The View From the Lane and Other Stories
Page 20
“Look, Karen,” Thomas said, leaning toward her, “if it makes you feel any better, I know what you’re saying. It’s difficult, but it gets easier.” Thomas straightened and looked at his mother, “And besides everyone deserves happiness.”
Karen lowered her gaze to her plate until Vanessa said, “We were thinking of taking a detour to where Thomas grew up if we have time tomorrow.”
“You should visit your father,” Amy said to Thomas who grimaced and said, “One parent at a time, Mom.” But he felt warm toward his mother and even toward Karen and Paul, who were now avoiding eye contact, sitting back in their chairs like petulant children. In this moment Thomas could see the family resemblance, the curve of the skin over the eye and the colour of hair, and he felt that he knew them and in this knowledge a spontaneous sympathy bloomed.
They didn’t order dessert; everyone said they were full. Karen decided to stay uptown at her father’s apartment, and so Vanessa, Thomas, and Amy went back to Amy’s apartment without them.
z
At two in the morning Amy awoke. Her bedroom window was open and she felt the breeze from the street and heard the sound of cars from the busy intersection nearby. The branches from the large oak trees before her window swayed, casting moving shadows into the room. She went to the kitchen and sat at the table, her slippered feet on a chair, a glass of orange juice in front of her. A little while later, she heard someone get up to use the washroom and then heard sounds in the hallway. “Hello,” she said when she saw Vanessa. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I always have trouble in a new place.”
“Plus, I’m sure you’re wondering what kind of family you’re marrying into.” Amy looked down at the table, running her finger along the rim of her glass. Vanessa leaned against the doorway watching her. The moon was full and white light drifted idly through the open window.
When Vanessa came into the room, Amy moved her feet to make room at the table. “Please,” Amy lifted the orange juice container toward her, “have some.”
Vanessa poured a glass. “You know, I read that men are often attracted to women who are like their mothers,” she said. “But I don’t think that’s the case here, do you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Amy said. “I think if you’d known me at your age, we wouldn’t seem so different.”
“Really?”
She doesn’t believe me, Amy thought. She doesn’t think she could ever find herself at my age, living this kind of life. And in recognizing Vanessa’s youth Amy felt protective toward her and said, “Well, it’s true. It’s the things that happen that change you. And I guess there’s not much sense questioning them.” She leaned forward bracing her forearms on the table edge. “Because without that, I wouldn’t be here right now, enjoying this night, enjoying you.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Vanessa smiled, and Amy thought how pretty she was, she’d missed that somehow during the day, but here in the cool air of late night, with Vanessa in a short nightgown, her feet bare and face scrubbed, she looked younger, her skin flawless, her grey-blue eyes clear.
“Oh, yes, Vanessa, I’m enjoying myself these days, enjoying seeing my son become a man, and for the role you play in that, among other things, enjoying you.”
They heard the sudden singing and hollering of a crowd that had gathered on the street and then someone yelling for them to be quiet. “What’s that?” Vanessa said.
“The bars are just closing. Happens every weekend. I don’t even hear it anymore.”
“It sounds happy.”
“Yes, doesn’t it? I quite like the sound, especially when I’m here alone.”
The noise from the street woke Thomas, who came into the kitchen rubbing his eyes. “What are you guys doing here?” he said. “Hatching some kind of plot?” He poured himself a glass of juice as both women watched him. Leaning on the counter, after a few moments with no one speaking and the sounds from the street filling the space between them, he said, “I’m going back to bed.” He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture Amy had seen him make since he was a young boy. “And you two can both stay here and continue whatever scheming you were up to.” His voice was relaxed and held the promise of a laugh.
z
The next morning Vanessa and Thomas left after breakfast. Rain had moved in, and dark clouds mottled the sky. Amy saw those clouds from her kitchen window hanging low over the view of patched backyards with paint-chipped fences and wooden porches. She walked Thomas and Vanessa to their car and kissed them both goodbye. “You must visit us,” Vanessa said and took Amy’s hand before settling in the passenger seat beside Thomas.
An hour later when Amy was alone, cleaning the dishes, Paul called. She saw the number on the phone display but didn’t answer. When he called again, two hours later, she wasn’t at home. She’d gone for a walk in the rain. Under an umbrella, seeing houses stacked along the street, cars parked in lane ways, wet trees swaying above, she thought about the town where she’d lived when Thomas was young, and where he and Vanessa were now visiting. Thomas, she thought, still my boy, and remembered how he had walked away from her and Vanessa when they were by her mother’s grave, how he stood before other stones reading the names and dates. He did not say anything, but Amy knew he was contemplating the wide, chaotic life that existed for each person between the dates of their birth and death. It touched her now with something like regret that life comes with such contradictions, that happiness is tinged with the thought of its end and that she could not protect him from any of it.
Beneath the umbrella Amy felt safe from the rain which had begun to fall harder. She turned at the canal and walked beside the concrete posts and black railings, the rain making dents in the moving water. It was a warm rain though, and she felt warmed too from her thoughts of the previous day, and then in her imagining she saw Vanessa at that moment in her glittering shoes listening to Thomas. They would be in the car, side by side, and Amy knew that when they laughed and recounted the evening spent with Karen and Paul—how maudlin Karen had become, how serious Paul was—that Vanessa would be so happy to have the old Thomas back.
Acknowledgements
For careful and compassionate reading of my stories, I would like to thank: Frances Boyle, Jean Van Loon, Sonia Tilson, Ann Cavlovic, Liz McKeen, Kathryn Mulvihill, Mary Lee Bragg, Lesley Buxton, Jenny Green, Colleen Pellatt, Kelly Patterson, Sandra MacPherson, Patricia Lindsey, Wendy Brandts, and Mary Borsky (workshop leader). And for their writing insights and wisdom, I also thank The Rubies: Lise Rochefort, Laurie Koensgen, Claudia Radmore, Robin MacDonald, Jacqueline Bourque, and Pearl Pirie. I would also like to express my profound gratitude to David Staines (and Elizabeth Hay and John Lacharity for bringing us together) for his insightful comments and assistance. I am also indebted to Tom Jenks, Antanas Sileika, Bonnie Burnard and Guy Vanderhaeghe for their support and encouragement during the writing of these stories.
To the most generous of mentors, Isabel Huggan, I give my warmest thanks and deep affection. For his encouragement over the years I’d also like to thank Ian Colford and for the boundless support of my family and friends, I am indebted forever.
I’d also like to acknowledge Ingeborg Boyens and the fine souls at Great Plains Publications for their sensitive reading and support of this book.
And to my first reader and editor, André Savary, my deepest love and gratitude. I thank him for all that he has done to make this book possible and all the happiness and laughter he has brought to my life.
Earlier versions of stories in this collection first appeared in the following:
“Weekend,” Narrative Magazine 2011
“Studebaker,” Fiddlehead 2010
“Nelson Street,” Missouri Review 2009
“The Murder on Prince Albert Street,” Windsor Review 2009
“The View from the Lane,” Descant 2005
“The Worst Snowstorm of the Y
ear,” Other Voices 2005
“My Brother’s Condition,” Antigonish Review 2003
I thank the editors of these magazines.
Excerpt from “On the Night of the First Snow, Thinking about Tennessee” from SESTETS: POEMS by Charles Wright. Copyright © 2009 by Charles Wright. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
About the Author
DEBORAH-ANNE TUNNEY has been writing since she was a child, through the years of school, working as a communication officer and in other positions at the National Research Council. Her work has appeared in Narrative (one of these stories translated to Arabic), Missouri Review, Fiddlehead, and Descant, among other publications. She lives with her husband, André, and cats in Ottawa.