Requiem

Lena, expecting equal humiliation for the women’s round, sat stiffly while giant men peered into shadows like caged animals trying to escape. Fingers grazed upper ledges and shelves. Lena and I both understood that this was a continuation of the search for food. We watched helplessly.

And then, I decided to rescue us. I announced that we had to check in on Miss Carrie before it was too late in the evening. She had asked us to drop by, and we’d promised to do so on our way home.

“Miss Carrie,” Petra murmured. “We never see anything of her. She’s the old woman who lives at the opposite end of the street, isn’t she? A bit dotty, I think.”

Lena and I turned away, not daring to speak. The yellow dog yipped as we blew our goodbyes back to Petra and Pete, who saw us off at the side door. Lena tucked her arm in mine until we reached Miss Carrie’s house. The lights were off. Miss Carrie had not, of course, asked us to check on her at all.

“I feel like waking her up and telling her about the party,” Lena said. I could tell that she was upset. “Is that why we love her—because she doesn’t judge us?”

“She’s been around for a long time, since the beginning of the century,” I said. “She was born shortly after Queen Victoria died. She’s wiser than most people; she measures things differently.”

We continued on, to our own front door. The storm was over. Lena tilted her head back and took in a long, slow breath of damp air. “Curtains of blue, curtains of black,” she said. “Just look up there.”

I followed her gaze upwards. No stars were visible, but there was an eerie beauty to the chill and the darkness.

“It’s too much,” she said. “How long will it take before people will be used to having someone different in their midst? And how different? The same under the skin.”

“I’m used to it,” I said. But we knew that already.

“Ottawa is a small city,” Lena pronounced. “A white city, mostly.”

That was true, too. But we’d also seen graffiti scribbled across a subway wall during a recent visit to Toronto, which was not an entirely white city. DEATH TO MIXED RACES we read as our subway car rolled past. Random hate, it seemed, could be anywhere.

And in Montreal, hadn’t we kept our own marriage ceremony small, only five people present? The two of us, the minister, and Lena’s sister and husband as witnesses. Our world wasn’t ready for mixed marriages, but that hadn’t stopped us. And Lena had been protecting wounds of her own. Her sister, whom she loved, had drawn her aside just before the ceremony. “What about children?” her sister asked. “Have you given enough thought to that?”

As if any future child born to us would belong to a stigmatized breed. The question, Lena told me later, had come from love and she understood that, but the underlying message had been: You still have the chance to change your mind. Lena had fought her sister off on her own terms.

We walked around to the back entrance of the house so that we could prolong our time in the night air. We unlocked the door, headed for the kitchen, opened the fridge door and closed it again. We were past hunger, wobbly from drink. Lena began to laugh as we climbed the stairs. Once started, she couldn’t stop.

“You looked like hunters and gatherers on the prowl,” she said. “If you could have seen yourselves. All the big men trying to fill their bellies. And button-button was the last straw.” She was doubled over now, and I joined in. “The poor yellow dog,” she said. “No wonder it’s eating the basement steps. It’s starving.”

We went to bed and turned out the lights. Once more, Lena ran her finger over the scar on my forehead. And then, so lightly I scarcely knew her hand was there, she traced every feature of my face, ending with my lips.

“You’re going to have to tell me how the scar got there,” she said, through a yawn. “I need to know.” And she fell asleep.

I was thinking about Ron squeezing himself onto the couch next to her, and I reclaimed her now and pulled her towards me. She was still asleep, but she turned to her side and slid her thigh over mine. And then she woke again.

The next day, Miss Carrie announced that she had decided to fly to Winnipeg to visit her antiquarian friend Lill, who was recovering from surgery. A few days later, Lena and I drove her to the airport, helped with the tan- coloured leather luggage that had belonged to her Mommy in another century, and promised to pick her up on her return. She intended to stay four weeks, because she wanted to be useful. Letters began to arrive soon after her departure, and we were entertained with a letter a week, for the next month.

Thank you for seeing me off, even though I had to travel without the items that refused to turn up, including extra spectacles and favourite garters. Lill has recovered from her operation, but yesterday she tripped and twisted her foot. She sprained her ankle and must walk with a stick. She insists on bending forward to pick up the many things she drops, even with her foot newly swollen.

An old aunt, age one hundred and two, lives in a room beyond the dining room, where I am not to go. An attendant comes and goes, unseen, through a side door. The aunt eats behind a heavy curtain; perhaps she splashes or has spills. Lill and I sit at an extended dining table, which I crawled under and latched from beneath because of its precarious state of balance. Lill pretends that every part of this is normal. The aunt belongs to the family of Lill’s late husband, Beau. I’m told she has thin hair, wears a “piece”—not her own. Since my arrival, she has been grinding her teeth behind the curtain. Lill says Beau’s side of the family all had good teeth in their day. I deduce that the strain of my visit is the cause of the grinding.

The second letter arrived soon afterwards:

The Reverend from Lill’s church announced that he was coming to visit, and I pondered what to wear. Fortunate that I climbed to Mommy’s cedar closet in the attic before departure and dropped a 1936 dress into the hellhole, where my open luggage awaited. It’s a good dress, hand-sewn, turquoise and gloriously fashionable again, with large sleeves. I wore it with great success. The Reverend made it clear that he’d be staying awhile, so Lill brought out her game of Scrabble. I had never played, though the game has been around for years. The three of us sat at a small table in the living room. Lill can’t see enough to play well but I did not bring this to her attention. The Reverend spelled O-V-A-R-Y. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Nothing was said. Lill peered at the tiles but did not seem to notice ovary. We carried on.

After the Reverend left, we talked about friends who have died during the past year. Then we talked about a talent party I once hosted when we were young. Everyone who attended was required to perform. A trifle party, too, in the same year. I chose a handsome young man to serve the wine. He arranged green and red cherries across the trifle, moments before it was served. The world was young and gay then. Now Lill and I are the only two left. The handsome young man disappeared into the next war. Most of the other young men we knew died in the first.

At night I lie in bed in the guest room with my eyes wide and think of the people I’ve known, dead and alive. My head fills with ghosts. The furnace clicks on and off as if it were January. I can feel gusts of air in the room around me. Lill keeps the house far too warm. Occasionally, the old aunt snorts, down below.

And the third:

The church we attended—Anglican—was hung in scarlet, for St. Simon and St. Jude. I took Lill’s arm to prevent her from falling up the steps. The Reverend recited the longest prayer he could concoct and Lill nodded off. She said she enjoyed the outing nonetheless.

On Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays, a young maid arrives to clean and prepare dinner. When she is not here, we fend for ourselves. I sew and read the newspapers aloud to Lill. At the moment, I am relining a nice old dressing gown she found in a back closet—1920s or earlier.

Every morning I prepare breakfast, my chore and my pleasure. Lill manages tea. I made cookies one day when the coast was clear. And ironed scarves. I am Busy, capital B. Blind and partially blind people require attention, though Lill will not admit to either condition. Who are we if we aren’t here to help one another in life? And, I suppose, in death.

Weather is holding and I am due to depart in ten days. I shall be flattened by the time I am