Stone Woman

by Bianca Lakoseljac

  It occurs to her, suddenly, that all those years of guarding her virginity — all through university — now seem futile. If she had died two days ago, she would not have known what it means to be truly alive. All that propaganda about love — love buttons, love slogans about making love, not war — would have remained just jingles to her. She would not have known how it feels to love — completely. She lifts her heavy eyelids and sees him as if through haze. “You okay, Babe?” He asks. She gets up and floats over to his chair. She takes the wine glass from his hand and sets it on the table, then slips her hands under his shirt. The bed is too far away, and they find themselves making love on the wooden boards of the deck, as dusk descends on the tree crowns.

  Later, unable to face the prospect of waking up at David’s place, with no clean clothes and a likely hangover, Liza insists on returning to her own house to sleep. He wheels his Harley onto the sidewalk and, as they drive off, Liza hears someone call his name. She turns. A few street lights back, she glimpses a tall man and next to him, waving, a much shorter woman. Should she tap David on the shoulder? The loud rumbling of the motor is throbbing in her head, and her shakiness on the bike convinces her to keep her grip on David and to focus on retaining her balance. The silhouette of the woman reminds her of Anna. No, it couldn’t be. It would be best to tell him of it once they get off the bike, and she is safely on the ground.

  CHAPTER 10

  SUSPENDED FROM THE high ceiling of the second floor landing at Mynah Bird, a glass cage begins to glow, and a silhouette of a nude dancer twirls around a metal pole.

  Helena, balancing a tray of beer mugs, approaches. She is dressed in yellow shorts and a shiny red bra, midriff painted in red hearts. She empties the tray at the table next to Anna and David and turns to them.

  “Get you anything?”

  David’s face lights up. Helena tousles his hair and plants a kiss on his cheek. He takes her hand in both of his and holds it for a moment.

  “Ah, if it isn’t Helena of Troy! Love your artwork!” Anna shouts over the din of the crowd.

  Helena smiles. “Paint-in. At Grab Bag. It’d look delish on you.”

  Anna knows that coffee shops and convenience stores in Yorkville host local artists who paint designs on women’s and men’s naked bodies. She has been tempted, but thought better of it considering the office politics.

  “I see you two know each other well,” Anna says, staring at David.

  Helena shrugs. “Maybe I know ya,” she says playfully to David and heads toward the bar.

  Several bikers stroll in and take up a corner of the bar. Anna decides that the place is far too noisy to carry a conversation. They need to finalize the details for the next demonstration.

  She turns to David. “Let’s get out of here. Can’t hear a word.”

  “Good move,” he says. “Need a quick chat with Ricky. Be back in a flash.”

  Anna’s eyes widen. “Ricky James? Is he playing tonight?”

  David waves to someone. “Tomorrow. And there he is.”

  Making his way among the tables, David wonders whether he should let Anna in on Ricky’s situation. She knows a lot of people and might be able to help, and yet, the more entangled she becomes, the more chance that too much involvement could backfire. She could lose her job, or be ostracized — things could become difficult for her at work. She is much more valuable to the antiwar movement than she gives herself credit. He shouldn’t ask for more. And then there is this attachment — hard to explain.

  The one-time intimacy is not exactly the reason. Although he cannot fully put that out of his mind. It sits there, unspoken of, like shame. If only he could talk to her about it and explain. But explain what? There was no other way out of a situation that could’ve turned ugly. Yet, if they could only talk it out. Perhaps Anna had put it out of her thoughts long ago. Why bring up an old ghost? She knows that he stopped riding with the Angels after that— unless he really needs to when crossing the border. Although he still tries to keep peace between the gang and the demonstrators — a precarious position to be in. Strangely, they let him out without incident. And they have not been too difficult during the demonstrations. There had been clashes. Some Angels had stormed the protests and a few demonstrators ended up with body casts and bandaged heads, but that could not have been prevented.

  David needs to warn Ricky that an FBI agent has been seen in the Yorkville area. Although Ricky has changed his name to escape being deported as a deserter, he is still a target. The earlier Americans who crossed the border as draft dodgers were mostly university students and academics opposed to the war they did not believe in, like David. But in the last year or so, the number of deserters has been growing, and they have a much tougher time — harder to find jobs, and even harder to obtain an immigrant status. A number of FBI agents have been sent to Canada to seek out the deserters and bring them back to the United States to face justice.

  Ricky arrived to Yorkville a few months back, still wearing his U.S. navy uniform. He walked into Mynah Bird to have lunch, met the house band, and was hired the same afternoon as the band’s lead singer. David was there, and they quickly became friends. The band manager even provided Ricky with a place to stay. But the tensions in the band have led to accusations that could get Ricky deported, and David hopes to convince Ricky to hide out for a while until things cool off.

  Through the smoky haze of the bar, Anna can make out Ricky’s handsome figure, his shoulder length Jheri curls a sure giveaway. She has seen him play at the Mynah Bird. His music is electrifying. His soulful voice and sharp looks draw the Yorkville crowds, not to mention the hordes of girls whose greatest dream is to date a musician. Anna could never understand this affliction of so many young women. Band members have the reputation of treating girls as if they were disposable napkins.

  She is not part of the hip Yorkville scene — boys looking for girls, girls looking for boys, people looking for dope. She enjoys a night-out-on-the-town, listening to music or just people-watching. And Yorkville is perfect for that, with its many cafes and bands. It’s also a great place for meeting David and other organizers. Her boss and her coworkers are not likely to wander off into this bohemian hippie-haven where “love-children” drop their inhibitions. No, not likely.

  Anna catches David’s eye and motions that she’ll be waiting outside. On the sidewalk, she lights up a cigarette and inhales deeply. Ah, the fresh air, the summer breeze, and then she scoffs at the irony and grinds the cigarette into the sand of the floor ashtray in front of the Mynah Bird. She has been quitting for as long as she has been smoking, since her teenage years.

  David comes out and says: “The man won’t hide out. Says he needs to work. Says, what’s life without music? The guys in the band love him. But he’s got trouble with the band manager.”

  Anna looks at David. “You do mean Ricky James?”

  David nods. “Needs another place to live. But that’s hard. He’s a night owl. Likes to practice at any ungodly hour. Very talented, though.”

  Someone taps David on the shoulder. It’s Ricky. “Glad I caught you before you left, man,” Ricky says. “I’m okay for a week or two. Not that urgent. And thanks, man.” He looks at Anna. “You’re the gorgeous lady David won’t introduce me to.”

  Anna steps closer to Ricky, barely reaching his shoulder. “I can do that all by myself.” She extends her hand to him. “Anna.”

  Ricky takes her hand in both of his. “Annie. I’ll call you Annie.”

  David inhales a long drag of his cigarette and eyeing Ricky lets it out slowly. “Now that you no longer need a place . . .”

  Ricky shrugs. “No rush, but I do need a place.” He turns to Anna. “Take me home, lovely lady.”

  She laughs. “Now, that’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

  Ricky winks. “Not kidding, Annie. I do pay rent.”

  David squints an eye and stares at R
icky. “I’ll see what I can do for you, man.”

  “The rent money would come in handy,” Anna says and pulls out a small writing pad from her purse. She rips off a slip of paper, writes on it, and hands it to Ricky. “Here, call me and come and see the place. See if you like it.”

  Ricky kisses Anna on the forehead. “I like it. I’ll call you.” She props on her tiptoes and pecks him on the cheek and he lifts her into a hug.

  David whistles through his teeth. He steps away a few paces, and arms crossed on his chest stares at them, shaking his head.

  Ricky lowers Anna and she says: “You’re not a Commie, are you?”

  Ricky laughs. “Me, a Commie? Not a chance. Just a musician who doesn’t believe in war.”

  “We better get going,” David says to Anna, “or you’ll blame me tomorrow for being tired in the office.”

  Ricky waves good-buy and David says: “Good going, Anna. What’s all this about?”

  She squints at the neon lights that seem to be radiating outward from behind him. “Aren’t we going to the Riverboat?”

  Although it’s close to midnight, hundreds of people crowd the streets. The line-up in front of the Riverboat is still long, curving around the block — Gordon Lightfoot is playing. They’re tempted to join the line, but Anna does need to be in the office early in the morning.

  A long haired man in an orange tie-dye shirt punches David’s arm jokily, and after enthusiastic greetings, they’re invited in as friends of the band. No need to line up. “Go, go, round . . .” Anna hums Lightfoot’s lyrics.

  While waiting to be seated, David clears his throat. “What was that whole thing about? With you and Ricky?”

  “It’s about my coach house. And the apartment next to it I’d like to rent.”

  “I thought you said the raccoons were occupying your coach house, free of rent.”

  “Got rid of them. You should’ve seen the mess. It stank so bad you couldn’t get near. Our guys ripped everything off, rebuilt the roof. Using the space for making signs and storing supplies. And that two bedroom apartment attached to the garage that’s been sitting empty is now good to use.”

  David shakes his head. “Ricky James is a nice guy. But a deserter. You not worried?”

  Anna gives him a defiant look. “Hundreds of Torontonians are renting to draft dodgers and deserters. Haven’t heard of any problems. And he’s got a job. This is business, David. Besides, this could be good for me if something did come up — you know, about my involvement and all. And I need the rent money. Everywhere I look my house needs work.”

  “Anna, if you need money, I can . . .”

  She cuts him off. “You can come and help me clean up the place.”

  He agrees.

  Anna smiles. Ricky James, ha? The rent money won’t hurt, either.

  * * *

  It is long past midnight, and Anna and David realize that public transit stopped running some time ago. Anna is so wound up by Lightfoot’s music, she feels as if she could fly. She coordinates her steps to the rhythm as she hums the tune of his “Canadian Railroad Trilogy,” and sings about surreal forests from the past. David offers to hail a cab, but Anna would prefer to first clear up a few things. She leads the way to a bench — to unwind and get some details worked out for the new group of draft dodgers. She had found a place they could share and has some job leads for them as well.

  A group of Vagabonds rumble by, circle the block, and dismount only steps from Anna and David’s bench. They stumble toward the bar.

  Anna stiffens. “What are the bikers doing, swarming all over Yorkville?”

  David shrugs. “How would I know? Checking out the chicks! Looking for a one-night stand!”

  It takes him a few moments to realize what he said. And to remember how sensitive she can be. He should have been more careful. He would be lost without her. The Riverboat was too noisy and she has been edgy all evening. Now he realizes it must have to do with the bikers.

  Anna gets up to leave and David wonders how to reel back in what he just unravelled. How could a few clichés hold so much baggage? He should not feel guilty for what happened that night long ago. Why does it keep popping up when he least expects it? It had been no one’s fault. Yet, every once in a while that twinge of remorse gnaws at him. Perhaps he could have stopped it before things got too far. David feels himself shrinking to the size of a toy action figure. He takes Anna’s hands into his. Their eyes lock. And in that fractured moment between silence and speech, both fear the unspeakable that has expanded its bloated form over the past few years, yet both know that it would lie limp between them like a rotting rodent, and neither would dare poke at it.

  * * *

  Walking along Yorkville, Anna makes a mental list of the Canadian volunteers and their tasks in organizing the upcoming protest in Washington. She is helping David arrange for the Canadian supporters to be bussed to the march on the Pentagon.

  “Have you arranged for the buses?” Anna says to David. “We need those lined up.”

  “October’s a long time from now. But you’re right. Better to start earlier.”

  “I’ve got people signing up every day. Could be the biggest demonstration ever.”

  “Our first national rally,” David murmurs, “and our biggest. It’ll be unlike anything we’ve seen.” He raises his hand to hail an approaching cab.

  CHAPTER 11

  LIZA UNLOCKS HER bike from the rack by the forest school. The sun is setting, just enough time to cycle the trails before dusk. She spots Wessel Couzijn at his site, under the birches where she stood only a few minutes earlier. Most artists have begun working on their pieces, while his site remains empty.

  She turns back, drops the bike on the grassy slope, and walks toward him. With feet spread well apart and arms folded on his chest, his small frame appears taller than usual. There is a curious self-assurance about him. His eyes twinkle behind the silver-rimmed lenses as if he’d just won a lottery and can now afford to build all those sculptures he has envisioned.

  His greeting — “Liza, my girl, just the young lady I want to see!” — is uncommonly enthusiastic.

  She smiles. “Have you decided what to sculpt, Mr. Couzijn?”

  “Yees,” he replies. “This time it’s the right decision.” He studies her face carefully. “What is the most important thing in the world, Liza? I need to hear it from you.”

  “I don’t know, really. I’ve no idea.”

  “You do,” he says. “What makes life worth living? One word, my girl. One word tells all.”

  He leans against the white birch trunk. “Art is an imitation of life, as old Ari said. But we already agreed on that, didn’t we?”

  She recalls their talks on the meaning of sculpture as an art from, and how it affects people. His hand sweeps the air with a flourish as if he were conducting an orchestra. “You and I are of the same cloth, Liza. The garb of Aristotle. When you see my sculpture, you’ll know.”

  “And what will it be?”

  “Oh, no, young lady. First, your answer to my question. What makes the world go round?”

  “But Mr. Couzijn, why such a question?”

  He winks. “Your answer, Liza, is what my sculpture is about.”

  * * *

  A whole week has gone by since Liza visited Sculpture Hill. She approaches Couzijn’s site at a fast clip, glad that he has finally begun the work on his piece. She is intrigued by a whale shaped contraption of boards and plywood wedged between the birch trees. The sun has set. She thought that Couzijn had left for the day, but he rises behind the wooden frame.

  He waves her over. “Come, come.”

  He is covered in sawdust. Two sawhorses crudely put together hold an assortment of boards. A hand saw hangs from a nail on the side of one of the sawhorses, and a few more tools are scattered on the grass. A couple of red metal tool boxes hold a jumble
of devices the purpose of which she could only guess.

  He brushes his hands along trouser legs. “You have something to tell me, Liza, my girl?” He resumes cutting the boards and building the frame.

  Liza sits on the grass. Mark di Suvero’s ubiquitous truck with the logo “Make Love, Not War,” printed on its side in red letters the size of a person is parked by the Forest School. Love buttons, and every type of love-insignia, are everywhere, as if love were a new candy that everyone should taste.

  She takes David’s lens out of her pocket and places it over her eye. Through the dark tint, the twilight streaks shades of mauve over the park. She looks up into the sky and spots the moon, pale yet already risen. It appears unusually close, and she now understands why it has been immortalized in myth and legends across many cultures. Why people sing about it, write poems, have their cows jump over it, why lovers try to catch its beams for their sweethearts, or wish to be flown to it. A patch of translucent fog sits atop its sphere — it must be Chang, the mythical woman of the moon who guides lovers on their uncharted journeys, or if need be conceals them below her veil. She is the lovers’ muse and guardian, who appears to those in need of her magic.

  And now, Liza is ready to answer Couzijn’s question.

  She gets up and walks over to his structure of boards and plywood. “Love makes the world go round.”

  “You’ve got it, Liza. Now you know what my sculpture is about. Take a good look. What does it remind you of?”

  She examines the wood crate carefully, but all she sees is about a two-yard wide, by about seven yards long contraption of boards that mean nothing to her. It has an irregular shape that resembles a large whale.

  He is amused. “Give it a week or two. You’ll know when it’s finished.”