In Other Words

Archive for the ‘fiction’ Category

This weekend I took the train to Ottawa to visit a good friend, who also happens to be someone for whom I have the pleasure of editing. (Woohoo, I can claim my ticket!)

More and more I’m enjoying travelling by train (especially if I have no one next to me, like this time, both ways), observing the interesting things we pass, from the backs of homes and factories and stores and junk lots to the ever-changing beautiful landscape of rivers, creeks, trees, fields, and marshlands, getting to catch up on editing or proofing, reading books and magazines, and sometimes even writing, as I did on the last trip (to Toronto, if you remember) and again this one. I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps I shouldn’t buy a ticket to somewhere every time I need to write. The view as well as the time alone to think and be without obligation seems quite inspiring.

On the way home today this afternoon, no one in the entire car spoke, which was both odd and absolutely wonderful. I relished sitting there with people who had all settled in for a few-hours’ trip either napping, listening to their iPods and staring out the window, doing homework or reading, or simply left to their quiet thoughts, all of us travelling in the same direction, all of us gently rocking to the rhythm of the train on the tracks. Something about it was so calming it made me happy—which as you might know is unusual for me, since I generally despise public transportation. Somehow, though, the plane journeys to and from England and the train to Ottawa and back this time around were actually enjoyable.

I read two home style magazines and a chunk of Will Ferguson’s Beyond Belfast: A 560-mile Walk Across Northern Ireland on Sore Feet. It’s made me laugh aloud in public places, this book. And I’m kind of reliving my own hiking trip in the Yorkshire Dales (yes, with a capital D. They deserve it). Also, I have to admit I have a crush now on Ferguson, and I can’t wait to read the rest of his books, especially Why I Hate Canadians. I’m curious because I think I might relate to it, but in general, any Canadian brave enough to write such a book is a hero, at least in my estimation.

Anyway. Back to Via Rail and inspiration. I was thinking, as we rocked along over terrifying bridges and past farms, of the joy there is in returning home, even after a very enjoyable sojourn away, no matter how long. I was thinking of Colin waiting for me at the station and the anticipation on both our parts, while I stared out the large window and also wondered at the strange halflight of the sun through the tint, and suddenly I thought to write this down in an effort to capture what I was seeing and feeling. Like a photo, it doesn’t capture it exactly right, nor is it anywhere near awardwinning, but you can blame that on my inadequacy as a poet.

For Colin

A greyblue blanket of clouds lies low

pricked by points of naked birches, spindly evergreens—

Past the Dead Marshes, dim-lit reflections

of yellowed grass, brittle skeletons of Queen Anne’s Lace

mirrored in mercury-like pools—

On cold iron tracks we speed in vocal silence

home at last where my lover awaits

with warm and orange embrace.

Listen:

Across the water, in the distant dark punctuated by cricket chirps and softly babbling water, a faint chorus of boisterous voices sings Happy Birthday.

Their cheers echo at 11:18 pm. Wood smoke in the cool air and all you see is sky.

I just realized why I can’t ever say no to freelance jobs and yet more work, even though I complain I never have enough free time and I resent every minute I feel I’m obligated to keep my workday going when I’d rather be doing something else (and even though the money isn’t making us any richer). The answer isn’t what I thought, I think.

It’s because I actually haven’t got a clue what I’d do with that free time. The way I am with gift money, I’m afraid of squandering it (the free time, that is, which is exactly what I end up doing). Although it’s likely counter to the concept of free time, I do feel obligated to spend it wisely, to be productive in some way, to be doing what I feel I should, like exercising or writing (again with the obligations!). And—oh!—I already feel the squashing pressure of guilt that I’m wasting my life (not just free time), not doing what makes me happy, what is meaningful to me, what doesn’t bore me, what isn’t close to my full potential, what doesn’t make me feel subordinate.

But I honestly have no idea how to alleviate that particular guilt, the wasting my life one. I don’t at all know the alternative or how to find the alternative. Knowing how quickly I become uninterested in something, knowing how fickle I am with my passions, I don’t trust myself to decide what I want to do lest I am yet again disappointed or I yet again squander time, and I therefore come to the conclusion that any idea I have, since I’m not apparently gung-ho about it and driven to do it over anything else, must be “incorrect.” Indecision is a curse.

There are all these stories of people who’ve always known what they wanted to do and then make it happen…and then there’s me (yes, and likely a gazillion others, but frankly I only care about me in this instance). How come I can’t have that sort of direction?

How does one unborify her life? How does one discover ex nihilo—no clue whatsoever—just what is the right thing for her to do? (And by right, I mean for ME. The thing that makes me feel my own sense of purpose. The thing that makes me able to power my life (never mind a vehicle) with my “own sense of self-satisfaction.”)

She can’t help it. She likes to spy on the neighbours. Ever since her husband bought her a telescope, she’s been unable to keep it from being focused on the houses down the street. He doesn’t know of course; she doesn’t do it when he’s home. In the morning, she turns on her computer and makes coffee and prepares her editing, but as soon as his car turns the corner, she goes to the telescope, coffee in hand, training it on her favourite houses to watch.

Sometimes she does use it to stargaze or contemplate the moon, or find Saturn and his magnificent halo, but in general, the universe both fascinates and freaks her out, and she’s more comfortable keeping things close to home. She watches Bill kiss his wife on the cheek, as always, before getting in his car, Sandy tucking the twins in her double stroller for her morning walk, Kendra’s sweet-looking boyfriend pick her up for school in his beat-up white Rabbit. Same as usual, nothing out of the ordinary, but still, she swings the scope to spy on the next house, where a Japanese couple live. These two are the most mysterious people on the street: quiet, to themselves, normal but unsociable.

She doesn’t know their names. They moved here a year ago, unpacking without help the moving van they had rented. She and Greg had gone down to offer assistance but they had politely refused it. The couple had no children, no pets. Back at the house, she had watched them unload plain, practical furniture, large pieces of art, boxes they had to carry together.

Every morning he leaves for work, dressed impeccably in a pressed pants, polished shoes, shirt and tie. His wife waves at the door and then retreats, backing up slowly, shutting the door before her. Dana thinks them strange in their restraint, their seeming lack of affection, their precision and politeness toward each other.

She sips her coffee and adjusts herself on her stool, looking now at the Japanese couple’s wife, as usual, closing the red front door as she faces the street. But today she doesn’t move into the kitchen as she normally does, to make tea and take a bit of breakfast. Dana watches as the slight woman disappears and then reappears in the bedroom. The woman sits on the edge of the bed, and suddenly drops her face in her hands. Dana can see her shoulders shaking.

She doesn’t know what to do and considers her options. This is too private to watch, uncomfortable, even, but most of all heartrending. It’s probably been months since she’s even spoken to the woman, and she can hardly knock on their door asking to borrow a couple of eggs or cup of sugar. She can hardly take over baked goods, or ask for help in moving something in their house.

Dana puts down her coffee and refocuses the lens to better see the woman’s sad face. The despair written there leaves her feeling as though she has no option but to try and approach this woman, comfort her in whatever is bothering her. But how?

Suddenly, the crying woman rises from the bed, wiping the tears from her face. She rearranges her blouse and shuffling in her slippers she leaves the bedroom and reappears in the kitchen. Standing before the island, the woman smooths her hair and lays both hands on the countertop for a moment. She seems to have calmed considerably. For a brief moment, she glances in Dana’s direction, as though she knows she’s watching. Dana jerks her head back but then returns her eye to the telescope. When she sees the woman pull out from a drawer what she knows is a Sashimi knife (she’s watched late-night infomercials too), she panics.

Dana knocks over the stool in her haste to rush from the room and downstairs and out the door and down the street. She pounds on the red door, heart leaping in her throat, breath coming in short gasps. “Please!” she shouts. “Open the door!”

When there is no answer, she runs to the kitchen window. The woman is not there, she can’t see her anywhere, and Dana cups her hand to the window and tries to peer in further.

Suddenly, she hears a slight clearing of someone’s throat behind her. Shocked, Dana whirls around to see a slim woman, sweater arms wrapped around her neck, her blond hair tied neatly in a ponytail.

“Do you need help?” the woman asks.

“Yes!” Dana nearly shouts, then corrects herself, looking around, and brings her voice down a notch. “My neighbour. I think she’s going to…I just need to see if she’s okay.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Dana doesn’t know how to answer, what to say. She can’t admit she has been spying on her neighbours with a telescope. But they’re wasting time.  “I don’t know. I just need her to answer the door. I know she’s there.”

“I hope she is,” the blond woman says cryptically, and she steps up to knock on the door.

Almost immediately, the door opens and the Japanese woman stands before them.

“Sayuri,” the blond woman says. “Good morning.”

Sayuri nods and smiles and her eyes come to rest on Dana.

“This woman was here when I got here. She says she needs to speak with you. It seems urgent.”

Dana looks quizzically at Sayuri. “I-I was knocking earlier,” she manages, unsure of what to say.

“Yes, I heard you,” Sayuri says in a soft voice. “I’m sorry. I…was in the bathroom.”

“Oh,” says Dana, studying Sayuri’s calm face. She has no idea what to say next. And then she ventures, “I just wondered, um, if you had any…green tea,” she finishes lamely. “I ran out, and I usually drink it every morning. My husband has the car….”

“Of course,” Sayuri says, and Dana and the other woman step in past Sayuri into the house. Sayuri leads them to the kitchen, where on the island lie several gleaming sharp knives lined up on a paper towel.

Sayuri catches Dana’s eye. “Japanese cooking lessons,” she says by way of explanation, a slight smile on her face. The woman beside Dana pulls an apron from her tote and puts it on, tying the strings tightly around her waist. “Hands off my buns,” the apron says. It looks brand new.

“I’m so excited!” the blond woman exclaims. “This is my first class. I can’t wait to surprise my husband with an authentic Japanese dish!”

“Your tea,” says Sayuri, and she pulls from a cupboard a tin of loose leaf green tea. “Keep it,” she offers politely, placing the tin in Dana’s hand. Ever so slightly, Sayuri inclines her head toward the window and Dana watches the Japanese woman’s eyes move to her office window (can she see the telescope from here?) and then come back to rest on her face.

“Enjoy your tea,” Sayuri says. And with a slight bow, she dismisses her.

It’s 3 am and he still hasn’t fallen mercifully asleep, not even after the sleeping pills and glass of too much brandy. The numbers on the clock beside him glow too brightly for sleep, and he decides, looking around the room and craving company, to go for a drive. He steps out of bed, throws on a clean tee-shirt and jeans, briefly checks his hair in the mirror, musses it further, and goes downstairs for his keys.

In the car, he opens the window to let in the damp summer night air and turns on the radio, keeping it low. He lights a cigarette, cruises around town steering with his wrist, his eyes peeled for somewhere that’s still open. Anywhere will do.  The streets are deadly quiet and he runs a red because there doesn’t seem any point in waiting. Part of him feels a strange small thrill in being so alone, but the other part feels afraid, and envious of those sleeping peacefully in their beds, arm around the one beside them.

A truck stop, open 24 hours, catches his eye and he parks because of the woman sitting at a table by the window. First he notices the mass of curly light brown hair that frames her round face. She looks tiny as she eats a large, messy burger with gusto, licking her fingers. He watches from his car as she pours extra salt in her ketchup cups and dips her fries.

He orders mozzarella sticks and a Coke and while he finds a straw he can feel his heart pounding at the thought of asking her if he can eat with her. He almost doesn’t. But then she looks up, ruefully wipes mustard from her chin, and waves him over. “Sit,” she invites him, when he stands before her with his tray. He does.

“Can’t sleep,” he immediately apologizes by way of explanation, and she shrugs, chewing. He watches her eat, relishing her food, not shy about taking large bites.

“Me neither,” she explains finally, after swallowing. “How come you can’t?”

He hesitates, picking up a mozza stick and dipping it into the marinara sauce. Should he tell the truth to this woman whose name he doesn’t even know, that he misses his girlfriend, that he can’t sleep when there’s no one in the bed with him anymore? He decides to just come out and say it. It’s 3:30 in the morning and this changes the way things normally happen. Anyway, he doesn’t know her so why should he care? For fortification he shoves the cheese stick in his mouth all at once.

“My girlfriend of three years left me and I can’t get used to sleeping alone.”

She nods and takes a sip of her drink. “You should get a cat,” she suggests. “They can be good company.” She holds his gaze for a moment and he notices the blue of her eyes and thinks fleetingly of the sky. A strand of hair gets caught in her mouth as she takes another bite of her burger and he fights an immediate impulse to brush it aside for her just as she does it herself. Suddenly, he feels shy and acutely aware of her presence. He takes note of her well-fitted green sweater, the freckles on her nose and cheeks, the bits of silver in her ears, the curve of her neck and the veins along the side of it as she takes another bite.

Screw the cat, he thinks. He wants to take her home.

“So why can’t you sleep?” he asks, changing the subject because he doesn’t know what else to say and can’t find the balls to say what he’s thinking. He finishes another mozzarella stick in two bites.

“I had a nightmare,” she explains. “And it freaked me out enough that I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“What about?”

“I dreamed a water tower fell on me,” she says, and then quickly adds when she sees his expression, “No really, it was terrifying. I thought I died.”

“I’m…sorry,” he says.

She shrugs. “It’s okay.” She wipes her mouth on her napkin and noisily sips the last of her drink, swirling the ice in her cup.

“Will you drive me home?” she asks suddenly, looking up at him. “I walked. And I’m tired now. And full. I think I can get back to sleep now.”

“Um, sure,” he says, his pulse quickening at the prospect of sitting beside her in the dark of his car. At the same time, he’s surprised by how soon this encounter is over, and wonders what he’d been expecting.

He follows her to his car and opens the door for her. In the dark as he drives, the radio plays a song that takes him back to high school dances, and he resists the urge to put a hand on her knee or cop a feel under her tight sweater. She looks at him as though she can hear his thoughts and he feels her eyes on his mouth.

“I’m sorry about your girlfriend,” she says when he stops the car where she’s indicated.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Anyway, um, thanks. For the company, and the ride.”

He nods and can’t help but notice that particular awkwardness, the kind that usually happens when you aren’t sure what to do next with a person you first meet and are attracted to. She leans over and kisses his cheek, a soft brush of her lips that sends a thrill through him, and opens her door to get out.

“Sleep well,” he says softly, imagining her sliding under her covers and spreading her hair on her pillow.

“You too.”

He watches her walk to her door and step inside. She waves and he waves back, memorizing the feel of her kiss, the damp night air, the song on the radio, the place where he sits.

She is his first girlfriend. In the morning, he showers longer than he used to, plans his clothes with better care, turning up the collars of his golf shirt, spritzing on cologne. He remembers to brush his teeth now after breakfast.

At school he holds the door, her books, her lunch, her hand. He sits beside her in the caf, arm casually around her shoulder, just so, conscious of how he looks, how she looks, breasts pushing against her tight tee-shirt, how she smells like strawberry lip gloss and cotton candy perfume—

In the dark, all pretence gone, he relaxes, fumbles, kisses her shyly, says in her ear what he thinks she’d like to hear. He is sweet, and she remembers this.

At the bus stop, she sees him again. Every day she passes him, his strange clothes, his wind-blown sandy hair and startling eyes the colour of moss. And every day he catches her glance, then looks away, an act that both discourages and compels her.

The pounding of her heart tells her she is on the brink, and without thinking she approaches him. She sits on the bench beside him. She wants to put her arm around him, not saying a word. Instead, she reaches tentatively for his strong hand on his leg, and gently places her hand on top. He raises his gaze to meet her eyes. A jolt of electricity passes through her. Her eyes widen.

“Hello,” he says quietly.

“Hello,” she whispers back.

They sit in silence on the bench, the sea of people passing around them like water around a stone. She feels as though she will jump out of her skin if she doesn’t remove her hand from his, his presence is that intense. But she can’t help but keep it there. Taking away her hand suddenly feels as though she might feel the pain of loss.

She does not stick out. A chameleon, she can—and not even on purpose—blend in, adapt. It’s no defence mechanism—in fact, she despises how easily influenced she is, how easily, passively persuaded she is by all she observes. But she accepts it nonetheless. This is how she learned to stop trying to label herself, stop trying to define herself into a neat little package, stop trying to find one particular thing she can say is hers.

She likes too many things, is attracted to too many different styles and people and genres and aesthetics, is especially talented in mimicry—and not even on purpose—to say she is unique. She meets you with your Carolinian accent and within minutes you feel as though you’re talking to your next door neighbour. Today she is an earth-mother in her Birkenstocks and long beige hemp skirt, her blond hair in a messy ponytail, her fresh face devoid of makeup. She is shy and introverted and deliberative. But tomorrow she will be devouring a novel about vampires, and her long hair will be cropped and fanned out in an Alice Cullen kind of way, fun and cute. She will dream about seduction. She will be gregarious and warm, and she will feel strong and invincible.

You won’t know her. (But when you finally do, you will find her exciting.)

Torrential rain batters the windows of the café in which she sits, further darkening the interior. Across grim skies thunder rumbles ominously, an ongoing symphony of pathetic fallacy. Damp weaves himself in and out of the café’s various nooks and crannies, past posts and chairs to settle at her table. The air is humid. One hand on her laptop, the other cupping her chin, Claire stares out at the flooding city street. She thinks of Jim, good man, hard worker, kind, loving. Once a friend and lover, now neither. But even things we’ve vowed change, and in the end, though she knows one never forgets these kinds of things, perhaps all that matters now is that she, like all people, is adaptable. He will move on. She will be all right.

So yesterday my younger, wiser sister wrote to me: “Inspiration doesn’t just come out of nothing. It comes as you stumble across something that maybe you did by mistake, but always as coming out of something you were actually already doing.”

Of course. I knew that. But still.

And then today Bretthead commented on the last post: “You are a really good writer and although I always tell you to write for yourself, selfishly I want you to write for me (and those other readers of yours too).  Don’t get up on a topic or idea.  Just do it.  One paragraph is fine.  I bet you will find the results surprising.”

When I put the two comments together, I came up with the idea to write a post here every single day, just one paragraph. I think I can start with that; it seems non-threatening enough. One paragraph about anything at all, whatever is in my head at the time. Commitment happens to be a word I’m petrified of, it seems, but I think (dare I say it?) I can commit to one paragraph a day. And then, as my sister and B said, perhaps inspiration will come of what I was already doing, and I will find the results surprising.

So here goes. We’re already past one paragraph, but this is the one that counts.

You lean in to kiss her and just as she closes her eyes you think better of it and sit back. Everyone kisses on impulse and you know too many people who regret it. The thing is, this doesn’t have to be a romance. It’s just expected in some way by the unseen watching your story unfold. It’s not unlikely you might fall in love but it’s not only too soon, it’s cliché, and if there’s anything you’ve learned about living out a story, it’s that clichés may be long-lasting but they quickly become uninteresting and naturally predictable, even if the endless variations on a theme continue to impress those who think they’re art. This is real life, not some romantic comedy in which characters profess their love for each other, actually using the word love, after a mere afternoon of fun. No, you decide, today your lips are sealed.

She opens her eyes and you grab her hand. Let’s go out, you say.