A Fatal Grace

FOUR

As Clara walked through Ogilvy’s she wasn’t sure what was worse, the stink of the wretched bum or the cloying smell of the perfumeries in the department store. After about the fifth time some slim young thing had sprayed her Clara had her answer. She was offending even herself.

‘It’s about fuckin’ time.’ Ruth Zardo limped over to Clara. ‘You look like a bag lady.’ She gave and received a kiss on each cheek. ‘And you stink.’

‘It’s not me, it’s Myrna,’ Clara whispered and nodded to her friend nearby, waving her hand under her nose. It was actually a warmer reception than she generally got from the poet.

‘Here, buy that.’ Ruth handed her a copy of her new book, I’m FINE. ‘I’ll even sign it for you. But you have to buy it first.’

Tall and dignified, leaning on her cane for support, Ruth Zardo limped back to her small desk in a corner of the huge store, to wait for someone to ask her to sign her book.

Clara went off and paid for the book then had it signed. She recognized everyone in the room. There were Gabri Dubeau and his partner Olivier Brulé. Gabri large and soft and clearly going to pot and loving every mouthful of it. He was in his mid-thirties and had decided he’d had enough of being young and buff and gay. Well, not really enough of being gay. Beside him stood Olivier, handsome and slim and elegant. Blond to his partner’s dark, he was picking a distressing strand of hair from his silk turtleneck, clearly wishing he could stick it back in.

Ruth needn’t have bothered coming all the way to Montreal for the launch. The only people who showed up were from Three Pines.

‘This’s a waste of time,’ she said, her short-cropped white head bending over Clara’s book. ‘No one from Montreal came, not a goddamned person. Just you lot. What a bore.’

‘Well, thank you very much, you old hack,’ said Gabri, holding a couple of books in his large hands.

‘Great.’ Ruth looked up. ‘This is a bookstore,’ she said, very slowly and loudly. ‘It’s for people who can read. It’s not a public bath.’

‘Too bad, really.’ Gabri looked at Clara.

‘It’s Myrna,’ she said, but since Myrna was across the way chatting with Émilie Longpré her credibility was lost.

‘At least you drown out the stink of Ruth’s poetry,’ said Gabri, holding I’m FINE away from him.

‘Fag,’ snapped Ruth.

‘Hag,’ snapped Gabri, winking at Clara. ‘Salut, ma chère.’

‘Salut, mon amour. What’s that other book you have?’ Clara asked.

‘CC de Poitiers’s. Did you know our new neighbor’s written a book?’

‘God, that means she’s written more books than she’s read,’ said Ruth.

‘I got it over there.’ He pointed to a pile of white books in the remainder bin. Ruth snorted then stopped herself, realizing it was probably just a matter of days before her small collection of exquisitely crafted poems joined CC’s shit in that literary coffin.

A few people were standing there including the Three Graces from Three Pines: Émilie Longpré, tiny and elegant in a slim skirt, shirt and silk scarf; Kaye Thompson, at over ninety years of age the oldest of the three friends, wizened and shriveled, smelling of Vapo-rub and looking like a potato; and Beatrice Mayer, her hair red and wild, her body soft and plump, and ill-concealed beneath a voluminous amber caftan with chunky jewelry about the neck. Mother Bea, as she was known, held a copy of CC’s book. She turned and glanced in Clara’s direction, only for a moment. But it was enough.

Mother Bea looked overtaken by some emotion Clara couldn’t quite identify. Fury? Fear? Extreme concern of some sort, that much Clara was sure of. And then it was gone, replaced by Mother’s peaceful, cheery face, all pink and wrinkled and open.

‘Come on, let’s go over.’ Ruth struggled to her feet and took Gabri’s offered arm. ‘There’s nothing much happening here. When the inevitable hordes arrive, desperate for great poetry, I’ll race back to the table.’

‘Bonjour, dear.’ Tiny Émilie Longpré kissed Clara on both cheeks. In winter, when most Québecois looked like cartoon characters, wrapped in wool and parkas, Em managed to look both elegant and gracious. Her hair was dyed a tasteful light brown and was beautifully coiffed. Her clothes and make-up were subtle and appropriate. At eighty-two she was one of the matriarchs of the village.

‘Have you seen this?’ Olivier handed Clara a book. CC stared back, cruel and cold.

Be Calm.

Clara looked over at Mother. Now she understood why Mother Bea was in such a state.

‘Listen to this.’ Gabri started reading the back. ‘Ms de Poitiers has officially declared feng shui a thing of the past.’

‘Of course it is, it’s ancient Chinese teaching,’ said Kaye.

‘In its stead,’ Gabri persevered, ‘this new doyenne of design has brought us a much richer, much more meaningful philosophy which will inform and indeed color not just our homes but our very souls, our every moment, our every decision, our every breath. Make way for Li Bien, the way of light.’

‘What is Li Bien?’ Olivier asked no one in particular. Clara thought she saw Mother open her mouth, then shut it again.

‘Mother?’ she asked.

‘Me? No, dear, I don’t know. Why do you ask?’

‘I thought since you have a yoga and meditation center you might be familiar with Li Bien.’ Clara tried to put it gently.

‘I’m familiar with all spiritual paths,’ she said, exaggerating slightly, Clara thought. ‘But not this one.’ The implication was clear.

‘But still,’ said Gabri, ‘it’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘What is?’ Mother asked, her voice and face serene, but her shoulders up round her ears.

‘Well, that CC should call her book Be Calm. That’s the name of your meditation center.’

There was silence.

‘What?’ said Gabri, knowing he’d somehow put his foot into it.

‘It must be a coincidence,’ said Émilie, evenly. ‘And it’s probably a tribute to you, ma belle.’ She turned to Mother, laying a thin hand on her friend’s plump arm. ‘She’s been in the old Hadley place for about a year now; she’s no doubt been inspired by the work you do. It’s a homage to your spirit.’

‘And her pile of crap is probably higher than yours,’ Kaye reassured her. ‘That must be a comfort. I didn’t think it was possible,’ she said to Ruth, who looked at her hero with delight.

‘Nice hair.’ Olivier turned to Clara, hoping to break the tension.

‘Thank you.’ Clara ran her hands through it, making it stand on end as though she’d just had a scare.

‘You’re right.’ Olivier turned to Myrna. ‘She looks like a frightened doughboy from the trenches of Vimy. Not many people could carry off that look. Very bold, very new millennium. I salute you.’

Clara narrowed her eyes and glared at Myrna whose smile went from ear to ear.

‘Fuck the Pope,’ said Kaye.

CC straightened the chair again. She stood dressed and alone in the hotel room. Saul had left without a goodbye kiss offered or expected.

She was relieved to see him go. Now, finally, she could do it.

CC held a copy of Be Calm and stood at the window. Slowly she brought the book up to her chest and pressed it there as though it was the piece that had been missing all her life.

She tilted her head back and waited. Would this be the year they eluded her? But no. Her lower lip trembled slightly. Then her eyes fluttered and a small lump fizzed in her throat. And then they came, racing cold down her cheeks and into her now open, cavernous, silent mouth. And she tumbled down that dark chasm after them and found herself in a familiar room, at Christmas.

Her mother stood beside a long dead and undecorated pine tree propped in the corner of the stark, dark room, a sprinkling of sharp needles on the floor. A single ball hung on the tree and now her mother, hysterical and howling, yanked it off. CC could still hear the storm of needles hitting the floor and see the ball racing toward her. She hadn’t meant to catch it. Had only put her hands up to protect her face, but the ball had landed right in her palms, and stuck there, as though finding a home. Her mother was on the floor now, rocking and crying, and CC was desperate for her to stop. Desperate to shut her up, silence her, calm her before the neighbors called the police again and again her mother was taken away. And CC was left alone, in the company of strangers.

For an instant, though, CC hesitated and looked at the ball in her hands. It glowed and was warm to the touch. On it was painted a simple image. Three tall pine trees grouped together like a family, snow nestled on the bowing branches. Below it was written, in her mother’s hand, Noël.

CC leaned into the ball, losing herself in its peace and calm and light. But she must have looked too long. A banging on the door tore her away from the three pines and back to the horror in front of her.

‘What’s going on in there? Let us in,’ the man’s voice demanded from the other side of the door.

And CC had, though it was the last time she ever let anyone in, anywhere.

Crie walked by the Ritz, stopping to stare into the plush hotel. A doorman ignored her, not offering to let her in. She moved on slowly, her boots sodden with slush, her woolen mittens hanging off her hands, the caked snow dragging them to the ground.

She didn’t care. She trudged along the dark, snowy, congested streets, pedestrians bumping into her and giving her disgusted looks, as though fat children had spread their feelings like icing on slabs of cake, and swallowed them.

Still she walked, her feet freezing now. She’d left the house without proper winter boots, and when her father had vaguely suggested maybe she wanted something warmer she’d ignored him.

Like her mother ignored him. Like the world ignored him.

She ground to a stop in front of Monde de la musique. There was a poster of Britney Spears, dancing on a hot, steamy beach, her happy backup singers grinning and gyrating.

Crie stood before the window a long time, no longer feeling her feet or her hands. No longer feeling anything.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Clara asked.

‘Fuck the Pope,’ Kaye repeated, as clear as day. Mother Bea pretended she hadn’t heard and Émilie stepped slightly closer to her friend, as though positioning herself in case Kaye collapsed.

‘I’m ninety-two and I know everything,’ Kaye said. ‘Except one thing,’ she conceded.

There was another long silence. But curiosity had replaced embarrassment. Kaye, normally so taciturn and abrupt, was about to speak. The friends gathered closer.

‘My father was with the Expeditionary Force in the Great War.’ Of all the things they thought she might say, this wasn’t one of them. She was speaking softly now, her face relaxing and her eyes drifting off to stare at the books on the shelves. Kaye was time-traveling, something Mother Bea claimed to do while yogic flying, but had never achieved to this degree.

‘They’d formed a division especially for Catholics, mostly Irish like Daddy and Québecois, of course. He’d never talk about the war. They never did. And I never asked. Imagine that? Did he want me to, do you think?’ Kaye looked at Em, who was silent. ‘He told us only one thing about the war.’ Now she stopped. She looked around and her eyes fell on her fluffy knitted hat. She reached out and put it on, then looked at Em, expectantly. No one was breathing. They stared back, waiting to hear more.

‘For Christ’s sake, woman, tell us,’ Ruth rasped.

‘Oh, yes.’ Kaye seemed to notice them for the first time. ‘Daddy. At the Somme. Led by Rawlinson, you know. Fool of a man. I looked that much up. My father was up to his chest in muck and shit, horse and human. Food was infested with maggots. His skin was rotting, sores all over. His hair and teeth were falling out. They’d long since stopped fighting for king and country, and were now just fighting for each other. He loved his friends.’

Kaye looked at Em then over to Mother.

‘The boys were lining up, and told to fix bayonets.’

Everyone leaned forward slightly.

‘The last wave of boys had gone over a minute or so earlier and were mowed down. They could hear the screams and see the twitching body parts that had flown back into the trench. It was their turn, my father and his friends. They waited for the word. He knew he was going to die. He knew he had moments to live. He knew he could say one last thing. And do you know what those boys screamed as they went over the top?’

The world had stopped turning and had come down to this.

‘They crossed themselves and screamed, “Fuck the Pope.”’

As one the friends recoiled, as though wounded by the words, by the image. Kaye turned to Clara, her rheumy blue eyes searching.

‘Why?’

Clara wondered why Kaye thought she’d know. She didn’t. And she was wise enough to say nothing. Kaye dropped her head as though it suddenly weighed too much, the back of her thin neck forming a deep trench into her skull.

‘Time to go, dear. You must be tired.’ Em put a delicate hand on Kaye’s arm and Mother Bea took the other and the three elderly women walked slowly out of the bookstore. Heading home to Three Pines.

‘And time for us to go as well. Need a lift?’ Myrna asked Ruth.

‘No, I’m here to the bitter end. All you rats, don’t feel bad. Just leave me here.’

‘Saint Ruth Among the Heathens,’ said Gabri.

‘Our Lady of Perpetual Poetry,’ said Olivier. ‘We’ll stay with you.’

‘There once was a woman named Ruth,’ said Gabri.

‘Who was getting quite long in the tooth,’ said Olivier.

‘Come on, let’s go.’ Myrna dragged Clara away, though Clara was quite curious to see what they’d come up with to rhyme with ‘tooth’. Mooth? Gooth? No, probably better if it’s an actual word. Being a poet was harder than it looked.

‘There’s one quick thing I need to do,’ said Clara. ‘It’ll just take a minute.’

‘I’ll get the car and meet you outside.’ Myrna rushed off. Clara found the small brasserie in Ogilvy’s and bought a panini and some Christmas cookies. She also bought a large coffee, then headed for the escalator.

She was feeling badly about the homeless person she’d stepped over to get into Ogilvy’s. She had a sneaking, and secret, suspicion that if God ever came to earth He’d be a beggar. Suppose this was Him? Or Her? Whatever. If it was God Clara had a deep, almost spiritual feeling that she was screwed. Getting on the crowded escalator up to the main floor Clara saw a familiar figure descending. CC de Poitiers. And CC had seen her, she was sure of it.

CC de Poitiers gripped the rubber handrail of the escalator and stared at the woman getting on at the bottom. Clara Morrow. That smug, smiling, self-righteous villager. That woman always surrounded by friends, always with that handsome husband, showing him off as though it was more than some freak of nature that she’d landed one of the Montreal Morrows. CC could feel a rage building inside her as Clara approached, looking so wide-eyed and happy.

CC gripped harder, willing herself not to launch herself over the sleek metal divider and onto Clara. She balled up all her rage and made a missile of it and, like Ahab, had her chest been a cannon she’d have fired her heart upon Clara.

Instead, she did the next best thing.

Turning to the man next to her she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Denis, that you think Clara’s art is amateur and banal. So she’s just wasting her time?’

As Clara passed CC had the satisfaction of seeing her smug, arrogant, ugly little face crumple. A direct hit. CC turned to the baffled stranger beside her and smiled, not really caring whether he thought she was nuts.

Clara got off the escalator in a dream. The floor seemed a very long way off and the walls receded. Breathe. Breathe, she ordered herself, a little frightened that she might actually die. Murdered by words. Murdered by CC. So casual and so cruel. She hadn’t recognized the man next to CC as Fortin, but then she’d only seen pictures of him.

Amateur and banal.

And then the pain started and the tears, and she stood in Ogilvy’s, the place she’d been yearning to enter all her life, and wept. She sobbed, and lowered her precious presents to the marble floor, and placed the sandwich there and the cookies and the coffee, carefully, as a child places food for Santa. Then she knelt there herself, the final offering, a tiny ball of pain.

Amateur and banal. All her suspicions, all her fears had been true. The voice that whispered to her in the dark while Peter slept hadn’t lied after all.

Her art was crap.

Shoppers swirled around her, no one offering to help. Just as, Clara realized, she hadn’t helped the vagrant outside. Slowly Clara gathered herself and her packages up, and shuffled through the revolving door.

It was dark and cold, the wind and snow now picking up and surprising her warm skin. Clara stopped to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

There, under the window, still slumped on the ground, was the bum.

She approached the beggar, noticing the vomit had stopped steaming and was frozen in place. As she got closer Clara became convinced the beggar was an old woman. She could see a scraggle of iron-gray hair and thin arms hugging the crusty blanket to her knees. Clara bent down and caught a whiff. It was enough to make her gag. Instinctively she pulled back, then moved closer again. Putting her weight of bags on the ground she laid the food next to the woman.

‘I brought you some food,’ she said first in English, then in French. She inched the bag with the sandwich closer and held the coffee up, hoping the bag lady might see it.

There was no movement. Clara grew concerned. Was she even alive? Clara reached out and gently lifted the grime-caked chin.

‘Are you all right?’

A mitten shot out, black with muck, and cupped itself round Clara’s wrist. The head lifted. Weary, runny eyes met Clara’s and held them for a long moment.

‘I have always loved your art, Clara.’