Voice-Over

by Carole Corbeil

  “My god, Claudine. You’re getting interesting again.”

  “Fuck you. Fuck you all.” She’s shaking as she walks to the window. She watches the cars go by on Lake Shore Boulevard. She hears him behind her, he’s waiting for her to turn. Then his arms come down on either side of her, as he leans on her back, chin resting on top of her head.

  “You can’t stay out of it, huh, you just can’t resist it,” she says.

  “I’m a writer.”

  “You’re not a writer, you’re, you’re a, you’re a robber baron.” It’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever said.

  “I love you like crazy. I’ve always loved you like crazy.”

  “I don’t want to be loved like crazy. I want you to go.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Fine. That’s just fine. I’ll go, but I want you to know I’m never coming back. This is it. This is your choice.”

  “My choice? My choice?” How can he stand there and say that? “You’re really something, you know that? You lie, you cheat, you play around with people, and then when they can’t put up with you, you go that’s your choice.”

  He walks back to the table and rummages in his pile of papers. “I finished my book of poetry,” he says, all businesslike now, as if he’d just finished pruning a tree and had to move on to the next one. “I just wrote this poem about Marie-Ange’s fever, about carrying her. It’s the last poem in the book. It’s about the future.”

  “Is she okay?” It comes out like a croak.

  “She’s fine. It’s a beautiful poem.” He’s found what he was looking for, his address book.

  He shoves his papers into his black satchel.

  “You’re going to be miserable,” he says. “With me or without me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll get my stuff later,” he says. “I’m leaving you the poem.” His face is dark, detached.

  He’s walking away now, towards the door, leaving a track of something she wants to follow. I’m going to die, she thinks, I’m going to die. She stands by the kitchen counter and turns the tap on. Just as she’s about to say did you love me, really, tell the truth, did you ever love me, he turns around. “Do you mind,” he says, “if I take the beer?”

  She can’t look at him as he squeezes between her and the fridge and takes his beer.

  IT WAS JANINE WHO called, finally, who said what’s going on, I haven’t heard from you in so long, are you mad at me? Nothing’s going on, Claudine said. I had to finish editing the documentary. Now all I want to do is clean this place. I can’t believe what I’ve been living in.

  Janine offered to help.

  SHE COMES IN BUSTLING and businesslike with a whole basket of cleaning supplies, holding a mop in one hand and Marie-Ange’s hand in the other. Claudine, who has just been cleaning windows from her perch on the round table, suddenly feels dizzy there at the door.

  “Are you all right?” Janine says. “You don’t look so well.”

  “I’m fine. Come on in.”

  Janine, tanned in a white camisole with lace along the neck-line, puts the cleaning stuff down and looks around. The sun has bleached her hair and her streaks, and she looks as blond as when she was a child.

  “You look great,” Claudine says, and bends down to hug MarieAnge, who’s wearing a sweatshirt with a map of Jamaica on it and No Problem in black letters above it. Odette must have sent it.

  “It’s weird,” Janine says, “I feel so strong, I’ve never felt stronger in my life. Maybe it’s the sun.” Sidling up to Claudine, she brings her arm alongside hers and says, “Look at my tan.” She presses her finger down on the skin of her arm to show the contrasting white under the tanned layer. But the contrast doesn’t seem to satisfy her totally, so she keeps pressing down, leaving white impressions of her finger along her forearm. Claudine looks at her own pale arm and then at her sister’s face. “It’s a golden tan, eh,” Janine says, avoiding her eyes.

  “Yeah, you tan just like Mum.” Claudine climbs back on top of the round table to finish cleaning the windows.

  “It’s not the same thing,” Janine says.

  Claudine takes a rag from her bucket of vinegar and water, wrings it and wipes the windowpane. Janine takes Marie-Ange into the bedroom part of the loft where the TV is, and Mr. Dressup’s theme music suddenly fills the loft.

  Janine comes back in and starts cleaning the kitchen counter.

  “I did that already,” Claudine says.

  “Oh.”

  They work in silence. Janine has settled into scouring the top of the stove with Comet. Claudine is sickened with vinegar fumes. She can’t reach the top of the windows, she’ll just do everything she can from standing on the round table and then figure out how to reach the top.

  “So,” Janine says, with exaggerated concentration, “are you moving?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s all that?” she says, pointing to boxes and bags by the door.

  “It’s Colin’s stuff.”

  “Oh.”

  “Look at these windows, doesn’t it look great?” Claudine can’t believe it, the buildings across the street look etched now, such precise lines with the sky so blue above them. All the murky summer air has vanished, the squeaky clean windows are filled with crisp fall light.

  “You’ve broken up? Ah, Claudine, I had no idea. That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry? You always hated him.”

  “I did?”

  “You kept saying he’s bad news.”

  “That’s true. Do you want me to do the oven? I’ve got the stuff here.”

  “It’s okay, that stuff stinks. I never baked anything anyway.”

  “All right.” Now Janine is scraping something on the stove with a fingernail. “It’s just that I saw another side of him, he was good to Marie-Ange, you know. Oh, did I tell you? She was sick and Jim was away? What is this gummy stuff here? Anyway, he came over and I saw that side. There was a good side to him. There’s a good side to everybody.”

  “Yeah, Hitler had a good side.” Claudine’s done everything she can from her perch. She climbs down and empties out a milk crate full of old newspapers. She lifts the crate up on the table. Then she takes her pail to the sink and empties it. “He got a poem out of it, that’s what he got out of it,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He wrote a poem about carrying Marie-Ange, how it woke up the old nomad in him. I shouldn’t laugh. Actually, it’s quite a lovely poem. Really tender. It’s a real testament to Marie-Ange’s powers, if you ask me.”

  Janine dumps some more Comet out and starts scrubbing the rings around the elements. Claudine fills the pail with fresh water.

  “Do you know where he is?” Janine says. “I mean, so he can come and get his stuff?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t give him much of a chance, you know.”

  “What?” Claudine’s not sure she’s heard this right. She turns off the taps.

  Scouring and scowling, Janine says, “I don’t mean to criticize, but you don’t give people much of a chance.” She walks by Claudine and rinses her rag in the pail that Claudine’s just filled with clean water.

  “Hey,” Claudine says. “Hey.”

  “Claudine, I’m saying this because I love you. I know it’s hard to hear, but this keeps happening. Do you know how many times I’ve had to do this, help you pick up the pieces?”

  “I can’t believe this. You? You, help me pick up the pieces? My god, Janine, I’ve seen you through the Emergency rooms of two major cities, I’ve lent you money, I’ve given you money, I’ve let you stay at my place for months at a time. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Janine sighs. Claudine empties the pail once again and turns on the taps.

  “I’m your big sister, I’ve always suppo
rted you, I’ve always had to rescue you.”

  “This is such bullshit. You say the words, but they’re just words that make you feel good about yourself, that make you feel superior.”

  “You’re the superior one, not me.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Colin wasn’t so bad, you know, but nobody can take that, how you cut people up, show them their flaws all the time. I never did that to you. Never, ever.”

  “You do it in your way, which is all underhanded, that’s the way you like it.” The pail is full. Claudine picks it up and walks back to the table. She’s muttering now. “You’ve never had the courage of your own meanness.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Janine follows Claudine to the table. Ignoring her, Claudine climbs onto the table and then onto the turned-over milk crate. It’s wobbly, but she can reach the top of the windows.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Claudine says.

  “Maybe we should stop talking now. I think it’s upsetting Marie-Ange. I don’t want to fight. I really don’t.”

  Marie-Ange is still in the other room watching TV.

  “That’s so typical. That’s so fucking typical of you. To shut it down when it gets close to the truth.”

  “What truth? We only had each other and I took care of you. That’s my truth.”

  “You’re a liar.” The warm water drips down Claudine’s arm.

  “I am not!” Janine shouts. “How can you say that to me?” And then she starts to cry. “How can you do that to me? How can you do that to me? Why are you doing this to me? Why? Why? Why?”

  “Please don’t cry. Please. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t understand,” she wails, “I really don’t.”

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” The crate is starting to slide back. “I just wondered why you’re, well, so suddenly interested in Colin. Why you want to know where he is, why you’re taking his side. That’s all.”

  “I don’t know. I was just talking.” Janine is wiping her face with a rag.

  The crate has stopped sliding, but Claudine feels precarious all of a sudden, hands pressed against ancient glass, watching the cars below. There’s something on the tip of her tongue. She closes her eyes, opens them. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

  “How can you say that? How can you even think that? I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “He told me.”

  “He’s lying. He’s the liar.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m going,” Janine says. “I’m not staying here one more minute.” She goes into the bedroom. Marie-Ange doesn’t want to leave. “Five more minutes,” she pleads.

  “Five more minutes and that’s it,” Janine says. “I mean it.”

  Janine comes back. Claudine can feel her rummaging around, putting her cleaning supplies together. But she can’t move, can’t say a word. Her hands press against the glass, which suddenly feels flimsy, a thin brittle membrane that could crack and send her crashing down. She is trying to manoeuvre herself out of her bent position without pushing the crate back and losing her balance, but it’s impossible.

  “Janine,” she says quietly.

  “What?”

  “I can’t move.”

  “What?”

  “If I let go of my hands on the window, the crate will slide back.”

  Claudine can feel her sister’s hands wrapping around her knees, can feel the warmth of her forehead on her calves.

  “Okay,” Janine says, “you can start straightening up.” Claudine lets go of the glass, straightens up, steps off the crate with shaky knees. Janine gives her a hand to help her down off the table, and then turns away from her. But Claudine won’t let go of her hand. “Please,” she says. “Please look at me.”

  Turning, Janine tries to stare her down with stubborn, dead eyes. “I’m looking at you. Are you satisfied now?”

  This face, Claudine thinks, this face with their mother’s eyes, their father’s lips, this face she’s looked at forever, in bedrooms, in cars, in boats, in fields, in parks, behind couches, under covers, in all kinds of weathers and terrors, this face is as close to her as it is closed to her.

  “You’re okay now,” Janine says.

  “Please.”

  “What?”

  Claudine lets go of her hand. Janine takes it again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  Its the oddest thing, Claudine wants to be angry, but her face feels hot, flushed with life. The truth, for once, has surfaced. And it feels good, like removing a splinter.

  Marie-Ange bounds into the room covered in Claudine’s jewellery. She has fake gold around her neck, bangles around her thin arms. “I want to make soup,” she says.

  “We have to go,” Janine says.

  “No! No! No!” Marie-Ange screams. “I want to make soup for my babies.”

  “What babies?” Janine says.

  Marie-Ange points all around her. “There, and there and there.”

  Claudine fills a pot with water and takes out a ladle and some bowls. She spreads a tea towel on the floor and places the soup things around it.

  “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Janine says.

  Claudine looks up at her. She’s not going to feel sorry for her feeling sorry. Janine can suffer a little bit. “I don’t know what I want,” Claudine says. “But I don’t want sorry. I’m going to go up to the roof and check on my plants. Marie-Ange can play for as long as she wants.”

  She fills her big red watering can with water and leaves the front door open behind her.

  EVERY DAY SHE’D BEEN back from Quebec City, she’d thought about it, thought about going up and watering the plants, but it’s been like a tug that she’s deliberately ignored.

  She didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to see the state the little roof garden would be in after weeks of neglect. When it rained yesterday, she was so grateful she almost cried. The skies can look after it, she thought, the skies can do it. I can’t go up there. Everything I start ends up a mess. I can’t take care of anything.

  The late August sun is still hot, but the wind from the lake is cool. Stepping onto the deck, she can smell the fall coming in. She likes that. She is sick of the intensity of summer, she’s ready for a new season, even if it pulls the long winter in its wake.

  She expected everything to be dead, the earth in the planters to be cracked, the plants hollow, yellow sticks. But the tomatoes, while pale with thirst, have grown way beyond their stakes, and would have fallen over onto the deck if it hadn’t been for the morning glory vines that wrapped themselves around them. The morning glories never went up the strands of string she’d stretched onto the trellis. They grabbed the nearest thing, and now their vines are thick and wiry and hardy. The blooms are stretched tight, almost transparent, like china cups full of sky.

  Claudine kneels, and in the dark shadow beneath the fragrant tomato leaves and the heart-shaped morning glory leaves, she sees the red glistening skin of tomatoes. “Oh,” she says, feeling foolish with delight, and slips her hand inside the darkness and twists a tomato off the vine, and then another and another. She lines them up on the deck, six of them, and then stands back to look at them so red and luscious on the white pine. She stretches her arms up to the sky, picks up the tomatoes, gathering them in the front of her green T-shirt. But she’s forgotten something. She holds up her T-shirt full of tomatoes with one arm, picks up the watering can and waters the plants.

  The roof door bursts open. “Claudine. Claudine.”

  “I got some tomatoes, look, I got some tomatoes,” she says to Janine.

  “God, she’s uncanny. Come, quick. C’est Maman, on the phone. She says she wants to come and visit.”

  “Maman? You’re kidding.”

  Hugging the to
matoes to her belly, Claudine walks down the metal stairs and meets Marie-Ange halfway. “Granny,” Marie-Ange says. “Granny.”

  “Yes, it’s Granny,” Janine says, and rolls her eyes at Claudine. Then she reaches over to pick up Marie-Ange and carry her down.

  Claudine sits cross-legged on the floor, folds her T-shirt over her tomatoes. She picks up the phone.

  “Hello?” she says.

  “Allo, Claudine?”

  “Oui, c’est moi.”

  “Je t’endends pas, Chérie. Parle plus fort.”

  “Maman, Maman,” she shouts, then pauses. “Can you hear me now?”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ~

  MANY THANKS TO LAYNE for his patience, forbearance and loving support. I would also like to thank my sister for her insights; Nicky and Robin for their generosity; Sarah, Anne, David, Don, and M.A. for editorial guidance; Maureen and the crew at Flying Colours for their ongoing encouragement.

  And I thank the Ontario Arts Council and the Explorations Program of the Canada Council for their support.