“So there’s nothing more?”
“No, nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Give me a minute to smoke this.”
Out in the open air, Doris perched on the rim of the cement fountain. A nagging wind rippled the fabric of her dress and whisked strands of long blondish hair, while her leather jacket lay draped over her chair in the coffee shop. She embraced herself and rocked to and fro; drawing hard on her cigarette, she glared at the smoldering tip as if daring it to go out.
Doris was being assailed by flashbacks of painful ordeals, Glen ventured to guess. Either that or she was wondering how to break free from her date with a dull, sermonizing bore. In any case, Glen liked to think he could spot another desperate and unhappy soul when he met one. With Doris, though, it was plainer than day.
“Here I am,” Doris said returning to their table. Glen was tempted to remark on her recklessness: today she had left home underdressed, in a leather jacket she had left unbuttoned top to bottom; yesterday, when paying him a visit, she had worn even less outdoors. But the cold, the discomfort, the suffering: that was the whole point of it, it seemed.
Doris fiddled with the clasp of her purse and extracted another cigarette, which she stared at solemnly. “What you said earlier,” she said. “I like to read but don’t have your background, your kind of intelligence. I doubt I'd ever get what you do out of the Bible.”
“You’re being modest. Sure you could.”
“I have a hard time grasping deeper meanings.”
“Anyone can read the Bible on their own. It's written for that.”
“But there is something I know—know for a fact. We hear all the time the Bible’s supposed to be a holy book, and it's used in church so clearly it's believed to be edifying.” Doris still held the cigarette, her fingers stiff as carved wood; for the time being, the lighter remained in her purse. “But there’s a hatred of women in that book. It’s no wonder Christians everywhere have such an intense hatred of women. The Bible teaches it.”
“You can make a case for misogyny in the Bible, and many people do,” Glen replied. “Just as long as you don't think that's all there is to it.”
Doris dismissed him. “Hateful stories targeting women. One almost thinks people try to forget these stories exist, but the church leaders read them and pass the hatred on to the masses. It's in their sermons every Sunday. That’s how the mechanism works.”
So she did know the Bible, Glen reflected—though in her own terms. Her hostility had a clear feminist inflection and Glen hoped she wasn't one of those women. He had no idea how to deal with a feminist, except to take off fast in the other direction.
“There are elements of sexism,” Glen said. “But it's not a hateful book altogether. There are things like wisdom in it, and insight.”
Doris sneered, “It’s hate!”—she gulped, stood abruptly.
Glen jumped up too.
“Off to set myself on fire again,” Doris said, forcing a smile.
“Should I come along?”
“You quit,” she said, leaving a second time without her jacket.
Doris puffed through three cigarettes, one right after the other, as the wind tossed her hair into disarray. She flicked distractedly at the fine lassoes, brushing them out of her eyes. Glen thought the scene begged for a hero to come to the rescue: this tragic, woebegone soul.
The dark-haired youth Glen had noticed earlier remained on the steps, the October weather not fazing him one bit. He resembled a happy hiker on a mountain top. Standing and clearing his things away now, he appeared about ready to set off—or move in on the woman sitting alone at the fountain below. He was definitely casting glances Doris's way. Glances possibly lustful in nature. Was this the suspect masculine attitude Doris had been referring to? And at its roots, did it represent something as extreme as a hatred of women? Not merely a disregard for women or a crude sense of entitlement, but full-fledged hate?
Glen hopped up to open the door. Doris brushed past him and went straight to the washroom. When she returned, her eyes were red and veiny. She’d been crying.
“Doris, you don't look well. What's wrong?”
“Don't fret, it's nothing you've done.”
“I can see something is upsetting you.”
“Just something you don't know about me.”
“There is a lot I don't know.”
“One thing in particular you don't know.”
“Maybe you’d like to tell somebody?”
She snatched up her purse, signaling the date was over. Glen wanted to protest: he could take her out to dinner. They might keep talking somewhere else.
“Can I at least walk you home? Make sure you get back okay?”
“You’ve been a proper gentleman coming all the way out here.”
“I might as well see you the rest of the way home.”
“You've come far enough.”
“Can we meet again sometime?”
“After a bit of time has passed. We had a nice chat today.”
“Then I’ll call you. Soon.”
Halfway to the Skytrain station Glen turned around. But Doris had already rounded a corner. So there would be no romantic backward glance, no last minute wave like on a successful first date, because he was a man, a beast—lewd, vile, and misogynistic, and Doris a woman who knew all about it. “Calm the fuck down,” Glen muttered to himself.
Arriving at the Skytrain station near his home, Glen was still cursing the way he had performed at the coffee shop. But there was no point beating himself up over it, he thought. The whole awkward mess was behind him now. And Doris Keppler, too, he was certain of it. What reason did she have to want to meet again? In a few days he would call, if only to give her the chance to officially brush him off, and that would be that.
Entering the front door, the phone rang.
Doris Keppler, her voice small.
Chapter 16
Glen loathed the bridge spanning the Fraser River. The four lanes were too narrow for cars, let alone the trucks and buses which also traversed its length. He feared being hit by another car and sent spiraling down into the currents below. Those cold, turbid depths.
Then came Whalley—on the other side of the river, up top the hill—whose notoriety as a crime-infested suburb put Glen on alert. He sat up at the wheel and scanned his surroundings warily. But evidently the drug fiends and petty criminals had taken the night off. They had either gone to bed in their cardboard shelters, or huddled around burn barrels somewhere staving off the night's chill. The sidewalk on both sides of the street appeared fast asleep.
Doris’s description of Whalley rang true. In the residential area, Glen saw derelict houses boarded up and broken into; lawns cluttered with rickety furniture and kids toys; motorcycles dismantled in the middle of driveways and old junk heaps turning to rust up on blocks. He cruised past a field behind a school and spotted there a half-dozen makeshift huts, as well as stolen shopping carts laden with shabby belongings.
Doris lived in a single-story house enclosed within a fence and concealed from the street by a row of Douglas fir. Wind teased the foliage and combed the grass in the yard.
“You’ve got the nicest lawn on the block,” Glen said at the door.
“The only one not dug up by a dog.”
“You’ve done a terrific job.”
Doris wore baggy slacks and a loose blouse—a tent in muted colors, what people put on to hide how unsightly they felt. There was nobody to impress here at home.
“I made you come all this way,” she said.
“Not a problem. Everything okay?”
“Twice in the same day. You're a very patient man.”
“It was a pleasant drive from town—quiet, pleasant.”
Doris led Glen down a hallway towards the rear of the house. In the bedroom, the horizontal blinds were tightly drawn and thin slits of outside light made the two of them just barely visible to each other. Glen watched transfixed as Doris slid onto the ash-tone bed. He
r wondrous long hair looked pearlescent spilling over the pillows. Although Doris was a big woman, the queen-sized bed gave her plenty of space.
God, are we actually about to do this? Glen wondered. Does a woman call a man to her house and ever not plan to do this? But he hadn't picked up on any signals that this was going to happen. Christ, you're on! Don't jam up—take it nice and slow.
“Keep your clothes on,” she whispered.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Stay dressed.”
On the bed, Doris pushed backwards into his arms. The embrace was awkward for Glen until she shifted to let an arm slide under her waist. A soft but decisive hand then clasped his fingers and guided them towards a breast—God, everything going too fast.
They both lay there. Confusion assailed Glen's thoughts—so what was the next step? Pull off her top? Pull down her slacks? If he undressed would she do the same? He wanted to take charge but stalled. “I’m a nervous person,” he said.
“Nervous?”
“I’m just—”
“Rub it on me.”
“Rub it?”
Glen didn't move a muscle, once more dumbfounded by the instructions. The anxious inertia stretched out to what seemed like minutes. His lover begin grinding her buttocks into his crotch, which shriveled his erection. Soon she had mashed his penis into a marshmallow nub.
“Doris,” he began, apologetic.
A hand clasped his wrist and tugged his arm downward—the rest of his body followed. “Closer,” she said over her shoulder. Now his cheek was pressing against the small of her back. This threw him off even more. Don't be shocked. Do your best. Countless other couples are doing this right now. Stupid, stupid.
“Here, there—there,” Doris said.
“I’m not following.”
To Glen's relief, she literally took the situation in hand, producing a full-length erection in seconds. But surely more was expected of him—there had to be. Real lovemaking, some show of technique. She had to know by now this was his first time.
How the fuck do we fuck through our clothing?
Doris let go her hand. She ground her ass into Glen's lap again—Glen remembered her striding across the plaza earlier, a Doris so sensational, so magnificent, he'd wanted to make love to her right on the spot. But the act itself baffled and it was agony thinking he might end up disappointing, that despite being the fantastic woman she was, Doris Keppler wasn't woman enough. Not enough for him to overcome himself, that one crucial thing.
Shit! Stop thinking. Don’t tell yourself what to do.
No good. It's no good.
Doris left his embrace and rolled onto her back. She stared up at the ceiling and sighed. Glen needed her not to give up. Don't ever give up, he wanted to tell her.
“Shall we try again later?” he asked.
“What can you possibly be thinking?”
Doris had a false impression of him. She had expected something normal: normal sex. They should try to communicate, Glen thought. Words might help if they didn't hinder.
“It’s been a while,” he lied. “I’m out of sync.” But there had been no last time. Anxiety was his lifelong mistress. Glen saw himself as a useless lump on the bed. He had no idea what step to take next—what a devastating letdown this was turning into. Coming over tonight had been a horrible horrible mistake. Bad luck. Shitty luck.
Minutes passed. Doris let him caress her cheek and run a hand through her hair. It saddened Glen to think he had ruined things. Might they not shed their clothes and go all the way? Naked skin was the answer; yet he hesitated to ask, afraid to spoil that as well.
“I’ve been alone now for a long time,” he said. “I’ve become a total klutz in bed but you’re amazing. Truly amazing.”
“I’m chunky,” Doris countered flatly.
Glen hated himself for reducing Doris to this—how ironic that she was feeling inadequate. He fingered the side-zipper on her slacks. She flinched as if poked with a pin.
“It’s nice. Can we?”
Doris seized his hand to keep it from wandering. Glen extended only his forefinger and lay its tip on her upper thigh. The touch of skin was electrifying.
“Isn’t it nice like this?”
“Wait,” she ordered.
Time passed. Doris's grip opened.
Chapter 17
He awoke—that very instant Doris sprang from the bed and dashed out of the room. It was as if she had just remembered she'd left something on a hot stove. Glen was anyway glad to have a moment to himself. Some quiet time to evaluate the developments so far. The lovemaking had been a mess of mislaid limbs and fumbling about, all mainly due to his inexperience—but Christ! the sex had dropped on him out of nowhere, completely blindsided him, and knocked him flat on his ass. He was no lover.
He had predicted an evening spent talking and learning more about Doris Keppler. Afterwards, a sofa to sleep on. Everything strictly platonic.
Dawn's glimmer shone through the blinds. Glen pondered their lovemaking again. Cupping Doris's breasts. The ecstasy of being inside her. An abrupt, pleasure-giving orgasm. And the bungled foreplay before that? Disastrous but over with for now. However, the idea of postcoital chit-chat unnerved him and he hoped Doris would take the lead there, just as she had during their conversation in the coffee shop. More than anything else, right now he wanted to go back home, where he could review the night’s events, contemplate the conclusions drawn, and return to Doris a more self-confident man later. In a certain sense, remade.
The bedsheets smelled faintly of semen. He had unloaded a dose of himself into the fleshly casing of another human being. Into the velvety sheath Doris had run off with. How weird thinking of it like that. Likely, she was dealing with matters in the bathroom right now.
In a novel he had once read, it was called a douche.
“Hello, Doris?”
The door was locked. That was a surprise.
“Hey, is something the matter?”
Glen pressed his hand flat on the door, testing the wood's thickness.
“Hey, the door's locked, Doris.”
There was movement on the other side. Glen instinctively took a step back. Okay, he thought, did he give her a warm hug or put his clothes back on first?
Doris bust in—in a mad fury.
She bashed Glen on the shoulder.
“Jesus! Fuck!”
Doris hit him as he ducked. She hit him as he squirmed against the bed—striking his femur and hip bone and ribs and back. Fuck! A fucking cooking pot! Glen jammed his head under the bed to protect his precious skull. Then a dull gong sounded on the hallway floor.
She'd chucked the thing, it was over.
Silence, he was alone.
Glen waited before rising to his feet. He had no idea how badly hurt he was, but badly. Especially his shoulder from that vicious first blow. Wincing, sipping air through clenched teeth, he gathered up his clothes. He dressed using his one good arm.
“Goddamned bitch! Unfuckingbelievable!”
Sitting on the corner of the mattress, Glen’s mind became a scramble of wild thoughts. Doris was a fucking predator! She hated all men, targeted the losers. She kept an eye out for obvious ones, seduced them with a lot of jumbled signals, before beating them to a pulp in a violent rage. Doris lived for the brutal coda that consummated intimacy in bed: revenge, punishment. Because all men hated women, they all deserved to be beaten.
Yanking his belt out of its loops, Glen imagined punching her. Wrapping the leather around his fist, he planned to slug Doris in the mouth—cut lip, broken teeth, blood. If she came at him with another kitchen utensil—a steak hammer, a meat fork—that's what he'd do.
Glen walked up the street to where he had parked the car. His shoulder hurt like hell. The bone had to be broken, or at least cracked; the shoulder socket might have been shattered. Doris had put every ounce of strength she owned into that tremendous first blow.
But slamming the car door shut, a fragment jarred loose from
Glen's memory. He recalled the cooking pot coming down on him in the bedroom's dim lighting. Doris's eyes ablaze not with a berserk rage but terror, sheer terror. In that split second she had feared him.
Glen picked a direction and drove. On a nearby street he spotted Doris in pajamas, a rose-patterned bathrobe, and yellow sneakers—a nutcase plodding down the gravel shoulder. What would the local deviants make of a woman roaming around in a getup like that? Glen tailed her in the car, headlights on low beam, hoping she would quickly run out of steam and return home. He prayed no police showed up to hassle her, to humiliate her.
Doris was a fucked-up defective like him. He would see her back home and deal with any deadbeat motherfucker who dared approach her.
Glen’s lower lip trembled. His throat tightened.
Us misfit fuck-ups gotta stick together.
Chapter 18
Glen watched Doris boot open her front gate and march up the steps to her house. Fists balled up at her sides, she resembled an alter ego come to give herself a stern talking to. The robe and pajamas she had on now expressed a misery that betrayed the impression she wanted so desperately to create with the stylish outfits she wore. This will be our secret, Glen assured her. I'll tuck the image away and never think of it again. He left the car and crossed the street.
Daylight didn't give away any secrets in the yard. Pausing inside the gate, Glen pictured Doris pushing a lawn mower in neat circles then dumping the clippings into a compost bin. He had yet to see the back of the property but bet there was a shed there with a mower all gassed up and ready to go. Glen saw himself in the weeks and months to come—the start of his and Doris's new life together—taking over all of the yard work. He understood something now for the first time in his life. The simple, selfless desire to pamper a sweetheart.
“I'm here for my timepiece,” Glen said, when Doris opened the screen door. “I think I left the thing somewhere near the bed.” He hid the gnawing pain in his shoulder and stood as straight and tall as his shoulder and neck allowed—hopefully she hadn't spied him hobbling across the street from the car. But by no means would he reveal any sign of weakness. The brutal beating he had taken that morning was not to become a distraction.
Doris's lips were bloodless. Her nose a thin blade. She spun around and rushed to the bedroom. Once she was out of sight, Glen snuck into the house after her, veered into the kitchen and took a seat at the table with his back facing the balcony’s sliding glass door. The room was alarmingly spick and span. On the countertop, wiped to a hockey-rink shine, a polished toaster sat next to a bright wooden breadbox—and not a crumb to be seen anywhere. The sink faucets appeared to have been installed yesterday. Two diamond-shaped potholders hung above a gleaming white oven. But the immaculate tidiness was a cover-up, Glen had no doubts on that score, for the psychological mayhem beneath the surface.