Читать книгу A Sharp Intake of Breath - Джон Миллер - Страница 8

My life has been long, with ups and downs that I probably deserved, each one of them. But after everything, I didn’t deserve to be warehoused somewhere waiting to die. Waiting for them to serve lunch, waiting for the damned Sabbath elevator, waiting for my cancer to come back.

Bessie’s son, Warren, and his wife, Susan, said that moving here was for the best, but Glendale Manors was just fine. The five years I spent there after Ellen died were decent ones. I’d been alone long enough before meeting her that reacquainting myself with solitude came easily. I was independent at Glendale. I could come and go as I pleased without anyone taking notice. If I felt like having chopped liver, there were delis nearby. The Health Bread Bakery was a block away, if I felt like a nice caraway rye. The Jerusalem Restaurant was just down the street, and not far, the Holy Blossom Temple. I barely ever attended services, but when I did, I could go and then walk home afterwards. And in my lobby, every spring, they’d have a strawberry social and name one of the ladies Strawberry Queen. That was before the bout of prostate cancer, in remission now. Once that scare surfaced, investigations were done and preparations were made for the move.

Warren designated his son Ari to help. He was back for the summer from McGill, where he was doing a PhD on the famous anarchist Emma Goldman, researching her from an angle I wasn’t sure I completely understood. Ari was a patient a sharp intake of breath · 29 child and grew up to be very well-suited to academics, to all that plodding, meticulous research and to the penetration of their nonsense lingo. Well-suited to help a nostalgic old uncle uproot his life, yet again.

For instance, Ari’s thesis title was Emma Goldman: Character, Courage and (Con)text—An Examination of Radical Resistance and Ethical Action in Historical Perspective. He had to write it out to show me the crazy drivel with the brackets, and then he explained that it was the latest thing in the academic world—brackets in the middle of a word to give it a double, often contradictory, meaning.

I said, “Kind of like a pun, but not as funny, right?”

He stared at me blankly for a few seconds and said, “Yeah, I guess, kind of.”

It would be just like academics to invent a new gimmick for an age-old concept and then pat themselves on the back. I imagined the average person, to understand what Ari was studying, would have to furrow his brow and set his mind deeply into the words, just as I did, but this was something that came easily to him. Still, I could tell that helping me move had tested the limits of his patience, especially when I started through my old photographs. He only perked up when I told him there might be a picture of Emma Goldman and my late sister Lil in there somewhere, but then when we couldn’t find one, he was crestfallen and fell silent.

That boy was far too introspective for any person just out of his teens. Over-analyzed everything, and barely ever made a fuss or a peep. There were times I wanted to shake him and say, “Rebel! Act out! What’s wrong with you, kid?” I was amazed that he and I could be related at all, so different his boyhood had been from mine. His personality was in part a reaction to loud, formerly hippie parents. Bessie’s Warren had married Susan in 1970 and they named their son after Woody Guthrie’s boy Arlo, who they claimed had a Jewish mother. Warren was a Bay Street lawyer now and Susan a big-shot journalist, but on weekends, they sometimes pretended it was the old days and lit up a joint.

I couldn’t imagine Ari ever trying marijuana. He was intrigued by rebellion and protest, but only as ideas to be studied. He was obsessed with Emma Goldman and had been ever since he was a child and Lil told him about when she and Emma were comrades right here in Toronto. I could understand the appeal; I knew Emma too, and she was a formidable woman. She cut a deep swath through our lives, and the brush still hadn’t grown back two generations later. She was tethered to us even in her grave. Ari’s studies had revived her as a name to be spoken aloud, but I had my own reasons to toss her around, privately, during my quietest moments, when I imagined I might have the courage to finally make things right, after all these years. Now that time might be running out, those quiet moments had become more frequent.

Every day for a week before the movers came, Ari showed up at my old apartment and helped me fold clothing, pack dishware, and pick through tchotchkes. He helped me, for the second time in five years, make a lifetime of memories contract ever further. It wasn’t fair. They said old people’s minds discarded memories on their own; why not let us be until then? I went from a stuffed house to a decent-sized one-bedroom, and now to a tiny bachelor with a closet not even big enough to hide a burglar.

I shouldn’t complain—I didn’t really have that many clothes, and who had those kinds of closets anyway? They were almost a myth: you saw them in movies and cartoons, bandits standing upright, behind the door between two overcoats, knife poised. From my own unfortunate experience, I knew that even the wealthiest society folk, with their fancy Rosedale homes, might have closets with built-in shelves, or be too overstuffed with clothes to fit a person inside.

It was ridiculous to be thinking of such things. This was how I measured the worth of an apartment? That it should have a closet a burglar could fit into? Never mind that, in this scenario, I was the burglar. It was all sick, sick, sick. That was just my mind hitting the same detour sign, pointing back, and back, and back once more, in a continuous loop. The critical thing was that Ari had helped me stuff my belongings into this apartment and its tiny, burglarproof closet, and I appreciated the effort. Today, as I crossed the parking lot to visit Bessie at Baycrest, I made a mental note to remind Ari that he should think about which of the things we’d put in storage he wanted to take to Montreal.

He’d called yesterday to ask if we could talk after he visited his grandma Bessie, as if I were busy enough that I’d need to fit him in. After the move, I’d been certain I wouldn’t hear from him for months, but everyone was making a fuss now. I got more calls from Warren and Susan than I’d had in years, and suddenly Lil’s girls were phoning all the time from the States too. They were all worried for me, worried I was sad and lonely and scared.

They had no idea. I’d been all those things, and I was done with them. Breathing in didn’t worry me anymore. Exhaling no longer filled me with dread. And as for speech, well, I’d said mostly all I had to say. I’d mastered the words, those small sculptures, but all works of representational art had their limits.

In the end, people saw and heard just exactly what they wanted.

BESSIE HAD A PRIVATE ROOM at the end of the hall, and as I started towards it, the smell of disinfectant assaulted me. The walls were painted beige, and the doors to the residents’ rooms, a light peach. A large woman sat on a chair in the hall, her eyes closed, head slumped. One would have thought her asleep had she not been rubbing her wrinkled hands together and muttering something too low to hear. Her skin was ghostly and spider-webbed, and her age wasn’t fully to blame. Old age homes badly need regular lighting. Instead, fluorescent lamps cruelly accentuate our frailty, poor circulation, and peaked skin tone.

A thick-bodied nurse came out of her station across from the elevators and helped a very short man back into his narrow room. I heard a moan from behind the walls. As I approached Bessie’s door, the sound of the television reached me, and for one blessed moment I thought my sister was alone. But no. Pearl Feffer was sitting on a chair beside the bed.

Pearl, Bessie’s annoying sentry.

We’d known each other most of our lives, but for many reasons, we’d not gotten on so well. She and Bessie had fallen out of touch for some thirty years, while Pearl lived out west, but a few weeks before I took my own apartment in The Terrace, Pearl had moved in a floor below me. Bossy like you wouldn’t believe, and honest to God, she was getting on my very last nerve. Every time I went across the way to Baycrest, no matter what the time of day, she’d be there already visiting my sister and reading aloud from the newspaper or some novel. Bessie, poor thing, was trapped in her bed and semi-dazed from pain medication for her own battle with cancer, so I couldn’t even tell if she enjoyed the visits.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Pearl always gave me a kind of look—judgemental—as if to suggest I should be the one reading instead of her. She never actually said it, but she snorted at me a lot. I’d practised in my mind what I’d say to her if she could be direct enough to confront me. I’d say, maybe I’d visit more often if you weren’t here. Or, mind your own business, ya busy-body.

Today they were watching the Parliamentary Channel. Pearl had the converter clutched in one hand, pointed to the set. Bessie was propped against the headboard, her bathrobe wrapped tightly under her crossed arms, her short permed curls damp and slicked back behind the ears. Pearl had given Bessie a home dye job and now her hair was a slightly lighter shade of purple than the bathrobe.

“Toshy, sweetheart, come here, pull up a chair. They’re televising the Sue Rodriguez case at the Supreme Court.” Bessie pointed to the screen. It was nice to see that her face had colour to it, and it surprised me, given what she was watching.

Pearl uncrossed her legs, stood up, and pulled over a chair for me to sit beside her, but I went to lean against the wall near the entrance. The last place in the room I’d choose to be would be in a chair beside Pearl. She fussed with her silver hair, immaculately groomed so that bangs more or less covered the birthmark on her forehead.

On television, a lawyer argued his case.

“That’s counsel for Sue Rodriguez,” said Pearl. “I think he’s just wrapping up.”

“Did I tell you my daughter-in-law Susan interviewed her last night?” Bessie said to Pearl, her voice full of pride. Susan was the co-anchor of Searchlight, the prominent CBC news magazine, and an occasional replacement for their lead news anchor.

“How can you be watching this?” I asked.

“Because it’s historic, that’s how,” said Pearl, butting in. “I’m surprised at you. This is amazing, really, that they broadcast these things nowadays. Can you imagine if we’d had television sixty, seventy years ago? Think about what it would have been like to watch them argue if women should get the vote.”

“I’ll see it on the six o’clock news after all the yabbering is done. Bessie, it’s a nice day. Are you sure you don’t want to be sitting in the room down the hall?”

“That poor woman,” Pearl continued, ignoring me. “She should be allowed to end her life if she wants, and by the time they hand down their decision, it might be too late for her. I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I had such a terrible illness. Imagine, being trapped in your body, miserable, and not being able to even take a bottle of pills on your own. I say bravo to that Svend Robinson for standing beside her all the way. When do we ever see members of Parliament taking risks like that? He may be light in the loafers, but that man has guts.”

Bessie nodded her head but her face was taut. Pearl was touching on sensitive topics and didn’t even know it. For one thing, she didn’t know that Bessie had a gay grandson. My sister didn’t like to talk about it. She’d accepted the fact and loved Ari regardless, but she’d learned only recently that he was gay and still grieved the end of the family name. Which was interesting, since Ari carried her late husband Abe’s family name, not ours.

Her grief for the end of the Kagan line was really grief for Abe, whom she thanked for saving her from a terrible mistake he knew nothing about. This mistake was a secret she’d shared only with Lil and me. It wasn’t exactly accurate to say that Abe had saved her, either. Lil and I had done the saving and then Abe helped her recover afterwards. We’d fixed things, ensuring Bessie could be safe in his loving arms. The price was eleven years of my life.

The phone rang and Bessie answered it. She said, “I don’t think so, dear, but I’ve got visitors. Let me ask your uncle Toshy and my friend Pearl.” She covered the receiver. “It’s Ari, down in the lobby. He wants to know if he can get us bagels from across the street. I’m not hungry, are you?”

Pearl shook her head.

“Tell him not to bother,” I said. “I’m coming down to discuss what stuff he’s bringing back to Montreal and I wouldn’t want it to disturb your cheery television program.”

“You just got here,” Bessie protested.

“I’ll come back later. You and Ari should have time alone.” I glanced at Pearl, who stood up.

“I should go too, Bessie. I can meet your grandson another time. I have to call my daughter anyway.”

“Wait, Toshy, I have a newspaper clipping I thought you’d want to see. It’s over by the television.” She relayed my message to Ari while gesturing to Pearl to get it. Pearl, who’d stood up to leave, passed it to me, and as I unfolded it, I was aware she was craning her neck to read along with me.

Its headline said, “Nurse and poverty activist Dorothy Fister gets Order of Ontario.” The article mentioned she was raising money to support a group of homeless people setting up a shantytown near the Queen Elizabeth Way.

“Fister? Bessie, do you think...”

“It’s her granddaughter. I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Whose granddaughter?” said Pearl.

“Nobody. Just a very kind woman we knew when we were young,” said Bessie. I folded the paper and put it in my shirt pocket.

Pearl must’ve sensed she shouldn’t press further. I followed her to the elevator, and as we waited, I considered my reaction to the clipping, why it had set my heart pounding so. I could easily have found this woman a long time ago, had I set my mind to it. Or her father, before he died. Fact was, I hadn’t, and now that Bessie had brought it up, it took on a new urgency.

I became aware of Pearl smiling at me again.

“This is taking forever. I’m gonna take the stairs.”

“Good idea,”she said, just to be completely maddening, and followed me.

When we reached the ground floor, I said, “Goodbye, Pearl,” and hurried away before there was another opportunity for interaction.

Ari was sitting at a small table in the atrium, clutching a cup in one hand. The day had started cool but Baycrest was always overheated and I could tell he was suffering for it, because he clawed at the collar of his turtleneck. He was tapping a thick-soled boot against the base of the table, probably from too much caffeine. He’d become a serious addict ever since he’d moved to Montreal and decided that coffee served in bowls was a sign of urban sophistication. In Toronto, where we were sensible enough to know that coffee wasn’t soup, he had to settle for one of those café whatchamahoozits, topped with nutmeg or chocolate sprinkles or God knows what. Whatever happened to a simple cuppa joe made with a Melita filter?

He stood up and hugged me, towering at six feet. He thrust a paper bag into my hands. “I lied to Grandma. I’d already gotten the bagels. You can take them back to your room.”

“Thanks,” I said, and sat at the table with him. “How’s your research coming along?”

“Pretty good, actually. You know that grant application I told you about? It came through yesterday, so, guess what? I’m going to St-Tropez to try to find Bon Esprit, the house Emma lived in there.”

“You are? When?”

“In a few weeks, so it doesn’t give me much time to get ready. I found some journal references this morning, but I still need your help researching Goldman’s years in France. I didn’t want to bother you when you were moving, but I know you found a box of your old letters. I remember a few years ago you said there were some letters that Goldman sent to Aunt Lil. Can we take a look in your locker and see if you can find them?”

“There’s no point; I gave them away.”

He dropped his jaw for dramatic effect.

“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know you’d be doing this research. And it’s not like I gave them to a passing stranger. A few years ago, I read they were starting an archive in California, so I donated Lil’s letters.”

“I know those archives; they’re at Berkeley.”

“Then you should be able to get a hold of copies if you want. That’s the whole point of the archives.”

“I know...” he said. “I’ve been meaning to call them. I suppose I should get on that this aft.”

“Don’t despair. I think I have something that might help: letters your aunt Lil sent me when I was in prison. Emma was in France for part of the time I was locked up, and I think Lil mentions her and that house. Also, I still remember a few things my sister told me when she visited. When you’re in prison, news from the outside world sticks with you. Also, Lil once went to work for Emma in France.”

“I never knew that.”

“She made the trip in secret. Our family thought she was in Montreal on a medical internship.”

I walked back to The Terrace, leaving Ari to his visit with Bessie, and went down to my storage locker. While I did, an idea formed, and I turned it over and over. It was one I’d long ago given up on, but today’s events had given it new life.

I searched for the letters from Lil, but I didn’t need to find them to recall the words. A lot from those prison days had stuck with me, and not just news. Things I wished I could forget but couldn’t. The curse of a photographic memory was that I saw everything, and closing my eyes only made the image glare brighter.