As She's Told (6 page)

35

As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

A Monday morning lidded by low clouds. Anders manoeuvred his truck through clogged southbound traffic, with the reflexive dexterity of a man who spent a lot of time behind the wheel. He eyed a Civic in the oncoming lane that looked as if it had been waiting a while to turn left; a lengthening line of cars was trapped at its tail. The frustrated grinding of gears and molars was almost audible. Taking pity, Anders braked and waved the Civic through. Two blocks further on his own lane was blocked by pylons and municipal trucks. He edged around a stationary tractor trailer, made it onto Lakeshore, and saw before him inching lines of metal with their tails of spewing exhaust, all the way to the horizon. Toronto traffic had descended yet another giant step into hell. He was going to be late.

But nothing could annoy him today. He would have liked to have his foot down and be driving down an empty highway with the wind in his hair, singing at the top of his lungs, but you can't have everything. It was enough that he could see her before him: Maia shy and vibrant in her russet dress.

Maia sprawled flushed and naked on her bed. Maia bent over the table, those lovely oval ass cheeks framed in the red kimono. The sound of her voice when he touched her. He could almost taste her. And by the end of the day she'd be in his hands again.

There were two little birthmarks on either side of her belly; they made a diagonal with her navel that absolutely charmed him.

He made a quick lane change and made it into third gear. The future was unfolding like a huge blueprint in his mind, a blueprint of his own devising. Only the foundations sketched in distinctly so far. Maybe a little bit of detail: part of a floor plan, a staircase. Beyond that, a project subject only to his insistent imagination.

It was going to happen this time; this time he knew. His blueprint sprouted a bell tower and rang an exultant peal.

And then the peal's echo became the inevitable warning knell.

Expectations of delight never failed to activate the dour Lutheran ancestors living in his frontal lobes, his Swedish grandmother's voice leading from the lectern. Life was responsibility, duty, forethought, said the implacable voice.

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As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

Joy was fleeting. In fact this side of his mind tended to express itself within him in a Scandinavian language that was a mixture peculiar to that lady.

Anders imagined a discussion with his Mormor about his responsibilities in this situation, and he smiled. The dangers were more than present to him.

Maia might not be what she seemed to be, or need what she thought she needed. Hidden motives might emerge over time, or perhaps just mistakes that followed on inexperience. Or covert craziness; there was a thought to gave him serious pause. Anders drove mechanically, his mind churning.

No, somehow he thought not. Beneath all that shyness and hesitation, that eager, docile outward face, there was something balanced and poised, and not over an abyss, either. Maybe just a few feet off the ground. She seemed to have a very clear idea of who she was and what she wanted.

He braked and geared down; traffic was piling up again. Where did that assurance come from, deep in his gut? Recognition, moments of connection, again and again. She was okay, that girl; on consideration she seemed remarkably sane, despite being perverted as hell just like he was, with every doubt and crazy feeling that entailed. A lurking sense of humour, too. All those fears, that need for safety might be signs of sanity, given that the world was what it was. Could he rely on his own judgment of her mental state, given how invested he was in the answer? The fast lane was opening up; he pressed the accelerator. His gut said yes, but could he trust it? Ancestors frowned and shook grey heads, pointing bleakly to a spectral vision of his old nemesis: overconfidence, ego. Beware…. He'd beware. But that had pitfalls its own. Maia's fears didn't stop her, evidently; she did what she had to do. She had even managed the piercings, an act of initiative that seemed almost against her nature. And in their online conversation she had expressed her opinions with passion and confidence, and without looking for approval. Mind you, these were her opinions on her need to hand herself over, and were articulated in the anonymity of a chat group ….

She'd have to be balanced, given what he was going to do with her. She could walk away from him, hypothetically, at any time, but he intended before long to have her in so deep that walking away would seem unthinkable. The world he would construct for her would have to seem inescapable. Anything less would work for neither of them. If that kind of totality wasn't what she needed after all, the relationship would be destructive to her, wickedly so. And if he harmed her he wouldn't forgive 37

As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

himself. He could feel the weight building up in his chest at the thought. A dumpster load full of broken bricks, shards of glass, insidious toxins.

On the other hand, if he gave that poisoned ground too wide a berth, he'd be building on the soft and treacherous sands of meaningless games.

The whole thing would founder. Far better to begin for real, and risk having to give her up, than to wait to be sure and wreck the chance they had.

Forward, with caution and consultation, feeling his way. The basic relationship seemed already to have emerged, between one glance and the next. As if they were gears, machined on opposite sides of the world, engaging at first touch. Maia's submissive body invited plunder. He could hardly resist that arched torso and the passive hands that stayed where they were put, pliant quivering limbs that begged for restraints, big eyes watching for his slightest signal. Those rings! She wasn't made for gentle treatment.

But he also enjoyed this slow, tantalizing journey they had started on.

Versions and stages of perversion. More to come, he promised her silently.

Much more to come.

The rings. He'd tried to conceal his reaction, but of course she was exquisitely reactive to anger or disapproval. His initial response had been jealousy; he'd assumed that she'd belonged to someone else. He loved the fact that she was a bdsm novice, that she would be his right from the start.

Previous lovers, that was nothing. No one who'd meant anything to her emotionally, or even sexually. She'd be property with only his mark on her.

Except for the rings. Which had belonged to no one but her, he reminded himself, and which he could make his own. And of course the next piercing would be his from start to finish.

***

>English, please. I must practice for Chicago.

>All right. Your fault if I become illiterate in Danish.

>How would she be so uncautious? Beware of crazies.

>You mean reckless, prof. Get English spellcheck.

>You think she was crazy to trust me? She got references. A friend of
Janice's vouched for me.

>juicy one?

>Karl, you bugger. Yes, if you want to know, she is. Now shut up
about it.

>I think you are too sure all at once. Usually you are more careful.

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Cynical is the word?

>Cynical is the word all right. Family trait. I am having to hold off
my own Cassandra mutterings, and now here they are coming from you. But
I asked for it. Don't let me stop you.

>Your views on totality of relationship are fine in theory but will lead
to self-deception. You say no games, but world and laws are what they are.

Be truthful. Unless you want to hide her away in secluded country house
with all help kilometres away, chain her there and do your wicked will. And
I will help very gladly. Otherwise at any time she can go, and you can do
nothing.

>Sounds like a plan, Karl. What do you and Ria get up to in that
cottage in Als, anyway?

>You do not know. This woman may not be strong psychologically,
and is not experienced submissive. She may believe whatever you tell her,
and will be easy to harm. When tasty prey offers itself it's hard not to gobble
it up, but you might regret this, and so might your meal. (Okay, I see
problems with this analogy. Another one will surely be better, but you know
my meaning.)

> So either she can walk right out and my control is illusory, or she is
a prey animal walking right into my jaws. Make up your mind.

>I acknowledge your supportive portents of doom, you bastard. And
will allow them to rankle and gall me. Or at least let them reinforce my own.

>It's a delicate business, isn't it? Ethically and psychologically.

Finding the balance between games and gobbling her up.

***

That evening Anders made sure Maia had written her paper and started on the next one. Then he took her out to dinner, to the Peter Pan on Queen West. They had to run for the restaurant; the clouds that had been bulging all day had finally decided to get it out of their system.

They got the table by the window, which gave them a view of wet pavement and the final spatter of the rainstorm. The sun was dropping below cloud level as it set; it sent a shaft of orange light along Queen Street that lit the drops running down the window. Anders studied Maia's face in this temporary glow, rediscovering it feature by feature. It was rescued from perfection by the long, rather elegant nose. Her smiles always started tentatively at the left corner of her mouth, and then, if they got any further, 39

As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

swept across her face, lighting up her eyes for brief, incandescent moments.

Anders watched her as they talked, listening to her low, husky voice, trying to catch whatever flickered out from behind the hesitations and constraints.

They glanced at the big, weighty abstracts on the walls, accompanied by tags with even weightier prices. But the restaurant's decorative tin ceiling interested Anders more.

"This place used to be a greasy spoon, same name, way back when, did you know that?" he said, taking a good look at the ceiling – original, apparently – and the dark cherry-wood booths. "They did a nice job on the reno; fixed it up without changing much. I heard that some old guy stumbled in after the change, took a good look and stumbled right back out again."

They studied the menus, light years from what the old guy would have eaten, and ordered. Calamari and then lamb shank for him, arugula and daikon salad and chicken penne for her. When that was settled, Anders continued. "There used to be a lot of real stores along this part of Queen.

Hardware, used furniture. Then, gradually, some good funky alternative places, all sorts of unique businesses coming and going. That's the stage I first knew it at."

She nodded. "Even since I've moved to Toronto, some of those places have moved out. What is there out there now, the Gap?"

"Yeah, the gentrification's finally complete. Active Surplus must be about the last holdout. Not even the funky places left. They've moved west.

More and more lofts, lawyers' offices, big clubs, big chains. Concrete and steel."

"And of course anyone poor has had to move out."

"Oh, yeah, long since. And nowhere to go."

The appetizers arrived, and she looked down into her arugula. "Would the old guy even recognize this as food, do you suppose?" she asked.

He smiled. "Probably not. I'll take you to a greasy spoon next time; I know some good ones. Redeem our sins for eating this way while the masses starve."

They talked on about the housing lost, the housing not built, the rising rents pushing more and more out into the streets. She put down her fork and propped her chin on her hands as if her head was sinking under the weight of it all, and looked at him from under her lashes. "What?" he asked.

"You're so calm about this. Pragmatic. I can't – I can hardly think of it –

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being homeless. The vulnerability. The exposure."

"Yes. It's criminal that people have to live like that." His face was grim.

"I mean it literally, it's criminal, or it ought to be. I'm not as calm as I look.

As for pragmatism, there are practical solutions. It's just the lack of funding.

When it comes to subsidized housing, the federal government and the province and the city just argue over who pays. Money's actually reserved for housing that never gets spent."

"There some program, social workers connecting with street people, getting them housed, right?"

"Streets to Homes. Better than nothing, maybe. A lot of the housing they're putting people into is seriously substandard. And pushing that program gets the government off the hook for any decent national housing strategy."

"Wait – didn't the mayor announce ...?"

"Yes, there are supposed to be a couple of projects soon. Maybe there'll be something I can do. In the meantime I volunteer with Habitat for Humanity, help to build a few houses a year, and try to be satisfied with that."

The entrees arrived. They ate and talked about underfunded programs, and human spaces, and the Regent Park redevelopment. Anders knew the immediate politics, and Maia put it into a historical context, picked up from her reading, surprising him with the extent of it. "I like the history of North American cities. Despite all the greed and exploitation. That kind of pioneering naiveté."

He looked at her carefully. "And it's easier for you to talk about the past than the scary stuff happening right in your face."

She winced, then laughed a little sadly. "Yup. You got it."

On less painful topics Anders watched her follow him, match his thoughts in her quiet way, formulate and make subtle connections. He shared out the last of the wine and sat back, looking at her. "I've just realized – you really are an information-management girl."