Saturday, November 25, 2006

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.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

The Theory of Big and Small III

Sara had never known Bertie to attack anything, let alone a helpless, kitten-soft guinea pig. Her happy dog, (or at least he seemed that way now), lay down on the floor next to his prize and promptly went to sleep, little bits of white fur and flesh speared on his whiskers. She couldn’t look for one second longer at the bloody lumps, dog and pig, any more than she could meet Nate’s eye. What she could see of it - a glistening orb barely visible beyond the hump of his fleshy chin was keeping its own counsel. They were all still on the floor, Nate having slumped back, arms stretched in supplication. After an interminable silence, at last came the whimpering.

It seemed she had some explaining to do.
“Bertie’s never…..”
He suddenly shot up like a dead man come to life on a morgue slab. Sara gasped and scuttled backwards until she met the wall. He had strength after all, enough to start pushing himself up on his hands, and while she remained frozen, he groaned and grunted and rolled himself over. Then he managed to get to his knees, all the while making god-awful noises.

Before she could protest he managed to stagger to his feet.

“You liar!!” she cried and got up.

“If you hadn’t killed Mabel I would have been stuck on this floor,” he retorted, breathing heavily. He turned on her. “You think that because I’m heavy that I can’t get around?” He was flushed, fists balled, feet apart. Bags of fat and flesh hung from each kneecap, falling in waves around the top of the dirty cast that extended from ankle to upper calf. The skin was mottled, angry in red whelts where he’d been pressed to the floor,

He stepped toward her, the encased leg stiff and threatening like a club.

“Stop!” She put her hands up.

“Afraid of a fat cripple!” He snorted and something flew out of nose. He looked mortified.
“Sorry…..”
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Sara moved toward the couch and found a squashed box of tissues. She edged closer.

“I really fell…..and it hurt.” Nate dropped his gaze to the floor and stood silent for a moment.
“Come on.”
He took the box offered to him and noisily blew his nose. Then he finally looked over toward where Mabel’s corpse lay.

“She was the only thing that kept me company.,…” The small voice quivered and fell into the vast abyss of his being. Everything seemed to fall into that black hole and disappear.

“What about your brother?”
“He’s at school all day and then he has to work…you know…to afford our luxe accomodations.” He gestured toward the barren walls and the lone piece of furniture in the room next to the metal bar and pulley apparatus. The walleyed couch sighed once again, tired of the critical looks.

The place wasn’t dirty, exactly. This room at least had been painted a pale cream color recently and the dark oak floors were swept. But it looked as if someone with good taste had moved on and the current occupants were living out of the contents of a Goodwill box left behind. Someone had washed the two high windows of stained glass on either side of an ornate fireplace (with cherubs of all things), and flanking the large front window were formal curtains of aging, heavy blue linen hung on wooden circlets from a matching valence. But all was dimmed by the meager light seeping around the edges of blinds and the pale eyes of privacy kept close. From their edges, only a sliver of the grey afternoon managed to penetrate the gloom.

She could see no means of entertainment in the stark surroundings. No television or computer. Something covered in a tarp showed itself at the far end, a shapeless lump hunched and quiet. Next to it a piano stool, or a doctor’s stool, because it was on wheels. Sara turned her gaze away.

“How old are you anyway?” They were still avoiding the subject of Bertie.

He gave her that sharp look again, veiled under heavy lids.

“Old enough to be home by myself, if that’s what you’re asking!”

Sara edged around, back to dog and corpse.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m old enough to vote and to drink!” He turned and clumped toward the kitchen.
“In fact, I’d like a beer…..how about you, then?”

Sara tackled him and they both nearly went to the floor.

“You’re 15 if you’re a day and you’re not going near the kitchen.” He threw her off with a bear swipe.

“Get out, now!” I don’t need you anymore and for your bloody information I’m a hell of a lot older than that!

It was the baby fat, the pearly luster, the skin of comfort and bottled milk, innocence. He pulled his mumumu closer, looking more like a sumo wrestler now than a fallen, lost innocent.

“Get out!” The roar was frightening.

Bertie took the command with a snap upwards and marched out the door, head held high.

Meekly, Sara followed.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

The Theory Of Big and Small: II

He had a clear, cunning gaze, and with it he raked her up and down in a comically obvious fashion.
“Nice.” He licked his lips.
She turned to go.
“Aww, come one!” He was whining. “You can’t possibly think that I could do anything to you?”
She blustered. It was all really too bizarre. “That wasn’t…….” They stared hard at one another.
“I’m a prick.”
She put her hands on her hips.
The dog was barking now in the dark recesses of the house. Sara looked fearfully off into them.
“He’s found something.” The boy gazed at her, more curious now. “Probably a huge spider. Or a nest of them because I have heard a lot of scratching back there”, he added thoughtfully.

Sara grabbed her handbag. The huge arms came up reflexively, with some effort. “I’m just kidding. But my brother tells me this kind of stuff all the time. He’s trying,” the cunning look was back, “to keep me out of the kitchen.”

“I doubt you could make it through the door,” Sara said before she could stop herself.
The boy laughed. It was a high-pitched sound, rippling like an electrical charge through every globule of his ample padding. “Good one…..now, can you help me up or what?”

Mollified she stood her ground. There was still the sound of barking from somewhere. Bertie didn’t sound like he was in trouble, but she had no idea what to do.
“How….?”
A large arm came up towards her, fingers wiggling.
“I’m Nate. Pleased to meet ya.”
She took his hand gingerly, trying not to lose her balance into the part of the floor that had become him.
“Sara.”
He eyed her appraisingly. “I think you’re strong enough.”
“For what?”
He pointed to a steel pole that was bolted to the ceiling and the floor. It was three feet distant, next to an enormous, ancient couch.
“I need to get to that.”
The couch was sagging in the middle, fabric and foam stretched into a bowed imprint of the shape on the floor. It looked like but for the floor it would have thinned down the middle into two halves and given up the ghost.
He lay there watching.

She moved closer to study the steel apparatus, which seemed to reveal itself as more than just a simple bar. It looked like something from a torture dungeon, with a lot of leather straps and strange pulley mechanisms.
Nate clunked a gigantic cast on the floor.
“Oh!”
“Yes, I have a broken leg.” He grunted. “You didn’t think that I was on this floor because I’m humongously fat do you?”
He waved away her answer and it as then Sara noticed the rings. Knuckle dusters. Big square jewels in shades of citrine, emerald and ruby. His fingers had grown around them like unstoppable fungus. He would die in them, she thought. They were never coming off.
He clunked his cast again.
She was aware with blushing rapidity that his legs were now splayed and the muumuu had ridden up to his upper thighs. “I……”
Bertie started to bark in earnest again and she could hear thumping and thrashing from the kitchen.
“I have to…..” she gestured toward the darkness.

There was a tremendous crash and with a Herculean strength belying his size, a growling Bertie barreled back through the swinging door furiously shaking an object between his teeth.
Sara felt a splash of wet on her cheek and went to put her hand to her face before she realized that Bertie was gnashing a huge rat and the wriggling thing was squealing and spraying blood everywhere.

She was screaming a high pitched keen of operatic proportion before she identified the source of the sound as her own but was powerless to stop it. Bertie took it as encouragement and began to dance all around the available floor space chomping and flipping the bloody thing in the air.

“Mabel!” came a louder cry from the floor and Nate’s legs scissored together with the speed of an enraged mother cow and caught Sara by the ankles. As she went down she heard distant, futile sobbing and the sound of Bertie still scrabbling to hold on to his prize.

With an superhuman roar, Nate rolled over and the floor reverberated. Spoke to Sara who was at sea, lost in the pandemonium. She heaved herself up, pushing as far away as she could from the granite of flesh, the opening grave, the blood. Somewhere her shoe.

The boy was sobbing inconsolably.

“Mabel...", he moaned, looking only at his clenched fists. His rings. Bertie was behind him, stopped for a second, more because the thing in his mouth had stopped fighting. Sara scrambled to her feet, heaving. With indignation.

“My guinea pig!” he cried out helplessly. He was staring now at Bertie who’d trotted around to show off her grisly prize. She saw that it was indeed a furry white and brown object in the dog’s mouth. It looked completely terrified and very much close to death. Rivulets of blood were coming out of the belly wounds her dog had inflicted and its tiny pink paws were jerking in spasms of pain.

“Oh, god….” Sara sank to her knees. Huge tears rolled unchecked down Nate’s face, mixing on the floor with the blood.

Bertie sat. The guinea pig went limp.

“I’m so, so very sorry…..”

Bertie grinned and Mabel fell with an unceremonious thud to the floor.