A Population of One

by Constance Beresford-Howe

  “Sorry. I know just how you feel,” I tell it.

  “Quiet, Percy.” And grasping a drink and a piece of disintegrating cake, the owner of the house comes in.

  “You’re looking for the garbage bin, I think.”

  “Perceptive woman. Cake and Scotch are a loathly combination.” He drops the cake untidily on top of the box of laundry. From an obscure corner he drags forth an old Windsor chair and drops his bulk into it.

  “It’s All Souls’ Day, did you know that? Not a bad day to be born. But a ridiculous day to be sixty. Absurd, in effect, to be old. What a farce, to be trapped between Eros and Thanatos. What. A. Position.”

  I make no comment on these self-evident truths.

  “Birthdays,” he continues gloomily. He takes a very large swallow of his drink. “Depressing things. No one’s left on this earth to care a damn one way or another that I was born. Much more tactful to pass the date over without pretence. Molly should know that.”

  For some reason, despite his gloom, I feel more at ease with him than I’ve ever done. He hasn’t pressed me to drink. He makes no small talk. He doesn’t attempt politely to conceal his depression. All this makes me feel quite relaxed. I even wander over to the sink and begin tentatively to organize the pots in order to find something to make coffee in. There is a dishpan and a large bottle of detergent on the floor beside a dictionary, so I begin to run water to wash up. He pays no attention to this.

  “My mother, in fact, found my arrival highly embarrassing,” he says. “She was forty, and thought herself quite safe from all that. My sisters were nearly grown up. What a shock I was, even to myself. Little, premature rat I turned out to be. Did my infant best to die with an enlarged thymus gland. Do I bore you, miss?”

  “No,” I say truthfully. “I was an accident myself. Nothing like it to destroy your sense of proportion, is there?”

  He shoots me a keen glance from under his shelf of eyebrow. “Amazing, isn’t it, the candour with which our parents reveal some things. A form of revenge, perhaps. Because they conceal so much else we’d rather know.”

  “How true. The only thing my mother ever told me about marriage, for instance — the physical side — was that it was ‘a much over-rated exercise.’ ”

  He gives a sudden, explosive snort of laughter.

  “Did she, by God. But what a lot that tells you about her, really. Not to mention her marriage.”

  “I suppose so. But I’m not sure what.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  I slosh a pot through the suds easily, without answering. The cat now pours itself down the door and hurries across the room to leap onto his knees. It begins to purr loudly, closing its eyes to blue slits and kneading its claws deep into the quilted gown.

  “Beautiful Egypt-eyed one,” he says to it richly. It gives a low yowl in reply. A second Siamese, this one cross-eyed, now materializes from under a table in the Shadows and goes to sit at his feet like a monument. All three of them regard me absently.

  “I like your house. It’s a pity you have to give it up.”

  “I shall not give it up.”

  “No? But how can you —”

  “Simply refuse to sell. It’s a developer, you know, who’s bought everybody out. Fancy being the kind of man who wants to erect eighteen floors of apartments. It will cut off all my sun. They’ve shown me the plans. One wall will be exactly thirteen inches from that window there. And I don’t care. I won’t give up. Let ’em build. This is my house. Lily likes it. The cats like it. So do I.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Move into an apartment — pah,” he adds, with a vehemence worthy of Lear.

  “My wife Lily is still living here, you know,” he says, looking into his empty glass. “I see her sometimes. Hear her often. Singing in the bedroom. She has a very pretty voice.”

  “Bill Trueblood once told me she was very charming.”

  “She was. And still is. Just the same, seeing and hearing aren’t enough … any more than remembering is enough.”

  “Yes. It would be better, perhaps, if the dead really died. If we could let them. It’s like that with my mother. She’s been dead nearly a year now, and yet I dream about her nearly every night.”

  He looks at me thoughtfully, but before he can say anything more Molly comes swiftly into the room, her long gown bringing with it a gust of the musky perfume she wears.

  “Pizza for supper, people,” she announces, holding up a pile of boxes. “Can you find somewhere to put these for a sec, Willy? Where are the matches, Archie? — come on, let the oven heat up a bit, then we’ll shove the pizzas in. Your drink is gone, love — come this minute and get a refill. And then I want to dance with you. Ruthie’s found some marvellous old Fats Waller records — come on, let’s go!”

  She drags Archie to his feet and with a hiss the cat leaps off his lap. “Split, you brutes; he’s mine,” she tells them, laughing, and aims a mock missile at the cross-eyed one, which is already streaking like a shadow under the table. As she does this, I catch him gazing at her with such a look of yearning that I quickly turn away. So that’s his secret. But what can hers be? I can’t help wondering what really made her bring us all here tonight.… Why I was pulled in and Harry left at home.…

  Well, none of it really matters. The important thing is that it’s nearly midnight. The evening hasn’t been unpleasant, if only because for once I’ve escaped the apartment. I look out at the powder of white stars as I wait for the pizzas to heat. Archie, Molly, and the rest drift peacefully out of my consciousness. In the other room the women chatter and laugh and Fats tinkles his piano. I am quite content to stay where I am. Alone I can take out my anticipation and gloat over it: next week I am going to the theatre with Bill.

  When I was in my teens, before anything important like an exam I used to open the Bible at random and read as an omen whatever verse my finger happened upon. “Jesus wept” could accurately predict, for instance, my results in Geometry. But as the years went on I seemed to light on only the more impenetrable verses like “Moab is my washpot; over Edom will I cast out my shoe” — a message difficult to relate to a dentist’s appointment. Furthermore, I have little confidence these days that the prophets have any personal message for me. But one must look for meanings somewhere, so at lunchtime I am pleased to find that the tea-leaves in my cup form an almost perfect circle, clearly indicating (I hope) that the coming evening with Bill will be perfect too. And if I get my solitaire game out, that will make doubly sure. I sit shuffling and laying out the cards to pass the hour before he calls for me, looking hopefully into the hieratic faces of the kings and queens, and trying to forget that my throat is tickling with the first signs of a cold. The game comes out. My heart is absurdly light. When the bell rings I swing open the door and call gaily, “Coming, handsome!” as I seize my coat and bag.

  Louis-Philippe stands there, broadly smiling.

  “Oh, Mr. Mackenzie, I wasn’t — what is it?”

  “I’m collect a little something for the cleaners at Christmas, mees. A couple of dollar, maybe.”

  “Yes; yes, of course.”

  “You go out tonight, eh?”

  “Yes.” I close my coat to cut off his interested stare at the black satin pantsuit. “Here’s your two dollars.”

  “ ’Ave a swell time,” he says, still grinning. I close the door on him a trifle brusquely.

  Twenty minutes more go by before Bill appears, looking faintly distraught.

  “Terribly sorry Willy — a phone call kept me, and then I had hell’s delight getting a cab. I’ve got one waiting now, so could we just — You’ll be pleased to know there’s a blizzard of sorts going on out there.… Will your feet be warm enough like that?” He himself is wearing sheepskin-lined boots, and the fur collar of his coat is turned up all round his curly head, on which a few melting flakes glitter. “How I hate the sight of snow, my sinuses are twinging already, getting ready to play me up the way they always do the whole winter l
ong. I honestly don’t know why anybody lives in this awful arctic city.”

  “Must be because it’s beautiful.” I look out eagerly through the cab window. Through a whirl of bright little flakes the steep streets are gleaming red, green, and gold.

  “I just hope we’re not going to be late,” he frets. “Est-ce que tu peux te dépêcher un peu?” he asks the driver, whose reply is to leap into a gap in the traffic with such vehemence that we all nearly go through the windshield.

  “Cowboy,” mutters Bill.

  We reach the theatre, however, in time for me to enjoy the squash of people in the huge crimson-carpeted lobby before we find our seats. The chatter of French under the ornate crystal chandeliers sparkles like confetti. “Look, there’s René Lévesque,” says Bill. “No — there — no, he’s gone. Come on, we’d better find our seats.”

  We sit down, adding to the exciting pre-curtain rustle. I’m thrilled when the lights dim to the traditional three raps backstage. It’s all I can do not to wriggle in my place like a five-year-old.

  Unfortunately, within the first five minutes I discover I can understand only about one word in six of Molière’s witty dialogue. The costumes are attractive and the acting expert, but my attention soon wanders from the lighted box of the stage. I think of Dougie’s beautiful laugh on the phone last week when I called for his birthday. I think of Archie’s cross-eyed cat, and the tickle in my throat, and the length of Bill’s eyelashes, the curl of which are catching an edge of light from the aisle.

  Gradually, but with disconcerting acuteness, I become aware of how close his knees are to my knees, his hand to my hand. I begin to wonder whether he’ll take my hand in his. A faint warmth from him seems to creep through me till I feel hot all over. Strange to be sitting so close to him in the dark. Would it be nice to hold his hand or not? Horrible if my hand (or his) were perspiring. Furtively I dig out a handkerchief and dry my palm. He laughs at something on the stage and turns to me. My heart gives a jerk. Now, perhaps — but he’s already absorbed in the play again. My heart is still working too hard. It’s very warm, though my feet are cold. My hands are damp again. The edge of Bill’s shoulder in its well-cut dark suit is just touching mine. I feel cramped, but to shift away is impossible. It would be tactless. Even rude. Only maybe he’s not comfortable either, and just keeping still out of politeness? There is a faint, spicy scent from his hair. It tickles my nose. A hush settles over the theatre, and in the depth of it a colossal sneeze bursts out of me. Bill’s shoulder moves away. He is trying not to frown. I wipe my palms again. Then I furtively inspect my watch. Good God, is it possible we’ve only been here half an hour?

  At intermission he buys me an orange squash and I drink it greedily. It is warmer than ever in the jam-packed theatre bar, and we stand almost pressed together by the crowd. In spite of this he does not seem to notice the black satin suit. His eyes tend to wander away from me, and conversation is an effort.

  “It’s a very good performance, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Gascon is always good.”

  “I like Dorine, too.”

  “Yes, first-rate.”

  “Have you got any Christmas plans, Bill?”

  “Oh, I’ll be going to Halifax.”

  “That’ll be nice.”

  “Well, it won’t really. However.”

  “I’m going to my sister’s in Toronto.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Molly and Harry are going to Cuba.”

  “They would.” He gulps the last of his gin-and-tonic. I sneeze again, and he turns away. “We’d better get back.”

  So we go back, the lights die, and my nose begins to run. He keeps his shoulder strictly to himself. My throat is now sore. My back aches. My hands feel both moist and cold. An hour or so later, when the curtain at last falls, I applaud heartily and think with pleasure of some cosy restaurant, a little supper, a chat by candlelight as we lean over a little table together …

  “You’d … er … like to go home now, Willy? Or would a cup of coffee somewhere —”

  “Oh, yes, coffee please.”

  We capture a taxi only after a confused struggle with other wind-whipped rivals. Inside it is bitterly cold; the heater is not working. We creep along white Ste. Catherine Street against a wind hissing with hard little pellets of snow. In the cab’s half-light I catch Bill squeezing back a yawn with his gloved hand curled into a ball.

  “I enjoyed the play very much,” I say. “Just the same, I wish they wouldn’t talk so fast, the French.”

  “You could take a course. Might be fun for you. Lots of them going at night. What ages this guy is taking.… Oh, here’s the place. Let’s hop out.” He pays the driver, turning a crouched back to the driving wind. We squeeze into a warm little restaurant which smells deliciously of filtered coffee and Gauloises, only to find ourselves at the end of a long queue.

  “Oh shit,” he says half audibly. “Sorry, Willy. This wasn’t such a good idea, I’m afraid.”

  “Look, Bill, why don’t we just have some coffee at my —”

  “That’s right, Willy, the smart thing to do is go home and look after that cold. Sensible girl. I’ll take a rain-check on the coffee this time. You wait here and I’ll try to grab another cab.”

  I am left wondering why it is so insulting to be called sensible. Soon we are in another taxi that progresses westward in a series of swooping, lurching skids. The driver curses the ice in a low voice of intense bitterness. My feet ache with cold. When at last we reach my building, Bill gets out politely and sees me into the lobby.

  “Good night, Willy. See you Monday.”

  “Thanks for a nice evening, Bill.”

  “Take care of that cold, now.” He gives my shoulder a friendly slap.

  “I will. Good night.”

  It is not quite a quarter to twelve. I unlock my door, and the stuffy air of the empty rooms makes me sneeze again. I hang up my coat and throw my purse on the bed. The old couple next door is fighting. The party upstairs is in full swing.

  What went wrong? What did I do or say that spoiled it all? There can be no answer to these questions in the tea-leaves or the cards. But while I wait for water to boil for a toddy, I flip open the Bible. Under my finger I read, “Because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth.” That gives me a dry grin, the first and last of the evening.

  Toronto, December 15th.

  Dear Willy,

  I thought of phoning you, but decided a letter would be better, you do fly up in the air so. The thing is, I’m pregnant again, Dr. Gilbert says I’m due the end of May, but am having so many miseries this time I’m not telling anybody yet. Awful nausea in the mornings the minute I open my eyes. And last weekend I started a bit of bleeding. They’ve had me in bed ever since, & things seem quite o.k. now, though I feel pretty seedy, as you can imagine. Now don’t start worrying. I am ALL RIGHT. Greg is so thrilled, I just wish he could have the fun of this next six months. One child seems like plenty to me. They say you forget, but I remember Dougie’s birth only too damn well, and I’m not looking forward.

  What I’m really getting to is that G. has a client can pull strings to get us on a flight to the Barbados for Christmas, & we think a bit of sun would do me good. That means shifting your visit to Easter, but I’m sure you won’t mind. It’s been such a nasty grey fall, and I simply ache for a beach and some sun. Greg insists we take Dougie, & the poor kid’s had one cold after another lately, so I guess he could do with a change too.

  Well, this gets you off the hook of a dull family Xmas, old kid. And shall I tell a lie? — I’ll be devastated to miss G’s saccharine Mummy — I mean a woman who thinks it’s cute to call her grandson Adorables — and that ghastly old uncle of his with the cough and the canes. It’s almost worth being pregnant to escape all that. Now if I were you I’d buzz off to Florida — you could drive down, you get such lovely long holidays. Or you could fly to Mexico. Lucky you to be a swinging single!

>   Must go shopping now for some beach-type things. Take care.

  Yours — Lou.

  MAY YOUR CHRISTMAS BE MERRY AND BRIGHT.

  — Your Paper Boy.

  Halifax, Dec. 20.

  Having as predicted terrible time and wish I were there. Gale force winds, twenty below zero, sinuses raising hell. I miss Montreal and you. All the best — Bill.

  Toronto, December 21st.

  Dear Willy,

  What a nice surprise to hear from you. It was very nice of you to invite me down to Montreal for Christmas. I guess you haven’t seen the announcement in the Alumnae Bulletin, but I’m going back up to the Soo to be married on January 15th. He’s a dental surgeon, we met on one of my Red Cross errands of mercy. Remember our delivery runs with those horrid bags of blood? Well, I wish we could get together for a good gab. Sorry I didn’t have your address in time to mail you an invitation, and sorry I can’t make it to Montreal this time. Write again; it would be a shame to lose touch. Best from both of us for the festive season.

  — Marg.

  This greeting comes with friendship true

  And wishes most sincere,

  For a very blessed Christmas,

  And a wonderful New Year.

  — Madeleine and L-P Mackenzie,

  Michelle, Arnaut, Philippe, et Marthe.

  “You and your DIGNITY,” yells the old woman next door. An inarticulate bellow of rage rises in reply. There is a faint tinkle of broken glass.

  Christmas Eve.

  I am sitting in front of the television set trying to watch a veteran Bing Crosby film. Either it is too old, or I am. And the old couple next door with their scenario of hate on earth are both more convincing and more interesting. There’s even a sort of moral value in their presence, because they keep me grateful for my personal peace and freedom, blessings that for some time I’ve not appreciated nearly enough. For days now I’ve been sinking deeper and deeper into a bog of self-pity and depression. Squatting at the bottom of it, in fact, gloomy as a toad, till the current next-door fight broke out.