by Alan Cumyn
It wasn’t a trick question but it was hard and she had to think it through. It was like walking where Daddy used to take them fishing. They’d walk and walk in the dark in the morning and their boots would slip and squelch. Daddy would say, “Shhh! Goddammit!” and suck on his pipe. “The fish can hear you!” You put your line in and wait and wait but you have to be quiet or you won’t get that niggly on the line.
“What book are we looking for?” the woman asked again and Lenore said, “Shhh! Goddammit!” but whispered and kind, so she’d know.
Julia was coming. Very soon. Lenore paced up and down the hall. She had her purses and her coat and was ready to go to Pullman’s.
But where was Julia? Pullman’s was going to close soon. You have to go at the right time. Lenore paced up and down. It was a smelly hallway. The carpet was green, it was ridiculous, and there were bright, sunny pictures all along. Cows and such. What a frightful expense. To put her up in a hotel like this when she just wanted to go back where she knew the kitchen.
Lenore said, out loud, “Capt. Buzbie would like very much to know where they are.” Nobody heard her. She walked to the door clutching her purses and her coat. She pushed to open the doors.
The Italian woman – the pretty one, unmarried, it was such a shame – said, “Where are you going, Lenore?”
Lenore said, “Julia’s here! She’s right here!” and then some old wreck fell on her side and the Italian woman had to look after her. So Lenore pushed at the heavy doors, pushed and pushed, but they wouldn’t open.
Lenore walked back down the hall into her room, right past all the boxes. It didn’t look like her place but there was the big picture of Julia and Alex, and there were Capt. Buzbie and Miss Muffin. Not even on the walls! Well, that explained it. Why the door didn’t work. Because you had to use the window. You had to bend double, it was so stupid, these modern places! Lenore never in her life thought she’d end up like this. She had to squeeze and kick hard to loosen it up. They were all rusty, in terrible condition, falling apart. She had to hang on. Pull her coat through, her purses, it was all such a mess. But Pullman’s was closing!
So she had to do it.
“I’m not sure which bus is which,” Lenore said. The young woman at the bus stop had a baby in a stroller and looked up in a friendly way.
“Where do you want to go?” she asked.
“To Julia’s house.”
“Which street is it on?”
“I tried to get to Pullman’s,” Lenore said. “But it was closed.” Then she pointed. “I think it’s down that way. One of those streets. Julia’s house.”
“Maybe the 108,” the young woman said uncertainly.
“She was divorced,” Lenore said. “A terrible thing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was after the motorcycle accident, with what’s-his-name. You know.”
The young woman brushed a fly away from her gurgle baby.
“She was nasty after that,” Lenore said.
“Ah,” the young woman said.
“She always had a bad temper. Like Trevor. Always getting lost. In the snow.”
Lenore looked down the street, first one way, then another. Her wool coat was too hot for the afternoon but it would be too much to carry.
A bus approached and she caught her breath. Lenore stepped up to ask the driver.
“Julia’s house?” he said. “Where’s that?”
“It’s – well, I think it’s down that way,” Lenore muttered. It didn’t matter. She’d sit by the window and when she saw it she’d get off.
“Fare, please!” the driver said, but not at her, he just said it.
So hot! The wind blew in the open window like it was from a furnace register. Nothing looked familiar, the shops, streets, buildings. Switched so cleverly and quickly.
She turned to the bald man beside her with the awful breath. “Do you know if this bus is going to Julia’s house?” she asked politely.
He looked at her. “Where do you want to go?”
“Fare, please!” The driver was a stuck parrot.
They were all looking at her but nobody knew. Not the bald man, not the skinny woman with brown eyes, not the black boy with the knapsack. It all went rushing by. She should have been able to remember the name. Damn it!
Of course, her address book. Which purse? The white one. But first she had to take out her raincoat, her little umbrella, the scarves and lipsticks, a whole pile of whichever and other things, coffee mugs, strange notes. The ricer! What was it doing there? She made a heap on her lap but soon things fell on the floor and people leaned over to help.
“Excuse me! Oh, I’m sorry. So silly of me. Sorry!”
Then something caught her eye. On the street. That shop looked familiar. She craned her neck but the flapping bit slipped out of sight. A hardware? Kitchen store? Whatsit? When she stood up to get a better view, everything slid off her lap. In seconds Lenore was on her knees on the bus scooping. The ricer started to roll away but got stopped by its own handle. Too many people bent down to help.
“Please! I’m so sorry! It’s so silly!” she said again and again. Everyone had to wait while she decided where went what. If she got it wrong then she’d never find anything again. The brooch from Aunt what’s-her-name. With the green stone. Now what was that doing there?
Such a fuss. The driver even pulled over, stood up, helped her put her raincoat back in the white purse. Was that the right one? She was just not sure. So she got off, clutching, walked away. It was so hot. She looked back at where the hardware should have been. The one that Trevor used to disappear in. But it wasn’t there any more. They must have moved it. An older man worked there, very gentle. He always knew what you were looking for. You didn’t even have to describe it very well. He knew. He could go get it for you. And a good thing too, because that store was packed to the sky with screws and nuts and … and odds and such. You couldn’t find anything on your own. Which was why the man was there.
And that’s why it was so disappointing to look back and find he wasn’t there. Where do stores go? Lenore walked across the street, slowly so the cars could stop for her. Stood for a long while looking at the spot where the hardware should have been. It wasn’t fair. She longed to go in and have Trevor say what to do. He was a great man for that. He always knew. Not a moment in his life when he didn’t know exactly what to do. It wasn’t always the right thing but he never had any doubts at the time. “Hello?” Lenore said the word in her funny voice that made everybody laugh. Usually, anyway. But this boy wasn’t laughing. He didn’t seem to know about anything. It was so noisy, Lenore was trying to get away.
“Are you all right, lady?” he asked. His hands were shoved in his pockets and his hair was sick yellow. He must have a disease, Lenore thought sadly.
“Hello?” she said again, even funnier, letting him know it was all right. She was fine, except for the noise.
“How’d you get here?” he asked, stepping between the branches, just a little closer. It was very thick.
“I think I’m finished now,” Lenore said, pushing at one. It pushed right back at her.
“Do you need some help?”
“Off the track,” Lenore said, pushing at the branch. “I think I’m finished.”
“Here,” the boy said and stepped over a log, bent low under something thick, squeezed past some others. They shouldn’t keep it this way, she thought.
“How did you get here?” the boy asked. There was still a nasty bit between him and Lenore. He looked like he wasn’t sure he wanted to go through it. He hesitated as if Lenore might be able to pick her own way out.
“It’s a lovely day,” Lenore said.
“Where are your shoes?” the boy asked. It was uncomfortable. Stickies on her nylons. And mud. What was Julia going to say?
“Did you lose your shoes somewhere?”
“I think I’m finished,” Lenore said, sitting down. It seemed the only thing to do. There was a bit of a fallen
-down thing right there, but it started to give way as soon as she sat and then she had to get up again. It’s all being looked after very badly, she thought.
“Give me your hand,” the boy said, reaching through.
“I think I’m finished.”
“We have to go back this way to get to the path,” the boy said. “Just give me your hand.”
Lenore reached out to him and stepped halfway over and straight into the stickies. Everything was so badly managed. She clutched at her purses with her free hand but the blue one swung and got caught again and again. The boy started to break the branches with his hands. Carefully, as if they had all the time in the world.
“Did you get lost?” he asked.
“You never know,” she said, half-laughing. The hooks tore at her coat and tried to keep her purses. It had been a long time since she’d felt so cool on her toes.
“I saw some shoes by the river,” the boy said, pulling her. Gently. Almost like what’s-his-name. “Are those your shoes?” he asked.
It was no good. She wouldn’t make it this way. Honestly, anybody could see that. Lenore let go of his hand and dropped to her knees. Had to be careful to keep her coat out of the way and hang on to her purses, which dragged on the ground. Hooks in her hair. If you just keep your head down. She crawled through, tugging, keeping herself together.
“Don’t tell Julia,” she said finally, straightening up, wiping at the mud on her knees. The trail was right there after all. She wasn’t so far off. It was just so noisy.
“I won’t,” he said, walking beside her. Gentle, gentle. Something about him reminded her of someone. A real gentleman.
“You can call me Miss Muffin,” she said then and laughed, her first real laugh in a long time. Of course he didn’t understand and it was so hard to explain. Though the water was cold, it felt nice to wash her feet for a bit and listen to the river slipping past the stones.
“Can I take you somewhere?” he asked and Lenore bit her lip. She wanted to keep hold of the nice part. It never lasted these days, always went away. “Is there someone to call?” he asked.
“Sometimes there is,” she said, hugging her knees, trying, trying to keep hold.
5
One problem was colour. The home-decoration book Julia had borrowed from the library was full of Grecian blues and greens that looked fabulous in glossy print, but would they work in this kitchen? She gazed around forlornly. There was an open feeling – she liked having the landing to the basement right there, by the back door, and no divider shutting off the stairs going to the second floor – but everything was cramped. The floor looked terrible: ugly chipped beige linoleum tiles glued, sloppily, over buckled green linoleum tiles, so there were waves and holes. And the walls were a very dull, stained white, the minuscule counter a tacky fake chopping-board brown, the sagging cupboards false oak and falling apart.
She couldn’t manage a kitchen renovation. Julia knew this in her marrow. Yet rationally, logically, she felt she should have been able to get something else done in a given day besides looking after Matthew and dealing with her mother. She had a master’s degree, had held a research job, had submitted articles to some of the finest publications.
Matthew pulled open the bottom drawer of the oven, slammed the pots and pans, sent the lids rolling down the hall, one of his favourite games. Julia flipped the pages of the library book. Gorgeous summer hues, rustic, artfully primitive. A turquoise chair, shimmering violet door, a window trim of ancient blue opening onto a summer meadow with a bottle of white wine in the foreground, some grapes and bread. Why not go to Greece in the spring break? Bob would love it. Bathe their bodies in olive oil and salt air. They hadn’t been anywhere since France. Since Matthew.
Everything was either Before or Since Matthew. Before Matthew was sleep, regular, ordinary, plentiful as water before the drought. It was so much sleep they took it for granted. It was staying up till two in the morning with red wine and Hamlet, Julia and Bob alternating parts. It was making love everywhere from this tiny kitchen counter (Julia sitting pretty, wrapping her legs around Bob’s shaggy torso) to the attic among Bob’s dissertation drafts and the bags of clothes that they’d pull out, wrapping one another in silks and old ties. Before Matthew was dining in dimly lit restaurants on rich little combinations of feta cheese and black olives, on tandoori chicken and satay and sushi with black bean sauce. It was talking about inconsequentials, about George Eliot and Franz Kafka and Bob’s obsession, Poe, about how a poem can change the balance of your life, one certain slide of words delivered at a particular time with the suddenness of love or the weight of received truth when there was no such thing any more for those too old for it, how odd and humbling and electrifying to read something and have it stiffen you or melt the cold feeling in your centre.
Before Matthew was Sunday mornings on the sofa with Bob rubbing her feet, books and magazines and newspapers spread all over the floor. It was going from one to the other with something rich on the stereo, an old, bluesy Ella Fitzgerald album found in vinyl at Ackerman’s second-hand downtown, with Mozart and Brahms and Gershwin and Patsy Cline in the wings. It was long, lingering New Yorker articles on obscure cartoonists who died tragically, on forensic geology and charting fashion trends by obsessively reviewing store-security videotapes.
Since Matthew was the odd smell of stale milk on her breasts. It was dribbling from her front in the middle of the afternoon when he’d slept too long. It was staring down at him on the changing table through blurry, sleep-deprived eyes while he wiggled, gurgled, played with her hair, then fountained his pee straight into her downturned face as soon as she’d loosened his pins. It was phoning the diaper service in a panic when their delivery was an hour and a half late and she had no extras on hand. It was rubbing him with talcum powder and playing with his toes in the bathtub, then hauling him out after a sudden and hilarious shit. It was reading him “Jack and the Beanstalk” four hundred and seventeen thousand times, morning, noon, and night, bugging her eyes out whenever she said, “Fresh boys on toast!” just like the giant.
Since Matthew was making love mechanically, after the news and before collapse, once every few weeks if she could remember. It was feeling her body go cold as a milkbag. It was only wanting to wear the same tired sweatsuit, not wanting anyone but Matthew to touch her breasts, to make any physical demands. It was letting the hair grow on her legs and underarms, as if in permanent winter, and getting it cut on top that once quite short. It was lying on the couch with Matthew asleep, drooling on her shoulder, and floating on a sticky, warm, milky current of love that made her want to memorize every dimple of his fat elbows, caress him endlessly, fall into his eyes, closed or otherwise, they were utterly endearing either way. It was going on endlessly to bored friends about trivialities, the feel of his hair, a little wool sweater for sale at the second-hand store, hand-knit by someone’s grandmother, with elephants and monkeys and teddy-bear buttons and what a little mister he looked like when he wore it. It was endless sodden wool in her brain so that she could stare for hours at a book of colours and not be able to make a decision one way or the other. To not care, really, except on a rudimentary level wanting to stop the physical nausea brought on by the ugliness and disrepair of the kitchen.
“Matthew!” she said, because he had somehow climbed on top of the end table in the living room and was poised to hurl a steel pot-lid at the antique cabinet of crystal figurines moved from her mother’s house. “Matthew, get down!” She moved towards him. The floor man was going to come at any moment and she’d accomplished nothing, had been unable to don a decent set of clothes, had failed to run a brush through her hair, which was growing out again now, needed attention she was unprepared to give it.
“Get down now!” she said to Matthew, “or there’s no Dormy!”
“Yes, Dormy!” Matthew said. He had wonderful balance and a strong arm and he wanted everything exactly when he wanted it.
The lid left his hand, but Julia caught h
is arm before the follow-through, so the projectile merely dinked off the cabinet door then fell to the floor. Matthew laughed as he twisted.
“Bad!” Julia said and shook him once before she regained control of herself. “Oh, Matthew!” she said, trembling with anger even as she hugged him. “Just for once, please obey me!”
Matthew patted her back gently. He really could be a gentle boy. He said, “There, there,” and put his hand inside her sweatshirt.
“Not now,” she said. The kitchen man was coming any minute.
“Yes now!” Matthew said. Fiddling with her bra, trying to pull her loose. “Nubbies now!” he said and tweaked her left nipple with his soft little fingers. He pulled up her sweatshirt and tried to bury his face in her front.
“All right. Quickly!” she said and hoisted him over to the sofa, cradled him. He was so heavy! She would hurt her back sometime if she continued to lift him like this.
The knock on the door came only a few minutes later. Julia’s first instinct was to sink down into the sofa, to try to hide. Maybe he’ll go away, she thought. Matthew usually hated being interrupted in his feeding. She thought, I could phone someone else. I’m not ready anyway. I look like shit and haven’t even chosen my colour.
The knock came again. Julia could see him on the porch through the side window. Then he looked and saw her and still something in her mind said, Maybe he’ll just go away.
But he wasn’t going to go away. Julia stood up and swiftly detached Matthew. There was no storm. He was asleep. She held up a single finger for the floor man through the window. “Just a minute!” she mouthed, and carried Matthew upstairs, laid him in his little bed. He was soft oblivion, like Bob after an orgasm, the same mouth-open, happily stupefied slumber.
While she was upstairs she changed into a pair of dark pants that were sharp-looking but comfortable – a combination rare enough to find since her pregnancy – put on a nice blue shirt and sweater, retouched her lips, fixed her hair quickly. Then she hurried down to open the front door. “Donny, is it? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “Won’t you come in? I’m Julia Sterling. Professor Ruddick highly recommended your work.”
