The guy by the drinking-fountain is, however, another story and not an object for benevolent glances. On him I’ve kept a wary eye. For the past hour, shirtless and barefooted, he has practised some arcane martial art. He has slashed, punched, stabbed and kicked the air, crushing imaginary windpipes, rupturing imaginary spleens, squashing imaginary testicles, and deviating imaginary septums. An extra-Y-chromosome type if I ever saw one, and tattooed for good measure. A powder keg capable of exploding at anything an overweight, sparsely bearded man with weak eyesight like me might say or do, however amiable and unprovoking.
If that character had the courtesy to get lost I might be able to completely relax and enjoy my afternoon. Behind me I sense the silken movement of the river as I smell its effluvium, a piquant mix of algae and industrial waste. Its counterpart in movement is the traffic on Spadina Crescent which winds in front of me. Fragmented by shrubs and elms it is a pattern of hot light, flickering chrome and flashing glass. Paradoxically peaceful, I find. My preferences run to urban jungles.
I check the time. It is a quarter to five and the runners from the YWCA are late. I never miss them if I can help it.
Now please don’t get me wrong. My interest in these ladies is not lascivious. How could it be? The women are deadly serious about this business of running and make no concessions to spectators. They make their appearance attired in baggy grey pants stained with unsightly blotches of sweat, or in unflattering cotton shorts and shoes pounded shapeless and grimy from many hard miles on the asphalt. Unlike the sweet young things that wiggle voluptuously down the via dolorosa to health and beauty in satiny track suits that cling erotically to their nubile frames, these women clip along with a choppy, economical stride that efficiently devours distance. They are training for the city’s annual twelve-and-a-half-mile run along the river bank.
I recognize the strength of the dedication and the determination that propels them mile after boring mile. Good God, I admire it. With a chicken leg in one hand and a Coke in the other, I salute them even in their absence. Hail to thee Marys full of grace.
And right on cue they appear. Suddenly, through the screen of trees I spot the leader of the pack, the she-wolf herself. As always, it is the tough little breastless redhead with stringy thighs who labours first up the grade from under the Broadway Bridge. Another runner appears and then another. As they top the rise their faces go momentarily slack with relief, thankful that this terrible straining against gravity has at last subsided. Seeing their faces dissolve with the release of tension makes me associate all this sweaty effort with sex. But that is not really accurate or correct. Perhaps it is merely bewildered and lost they look, like dazed survivors of some catastrophic wreck. It is, however, only a matter of seconds before my heroines recover their composure and stride, and press formidably on.
The solitary front runners and high achievers fly past and the field is claimed by knots of women who shuffle along huddled together in groups of five or six for mutual encouragement and support. They straggle by, gaping mouths a mute plea for oxygen, wisps of hair plastered to flushed cheeks, arms shining with a patina of honest sweat. Brave girls!
And last of all come the stragglers, the beginners, the fatties, the pigeon-toed camp followers of that other regiment of women. These are the ones I really wait for, to see safely on their way. I
My eyes study these tail-enders, alert for signs of danger or imminent collapse, and in doing so come to rest on one woman. About her there is something troublingly familiar, although this shouldn’t be, because I am convinced she is a novice runner, a new addition to the daily procession. In any case, I don’t recognize the running garb – white tennis shorts and a cheerful yellow T-shirt.
This woman gives every indication of being in rough shape. Having just finished the climb from under the bridge, she is trying to walk the tightness out of her calves. As she limps along, one hand on her hip, one working on her rib cage trying to squeeze out a stitch, her head hangs down so that a fall of hair obscures her face. But there is something about her – the strong body, the generous, ungirlish proportions – that strikes a resonance of familiarity in me.
She throws her head back and begins to run again, her arms pumping awkwardly at her sides, her legs moving jerkily. It is Victoria. My wife. Or rather, more correctly, my estranged wife. The woman whom I haven’t set eyes on in four months. The woman who hangs up when I call. The woman who wants a divorce
And does she look awful! Her face has curdled to an alarming hue, the grape-purple of strangulation victims – except where she has gone ashy white about the eyes and mouth. In this thirty-degree-plus heat, my wife’s brains must be frying in her obstinate head. My duty is clear. I slip off the bench, drumstick in hand, and hustle out to intercept her before she does herself irreparable damage.
Victoria obviously doesn’t recognize her hubby. The man whom she once kept so spruce and neat is clad in wrinkles and food stains. I’ve laid on a few more pounds of lard and grown a scruffy fringe of hair on my hoggish jowls since last we acrimoniously parted. When Victoria finally realizes that this stranger is bearing down on her with obvious intent, she veers away sharply to avoid attack or an obscene proposition. Consequently, I’m forced to break into a ridiculous trot to pursue her.
“Victoria,” I call cheerfully, identifying myself as a friendly, “it’s me. It’s Ed, dear.”
Victoria is so exhausted her face is incapable of registering surprise, or even dismay at my condition. Apparently even the usages of common civility are beyond her wasted powers. This from a woman with whom I shared bed and board for six years: “Ed? Get the hell away from me. What the hell are you doing following me, spying on me? Get lost.”
“Victoria,” I cajole her, refusing to answer her preposterous accusations. “Darling. If you could only see yourself. Stop this nonsense. You’re risking heat stroke.”
How the hell does she do it in these temperatures? Twenty yards and already my pores are leaking buckets of water and quantities of vital salts and minerals.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Go away,” she gasps, plodding puritanically along. Rule the flesh.
“I’m not being ridiculous. Every year there’s a rash of high-school football players dropping dead all over Dixie from heat stroke. It’s a fact.”
“Benny,” she says, her breath catching raggedly, “told me not to talk to you. So I’m not.”
“The body has to be trained for this,” I explain. “You have to build your tolerance for this stuff.” Tangentially I add, “And tell that shyster Benny to jam a statute book up his ass the next time you see him.”
“Only a mile further,” she grunts to herself, studiously ignoring me. She lowers her head bullishly and ploughs forward.
“All right,” I say sternly, all bristly authority. “If you won’t stop this, I’ll have to stop you for your own good.”
A desperate, harrowed look crosses her face. “I’m finishing,” she announces through clenched teeth. “Unlike some people I know, I don’t quit on things.”
“I suppose that remark is supposed to reduce me to jelly?” I comment acidly. An unfortunate choice of words. I note that I
“Take that remark however you wish. I’m not in charge of your limited conscience any longer. Thank God.”
Lulled by her righteousness, Victoria seems to slow slightly. I speed up and make a grab for her arm. But she is an elusive girl; she weaves trickily, steps on the gas and spunkily spurts a few steps out of my reach.
“Touch me,” she warns hoarsely, “and I’ll scream. I’ll yell rape, you son of a bitch.”
So that’s it. Marital brinkmanship. As so often with us, this has become a test of wills. But she doesn’t frighten me off. Victoria was never one (unlike me) who wished to call attention to herself. She could never, in all our long married life, tolerate public scenes. Still, she is a worthy opponent, a tough cookie. Centuries of flinty Scottish feistiness are distilled in her being. She is industrious, self-reliant and persevering. A proper helpmate on the stony road of life.
This escapade is taking its toll. I puff as I pursue her. She squeaks a barely audible, definitely feeble “Rape!” that is not meant to be heard by anyone. It is merely to serve me as a warning.
