All Saints (9 page)

When he called and told her to meet him outside on the street for once, she wondered if he was in trouble. If a house he was counting on had fallen through, leaving him really homeless for once. That's all she knows about him—that he's a professional house-sitter. That he never knows more than a month ahead where he'll be living.

He knows everything about her. She told him all about herself in that first still, sweaty time after he had finished with her, when her heart was just starting to slow down. About her job. Her apartment. Her niece and nephew. She thinks she even told him about Owen. He listened, or appeared to, lying on his back, blinking lazily and smiling that faintly amused smile with which he had sized her up in the ticket line.

No one had ever looked at her the way he had at that moment. It was like being seen—really seen—for the first time. And nothing she could tell him about herself—she knew this even as she chattered on and on—could matter at all. Because he knew the one thing about her that did. Knew what had happened to her. Knew what she was.

 

“Hand!”

Which one do you offer first?

“Hand!”

Your right. Because you are right-handed and you always put your right hand out for things. Even this. Which cannot possibly be happening. You are the good girl. The teacher's pet. You do not get sent to the office.

When you got up from your desk and walked toward the door on shaking legs you could hear the incredulous whispers—Cathy! Cathy?—behind you. Some of them sounding glad. Because you were finally getting what was coming to you.

Your hand as you put it out is pale and small. The strap rises in a perfect arc. Comes down. Nothing, for a second. Then pain that makes your mind go white. Then something else. Far from your mind. Down where you don't think and mustn't touch. An opening and a closing. A throb.

“Other hand!”

The strap arcs down. Nothing. Then white pain. Then again that throb you've never felt and want to feel. Again and again.

But there is no more. It is over. You are being shown mercy because it's your first time and you're the good girl.

You don't want mercy. You don't want to be good. You want to get what's coming to you.

 

The place I'm in doesn't have air conditioning.
That was all Gabe said until they got to the entrance to the park. Then,
It'll be cool down here.
Then, when she hesitated,
If you know what's good for you …

In a second, he'll turn a corner and be out of sight. He could disappear. She might never see him again—his green eyes tilting up in that vaguely oriental way, his curly black hair spilling down the back of his neck. She might never kneel again to unbuckle his belt, never see his cock springing free, bumping her cheek. Never feel his fist bunching her hair, holding her head in place. Never taste his salt at the back of her throat.

She might never be afraid again, either. She's afraid all the time now. When he doesn't call. When he does. He never says
hello
when she snatches up the phone, or even
It's Gabe—
just dictates his latest address and hangs up. And that makes her afraid all over again—that she'll find out the address doesn't exist. Or that it does, but Gabe isn't there. Or that he is there, but won't fuck her, even when she begs. Or that he'll have another woman with him. Or another man. Or that he'll want to do more and more things that hurt. And that she'll let him. Because it's time she got what was coming to her.

If you know what's good for you … .

Gabe has disappeared around a corner. Cathy starts down the stone steps, hurrying to catch up.

 

You are
not
merely curious, Julia tells herself firmly. There is something not quite right about this situation. That young woman looked distinctly troubled. Frightened, even. And if that is the case, then it is your duty to be of assistance. Offer your home as a temporary refuge. The use of your telephone. A cup of tea.

Still, she hesitates at the top of the stone steps. They lead down to a park which is the first in a chain of parks, stretching for miles, each one less well-groomed, more deserted, more wild. Even the terraced rose garden close to the street has dark corners and walls of sculpted hedge. Beyond that is an unlit stretch of grass. And beyond that, trees. Not a safe place once the sun sets, as it is finally beginning to do.

She moves carefully from step to step, trying for quiet.
Be not afraid.
Strange. Those words haven't gone through her mind for—well, not since she was a girl.

She stands still for a moment on the stone landing where the steps veer to the side. If she continues, if she turns the corner, she will be able to see down into the park. And very likely, she will see nothing. A stretch of dark grass, just now abandoned by a perfectly ordinary couple who were having a perfectly ordinary quarrel about something that does not concern her.

Be not afraid.
She remembers lying in bed, imagining herself the Virgin Mary. Imagining the eyes of the angel on her. And his next words, the ones that would change her life forever, giving her cause to sing the Magnificat.
My soul doth magnify the Lord …

She is afraid. In a queer, thirsting way. She slips out of her shoes. Picks them up and carries them. The stone through her stockings is cool to her blistered feet. She takes the next step down. Turns the corner.

 

Turn your head to the side.

Owen is here. Owen has found her. That is his voice, telling her what to do to save herself.

If someone's forearm is pressing on your windpipe, turn your head so you are facing into the crook of his elbow. That will give you a bit of space to breathe in.

Cathy turns her head. Gabe's arm immediately tightens, pressing now into the side of her neck. With every thrust from behind, he shoves her up against his arm. She can feel her pulse beating feebly against his muscle.

Gimme your clothes,
he said
.
Then, when she was naked,
Turn around.

The grass is chafing her knees. Her fingers dig into the dirt. Her head feels empty and light, as if there is no blood in it.

But she is surrounded by angels. Gabe. And Owen. And now this lady who is watching her. Has she always been there? She is in a blue robe and a kind of white headdress, like a nun's. Her feet are bare. She is wearing shoes on her hands.

As Cathy watches, trying to breathe, fighting the darkness that is moving in from the edges of her vision, the woman opens her mouth and starts to sing to her. Wonderful words. So wonderful she can't hear them.

Yes, Lady. Give me your song. I will do this. For you. And you will give me your song.

 

Julia is crouching, clutching at herself. Slowly, she straightens. Her whole body aches. All she can think about are her clothes.

Are they still—

Is she still—

Yes. There is the hem of her skirt, decently level with her knees. The zipper still closed, the fastener fastened. Her blouse still tucked in, each button still buttoned. Her handbag still over her arm and her shoes—

She is holding her shoes in her hands. The toes of her stockings are torn and spotted with blood.

When she saw the blue tunic come off, she pressed her palms flat to her heart. Prayed through dry lips,
Make speed to save us,
Make haste to help us.
Then when the white T-shirt and the flesh-coloured bra were shed, she wrapped her arms around herself to stop the swaying of freed breasts.
Have mercy upon us.
Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, And by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.

The man took each piece of clothing and knotted it—once, twice. Then he swung it around above his head. Released it. It snagged in the branches of the overhanging trees.

And the whole time, he was looking at her. Seeing her. Telling her with his eyes to be not afraid
.

Now she limps to a stone bench and collapses on it, gripping its edge. In time her heartbeat slows and her breathing steadies. She realizes she is shivering. It is getting dark, and the air is finally starting to cool.

Out of habit, she looks at her watch. She can barely see the hands, and in any case cannot remember what time it was the last time she looked. No way of knowing how long she has been in the park, then. How long
it
took. The thing that happened. The thing that was done to her.

Yes. Something was done. And it was done to
her
. She begins to cry. And she was terribly frightened by it. She has suffered something dreadful, she whimpers to herself. Something that ought not to have been done.

That is enough, Julia! Stop this minute.

But she can't stop. She sees herself as if from high above. A tiny figure sitting alone on a park bench on a summer night. On one side of her is a garden and a lamp-lit street. On the other, seen in glimpses through the dark trees, is a winged man-shape skimming the ground. And behind him a loping naked woman, head thrown back, mouth open in a howl.

My soul doth magnify the Lord
.

Is she actually singing? Her mouth is so dry.

 

And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour

Because he hath regarded the humility of his handmaiden.

 

She hugs her handbag to her. Opens it and looks inside at keys and a comb and a change purse and a packet of tissues. She knows these things are hers. But she cannot yet lay claim to them.

 

Because he that is mighty

hath done great things to me.

 

The words of the Magnificat are coming back to her from girlhood. She's not sure she remembers them correctly or is singing them in the right order.

He hath shewed might in his arm:

he hath scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart.

 

She looks again into her handbag. Manages to take out a tissue and dry her cheeks. Blow her nose.

 

He hath put down the mighty from their seat,

and hath exalted the humble.

 

She is bone-weary. Shivering again. She must get up and go home. At home, she can discard her shredded stockings and soak her wounded feet in a comforting bath. But first she must get there. So she must move. Now. But she cannot move. Not until—

What is the next part?
He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away.

Is that all? Has she sung the whole Magnificat? Was she singing at all? She sits very still, hardly breathing. Listening to crickets nearby and traffic sounds in the distance.

My soul doth magnify the Lord …

The words are new in her mouth. An unfamiliar taste. An unrecognizable shape.

She whispers them over and over, and each time they become stranger, further separated from any meaning they might have had.

Mysoul dothmagnify theLord

Her mouth is working independently, as if it knows it must repeat those words that the rest of her no longer understands, repeat them a specified number of times. And only then will she be free to go.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ecce Cor Meum

 

 

 

 

 

Polyp.

Funny little word. Sounds botanical. A bed of flowering polyps. Gather ye polyps while ye may.

Kelly takes another swallow of coffee. She's sitting in a Starbucks across from her doctor's office, having a wedge of apple cake for breakfast and watching through the window while the street wakes up. It's just after nine. Usually by this time she's had two big mugs full of coffee, but this morning she had to fast for her physical. She can feel the caffeine—

Simon? Is that him? Across the street? She leans forward, trying to see. No. Not Simon. Just a guy with his hair. The set of his shoulders. She sits back in her chair. Spears the lone chunk of glazed apple in her cake with her plastic fork and eats it.

She went and dreamed about him last night. A silly teenager's dream. They were dancing. He was breathing into her hair, his mouth close to her ear. He said,
I think I'm falling in love with you
. Even in her sleep, she knew the dream was hokey.

She drains her coffee, looks at her watch. Her bone density test isn't till ten. She takes her empty cup and goes and fills it back up with Columbian Dark. Wonders what they'll charge her for a refill; if that's the word. Maybe it's rerun
or redo
.
These places have their own language, and she doesn't come into one often enough to pick it up.

I don't belong in the world
. She made Simon laugh with that. She'd just handed his Blackberry back to him after examining it.
It's true. At some point, it all just started to elude her. Starbucks and Blackberries and iPods and iPads and YouTube. And young female celebrities who all look the same and all seem to be leading the same disastrous life.
It all just makes her feel old. At fifty-seven. Meera, the young Hindu woman she works with, asked her the other day if her church forbids cell phones. She couldn't get over the fact that Kelly still doesn't have one. “Anglicans don't really forbid anything,” Kelly said. “We just decide we're above it.”

Her refill turns out to be a dollar. She smiles while she tops it up with one percent milk. Simon would get a kick out of that.
We just decide we're above it.
She stops smiling. She wasn't going to do that anymore. Tuck away tidbits to share with Simon.

Back at her table, she looks around and wonders if she's in somebody else's usual spot. It's prime real estate, right by the window. The man at the next table has regular
written all over him. He's staked out the other two chairs with his coat and satchel, and settled in for the morning with his newspaper. And didn't he give her a sharp look when she first sat down?

Give yourself a break, Kelly.
Simon's voice. Lighter and more musical than most men's.
You're a paying customer.
His pale blue eyes, their expression a little exasperated.
You don't think enough of yourself.
His hand, reaching for hers across—

Shit
.

She puts her cup down. Straightens her back. Places her feet flat on the floor. Closes her eyes. Takes in a deep, deliberate breath.
Create in me a clean heart.
Breathes out, focusing on the air leaving her lungs.
And renew a right spirit within me.
Does it again. Following the breath. Repeating her mantra. Which she suspects is too wordy.

She took a meditation course last winter in the basement of All Saints. Their teacher was a Buddhist nun with a shaved head—a woman originally from Savannah, Georgia, whose accent kept making Kelly smile.
Fallow the bray-eth. Ee-yin. Owt.

The nun suggested some one-word mantras (
may-an-truhs
) for them to try. But the psalm refrain from Sunday's service was still going round in Kelly's head.

Breathe in.
Create in me a clean heart.

“Loo lah-bee?” A toddler at a table behind her is asking the same question over and over.

Breathe out.
And renew a right spirit within me.

“Loo lah-bee?” Each time, the mother answers, “When Grandma comes
.
”

Breathe in.
Create in me—

“Loo lah-bee?”

“When Grandma comes.”

Kelly sighs. She opens her eyes and takes another forkful of apple cake. One night the Buddhist nun brought in a small loaf of bread and had them each take a bit and eat it very slowly. She tries savouring her cake now the way they savoured the bread that night, concentrating first on texture. Crumbly, dry. Now flavours. Sugar, cinnamon, artificial apple.

Meditative eating was the only thing in the whole course that she did half decently. She came to dread the actual meditation sessions, which grew over the four Tuesday nights from ten minutes to thirty. Two minutes in, and all kinds of itches would be blooming between her shoulder blades, on the ball of her foot, at the backs of her knees. Five minutes in, and her thigh muscles would be jumping.

“Trah stay-anding up,” the Buddhist nun advised her one week. And then the next, “Trah lying daown on the floah.” No good. Others in the class would talk afterwards about how they floated away during the long silence or lost all track of time or recovered some precious memory from their childhood. “Ay-and what abowt yoo?” the nun would ask Kelly each week, looking more and more worried.

Polyp.

There it is again. Like a dripping tap. Funny how she can forget all about it for long stretches, then—
polyp
. Well. She can't see it. Or feel it. And anyway, Susan said it was probably nothing.

Kelly shrugs off her jean jacket and sits for a minute in the short-sleeved black turtleneck she chose that morning with her blood test in mind. The place is filling up. Getting warm. People at the other tables are unwinding scarves, peeling off sweatshirts. It's a damp February day—a degree or two above freezing, enough to keep the slush soft underfoot, but with a raw wind that chills through.

She can't remember Ash Wednesday ever being this early. She arranged to take a PD so she could go to the noon service at All Saints without having to rush right back to work. Other years, she's designated the time as Religious Observance, but last December an e-mail from Human Resources said that Religious Observance would hereafter be covered by Personal Days, so employees taking time off for RO should identify it as PD on the time sheets.

It shouldn't have made a difference, but it did. Besides Meera the Hindu, Kelly works with a feminist Muslim and a non-observant Jew and a lapsed Catholic and a part-timer in high school—a girl with facial piercings—who's sort of Wiccan. She missed the bit of interest she's stirred up other years by putting RO on the time sheet. (“Does the priest dump the ashes on your head?”) She missed getting teased by Bev, the lapsed Catholic who once wanted to be a nun, then got pregnant instead. (“You Protestants are toast.”) She could have just told them, but it's hard to work Ash Wednesday into the lunchroom talk. And since it was a plain PD, she felt obliged to book a couple of medical appointments she was due for into the morning. Now she's thinking she could clean the oven after the service. Wash the bathroom walls.

“I can't just sit and stare into space. I have to do something with every minute. It's the way I was brought up.”

The things she's told Simon about herself. Little silly nothing things.

“There was this poem about time that my mother clipped out of a magazine and framed and hung in the kitchen. Breakfast, lunch and supper—there it was. I'll never forget it.”

Did he ask her to recite it? She hopes so. Because she did.

 

See the little day star moving.

Life and time are worth improving.

Seize the moments while they stay.

Seize and use them,

lest you lose them,

and lament the wasted day.

 

She loves the way he laughs—his freckled, planar face opening up in that sudden way it does. His mouth—

Fuck
.
She's grinning down into her coffee like a fool. She straightens up. Drops her lips. Breathes in.
Create in me a clean heart.
Breathes out.
And renew a right spirit within me.

It really is too wordy for a mantra. And you're not supposed to use meditation as a quick fix for a specific problem. The Buddhist nun said the benefits were things like enhanced concentration and lowered stress levels, and that you would only start to notice them over time. But she's got to do something. She's driving herself nuts.

She's been divorced for twenty years. Hasn't had a lover in almost five. “You're getting a little dry,” Susan told her during last year's physical. “And you're dropping a bit. But that's natural for your time of life.”
Dropping and drying.
It didn't sound natural. It didn't sound like anything that should be happening to her.

Then one Sunday last fall she was sitting in church waiting for the service to start when Simon came hurrying down the side aisle toward the vestry, looking distracted. The morning sun caught the traces of red in his greying hair as he headed through the arch. She found herself enjoying the way his robe accentuated the spread of his shoulders, the narrowing at his hips.

She said a quiet, “Oh!” to herself.

Kelly has been coming to All Saints for more than fifteen years. (“Everybody else was having a midlife crisis. Me, I went back to church.”) When she first started, she would feel an odd little thrill each week as Sunday approached, almost as if she was going to meet a lover. The church of her childhood would have disapproved of All Saints and what goes on there. (“My vestigial Presbyterian lets me kneel, but won't let me cross myself.”) But the strangeness of the service, with its incense and chanting, aroused a hunger in her.

She can hardly remember feeling that way now. She sits in the same pew every week. Chats with the same people. Edits the newsletter,
Saints Alive
, and jokes about being a church lady. On Sunday mornings she sits, stands or kneels on cue with that seasoned Anglican casualness that used to shock her when she had to watch others to see what to do. And she stopped trying to take every word of the service to heart years ago. Especially the Prayers of the People, when a member of the congregation goes up to the lectern and asks God for everything from peace in the Middle East to healing for so-and-so who's recently broken their collar bone. In the moment of silence for personal petitions, she'll sometimes mouth the name of a friend or workmate who's sick or upset about something. She figures it might help, and anyway can't hurt. But she never asks for anything for herself.

That Sunday morning last fall, she did. As she knelt, she breathed into her knuckles, “Would You consider letting me have Simon?” Then she added, “Please?”

He walked into her library the next day. Her heart came up like a glob in her throat and she almost ducked down behind the front counter. He did a double take when he saw her and came right over. “So this is where you work. When do you get lunch?”

It was a coincidence. Of course it was. Like when your horoscope comes true. She told herself not to read anything into it. But after that first lunch, if she was doing some chore like getting groceries or folding laundry, she would start to imagine Simon there, helping her. He came to inhabit one room of her apartment after the other that way, sitting across from her in the dining nook, rinsing and stacking the dishes with her in the kitchen. In bed, she
was
getting dry, damn it. But it didn't really matter, because what she imagined was mostly about before and after. Especially after. The drowsy warmth. The drifting together into sleep.

People told her she was looking younger. Asked her what her secret was. Something warned her not to tell. But it was like carrying around a little unopened gift. So she told Bev at work, who promised not to tell. Not that it mattered, because soon after she told the rest of the staff, even the teenaged Wiccan. Then she told a couple of old friends she sees for dinner once a month. Then the rest of her friends. (“You won't believe what I've gone and done.”) And they would congratulate her, cheer her on, as if falling in love was an achievement.

Maybe that's what spoiled it. Even just putting it into words for herself—
I've fallen in love.
Because it has gone bad. No doubt about it. She's always on the lookout for Simon now. If she sees him, or just thinks she does, something in her clenches hard. If he's talking or laughing with another woman on Sunday morning, she hurries out the door without saying hello. Or worse, she sidles over and lingers on the edge of the conversation, hating the desperate, let-me-in smile cracking her face.

Her daydreams have turned into booby traps. She comes to from them abruptly and cruelly, reminding herself that none of it is real and likely never will be. The Buddhist nun told them to treat stray thoughts and daydreams as if they were birds chattering in the trees, or leaves blowing along the ground. She said they should acknowledge them, but not follow them or dwell on them. Just let them go. Kelly's tried to let hers go, and she can't. It's more that they won't let
her
go.

She wishes she could travel back in time, to just before that Sunday morning last fall. Her life was all right. It was fine. She had her job. Her friends. Her church. Her RRSP. She felt safe. She was even used to being alone. Took a grim pride in it, on those rare days when she woke up with a hollow ache under her breastbone. Imagined carrying a leper's bell, silently pealing,
See my pain! See my loneliness and stay away!
Told herself to grow up and get real. To quit feeling sorry for herself and get busy with something. Because this too would pass. And it always did. Soon she would be back to feeling safe in her life again.