There was a cozy room behind the door, its two small tables littered with overflowing ashtrays. A stained orange love seat was shoved against the far wall. A tall man with a droopy moustache was already in there, attempting to pace, but he could barely manage two steps without bumping into a wall or table. He glanced up when she entered, then he looked down again abruptly. Baffled, she peered more closely at him and realized his lips were moving, though he wasn’t saying anything.
The door behind her swung open. “Poet? The poet’s next.”
The tall man stared straight ahead, shoulders back, then he strode past both the director and Sassy.
“You Sassy? You’re after him.”
Sassy’s mouth was suddenly as dry as dust. As she unpacked her guitar, she glanced around the room and spotted a couple of empty glasses with a half bottle of vodka standing behind them. Upon inspection, the glasses weren’t entirely clean, but she figured alcohol would kill the germs and her jitters. With shaking hands, she poured an ounce or so into one of the glasses and slugged it back.
“Liquid courage,” she told herself, closing her eyes as the booze burned down her throat.
Slightly calmer, she sat on the orange love seat and tuned her guitar, rotating the pegs to make sure everything was as exact as it could be. Beyond the door, she heard the drone of the poet speaking on the microphone, punctuated by the occasional cough and scattered applause. The audience had to stay quiet so they could hear him, but the lack of noise made Sassy nervous again. She shook out her wrist so blood rushed to her fingers, then she practiced a little, soothing herself.
The director popped his head in. “Sassy? It’s time.”
He left her in the wings, and while she waited she took in the sea of faces, obscured by cigarette smoke. A dozen or so pairs of glasses reflected the stage lights as heads bobbed along with the poet’s words. She doubted she knew anyone out there, other than Davey. She was on her own tonight.
When the poet finished, he lifted his face toward the light and stretched out his hands. The room rewarded him with a round of applause.
In a blur, the director called her name, then Sassy was under the lights, buzzing with adrenaline. She was aware of wolf whistles, but she was too preoccupied with climbing onto the high stool they’d set out for her to react. Finally settled and with her cheeks burning, she reached for the microphone and flinched when feedback squealed through the speakers. She spotted Ed standing at the side of the room, arms crossed, waiting to judge her, and she felt a little smug. She hadn’t fallen in line with his little “audition,” but she would win him over with her music.
“Sorry! Sorry about that,” she said, pulling the microphone closer and squinting against the bright lights. Her voice sounded unexpectedly loud to her, but she was thrilled with how clear the sound system was. “Um, thank you, everybody, for being here and for letting me sing for you. Like he said, this is my first time here. I’m hoping it won’t be my last.”
“You got it, babe!”
Davey had escaped the kitchen and was sitting up front. She gave him a grateful wink then turned her attention back to the audience. A deep breath brought back her confidence, and she dropped her gaze to her fingers, already placed where they were supposed to be. She knew how they would move, how they would feel, how the vibrations of the strings would accompany her voice. How her heart would sing. After days and months and years of practice, she was ready.
nineMARION
Marion spotted something on the floor outside her apartment door and picked up her step, curious. She smiled, realizing it was a potted plant packed with bright orange flowers. She knew immediately who had brought the gift. On the floor beside it was a note.Calendula. For the balcony. Water every Tuesday, not too much.Cheered by the thought, she carried the pot into the apartment and set it down before taking care of the hungry cat winding around her ankles. She’d slip a thank-you note under the Levins’ door later.
“Yes, yes,” she murmured, squatting to pet Chester. “Just a minute.”
She placed his bowl of food on the floor, and the cat lowered himself into a comfortable position, digging into his supper as if he hadn’t eaten in a year. She carried the flowerpot to the balcony and placed it on her little table so she could see the blooms through her window. This was the third plant her neighbours had given her. Besides this one and the geranium already on the balcony, she had a very healthy spider plant in her living room. She must have done something right with it, because babies had begun to spring from the mother plant. She had to remember to ask Mr. Levin what to do when it got too big.
She liked the different hues that the plants brought to her apartment.Since she had moved in, she had done nothing to build upon the apartment’s original bland, understated shades, but the vivid green helped. Maybe that could be the beginning of a colour scheme, she thought. She didn’t have much of an eye when it came to art or design, but she reminded herself that this place was only for her. She could do what she wanted.
She had a little time before Paul arrived, so she poured herself a cup of tea and flipped on the television to distract herself. The Zenith colour console television set against her living room wall had been the first unnecessary item Marion had bought for her apartment. At first she had considered the cost to be exorbitant. Especially since she had been watching black-and-white television for so long and learning the same information. Why spend on something needless like that? But after seeing the first colour television broadcast last April, she couldn’t resist. People suddenly appeared more like they should, not like black-and-white cardboard cutouts. She walked past an electronics store almost every day on her way to work, and she’d admired the television screens in the window, flickering with colour. One day, she gave in to the store’s siren call.
Now she turned on the news and almost immediately wished she hadn’t. It was always the same: a mishmash of explosions, protests, sirens, ambulances, and speeches from scowling public figures.
As awful as the conflict was, the phenomenon of what she was watching was fascinating. The concept of a faraway war raging in this exact moment in time—while she sat here, sipping tea in peace—seemed absurd. The human race had always fought and always would. Countries, continents, religions, races: cavemen fighting over scraps and territories, the Greeks in Troy, the Crusades, the War of the Roses, the French Revolution, both world wars, Korea, and now Vietnam. In school, she had studied the conflicts, and yet it wasn’t until recently, with the television screen broadcasting reality at her, that she fully comprehended the scope of what humans could do to each other. What they were still doing. Television had opened the world’s eyes to so much.
Chester hopped onto the couch beside her, rubbing insistently against her side, but Marion’s eyes were glued to the screen.
Tonight, she watched Vietnam footage taken by a cameraman who had followed soldiers into a river of thigh-deep brown water, sharp-edged grasses trembling a foot above their helmets. Even in the river, Marion could tell the men were sweltering. They had stripped to vests and trousers, offering their bare arms and necks to the swarms of mosquitoes. The camera followed them into the gloomy depths of the jungle, winding through thick, twisted knots of trees, and she couldn’t help wondering how anyone could tell where they were going in all that. How could they defend themselves against hidden attackers? The television screen closed in on a soldier squatting by a tree, and it came to her that his hands seemed small, clutched around the stock of his gun. When he unknowingly faced the camera, she saw his soft face and frightened eyes, masked by filth. He looked too young even to shave. Much too young to be in a place like that, killing other boys.
Daniel Neumann had been there. What had he seen? What had he done?
When she couldn’t ignore the ticking clock any longer, Marion turned the television off and got dressed for dinner. She had decided to wear her light blue dress with the pleated skirt, because it was simple and comfortable. She’d wear her white cardigan as well, since she didn’t want to encourage Paul by going sleeveless. He had told her to watch the street for his shiny blue Chevette, so she unlatched the door to the balcony and stepped out. She placed her palms on the banister’s smooth surface and dropped her gaze to the ground, where a hint of warm summer air whispered through the cherry trees.
Seeing them, she recalled John’s simple request to go home so he could touch the leaves. Right now, he was safe within the walls of the hospital, waiting for supper, or possibly visiting the physical therapy room for exercise. That was exactly where he should be.
The sad truth was that there was nothing simple about his request. If John—or rather,whenJohn was discharged from the hospital, he would not have a home. No one would take him in. There was no way his family would be able to handle him while carrying on with their own lives. John was a sociopath with chronic antisocial behaviour and a complete lack of empathy.Not all sociopaths were dangerous, but John had a history. He showed no sign that he either understood or cared that he had killed the rabbit that day in his memory, or that he had stabbed his father.
Recently, Marion had received a memo reminding physicians to update their files with regard to the hospital’s eventual closure, sections of which had already begun. Marion had not been informed of specific dates, but she knew it might be a matter of a few short weeks before John and the others were discharged. She had put off responding to the memo for as long as she could. Every time she picked up her pen to write down the specifics of her patients, she put it down again, weak with cowardice. She should have spoken up long ago. She should have gone to Dr. Bernstein to register her deep concerns. If she had brought Paul with her as a witness, regardless of how he felt about both her and the issue, Dr. Bernstein would have been forced to listen and write down Marion’s arguments.
She would have told him so many important things.
