CHAPTER eleven
Weekends were my favourite time. Two whole days to myself, away from the office. I was planning my Friday evening as I pulled out of the parking garage and eased my way into rush-hour traffic. The traffic was at a standstill and I took a couple of deep breaths to get my mindset into the weekend. Any other night of the week and my blood pressure would be rising because of the gridlock. Friday nights I didn’t let it bother me. I used the time to plan out what I wanted to do and what needed to be done. The things that needed to be done were easy - housecleaning, laundry, grocery shopping. I could get those things done in a couple of hours and have the rest of the time for goofing off.
My mind was wandering when the gentleman in the pick-up truck behind me gave me a blast on his horn. I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw him waving his fist because I hadn’t jumped the intersection on a yellow light. I was in no mood to fight so I ignored him. Probably a good move, I thought, when he pulled out around me, squealed his tires and sped through the intersection still waving his fist. The only thing missing from the gentleman’s truck was his gun rack.
I arrived home in record time for a Friday night. A mere fifty-five minutes. I could have made it in twenty if I’d used public transit but I couldn’t give up my status symbol, my parking pass.
I parked my car at the back and dragged myself and my briefcase up the walk at the side of the house to the front. I lived on the third floor of an old house that had been converted into three apartments. I was dead tired as I walked up the front steps onto the porch and into the small lobby. I thought about having another cigarette before I tackled the stairs but decided I’d save that reward if I made it without coughing up a lung.
My apartment smelled stuffy and reeked of stale cigarette smoke. I dropped my jacket and briefcase in the front hall and headed into the living room to open some windows. I gave a nervous, sideways glance at the fishbowl to see if Snapper the Fourth was still alive. I hate facing death straight on and I wasn’t up for any shocks. I was relieved to see he was swimming around as usual and fed him a few morsels of fish food. My luck was holding.
I grabbed an overflowing ashtray and dirty coffee cup off the desk and took them into the kitchen. No time like the present, I thought. I emptied the ashtray and started loading all the dirty coffee cups into the dishwasher. I tried to reach the window over the kitchen sink and found myself balancing on my stomach on the counter with my feet off the floor and one hand in the kitchen sink. I vowed to ask Santa Claus for about three more inches in height this Christmas.
I gave up my balancing act and hooked my foot around a small step stool beside the stove and dragged it over in front of the sink. I felt like the king in the castle standing on the top step of the stool and was able to unlatch the kitchen window and open it. I turned around and surveyed my domain and was disgusted to see dust bunnies on top of the refrigerator.
I decided to get out of my work clothes before I started on my manic cleaning routine and headed for the bedroom where I stripped off my clothes and peeled off my control top pantyhose. Now that’s relief. The pain we go through to look good. After fumbling around in the pile of discarded clothes on the floor I found my sweatpants and an old shirt. Clothes were sorted into two piles, laundry and dry cleaning. I stripped the bed and added the sheets and pillowcases to the laundry pile. I was on a roll.
I considered myself lucky because I had a washer and dryer in my apartment. I loathe doing laundry and the chore became more hateful every time I had to schlep to the laundromat so a couple of years ago I made the plunge and bought an apartment size, stackable washer and dryer. Technology at its finest. A load of whites went in first and I grabbed the plastic dishpan that held all of my cleaning supplies and marched off to battle.
By the time I finished cleaning it was nine o’clock. I sat on the couch, lit a cigarette and looked around me. Beautiful. My stomach was calling and together we thought about dinner. My mind inventoried the food in the fridge but my stomach was yelling for pizza. I couldn’t argue.
Tony’s Pizzeria, in my opinion, was one of the best in Toronto. Alfredo answered the phone.
"Tony’s Pizzeria," he said with a thick Italian accent.
"I’d like to speak to Tony," I said in a thick Irish brogue.
"Tony’s not a-here, can I a-help you?" Alfredo replied.
"Hi Al, it’s Kathleen." I dropped the phoney brogue. Tony had never existed but this was a game we played every time I called. Alfredo was Puerto Rican but had a great, just off the boat, Italian accent when it suited him.
"K-k-Katie, beautiful Katie, you’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore," he sang. I cut him off before he finished all three verses of the old wartime song.
"I’m hungry," I stated.
"The usual?" he asked.
"Oh yeah," I drawled and the saliva in my mouth started up as I thought about the sauce on the pizza, lightly spiced and the gooey cheese. "Just mushrooms and lots of cheese," I reminded him.
He sounded insulted that I had to remind him. "I know, I know," he said. He dropped his voice a little and said in his sexiest voice, "So when are you gonna let me take you out for a real meal?" This was another game we played.
I lowered my voice and whispered into the phone, "Ooh Alfredo, you name the time. Just let me know when your wife can line up a baby-sitter, or better yet, bring all the kids and your wife, and we’ll make it a real party," I laughed.
"Pizza’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Ciao baby."
I was chuckling as I hung up the phone. I headed to the kitchen to set the table and find my purse to pay the delivery boy. He arrived in about eighteen minutes and I tipped him generously.
I opened the top of the box and breathed in the aroma. I served myself a slice, put my napkin on my lap and dug in. Although I don’t cook, I believe in the formality of dinner time so food prepared by someone else gets the same treatment in my house. I wolfed down two slices before I started to slow down.
After I ate, I curled up on the couch with a new book and covered myself with an old quilt. The breeze coming through the open French doors was chilly but I loved the crispness of the air. The apartment smelled clean and the breeze from outside was fresh. I was in heaven.
I studied the cover of the book. A woman with long, flowing auburn hair was locked in a passionate embrace with a man who looked like he could anchor the evening news on network TV. She was wearing a low cut, peasant-style blouse which exposed the tops of her breasts. I wish.
The book was a fast read and I skimmed through about three chapters before I stopped to light a cigarette. The story was similar to the dozens of other novels I had read - poor woman, rich man. They meet, they argue, they secretly pine for each other and eventually end up locking lips in a mad embrace at the end of a particularly nasty argument.
I thought about why I read these books. Always looking for my knight in shining armour and reading these books kind of kept the fantasy alive. Reading for me was pure escapism and I justified my habit by reminding myself I didn’t drink or take drugs. Cigarettes and romance books. My two vices. Probably time to clean up my act.
I heaved myself off the couch and stood looking out the front windows to the street below. I was restless and had nagging feelings which I tried to pinpoint. I had frantically cleaned my apartment and ate my dinner like a stevedore. My planned and forced relaxation on the couch hadn’t lasted long. As usual, I was avoiding things.
Evelyn’s death hung over me. As trite as it sounded, it made me sad. Sad is an emotion that usually doesn’t have any backbone and it’s hard to define. My whole body started to ache with sadness, thinking about her. The more I thought about Ev, the more restless I became. I paced in the living room and ruined the nice look of the freshly vacuumed carpet. I couldn’t understand her death. Why did she have to die? I had been avoiding thinking about her all day by keeping busy and now I didn’t have anything to keep me occup
ied. The book bored me. I checked the TV Guide to see if there were any sports on the television and as usual, I came up empty. Friday night sitcoms and news shows. Forget it.
I phoned Danny. I hadn’t talked to him since last night. The phone rang a couple of times before he answered.
"Hello." He sounded tired.
"Danny, it’s Kathleen. How’re things?"
"All right, I guess." The tone of his voice told me I would have to carry the conversation.
"Is there anything you need? How are your brother and sister?" I asked.
"They’re fine. The neighbours have been in and out with food. There’s nothing I need right now."
"Danny, when’s the funeral? Have you set the time yet?"
"No, they’re not releasing the body. The doctor said they have to do an autopsy to determine the cause of death."
I was surprised. "I thought she died from a reaction to nuts."
"When I spoke to the doctor this morning, he said the cause of death was undetermined so they had to do an autopsy. He said they’re backed-up at the morgue so it could take a couple of days." He paused. "I just want to bury her." He started to cry softly.
I felt helpless and didn’t know what to say. "It’ll be okay Danny. Take it easy. Is there anything I can do? Is there anyone there with you?" I asked.
"Jonathan’s here. Elaine left a while ago to go home. I’m all right Kate. I’ll call you if I need anything. I gotta go."
I said good-bye to a dial tone.