Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (11 page)

As I cut along the side of the house, I see a flickering light coming from the Cabriellis’ basement window. I peek through the hedge. Carla and Ian are sitting on the couch eating chips. The room is dark, except for the glow from the
TV
screen. In the shadows, Ian’s face looks carved and smooth like marble. As I watch, he walks over to the
TV
, flips the channel and then flops back onto the couch. Carla gives him
an exasperated look. She heads for the
TV
, but Ian grabs her wrist and yanks her into his lap.

I don’t intend to spy on them, I really don’t, but when they start to wrestle on the couch and then tumble onto the shag carpet, I don’t move. Soon Ian is sitting on top of Carla, pinning her arms above her head. She sticks out her tongue at him. He waggles his tongue back at her. She laughs and squirms, but he holds her down, licking her cheek like a puppy, first teasing and then meaning it. They kiss and kiss, deep, hungry kisses that make my legs feel all rubbery. I hold my breath. I know I shouldn’t be watching this, but I do.

Ian curls his leg around Carla’s, and his fingers slide under her shirt. He whispers something into her ear. What? What does he whisper? He yanks off his T-shirt, and she pulls her top over her head. I see the vertebrae of his spine and the silvery gleam of her bare skin. He unhooks her bra, tossing it aside. Their bodies are both half naked now, and their torsos slither against each other like wet seals, shiny and blue in the
TV
light. Ian’s mouth closes over her nipple. Carla shuts her eyes and arches her back. He licks a line from one breast to the other. And then, he looks straight up at the window, at me.

I gasp. Ian’s wolf eyes glitter in the darkness. I jerk back into the hedge. Branches slap against my face. I swat them away and bolt into the street. Did he see me? Oh God! Did he see me? Can a person inside a house see a person outside
in the night? And what if he did? What would he do? If he tells Carla, my life is over.

I run. I race through the streets as if Carla herself is hunting me down. I cringe with shame. What a stupid, sick pervert! What the hell did I think I was doing? How could I watch them? Oh God! Did he actually see me? Please, no!

I stagger up to Geoff’s apartment and press my face against the cool glass door. My chest is heaving. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go home. Geoff is my only friend.

I push the buzzer beside
C. Jones
and wait. Geoff’s voice crackles across the intercom. “Who is it?”

I take a deep breath. “Jules.”

“Jules!” he exclaims. The buzzer trills. I step into the lobby and, seconds later, Geoff flings open the stairwell door.

“Hi,” I say. “I should’ve phoned first—”

“No,” Geoff says. “Come on up. Clarissa can’t wait to meet you.” He leads the way, bounding up the stairs. “We’re on the third floor, but I never take the elevator. I have a phobia about elevators, as well as tunnels, bridges, heights, knives and women with moles and facial hair.” Geoff grins, and I laugh. Coming here was a good idea. I banish all thoughts of Carla and Ian, forcing those pictures out of my mind.

Geoff leads me into his apartment through an orange beaded curtain that clinks and clatters, and there, stretched out on a blue velvet divan, like a gypsy movie star from the 1920s, is Clarissa Jones. She’s eating Chinese takeout from a
cardboard carton, and she’s even more striking in person than she is in her photo.

“Momma, look who dropped by for a visit,” Geoff says, putting on a Southern accent.

“Why, this must be your new friend, Jules,” Clarissa purrs, sounding like a Southern belle straight out of a Tennessee Williams play. She tilts her head coquettishly. She’s wearing a Japanese silk kimono in pale lemon, which darkens to blazing gold at the bottom of the sleeves and gown. Chrysanthemum blossoms in shades of persimmon and green melon twine upward from the hem. Her bare feet dangle over the edge of the divan, and an anklet of tiny silver bells tinkles when she moves.

“Hi,” I say, suddenly feeling gawky and shy.

Clarissa slides off the divan and sails toward me, arms extended. I’m not sure if she’s going to hug me or shake my hand. Instead, she cups my face in her long, slender fingers and says, “Pisces?”

“No.”

“Wait, don’t tell me.” She peers into my eyes. Her own eyes are jade flecked with black. Looking into her eyes is like staring into the depths of a green pond, where fish dart along the bottom through cold water. Those eyes must have broken a thousand hearts.

“Cancer?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Aha!” she says triumphantly. “I knew it. A water sign. Compassionate and mysterious, ruled by the moon.”

Geoff rolls his eyes. “She does this with everyone.”

Clarissa laughs. “And I’m always right.” She smiles at me. “Jules, you look absolutely pale. Come, sit down. I hope you’re hungry.” She ushers me to a threadbare crimson couch with wooden claw feet, and I feel like a child being led onto a stage where everyone performs in ad lib scenes.

Geoff passes me chopsticks and a glass of juice. He points to the cartons. “Chop suey with beef. Prawns in black bean sauce. Honey garlic ribs.”

“
Cin-cin
,” Clarissa says, raising her glass.

“
Cin-cin
,” Geoff and I reply, clinking glasses, although I have no idea what that means.

“So, Jules,” Clarissa says, “tell me about your life.”

“I don’t have much to tell,” I answer. “I just moved here from Montreal.”

“And you hate it,” she announces.

“I do,” I say, surprised.

“Of course you do,” she says. “Torontonians have no joie de vivre. No artistic spirit. As someone who moved here from New York, I know exactly how you feel.” Clarissa gives me a sympathetic smile. She has the air of a contessa who’s lost her castle, pawned her jewels and ended up in some crummy apartment in the burbs of Toronto. Except the apartment isn’t really crummy; it’s more bohemian, filled with eclectic
knickknacks: a wooden Buddha head, peacock feathers in a cloisonné vase, a hammered-brass lamp, a collection of blue glass bottles.

“I love your apartment, and your kimono,” I say.

Clarissa’s eyes light up. “Oh, this old thing?”

“She got it from a gentleman caller,” Geoff says in his Southern drawl.

“He said it was worth thousands,” Clarissa says. “I’m sure he’d be scandalized to know I wear it around the apartment like a housecoat, but I don’t believe in saving things. Things of beauty should be loved and used,” Clarissa proclaims. “Life—”

“—is not a museum,” Geoff declares, finishing her sentence. “My mother lives by that. And that’s why we’re broke.”

“We’re artists,” Clarissa says with a wave of her hand. “In this town, everything’s about money, but what’s truly important is doing what you love. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” I say. I imagine a gallery of Epsteins and Cohens groaning, rolling their eyes and making sneering remarks about flaky artists, but the truth is, I do agree with Clarissa. Why shouldn’t people do what they love? And why not use beautiful things? I think about my mother’s silver and good china, stashed away in a cupboard, waiting for those special occasions that never come.

Geoff taps his watch and says, “Attention, shoppers. In two minutes, the late show is starting.” He looks at me. “I hope
you’re staying. Tonight, they’re showing
Brief Encounter
on
TV
.” When I confess that I don’t know that movie, Clarissa and Geoff look at each other, stricken. “You’ve never seen
Brief Encounter
?” Geoff gasps. “Oh, Jules, you’re going to love it! This is Noël Coward at his best. Celia Johnson is so vulnerable, and Trevor Howard is such a gentleman.” Geoff puts a Kleenex box on the table.

“Do you think one is enough?” Clarissa asks.

I call home and tell my mother that I’ll be late. Geoff flicks on the
TV
, and we sit back and watch the story of two middle-aged people who meet in a train station tearoom, all because she gets a bit of grit in her eye, and he, a doctor, just happens to be there to wipe it out.

“Chance, or destiny?” asks Clarissa during the commercial break.

“Destiny,” Geoff says.

“I’m afraid we’re hopeless romantics,” Clarissa sighs.

At the next break, she pours three snifters of Grand Marnier and passes them around. My parents would be shocked to know that someone’s mother is serving alcohol to teenagers, but with Clarissa, it’s perfectly fine. The tangy fumes tickle my nose, and the orange syrupy liqueur melts down my throat with a sweet, delicious burn.

Brief Encounter
is fabulous. The story takes place in London, where Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard fall hopelessly in love. But it’s an impossible love because they’re both
married, with families. At first, they try to fool themselves into believing that they’re just friends, but eventually they confess their true feelings for each other. The problem is, they don’t know what to do about it. Should they sleep together? Should they break up their families’ lives? In the end, he gets a job in Johannesburg, and instead of running away with him, she returns to her dull little row house to live out her life with her kind but ordinary husband, knowing she’ll never see Trevor Howard again.

Geoff, Clarissa and I sob our eyes out.

“That was so sad,” I say as the credits roll. “Why couldn’t they run off together?”

“Because they’re too decent,” Clarissa says.

“But they belong together,” Geoff says. “And now she’s stuck with boring Cyril Raymond in that dreary sitting room in Ketchworth.”

“What if she goes through the rest of her life and never has another moment of true passion?” I ask.

Clarissa tilts her head. “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? Perfect man, bad timing.”

“But
you
wouldn’t have stayed in Ketchworth,” I say. “You would never have chosen duty over love.”

Clarissa gives me a sardonic smile. “When you’re young, you do anything for love, but sometimes it’s not the wisest decision.” Geoff sings “Falling in Love Again” in his deep Marlene Dietrich voice. Clarissa stretches. “Do you know
what would’ve happened if she’d run off with him to Johannesburg?”

“They would’ve started a wonderful new life together,” Geoff says emphatically.

“Yes, and she would’ve been happy at first, but after a year or two, she’d begin to feel lonely in her big fancy house in the white part of town, with her black servants, and her heart would ache for those two little children she’d left behind. He, the devoted doctor, would work long hours at the hospital, while she’d fill her days having tea at the bridge club, eating cucumber sandwiches and playing cards with a bunch of stuffy racist women.”

“Oh, Mother, don’t be such a cynic. Maybe they’d just live happily ever after,” Geoff says.

“Darling, life is not a fairy tale,” Clarissa says. “Fairy tales have happy endings; life has happy moments. Noël Coward knew that.” She sips from her snifter, and I suddenly wonder what happened to Clarissa’s marriage. Geoff said that his dad, Keith Jones, was a doctor, just like Trevor Howard. Did he run off with another woman? But he couldn’t have dumped someone like Clarissa, could he? I sip my drink. Who am I to make judgments about love—I, who spy in basement windows, watching other people’s private moments.

I look at the clock; it’s almost midnight. Geoff gives me a ride home. The porch light is on, but the house looks dark. At first, when I step inside, I think everyone is asleep, but then,
from the kitchen, I hear voices arguing in that hushed, suppressed tone adults use when they’re trying to fight quietly.

Dad says, “I told you before—”

“That is
not
what you said,” Mom snaps.

“Natalie, listen—”

“Irv, you promised!”

“But what’s the point? It’s not working—”

There’s a loud crash—china smashing against the floor—and I know it’s not an accident. Dad curses. Mom tells him to shut up. I reach behind me, softly open the door and then shut it loudly, as if I’ve just arrived home.

“Hi,” I call out. They don’t answer. I take my time walking to the kitchen. Mom is sweeping up slivers of china into a paper bag. Her cheeks are flushed.

“I dropped a dish,” she says without looking up.

“Did you have fun?” Dad asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I’ll go to bed.”

At the top of the stairs, I see Bobby, in his red-and-white striped pajamas, standing in the shadow of his doorway. He stares at me. “They were fighting,” he whispers.

“About what?”

“Dad says he doesn’t want to start over.”

“He never wanted to move here in the first place,” I whisper. “It’s all her.” Bobby nods. “If Dad gets his way, I bet we’ll move back home,” I say. Bobby stares at me with dark, solemn eyes. “Don’t you want to move back?” I ask.

Bobby shrugs. “I just want us to be with Dad.” His bottom lip quivers, and he swipes at his tears with his pajama sleeve.

“Come on,” I say. “I’ll put you to bed.” I walk him back into his room.

Bobby climbs between his sheets and says, “Tuck me in, like a hot dog, Jules.” It’s something Dad used to do with us when we were little: tuck the blankets tightly around our bodies, so that we looked like two hot dogs stuffed into buns.

“Okay,” I say. “Get ready.” I chop the covers around Bobby’s body, wedging him into a tight roll. He giggles softly. “Good?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Sleep tight,” I say, the way Dad used to.

“And don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Bobby whispers the refrain.

In Karen McDuff’s ugly pink room, I send prayers to a god I don’t believe in to please, please let Dad win this fight. If we go back to Montreal, my parents will stop arguing, Mollie and I can hang out together, and I won’t ever have to see Carla Cabrielli again.

I close my eyes, trying to blot out the image of Carla’s and Ian’s half-naked bodies. I squeeze my eyes tight, and the scene changes, so that instead of Carla lying underneath Ian’s body, it’s me. Ian’s mouth is kissing my mouth. Ian’s hand is pushing under my shirt. Ian’s eyes are looking into mine. Oh God! Did he see me? I shove my fists into my eye sockets and wish I could make it all go away.