The Theory of Big and Small: IV
The next day was Saturday and Sara had a great deal to do. Shopping to start with, for a new winter hat, perhaps a matching pair of gloves if they weren’t too dear, followed by a mug of hot chocolate from the donut shop near the Canada Place Mall on Yonge Street.
The day hadn’t improved over Friday’s dismal showing so rather than ride her bike downtown she took the streetcar along Dundas to the downtown retail district. It was a chance to read her latest book anyway, an English mystery about a middle-aged woman who loved to wear big hats and stuck her nose into local crimes. She always seemed to be a step ahead of the local constabulary, then in some kind of peril at the end. But in this series the woman always managed to get out of any mess with her hat and dignity intact so there was always one more book to look forward to.
The streetcar was over-warm so Sara took off her old scarf and stuffed it in the pocket of her dark wool coat. The sound of the car rumbling over the tracks always soothed her. That and the regular dinging of the old-fashioned pull-cable to alert the driver that a passenger wanted to get off at the next stop. The windows in this one were also old-fashioned, vintage 1940’s as was the streetcar. She pinched the two metal tabs on either side of the frame and slid the glass up a little to let in some fresh air. In the summer these cars had no air-conditioning so they always seemed to be too close for comfort. She settled back and opened her book, careful not to make eye contact with anyone lest she be drawn into the life around her. With the windows open the sounds of traffic, the clatter of the metal wheels, and the snap-crackle of the electrical post connecting them to the rails above the street were as much a part of Sara as the contours of her room at home, and just as comforting.
Someone sat down next to her and she kept her eyes on the book, surreptitiously inching closer to the window. He smelled of curry and pushed several large grocery bags into the space beneath their feet. Sara crossly jammed her leathers closer to the heating vent below and began to regret not having taken her bicycle. She looked out the window to the low clouds, so close they seemed to be ready to settle on the rows of brick storefronts and their second floor apartments. The sky was too full, multi-layered in colors of smoke and ash, heavy with something. People on the street had finally let go of the vestiges of fall lightweights, scarves and hats in colors and tweeds peppered their outfits, collars turned up, lives turned inward. People hurried more in the cold and today they were looking up now and then, a sure sign that something was about to happen.
It was late November.
And always this way. A perfectly good day ruined by bad weather or someone pushing too close to her on the streetcar. She wanted to give a vicious kick to the groceries rubbing against her leg, the raw chicken sloshing about next to jars of heavy sauces, thick stalks of giant leeks jutting up from the confines and making her eyes water. With an audible sigh she pulled her book up in front of her face and forced herself to focus on the story. The English countryside, so verdant and peaceful. The lives of the villagers in this town, so intertwined and predictable. The frisson of the hunt for a killer…..
The streetcar lurched to a stop, bell clanging, and Sara realized they had reached Dundas and Yonge. With a yelp she shot up and pushed her way past the man with the groceries and joined the queue of people getting off from the back door.
It was bitterly cold and she thought she saw the first snow flurry was making its way from above. Sara lowered her head like the others and hurried to the big revolving doors of the old Simpson’s Building without bothering to retrieve her pocketed scarf. Once inside the oppressive heat hit even harder and she started to feel a little dizzy. She undid the big round buttons on her coat and when that didn’t work she took it off completely and draped it over her arm while she awkwardly tried to pick up objects of interest with her one free hand. Finally she acclimatized and put the coat back on, open. It wasn’t perfect but it would do.
Like in any good department store there were luxury, impulse-buy items near the entrance. One wouldn’t be in a mood to purchase a new watch, for instance, if the money had already gone for winter boots or underwear. Sara was perfectly aware of this ploy but it didn’t stop her from sliding her hand along the rows of shiny objects on display with veiled enthusiasm. With both hands now freed (gloves safely stowed in the other coat pocket) she fingered the necklaces of heavy silver and faux-pearls, her favorite. She took one or two off the hanging racks and tried them up against her neck experimentally. Catching herself in the mirror turning this way and that coquettishly she blushed a furious crimson, then forgot as a display of dinner rings came into view.
They were perfectly gaudy, but fascinating. Big and bold, some with dozens of tiny jewels set into intricate patterns, starbursts of yellow and gold, flowers of fake diamonds, rubies, emeralds. She thought of the parties people would wear these to, the clubs they would flash them in, a perfect accent for strappy black dresses flowing down like a breath of air over flat bellies and perfectly proportioned behinds. When they moved the rings would dazzle and play on the stems of cosmopolitan glasses, above them curious, speculative glances, watching this way and that, brushing off one or another before settling on the right one. Then she saw a particularly large gold ring with a snake winding around a gigantic red stone set square in the middle and she thought of Nate. He was grotesque, like these rings. He had shouted at her, his muumuu swaying and revealing the rise of his thigh…Bertie had killed his guinea pig! She felt a little sick remembering the tornado of blood whirling around them, and quickly turned away.
She must find a hat. And gloves, she said firmly to herself. She deserved a little something to meet the long winter ahead. But even the luxury of trying on dozens of woolen tams, cloches, felt hats with feathers and rabbit-fur earmuffs did nothing to remove the picture of Nate and his dead companion from her head. Finally she bought something dark grey and sensible and fled the store, new gloves forgone. Only the promise of hot chocolate kept her going and the chill in her bones made her want to live.
The donut shop was bright and noisy. Sara sat in a corner table by the window and watched the flurries, now thickening in earnest to the first snowfall of the season, come down in ever increasing numbers. The streets and sidewalks turned from dark grey to soft white, falling snow arcing toward the tall windows. It was so cold outside the patterned flakes stayed on the glass without melting and she put her face close to one of them. A perfect hexagon, the color of crystalline sugar webbed and strung into patterns as intricate as fine lace. Dark shapes rushed by, too early for boots, sliding and cursing the wetting and seeping coldness into their shoes. But here inside the aroma of glazed maple and honeyed dough, the steam of coffee and muted conversation she was safe, the paper cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream before her on the formica table. She held on to it, and after a while, lifted the warm confection to her lips.
Soon it would be dark, the thin day claimed by the storm pushing the sun far, far away. The invisible orb would dip toward the horizon and be gone before anyone had seen it, defeated and denied its pleasure.
Sara took for home and the shelter within. From there she would watch the snow make its way up the garden steps and fill the dying beds.
Soon the snow would cover her dreams and she would sleep.
The day hadn’t improved over Friday’s dismal showing so rather than ride her bike downtown she took the streetcar along Dundas to the downtown retail district. It was a chance to read her latest book anyway, an English mystery about a middle-aged woman who loved to wear big hats and stuck her nose into local crimes. She always seemed to be a step ahead of the local constabulary, then in some kind of peril at the end. But in this series the woman always managed to get out of any mess with her hat and dignity intact so there was always one more book to look forward to.
The streetcar was over-warm so Sara took off her old scarf and stuffed it in the pocket of her dark wool coat. The sound of the car rumbling over the tracks always soothed her. That and the regular dinging of the old-fashioned pull-cable to alert the driver that a passenger wanted to get off at the next stop. The windows in this one were also old-fashioned, vintage 1940’s as was the streetcar. She pinched the two metal tabs on either side of the frame and slid the glass up a little to let in some fresh air. In the summer these cars had no air-conditioning so they always seemed to be too close for comfort. She settled back and opened her book, careful not to make eye contact with anyone lest she be drawn into the life around her. With the windows open the sounds of traffic, the clatter of the metal wheels, and the snap-crackle of the electrical post connecting them to the rails above the street were as much a part of Sara as the contours of her room at home, and just as comforting.
Someone sat down next to her and she kept her eyes on the book, surreptitiously inching closer to the window. He smelled of curry and pushed several large grocery bags into the space beneath their feet. Sara crossly jammed her leathers closer to the heating vent below and began to regret not having taken her bicycle. She looked out the window to the low clouds, so close they seemed to be ready to settle on the rows of brick storefronts and their second floor apartments. The sky was too full, multi-layered in colors of smoke and ash, heavy with something. People on the street had finally let go of the vestiges of fall lightweights, scarves and hats in colors and tweeds peppered their outfits, collars turned up, lives turned inward. People hurried more in the cold and today they were looking up now and then, a sure sign that something was about to happen.
It was late November.
And always this way. A perfectly good day ruined by bad weather or someone pushing too close to her on the streetcar. She wanted to give a vicious kick to the groceries rubbing against her leg, the raw chicken sloshing about next to jars of heavy sauces, thick stalks of giant leeks jutting up from the confines and making her eyes water. With an audible sigh she pulled her book up in front of her face and forced herself to focus on the story. The English countryside, so verdant and peaceful. The lives of the villagers in this town, so intertwined and predictable. The frisson of the hunt for a killer…..
The streetcar lurched to a stop, bell clanging, and Sara realized they had reached Dundas and Yonge. With a yelp she shot up and pushed her way past the man with the groceries and joined the queue of people getting off from the back door.
It was bitterly cold and she thought she saw the first snow flurry was making its way from above. Sara lowered her head like the others and hurried to the big revolving doors of the old Simpson’s Building without bothering to retrieve her pocketed scarf. Once inside the oppressive heat hit even harder and she started to feel a little dizzy. She undid the big round buttons on her coat and when that didn’t work she took it off completely and draped it over her arm while she awkwardly tried to pick up objects of interest with her one free hand. Finally she acclimatized and put the coat back on, open. It wasn’t perfect but it would do.
Like in any good department store there were luxury, impulse-buy items near the entrance. One wouldn’t be in a mood to purchase a new watch, for instance, if the money had already gone for winter boots or underwear. Sara was perfectly aware of this ploy but it didn’t stop her from sliding her hand along the rows of shiny objects on display with veiled enthusiasm. With both hands now freed (gloves safely stowed in the other coat pocket) she fingered the necklaces of heavy silver and faux-pearls, her favorite. She took one or two off the hanging racks and tried them up against her neck experimentally. Catching herself in the mirror turning this way and that coquettishly she blushed a furious crimson, then forgot as a display of dinner rings came into view.
They were perfectly gaudy, but fascinating. Big and bold, some with dozens of tiny jewels set into intricate patterns, starbursts of yellow and gold, flowers of fake diamonds, rubies, emeralds. She thought of the parties people would wear these to, the clubs they would flash them in, a perfect accent for strappy black dresses flowing down like a breath of air over flat bellies and perfectly proportioned behinds. When they moved the rings would dazzle and play on the stems of cosmopolitan glasses, above them curious, speculative glances, watching this way and that, brushing off one or another before settling on the right one. Then she saw a particularly large gold ring with a snake winding around a gigantic red stone set square in the middle and she thought of Nate. He was grotesque, like these rings. He had shouted at her, his muumuu swaying and revealing the rise of his thigh…Bertie had killed his guinea pig! She felt a little sick remembering the tornado of blood whirling around them, and quickly turned away.
She must find a hat. And gloves, she said firmly to herself. She deserved a little something to meet the long winter ahead. But even the luxury of trying on dozens of woolen tams, cloches, felt hats with feathers and rabbit-fur earmuffs did nothing to remove the picture of Nate and his dead companion from her head. Finally she bought something dark grey and sensible and fled the store, new gloves forgone. Only the promise of hot chocolate kept her going and the chill in her bones made her want to live.
The donut shop was bright and noisy. Sara sat in a corner table by the window and watched the flurries, now thickening in earnest to the first snowfall of the season, come down in ever increasing numbers. The streets and sidewalks turned from dark grey to soft white, falling snow arcing toward the tall windows. It was so cold outside the patterned flakes stayed on the glass without melting and she put her face close to one of them. A perfect hexagon, the color of crystalline sugar webbed and strung into patterns as intricate as fine lace. Dark shapes rushed by, too early for boots, sliding and cursing the wetting and seeping coldness into their shoes. But here inside the aroma of glazed maple and honeyed dough, the steam of coffee and muted conversation she was safe, the paper cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream before her on the formica table. She held on to it, and after a while, lifted the warm confection to her lips.
Soon it would be dark, the thin day claimed by the storm pushing the sun far, far away. The invisible orb would dip toward the horizon and be gone before anyone had seen it, defeated and denied its pleasure.
Sara took for home and the shelter within. From there she would watch the snow make its way up the garden steps and fill the dying beds.
Soon the snow would cover her dreams and she would sleep.
posted by vallie at 10:56 AM
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