Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Asking for Flowers

Asking for Flowers – Kathleen Edwards (listen in a new tab)

Ithica Street is usually quiet by 11:00 PM on most Saturdays. This Saturday is different. The neighborhood seems busier, a little more activity, though there are more “For Lease” and “For Sale by Owner” signs than Brae remembers.

People smoke outside the front doors of the bars, Ithica’s strip of hip little holes in the walls. Most of them are fly by night. A few have survived for a few years now. The smokers talk loudly. Brae walks past them, moving in and out of the weak light from the windows. Inside, shadows clink and churn conversations. One of the smokers checks her out and casually taps his friend’s shoulder. She ignores them as she thumbs through emails on her smart phone.

She’s happy to be back in Toronto. The air is damp and familiar. Chicago was too dry, so she came back early. She is looking forward to seeing G.T. and that’s why she’s here and not sleeping at her apartment.

G.T. hadn’t answered his phone. She called K. He was a little drunk. He first reported about his couch and how comfy it was and then told her G.T. was helping Claire close the café.

She pushes open the door to Café Ulysses and is momentarily surprised that it’s unlocked.

The door chime rings absently.

Winston Churchill (Or someone like him, someone famous for power, maybe overweight from age and stress, mouth drooping with jowly wisdom), said something like that in great tragedy the ifs pile up quickly. It’s as if hindsight is the locked fire door of our memory.

In lesser matters, this adage is also true.

If Brae had come sooner. If G.T. had answered his phone. If the song on the café’s stereo hadn’t been so perfect. If it hadn’t had a one-hour melodrama’s precision, reminding her that life does not let you cut away to the next scene. Only slow time is allowed to edit.

If Claire had opened her eyes a moment or two sooner. If she had waited and locked the door before she tugged G.T. to her hips, grabbing him by the silk screened wool tie she’d bought him on a date in Kensington Market (Her hand pressed the light blue airplanes into against an 80s plaid sky.).

If G.T. hadn’t sauntered in as Claire was shooing out the last customers, swaggering in on a couple pints, with soft eyes, looking for Claire.

He’d been out with K. Maura has been gone for a few weeks now. K, for the first few days, was a dense ball of confusion and self-directed frustration. He was loosened now. But, G.T. was helping with the Saturday nights. Claire knew those can be the worst for the newly single, especially now that she and G.T. were so overtly getting to be a couple. G.T., in an act of school boy loyalty, would not let K feel like the odd man out.

If he’d stayed out drinking another hour.

If G.T. had just told Brae the truth. “When she gets back. It’s not fair over the phone.” Claire had conceded the point in good faith.

But, hindsight comes after.

When Brae walks in, Claire is firmly in G.T.’s arms. His back is to the door. Claire presses him against the cash counter. He’s lifted her up onto her tip-toes as they kiss. Hearing the door, Claire’s eyes open, her mouth still pressed to G.T.’s. Their lips, a little wet, warm from the pressure and…

She sees Brae standing there with her hands at her side, purse dangling from her left hand. Brae’s mouth is open, not gaping, slowly closing into a steel trap. Her eyes, shocked open at first, narrow.

Claire pulls her head back. “Brae.”

G.T.: “What? Really? You want to talk about that now? She’s in Chicago doing research.”

Brae: “I came back, Gregory.” Her voice is sharp, stripped of the ditsy effervescence that drives Claire insane. Her words are scraped, adult. Claire barely recognizes them as Brae’s.

At this point, G.T. practically drops Claire, who stumbles back against the sinks. He turns around. Claire watches him shift on his feet. She knows he’s trying to think of something to say.

For some reason, he takes a page from K’s book of crisis resolution tactics and tries to charm his way out. “This is awkward,” he says. Claire can only see the back of his head, but can picture his smile, in his eyes a little flicker, a façade of goof-ball congeniality.

But, his voice wavers and Brae pounces. “Not for me… In fact, it makes things a lot simpler, asshole.”

Claire is taken aback. She had never heard Brae swear in anger before. “Hey now, let’s be civil, here.”

Brae: “Hey now? I don’t want to hear from you, Miss Complicity.”

Claire backs down. “Fair.”

G.T. “Brae, I… Fair? Really?” He looks back at Claire who shrugs.

Claire: “Well, I am complicit.”

Brae: “Ok, you two. Listen very carefully to me.” She points at G.T. “You and I are very, very through. I can’t imagine how easy a fucking phone call would have been.” Then her finger darts at Claire. Brae stops, her eyes flash with rage. Her mind plays each clue like the last five minutes of an Agatha Christie film. “You. I can’t even think how I couldn’t have predicted this.” She looks for a moment like she has more to say, but then says nothing.

She wants to fall through the floor, now. She’s raged, been pithy and sharp, and now she can’t find a way to leave fast enough. Her eyes are wet. She just wants to cry.

G.T.: “Brae, I… it just happened.” He can’t think of anything better to say?

Brae: “I’m not stupid.” She wipes her eye with the back of her free hand. “Don’t call me, ok?” Her voice cracks. She turns and leaves. Forgets to slam the door.

She collapses into tears in an alley down the street, leaning against a dark brick wall where no one can see her. One of the neighbourhood stray cats appears from behind a pile of boxes. It is a wad of mangy grey fur. It comes over to her, rolls onto it’s back in front of her. Brae sits on the ground. She rubs the strange animal’s stomach as she cries. It purrs in reciprocation.