette to the side of her mouth. “So, is it fact or fiction? Did the widow really kiss you, or was that just a big ol’ fantasy?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Ismail teased.

  “I would!”

  “Well, it is.”

  “Omigod! No way! So, what else happened? Was there more?”

  “Well, a gentleman never kisses and tells, but yes. We are … dating.” He was enjoying the banter, glad to be sharing the good news with someone, finally.

  “Wow, Ismail, that’s great!”

  “And how are things with you? Any change in your situation?”

  “Nope,” she said, blowing out smoke. Ismail looked more closely at her and saw that her black and blue hair was more unkempt that usual. The whites of her eyes verged on pink and there were puffy bags under them. “Talked with my mother. She is a little more sympathetic, but not budging about me moving back. She’s brainwashed by my dad. She refuses to give me any money.”

  “You look like you haven’t been sleeping. Have you found a place yet?”

  “Not yet. Most people want first and last,” she complained. “And I don’t quite have it. Almost, though.”

  “So still with friends, then?”

  “Yeah. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” she reassured, her tired-looking eyes contradicting her positive-sounding words. “I created this mess, right? Couch-surfing isn’t so bad.”

  “Have you … been eating enough?” She didn’t seem well to him, her already slim face looking drawn.

  “Yeah, yeah. Really, you don’t have to worry about me,” she said, looking down at her boots. He followed her gaze to a small, salt-stained hole in the boot’s stitching, where a bit of red sock peeked through.

  He opened his wallet and pulled out eighty-five dollars, all the cash he had. He held the money out to her. “I know it isn’t much, but …” She looked at the bills, but didn’t take them. “Really, take it, Fatima. I don’t want you to go hungry. Or if you don’t need if for that, hold on to it for rent.” He reached for her hand, opened her closed fist, and placed the money into her palm.

  “Thanks.” Her fingers closed around the bills and she f
urtively stuffed them into her coat pocket. “That’s nice of you. I’ll pay you back when I can,” she mumbled. She took a last drag of her cigarette, and then stubbed it out.

  Class ended early that night, and the students dispersed slowly, some gathering around James Busbridge at the front of the room, like acolytes hesitant to leave their guru. Others milled by the door, exchanging email addresses. Ismail, too, was unsure about how to say farewell to the familiar strangers around him. He turned to Fatima and reached out a damp hand to her, remembering that this was how they greeted one another eight weeks earlier. She shook his hand and they vowed to stay in touch, but he wasn’t sure they would. He gave her his home phone number, and encouraged her to call if she needed his help. She’d barely looked him in the eye since break-time, the eighty-five dollars like an unmentionable shame between them. Ismail let her leave the room first, and followed at an appropriate distance, watching her slightly hunched form cross the campus.

  As he drove along College Street, he revved the engine, navigating the downtown streets as fast as he could. It was the end of March, a warmer night than usual, and everyone seemed to be out on the sidewalks, basking in the above-zero temperatures. His passage was slowed twice at pedestrian crosswalks, where he stared down old men with canes and young mothers with strollers, willing them to hurry up. His irritation lifted when he turned onto Lochrie. He was almost home, almost home to Celia.

  — 36 —

  Fresh Sheets

  Ismail rang over to Celia, but he needn’t have. She’d seen his car pull in, and already had on her coat and shoes when he called.

  “Did everything go all right with Lydia when you got home?” he queried.

  “I got the silent treatment. I even made her favourite meal, but she refused to eat it,” she said with a heavy sigh.

  “I’m sorry about that, Celia.”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about, and neither do I,” she said with a vehemence that surprised him. “Anyway, this will pass. I think she is just in shock. Besides, I don’t want to talk about her. I’ve had enough stress in my life. I’m coming over now!” She laughed, but Ismail couldn’t tell if it was truly a happy laugh. He hung up, knowing he would only have to count to twenty, and she’d be at his door. Then, the phone rang again. He assumed it was her calling back.

  “Yes, my dear?” he answered, trying to sound suave.

  “Hello?” There was a pause, and a sob.

  “Fatima?”

  “Yeah.” She sounded like she was trying to catch her breath.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened? Are you all right?” She started to cry again, in short hiccupping bursts. Meanwhile, the bell rang, and Ismail opened the door for Celia.

  “Noooo,” she managed to say. He beckoned for Celia to come in and gestured that he was talking to someone on the phone. Celia smiled, took off her pumps. She wore an orange sweater the colour of her hair. A plunging neckline. Ismail forced his attention back to Fatima.

  “Tell me what’s going on. What happened?”

  “Look, can I … come over? I don’t know what else to do, really,” she whined.

  “Okay, okay, don’t worry. Fatima, can you just hold on a second?” He held the phone against his chest, worry for Fatima and desire for Celia yanking him in opposite directions. He apprised Celia of the call.

  “Is it serious, do you think?” she asked, and Ismail nodded. “Of course, of course, tell the girl to come over,” she said. She leaned in to give him a quick peck, but he held on too long and she had to push him away and remind him that Fatima was on the phone.

  “Alright, Fatima, come over …”

  “Are you sure?” she sniffed.

  “Yes, yes, it’s fine,” he said.

  Ismail filled Celia in on Fatima’s troubles, and while they waited for her to arrive, they considered what could have caused her latest distress. Had she spoken to her parents? Did one of her friends renege on their offer to house her? Ismail suspected it was something more grave, but pushed away the thought, happy to be distracted by Celia.

  She kissed his cheek a second time and he pulled her in again, pressing her up against the kitchen counter, his body hungry for her after their half-day’s separation. He groped her soft waist, felt her pelvic bone push into his. Her hands reached up and under his shirt, grabbing at his back.

  “Lift me up onto the counter,” she whispered, blushing at her own words. Ismail was in the process of negotiating the manoeuvre when the doorbell rang for the second time that evening. He reluctantly drew away from Celia, tucked in his shirt, and Celia patted down her rumpled hair.

  He opened the door to a red-eyed Fatima and introduced her to Celia.

  “Nice to meet you,” Fatima said listlessly. Celia frowned and stepped forward to help Fatima take off her backpack. They all moved to the living room, and with little prompting, Fatima recounted what had happened to her.

  “Well I was staying with Monica, this girl I was dating. You remember her — the girl who I danced with at my party?” Ismail looked at Fatima blankly. She persevered, “She’s short, Indo-Caribbean? I think you danced with her, too.”

  “Oh yes. Monica.” Ismail vaguely remembered her. She was one of Fatima’s posse assigned to ensure his good time that night.

  Fatima continued on. In the midst of a heated argument, Monica demanded that she leave, and feeling insulted, Fatima left in a hurry, before she had a chance to find other accommodations. Ismail cast a sideways glance at Celia, trying to gage her response to the dramatic story.

  “I don’t know what her problem was. Everything was going fine, and then one day, she kicked me out,” Fatima blustered. Ismail observed Celia listening attentively, her eyes wide, nodding at each detail.

  “That’s terrible,” Celia cooed. Fatima nodded and sniffed, and Celia put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. Ismail felt a pang of jealousy at their instant intimacy.

  “Yes, just terrible,” he mumbled, joining in.

  Fatima took a deep breath and told them that after leaving Monica’s, she ran into the boy who had sexually harassed her at her party.

  “He apologized, and he seemed really sincere. He told me he didn’t even remember doing it because he was drunk, but other people told him off the next day. He said he’d heard I was still looking for a place and offered his couch as a way to make up for his stupid behaviour at my party.” She explained that she didn’t have any alternatives, and although she sensed it might be a bad idea, she agreed. She hoped he was a nicer guy while sober.

  “And besides, his place is right across from U of T, which made life way easier for me. That was yesterday. And it had been fine. He made me dinner, I slept on his couch, and he said I could stay until the end of the week.” Ismail held his breath, able to predict the story’s end.

  “When I got back to his apartment after the writing class, he was weird. In a strange mood. I think he was high or something. He cornered me and demanded that I sleep with him if I was going to stay over.”

  “What?” Ismail gasped, alarmed. “What did he do to you?”

  “In the end, nothing much, I guess. But it really freaked me out. He pushed and shoved me, and it was really scary, and I felt trapped. But then I remembered this thing from a Wen-Do class I took last term. I yelled and karate-chopped him on his collar bone,” she said, her hand slicing at the air. “I think I may have broke it.”

  “Oh my!” Celia gasped. Ismail rubbed his temples.

  “I grabbed my backpack and got out of there. Then it hit me what close a call it had been and it freaked me out … I phoned Ashton and Sonia, but neither picked up.” She paused, staring down at her feet. “Then I called you,” she said, looking up at Ismail, her eyes welling up again. “I was stupid to trust him. But … I didn’t have anywhere else, and so it was like I didn’t have a choice.” Celia patted Fat
ima’s back. Ismail stood up to contain the anger buzzing behind his eyes. He paced the living room, and thought about doing terrible, violent things to the guy. He’d karate-chop other bones, leave him with two black eyes, kick him in the groin. Fatima’s breathing calmed while his pulse quickened.

  “Ismail, you should sit down,” Celia advised.

  “My friends are great, but I know I’ve pretty much worn out my welcome everywhere. It’s going to be awhile before I can save up enough for first and last and I’m really tired —” she sniffed and continued, “— of staying on people’s couches for a day or two and then moving on.” Ismail stopped pacing and braced himself for the request he knew was coming next. Yes, he wanted to help the girl, but just how much? He glanced Celia’s way, but couldn’t read her expression.

  “So, then I started thinking … you offered to help me, and I know this is a lot to ask,” she said, her voice cracking, “It is a lot to ask, but … could I stay here, in your extra room just until I find a place? I could pay you some rent, or do something in exchange, like cook or clean if you want. Just for a couple of weeks, or a month, until I have enough to find my own place?”

  Ismail’s pulse raced and his body overheated. Fatima? Living in my house? It didn’t seem an ideal time to have a houseguest with he and Celia only just getting to know one another. How could it work to have Fatima stay over? These thoughts looped around his mind, gathering momentum with each round. Then, he felt Celia’s cool palm on his knee and he looked up to meet her gaze. She gave an almost imperceptible nod and a slight smile. His calm returned.

  “Yes,” he said sighing. “You can stay here. Until you can find a place you can afford.” Fatima’s face crinkled up as she squeezed her eyelids shut. She opened them again and a few tears slid down her cheeks.