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Short Story - Sessions

Short stories from The Vicious Circle

The Whistler Writers Group, also known as The Vicious Circle, will be presenting the Whistler Writers Festival Nov. 3-14, 2004. The festival is designed for writers and readers, with a smorgasbord of creative events, including: discussions with and readings by award-winning West Coast authors; a workshop to inspire new writers; and an intensive workshop for emerging writers on craft and the publishing industry. A schedule of events is available through Stella Harvey at Stella25@telus.net or by calling her at 604-932-4518.

Seconds is the fourth of four short stories written by members of the Vicious Circle that have run in Pique Newsmagazine from Oct. 15 to Nov. Nov. 5. These stories are part of a collection of stories by local writers that will be released at the festival. The journal, appropriately called The Vicious Circle , will be available for sale at the festival for $5. Enjoy the stories! And check out the various events open to the public at the Whistler Writers Festival.

Seconds

By Stella L. Harvey

There was a time I could’ve reached for you. You'd roll over, quiver your eyes open, smile, then trace my face with your finger and allow my touch. These days, I’m not sure what would happen. The garden, this house, your work. Something gets in our way.

In this dim early morning light I see you curled away from me, hear you wheeze, feel the slight tilt of the mattress holding you. The covers sit at your waist, exposing your knobby back. Your freckled right arm is where it always is, wrapped underneath you, head on bony hand, long fingers clutching at the sheet beneath you, a dark eyed nipple peeking though. A breeze drifts through the open window. The spindles of our headboard burrow into my spine. I don’t move, afraid to wake you.

Yesterday morning we were reading the Sunday Times and enjoying blueberry waffles and balcony-grown mint tea. The sun was beginning to flicker through our treed back yard, touching your hair, accenting its natural red tinge. I looked at you, stared really, as I’ve done ever since we met at the Holbein exhibit at Emily Carr on Granville Island six months ago. Among the dark medieval drawings I saw a slim redhead in black jeans and a burgundy turtleneck. The large red and black eagle imprinted on your shawl wrapped itself around your thin shoulders. Staring at the pencil drawing of Queen Anne Boleyn, exhibit number 27, you didn’t notice me until I slipped in beside you and asked, "What do you see?"

Speaking as if you were having the conversation in your head, you looked into Anne Boleyn’s shadowy eyes and said, "Wonder if she knew?" You paused briefly, took a long deep breath and said, "Maybe she’d have done things differently."

Finding answers to your why-people-do-what-they-do speculations has been my challenge since that day. I wanted to keep talking. That’s all I knew. We had coffee, then dinner, and one dinner turned into many dinners, lazy weekend breakfasts, trips to a B and B on Gabriola, and hikes on the North-shore Mountains. Three months after we met, you moved in.

"You’re over here most of the time," I said. "Why not make it official?"

"A little rushed, don’t you think?"

"It’ll be great. You’ll save money and I’ll have you close."

I must have said something right because the knot on your forehead released. Biting your lower lip, you asked, "What does a lesbian drive to a second date?"

"A moving van," I replied. We giggled like schoolgirls.

Yesterday started like those intimate, fun days we used to enjoy. You had no studio work planned, no promotional emails to send or respond to, no floors to vacuum and wash, no pre-dawn weeding in the garden. I’d rather have more time with you, but there’s no way to reason with you and your lists. I can’t understand why you obsess about what has to be done. Em never did. She, we, did what we had to do. Housework, the garden, whatever it was, we did it. No big deal.

I wasn’t thinking about that sitting sipping my tea, listening to you talk about the article you’d finished reading. Thirty-four year old leaves dead end job, sets up small studio with his last $400, finds his calling and the world finds him. You gravitate to this anything-is-possible-happy-ending.

"What?" you asked when my smirk caught your attention.

I angled my face towards you hoping for a kiss. You stroked my cheek, nibbled at my collarbone, then my neck, played with my nipple then guided my hand inside your housecoat.

The phone rang. I ignored it, wanting to enjoy you. Your tongue retreated. You wiped your mouth on the back of your sleeve and picked up. You threw back your head and quickly moved it from left to right the way you do after hours at your easel. I winced hearing the familiar crack of bone on bone. You listened to whoever was on the other end, said little and passed the phone. No smile. You bowed your head and didn’t look up.

Em.

Yes, I know there are no pleasantries. You can’t expect her to ask you how you’re doing, what’s happening with your latest exhibition, if you’ve sold some work lately or anything else. Em wouldn’t. It has nothing to do with you. She knows how she’s perceived, cold and aloof. I’ve told her and so have others. In the end, she said, "I’m not going to change. We might as well get comfortable with that." Being open is your thing, not hers.

I grabbed your arm. You pulled away, disappeared into the house, cup of tea in one hand, and a quick salute with the other.

"Can’t really talk." I told Em. "We’re having breakfast." I tried, but she spoke over my words, "I’ve got a new job. BCIT. I’m one of the new technology instructors." I could hear a crackle in her voice as she nattered, could picture her standing over the counter in the kitchen, sweat staining her blouse, her hand unconsciously doodling dark symmetrical boxes on a clean strip of white paper she kept next to the phone. We’ve been separated for two years, but this image sticks. As I listened, my shoulders softened, I sat down and relaxed into asking her about the interview and the job offer, what this would mean for her daughter, Annie. I felt a sense of relief. Em’s finally getting on with things, I thought.

After the call, I found you in shorts and a tank top, rubber gardening shoes and kneepads, stooped beside our roses in the front yard, pail by your side, trowel in hand hacking at something in the dirt. You stabbed the ground until you yanked the weed out by its prickly hair and threw its flailing roots into the pail. I came up behind you, put my hand on your red shoulders and said, "Where’s your hat?"

You jumped and spilled your bucket. "Look at this mess."

"You should wear your hat," I said.

You walked away.

My jaw locked and the muscles at the back of my neck ached. I wanted to go inside, leave you in your funk, but after our last argument I promised myself I’d try harder. I know there’s an adjustment when people first move in together, but it’s been a couple of months. Half the time I don’t even know why you’re upset. Rational explanations seem out of the question so I’m left guessing until I make the wrong assumption and then, of course, you have no problem telling me what an idiot I am.

"What’s going on?" I asked softly.

"Garden’s a lot of work."

"We could get a gardener."

"Don’t need help."

Your face as red as your hair, mouth pursed tight, your angry stare furrowed your brow and gave your light blue eyes a dark fleck. You were challenging me to say something. And, like an idiot, I did. More than one something I guess. I can’t even remember my part. Only recall your words.

"What’s that? No, of course you didn’t mean it that way. You never do.

"Oh, that’s nice. You just wanted to help. If you’re serious, get a shovel.

"Not for you? You’d rather spend our time making nice with your ex.

"No. I don’t want my hat. Stop it. You’re not the only adult around here.

"Sure. Go inside. Sun’s too hot for you, anyway. Go back to the shade where you’ve been for the past forty-five minutes."

I hear your words even now, as you sleep. What the hell was I supposed to do? Cut her off? Yeah, I listened. It was nice having someone appreciate my suggestions, trust my judgment. Besides, I adopted Em’s daughter. Annie and Em will always be part of my life. I thought you understood.

I’m so pissed off with you, and your immature little girl feelings. Yet as I stare at your back there’s a part of me aching to touch you, plant my boobs and stomach against you. It used to be easier. You weren’t always this damned focused and angry. Remember those special dinners when we were dating? I never knew what I’d be in for, but you’d remind me with your all-knowing confident voice, "effort is what’s important." Sometimes we ate your experiments and other times we opted for take out.

"I’ve lost ten pounds," I bragged once to our friends over dinner. "Couldn’t have done it without you," I put my arms around you and out of the corner of my eye I could see Terry and Gillian smile. "Her prowess in the kitchen," I looked over at our friends and rolled my eyes, "has given me my waist back." We all laughed. Even you.

Em and I were never that carefree. Perfectionists, we took courses to learn how to cook Japanese, Greek, Italian, whatever. If not classes, then retreats, new books, and Internet searches. Em and I used to make fun of people like you, the types who don’t care what others think of them. "Free spirits" we’d snicker and shake our heads. I still don’t know how you plunge into something you know nothing about. Whether it’s volunteering to set up a protest about government cutbacks or being an MC at your friend’s exhibit, you do it. I’d like to be like that, but then maybe one artist in the family is enough.

Artists. You think you can get away with anything because you’re creative. I have to tip toe around when you’re painting. You get mad when you haven’t had a productive day. And, when I make the slightest suggestion, you ignore me.

Just after you moved in you said you wanted to learn to make salmon. You remember that night. We were eating on the living room floor–your idea of romantic–the burnt, lime-encrusted Coho, soggy runner beans and baked tomatoes stuffed with shards of rice.

"I have a wonderful salmon recipe," I said.

You went into the kitchen and grabbed the cookbook. "I don’t think the temperature was right. It cooked too fast."

You started to consult the net for fail safe recipes, bought heat-and-serve, read more cookbooks, began to worry. The surprises stopped, dinner became another chore on your list. I liked the reliability at first. Even complimented you. "The roast lamb was as good as anything …." You kept trying harder–spicy red lentil, coriander and coconut soup with chicken, warm salad of chickpeas, chili, feta and garlic grilled squid with tomato and new potatoes–and wouldn’t let me help.

I wanted to show you how proud I was of you. One night when you were painting late, I surprised you with salmon in filo. I stacked the heated plates with asparagus, risotto and carrot/apricot medallions, an old English favorite handed down in Em’s family.

"This isn’t your handwriting," you said, as you read the scribbles on the grease-splattered cookbook sitting on the counter. "Where did this come from?"

I was rinsing the dishes so hadn’t noticed I’d left Em’s cookbook lying out. She’d given it to me for my birthday ten years ago. I had kept it well hidden from the cleaning binge you went on when you first moved in.

"It’s my cookbook," I said and added, "It has some great recipes I’d love us to try." I stared at the dishes in the sink hoping you wouldn’t notice my face turn crimson.

You flipped through the book. "You know I want light fare. Heavy sauces are at the base of all these recipes."

"I’ll find something you like." I smiled.

You walked away leaving the cookbook on the counter and me to the dishes. When I found you in front of the TV later, clicking through the channels you said, "I like to taste my salmon. Can’t do it through plaster." You didn’t even bother thanking me. We sat–me in my chair, you on the couch–watching W5, listening to yet another report of a scandal. Then you came over and sat on the armrest close to me, played with my hair. You were back in your cuddly-let’s-get-close-right-now-mood before I knew what had changed. I didn’t know how to raise the issue, talk about her so I dropped it and hoped it would go away.

Things got worse. I don’t know what happened to the woman who used to think scrubbing walls, and picking up were all valid preoccupations, but secondary to talking or being together. You loved making out off the back of the couch or anywhere we might be inclined. I miss that woman.

I couldn’t deal with you yesterday. I wanted to say, snap out of it, but that hasn’t worked too well in the past so I went to the office. When I couldn’t concentrate, I went for a walk by the water, imagined myself asking you to leave.

"Why?" you would ask.

"I’ve had enough," I’d answer forcefully and you’d plead with me to reconsider.

I sat on a bench watching other couples walking hand-in-hand. I kicked at the pebbles under my feet, wondering how an iron tampon perfectionist like me ended up with a flake like you. My angry thoughts dissipated when I saw us in those other couples. I could feel your warm hand in mine; see your playful blue eyes as you described a conversation about organic vegetables you’d had with the Chinese grocer. I knew I had to fix things. When I got home, you were in bed.

"Have you eaten?" I asked.

"Not hungry."

"How about some crackers and cheese?"

"You need to decide who you want." You shut the light, turned your back, and drew the covers over your head.

What the hell did I do? I just want you to be happy. That’s why I make suggestions, warn you about walking around with your purse open, ask you where your keys are, advise you on financial investments, recommend we get a Goddamn gardener. And here you are asleep while I’ve been awake for the last two hours.

Light begins to seep into our room. I hear the sea gulls crying in the distance and the slamming of a door, our neighbor taking his retriever for a pee. I look around at the place you’ve made ours, the one space you haven’t tidied up, the only spot in the house that still reminds me of you. Newspapers and sketchpads stacked in a corner, a red scarf draped over the lamp, multicolored bits of cloth dress our windows, and your self-portrait (you on your stomach) stares back at me with laughing eyes.

In the corner I see the antique dresser we bought on the north shore last week. White rings mark its surface, chips scar its drawers.

"It’s ugly," I said when we first saw it. "What are we going to do with it?"

"It’s perfect for our bedroom. Can’t you see?"

"I’ll have to ask them about stain. We’ll fix it."

"I don’t want to do anything to it."

"You want to spend all this money and have a piece of junk in our bedroom."

"Weird?"

"You are," I said.

"Anyone can have normal," you said, and tucked your arm in mine, kissed my neck the way you do when you’re teasing me.

It’s funny how bit-by-bit you’ve made it easier for me to think about things I never bothered with. It bugged me at first, but I’ve gotten used to it. I could never be this open with anyone else. Certainly not with Em. Maybe I’ve never told you.

Life was pretty peaceful and simple before you came along. Then again, there was no life. Sorry it’s taken me so long to see that. I nestle down, turning to face your back. Taking a deep breath I move closer and sink into your warmth. You moan, nuzzle your butt against me entwining your legs in mine.

Stella L. Harvey is a social worker by training and has run a busy management consulting practice in Canada and abroad specializing in large-scale organizational change. She has worked in the USA, UK, Austria and Italy. She founded the Whistler Writers Group, affectionately known as the Vicious Circle, in May 2001. She has completed a novel and several short works of fiction have appeared in the Question and Pique Newsmagazine.