Love Minus One & Other Stories

Love Minus One & Other Stories

NORMA HARRS

Love Minus One & Other Stories

Copyright © 1994 by Norma Harrs

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Hounslow Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Reprography Collective.

Hounslow Press

A member of the Dundurn Group

Publishers: Kirk Howard & Anthony Hawke

Editor: Liedewy Hawke

Printer: Webcom

Front Cover Painting: FITZGERALD, Lionel Lemoine Canadian 1890-1956

At Silver Heights, 1931

oil on canvas board

35.8 × 40.2 cm

ART GALLERY OF ONTARIO, TORONTO

Purchase, 1981

Photo: Larry Ostrom, Art Gallery of Ontario

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

Harrs, Norma, 1936-

Love minus one & other stories

ISBN 0-88882-173-5

I. Title.

PS8565.A77L6 1994       C813’ .54       C94-931400-5

PR9199.3.H37L6 1994

Publication was assisted by the Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council, the Book Publishing Industry Development Program of the Department of Canadian Heritage and the Ontario Publishing Centre of the Ministry of Culture, Tourism and Recreation.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

Printed and bound in Canada

Contents

THE CURATE

LUELLA, LUELLA, WHERE ARE YOU?

SLIP-SLIDING

PURVEYOR OF LOVE

GIRL IN BLACK

DRESSAGE

MORIARITY AND THE AUNTS

SLEEPWALKERS

LOVE MINUS ONE

SNAKES

DESCENDING

EROSION

IN THE DRIVER’S SEAT

FRANGIPANI

THE WAY TO A MAN’S HEART

THE GATE

A BLIGHT ON THE ROSES

PAULINE

FULL CIRCLE

SATURDAY LADY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Some of these stories have been previously published. The Curate appeared in the Antigonish Review in 1988; Pauline in the spring 1989 issue of A Room of One’s Own; Frangipani in the Toronto Star in 1991. The Girl in Black was published in 1992 in the Pittsburgh Quarterly, The Way to a Man’s Heart in the Toronto Star, also in 1992. Saturday Lady appeared in Kairos in 1994.

For

Annie & Bob

THE CURATE

Very sweet was how she described him in her letter and very sweet was exactly what he was. He was attending the World Council of Churches gathering in Toronto and would have a couple of days to see the city. Would I mind? Yes, I minded. I always minded. Caroline collected stray dogs everywhere she went and set up impossible networks and expected all her friends to rally and extend house, home and warmth to the chosen.

Always, these strays when questioned, really only knew Caroline slightly, but wasn’t she fantastic and wasn’t she kind? Yes, I thought, far too kind with everyone else’s time and patience.

He told me he would stand with a newspaper under his arm at the corner of Gerrard and University, and, of course, he would have his suitcase. As it happened, he needed neither suitcase nor newspaper to afford recognition. He couldn’t have been anything else but English with his dappled pink and white complexion, his slightly too long hair and his Harris tweed sports coat. He stood out like a sore thumb. I noticed he wore no dog collar, but he was unmistakably a clergyman; he was the archetype for all that breed depicted so gently in novels about British rural life. He was clean and scrubbed with that just arrived in the universe look that begged to be corrupted. I doubted if there was any such thing as bad in his world, and if he discovered a hint, I could imagine he would turn a cold shoulder. It would be actually rather fun to bring him home and wait for him to realize that my husband, John, was away on a business trip and there were just the two of us in the house.

He climbed into the car awkwardly, banging his head on the door frame as he did so.

It’s frightfully good of you. The voice was British public schoolboy with wool trade intonations. It was those intonations that made him seem more human.

I smiled, determined not to utter the usual niceties about being happy to have him. I was curious to see if he had another expression than the one of sheer honesty and openness. A flicker passed over his face at my silence, but his equanimity returned fast enough and he smiled. Not for a moment would he allow it to cross his mind that I might be genuinely put out.

Terrific weather, he forged on enthusiastically.

Yes.

When I pointed out various landmarks on the way home, he stared rather disinterestedly at them and turned back to gaze at me. No doubt he’d come to this country with no expectations and, having spent four days bunkered in the Convention Hotel, nothing had happened to change his idea that basically it was a new, but dreadfully dull, city.

You’re not really looking, I accused.

Yes! Yes! He hastened to assure me. Actually I’m more interested in people. I noticed he seemed terribly pleased with himself as he made the pronouncement as though he expected some commendation: three red stars, a ribbon for his humanitarianism perhaps.

And do you find out about them by staring?

Now he looked genuinely embarrassed.

Was I staring?

Yes, I smiled, Do you find the North American species so different? I really wasn’t thinking of a species when I looked at you.

No? What were you thinking then?

I knew the truth would not out; he would find something inoffensive, yet flattering, to say.

I suppose I was admiring the quality of terrific self-confidence. I expect that comes with being a performer?

I already had him terribly off balance and I felt a cruel but profound satisfaction in creating his discomfort. Perhaps he would go back to Caroline with tales of my awfulness and her strays would cross Toronto off their itinerary.

Actually it wasn’t that he’d come at a bad time, he hadn’t. I was more or less resting, having finished a series of recitals that had taken me across the country and into the States, but I would have preferred the time to recoup my energy by doing absolutely nothing.

In a way I was slightly amused at having a clergyman in my power. I had this terribly prejudiced view of the clergy, perhaps gleaned from British literature ranging all the way from Austen to Trollope. I saw them as a parasitic little band who managed to arrive at their parishioners’ houses at teatime or lunchtime. I was sure all clergymen had fantastically low grocery bills and quite high standards when it came to choosing the right house for a good meal. I perhaps wrongly condemned that profession as being a marvellous sinecure for the basically lazy. I probably did them a grave injustice. Still, his easy acceptance of hospitality from someone he didn’t know, except through Caroline, had helped to reinforce those views.

He talked about his Conference most of the way home, but not so much the ideas that might have come out of it as about the contacts he had made for possible trips in the future. No doubt contacts for free room and board, I thought cynically.

He was impressed with our house. He wandered from room to room with his hands clasped behind his back. I could visualize him deferentially cruising British drawing rooms waiting for sherry to be served.

I prepared a light lunch which he attacked ravenously. I hadn’t seen anyone scrape off a plate like that since I’d helped out one winter at the Salvation Army. I knew the topic of his Conference had been world hunger, but was it possible that guilt had made the delegates eat lightly?

He talked rather a lot about himself. He’d studied law but never practised, deciding at the last moment that he really had a calling for the church. He told me he was thirty which made him five years younger than me. I felt like Methuselah by comparison. I envied his attitude to everything and his freshness; it reminded me of how I’d been at eighteen.

It seemed virtually impossible to puncture him. He had the kind of unabashed enthusiasm that kept him waving and ducking at whatever shot came in his direction. I hadn’t intended liking him, but it would have been impossible not to.

While I put away the dishes he wandered into the living room and I heard him playing the piano. He seemed to be a fair pianist although he was playing so softly it was almost impossible to make any proper judgement.

He looked up brightly when I came in from the kitchen.

Jolly nice piano!

Thank you.

Would you sing something? he asked eagerly.

I shook my head. I seldom perform on request. I realized how stuffy it sounded and immediately regretted the decision.

Only for money?

I smiled. No, but today I’m on holiday.

Since I am on holiday, and I’m a rank amateur, maybe I’ll tinkle a little if I may?

By all means.

He knew an amazing amount of opera repetoire, and I found myself singing along. I joined him at the piano and finished one of the pieces I’d started humming in the kitchen.

When I’d finished he looked up at me in delight.

You’re absolutely splendid! It was a suitably ambiguous statement most likely referring to my voice, but his eyes nevertheless took in all aspects of my face the way they had been doing since he’d first climbed into the car.

I noticed he’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt as though he was settling in for the afternoon. I had the feeling he thought that we were going to start chummily getting to know one another and that was something else that required too much energy. I could lock myself in my room and leave him to his own devices, but he had an expectant look on his face that made me feel vaguely guilty.

I outlined all the possible alternatives for the afternoon, hoping he would get the hint and offer to go off on his own. When I decided that he would probably enjoy a trip to Toronto Island, and some bicycle riding, he seemed to automatically assume that I was including myself in the adventure. It was actually a perfect time to go to the Island, mid-week, very few tourists and even less children, so the idea wasn’t entirely unappealing. Philip’s enthusiasm for our expedition grew even more when I packed a small hamper with some goodies for an afternoon picnic.

He found everything about the boat ride across to the Island delightful. He managed to pretend not seeing a large red setter which had come on board with it’s master, lift it’s leg and pee down one of the iron railings. It would definitely not be part of his memories of the day.

Imagine, so peaceful and yet so close to the city, he repeated over and over again as we walked towards the bike rental. It was an extraordinarily beautiful day. The quality of light in October was always superb. Cold air meeting warm usually managed to produce a slight haze on the landscape. The trees were in full blaze of colour and the Toronto skyline rose rather smoky and phallic, seemingly imbedded in the bush of golds and reds in our immediate foreground.

It’s so marvellous! What a super place to live, Philip enthused.

We collected the bikes and tied my hamper and blanket onto the back of my bike. We selected the beach as our picnic spot, but decided to see everything we could first. It was like having an enthusiastic teenager in tow. His cheeks had turned a marvellous pink from the exertions of riding and we had to keep stopping every so often for him to stare and marvel. We settled finally on the beach we’d selected and spread the blanket. It was totally deserted. He wanted to eat almost immediately. I wasn’t in the least hungry, but he managed to eat for both of us, washing it down with tea from the flask I’d brought along. He lay back finally and stared up at the blue sky and circling gulls.

Millions of them! he said, his eyes following the movement of the birds.

Yes, too many.

If you sort of narrow your eyes it’s lovely, like seeing snowflakes suspended. He squinted upward.

When you live here, there isn’t much charm in seeing snowflakes. Why, I wondered, was I always deflating? At first I’d felt some joy in doing it; now, I felt pricks of conscience.

I lay back and closed my eyes, trying to relax and just enjoy the moment. When I finally opened them again, he was hunched sideways leaning on one elbow, staring at me.

Have you had a very hard life? he asked suddenly.

Hard? I laughed. Not at all.

I’m glad of that. The sun was almost exactly above his head so that when I stared up at him there was a sort of glow around him. He looked like one of those beatific haloed heads in icon pictures: golden curls, clear blue eyes, and the look of total innocence. I closed my eyes again, shutting out the goodness.

I’m sorry you’re so unhappy, he said quietly.

I sat up abruptly. I am not unhappy. I don’t know what gave you that idea.

The first time I saw you I knew you were unhappy.

I was amused rather than angry at his assessment. Little twerp, I thought, practising his amateur psychology on me. He needed to be humbled.

I was tired, I said levelly. I had an exhausting couple of weeks on tour and I was enjoying my peace and quiet and Caroline sends me another of her waifs.

If I’d expected the admission to hurt him, I was disappointed. He was grinning.

It’s nice you’re having such a good time then, he said cheerfully.

I burst out laughing. Yes, I am having a good time.

That’s better. You hardly ever laugh.

You’ve known me all of two minutes. I think you know precisely nothing about me.

I know a lot about you. I told you I’m interested in people. I could sense he was warming to his subject.

You have all the things you want in life. Your career is going well, but there’s no one really there for you, is there?

I smiled, but I was more than a little irritated. Perhaps Caroline didn’t mention it, but I am happily married.

She did say you were married.

Well, I’m sorry to spoil your theory, but happily is the right term.

I knew I could have been truly angry with him, screamed any kind of invective, but he wouldn’t have flinched; he was one of those infuriatingly forgiving souls, a quality that makes ordinary mortals feel tiny and mean.

He took my hand and when I tried to pull it away he only tightened his grip. I couldn’t think of one thing I’d done or said to encourage the gesture, and so awkward was I with it that I lashed out again.

Haven’t you ever thought of going somewhere where people really need you — where you’d dirty your hands, Bangladesh, or somewhere like that?

It’s extraordinary but I find people need me everywhere.

Or extraordinarily smug, I retaliated.

You might call it that.

He squeezed my hand, then let it go. He lifted a handful of sand and contemplated it with narrowed eyes. I felt the prick of conscience once more. I stood up and straightened my skirt. I’m sorry, I’m an absolute bitch.

He released the sand. I don’t have to stay overnight, you know. I’ll get my suitcase and find somewhere else.

I folded the rug, tying it into a small bundle, and attached it to the back of the bicycle. And leave me filled with remorse at the way I’ve treated you?

He grinned, immediately cheerful again.

No, I suppose I couldn’t do that.

We returned the bike, but couldn’t find the young man who had rented them to us. I propped them against the wall of the shed.

Are they all right, just leaving them like that?

I expect so. I don’t think anybody pinches things here.

Is that a fact? I wish it was like that in Britain. You have to padlock everything.

Oh, we’re not exactly sinless; there’s a lot of stealing going on in the city, but sometimes the honour system does work. I think perhaps it works here on the Island.

Like a commune? he asked.

Not quite. Not quite so intrusive, just gentle caretaking.

God would approve, he said, linking his arm with mine.

I doubt God has much to do with it.

I would have thought God has a hand in everything.

I speeded up my step ever so slightly; I had no intention of hearing a sermon. He had to do a slight hop step to keep apace.

How do you feel about God?

I turned and looked at him. Is this some kind of quiz that I might fail?

No, I just wondered.

I seldom think about him. I could see the ferry making it’s way slowly towards the Island and quickened my step again.

I was quite religious when I was young, but I think it was more a kind of superstition than any real fervour. I gave up superstition quite early on. I don’t really believe in worship of any kind.

What about your audiences who think you’re marvellous? Isn’t that a kind of worship?

I don’t much approve of that either.

Would you be where you are now without that?

Are you telling me God wouldn’t exist without the worshippers?

No, of course he would.

What then?

I smiled. Well, then we’re agreed on that. I pulled his arm. Come on or we’ll miss the ferry!

There was a lovely soft pink light in the sky as the boat made it’s way slowly towards the mainland. The buildings were silver stalagmites now caught in the evening sun. Then, as it began to sink lower in the sky, it was as though a furnace smelter door was opening, yet there was no meltdown, just a quiet transition where everything turned to burnished copper.

It’s breathtaking, Philip said softly.

Yes, it is.

There was no real reason to go home. The office workers had already disappeared to theirs, but the streets were still alive with the people who lived in the downtown core.

Can we walk a little? Phil asked. At the same time he took my hand. The action seemed so spontaneous and natural I didn’t have the heart to take my hand away, but he might have sensed my discomfort for he let go of his own volition almost immediately.

I might compromise you, mightn’t I? he said boyishly.

Nothing so dramatic, I smiled.

But it’s true.

If you like.

I’m glad you’ve stopped being sarcastic; it doesn’t suit you. He put a hand on my back as we stopped at the traffic light. He was one of those touchers, a surefire enthusiast for his fellow handshakers in church on Sundays. However, I didn’t mind any more. In fact, now that his hand was gone from mine I missed the contact.

I noticed people looked at him as they passed. He was so obviously a foreigner and, as he walked with a pleased grin on his face all the time, it was hard to ignore him.

We passed some of the strip joints on Yonge Street and he peered at the photographs on the windows outside.

It’s like Soho! he said grinning, but with no hint of disapproval.

Have you ever been in one? I queried.

No, never.

Do you want to see what they’re like?

Could we?

I hadn’t expected such enthusiasm. I was sorry now I’d made the offer. God knows what it would be like, and I would end up being embarrassed as though I was sitting watching the sex act with my son. But he had already gone up to the doorman.

When’s the next show? he asked.

Five minutes.

That in itself was bad news. If it had been a longer wait, it would have been easier to walk on and forget about the idea.

He was already buying two tickets though, showing no hint of embarrassment.

It was terribly dark inside, so dark we stumbled until our eyes adjusted to the sudden deprivation of light. The place smelt of stale beer. It was impossible to make out any kind of decor. I suspected there were lots of acoustic tiles and much black paint masquerading as style.

There were hardly any customers, just a couple of lone men scattered at random around the tables. A long ramp ran down between the tables.

I was more and more regretting the impulse that had brought us in, but he was excited like a teenager. A waitress wearing a red satin bunny outfit came to our table. She looked incredibly bored.

What’s it doing out there? she asked, referring to the weather. I could see from Philip’s baffled face that he hadn’t