The Tender Birds, page 14
Maybe God was out of the office, but even so, it calms her to offer prayers, a kid thrown out of the house for screwing her mother’s boyfriend. No, more than that. She’s a pilgrim, looking for a homeward path, looking to draw the splinter of remorse out from underneath her skin. This is a slow and painful task, but it helps her turn her mind to others, and so in pain and adversity she prays.
At night, after she drinks cheap wine with her companions in the ravine, she prays for herself because she fears she’s gotten a taste for it. She’s afraid she will lose the path through the dark.
The Same Man
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as the hawk fled and the autumn light spilled honey on the grass, she went to wash at the community centre. Someone spat out, “Fucking street kids,” as she emerged from the lavatory. “Turning this place into a shit-hole.” But she thought to herself that this was an ignorant person, and she had grown used to offering prayers, so she’d add this man to the list.
Yet on this particular morning, while she prayed for someone who’d insulted her, she recalled the cheap wine from the night before, and started to fear its power over her. Then, as she headed back to her tent along the deserted bike path, she saw him.
The same man who insulted her.
The same man outside the church.
He carried himself with the sculpted grace of statuary. “Well-bred,” her mom once said of her own boss. “Like a horse.” The memory of her sharp words slapped the air with a warning. Smart, clean clothes, dark hair, strange, unhappy eyes — grey, like rancid butter.
“I followed you,” he said. “I wanted to apologize. “
She looked at him, a man not much older than herself.
“I want you to understand that I’m not out to harm you,” he said. He never took his eyes off her, as if he needed her reply to give him peace.
As she wondered how to answer, she recognized his face. “I met you at church,” she said.
“Yes, I recall. I’m a student. My name’s Gavin.” He paused. “Do you have email?”
“Yes. I’m Alison.”
“I took a picture of you, Alison. It’s very nice.” He pulled out his camera and showed her the image on the screen. He’d caught an expression of bewildered innocence. She looked much younger than eighteen. He took her email address and promised to send her the photo. She told him she’d print it out on her next library visit.
“Do you live near here?” she asked.
“First you must tell me why you’re living like this.” He spoke with great intensity that also felt like profound concern, as if he knew her and wanted to help her.
She felt stirred by his words, yet wary. It was personal, she explained. She couldn’t live at home anymore. She needed time to think and reflect, to read and pray. Like going on a retreat.
He paused, then spoke. “You’re not like those rummies on the other side of the underpass,” he said. “You don’t belong there.”
“For now, I do,” she said. She felt a kind of fearless relief, strength in admitting the truths of her humble life, so she went ahead and told him that the folks he called rummies were suffering souls, that he mustn’t malign her troubled friends, that they were in need of kindness. She told him about their visitor, a red-tailed hawk that perched on her sleeve, a watchful, graceful presence, sent to her through the grace of her father’s spirit.
She could see that he pitied her, that he thought she was out of her mind, that his tangled heart loved and hated everything she’d said.
“You have no one to look after you,” he whispered. “It isn’t safe to live like this.”
“My father’s looking out for me.”
“I hope so.”
He carried a great stillness, she thought, his breathing shallow, as if he were afraid yet full of longing.
Book Club
GAVIN MOORE WAS STUDYING ENGLISH at the University of Toronto in the fall 2003 semester. “I have only afternoon classes,” he said, a formal announcement that seemed odd to her, as if he were reporting on the actions of some other he. The young man lived not far from here, on Rosedale Valley Road. He came walking in the ravine every morning.
“Why don’t you come home with me?” he said. “You could have a shower, do some laundry.”
“I don’t know you.”
He looked abashed, almost confused. “What a thing for me to ask,” he said, as if he were talking to some renegade self, a cheeky character he hadn’t known was there.
As if he were reading from the wrong page of a script, she thought.
“I’m all right as I am,” she said. “Really.”
“But for how long?”
“Right now, this is my life. I love nature. I can’t bear to be indoors.” Then she told him that her father used to say we were here on earth to find God, to dwell in some deep and abiding mystery. She wanted the life of a pilgrim. Gavin listened.
“You’re a good person,” he said, his voice gentle. “Courteous and thoughtful. Not worldly, like the rest of us.” He paused. “Do you like to read?”
Yes, she told him, and he said he had loads of good books: novels, poetry, literary works; that he’d like to make up for his lack of kindness, for the harshness of his judgment by lending her something nourishing while she was living in the ravine. Out of his backpack he pulled a copy of Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilyitch, and he told her to enjoy it, to come back to this spot any day at this time, since he didn’t have morning classes.
She read it that afternoon, and when she found her way down the light-strewn trail the following morning, Gavin was there, leaning against a tree, arms folded, as if he were expecting her. When she returned Tolstoy’s slender work to him, he said, “Book club’s in session,” and then he dug inside his pouch. “Got some good weed, want some?”
“No, thank you,” she said, but he’d rolled it and lit it, and it seemed rude to decline, so she took a drag. She didn’t like it.
“I don’t want to live in a fog,” she said. “Not when I need to find my way.”
“I understand.” He finished the toke, and they talked about Tolstoy’s dying character who entered into a silent mystery at the moment of his death.
“This book was a gift,” she said to him. “Thank you.”
“Dear Alison, I have a surprise for you.”
“Another book?”
He leaned over to her, about to kiss her on the mouth, but she pulled away. “I just want to be friends,” she said.
“But you’re beautiful.” He paused. “Alison, I apologize. I should have asked first. Are you gay?”
“No.”
“Have you ever…”
“Think of me as a nun.”
“A novice? They can always back out…”
“Final vows.”
“Whatever.” Gavin shrugged, dug into his pack, pulled out a copy of Emily Dickinson’s poems and handed them to her.
“Shut away in her castle,” he said. “The cloistered life intrigues me.”
“I love her poetry.”
“My little bird in a cage,” he said. He smiled, but not with his eyes.
I Fear for You
SHE HAD ONLY MET HIM YESTERDAY, and already he’d made a pass at her. It sure isn’t because of the way I’m dressed, she thought. Her hair looked like it was cut by a chainsaw. Her jeans were ripped, her jacket sleeve’s been shredded by a hawk, and there were bloodstains all over it from the dead rat the raptor ate. She was as skinny as a hydro pole, and her clothes were falling off.
Maybe that was it, she thought. Baggy clothes. Easy to cop a feel that way.
Yet at the same time, Gavin struck her as harmless, an awkward guy with his nose in a book, clueless about girls and their feelings. She was struck by his strange combination of brains and clumsiness, his stumbling into friendship through poetry and prose, his blundering confusion and eagerness to make amends. There was nothing smooth about him. I’ve got a few rough edges myself, she thought. Remembering their encounter at the church, she had asked him how he knew such important people.
“How do you mean?” he said.
“That priest I spoke to. You knew where he was eating lunch.”
“This is sort of embarrassing,” he said. “I’ll sound like a show-off.”
“No, tell me.”
“My dad knows the president of the college,” he continued. “Dad made a donation, so he was invited to the lunch.”
Alison didn’t know what to say.
“See, I told you. You think I’m a show-off,” he said.
“No,” she replied. “I just never expected to run into…”
“…a rich guy hanging out in the Don Valley Ravine. Go on, say it.”
“No. You don’t understand. I didn’t expect to meet anyone here. I told you, I’m sort of a hermit.”
“You’re a very different kind of girl.” He looked hard at her, and then he took her hands in his and said, “I fear for you.”
No one had ever feared for her.
He was so intense. A little strange. Like her.
“My dear hawk friend, you see how weak I am,” she told the creature when it came to perch on her arm the following morning. “Last night, I dreamt about Gavin. He held me, rocked me back and forth. He said he wanted to protect me.” The hawk eyed her with supreme indifference. She was preening, removing a torn bit of flesh from her talons.
But I’ve made things clear to Gavin, she thought. Besides, it was just a dream.
Marguerite
A WOMAN THE OTHERS CALLED MAGGIE came by that afternoon. Alison didn’t care for that name, wondering what her real name was. She had heard Mike and Frieda mention her, and she assumed she must be a social worker. “She’ll be coming for you soon, my sweetheart,” said Frieda. “They check out the kids here; they like to take them away.”
Let her try, thought Alison. Yet she had no plan, no idea of what she might do if the authorities (whoever they might be) should come to remove her from the ravine. She was an adult, free to decide for herself where she wanted to live.
She sat outside her tent, reading Emily Dickinson. “Hope is the thing with feathers—/ That perches in the soul….” Then she looked up, felt footsteps crunching the autumn leaves, caught a glimpse of a pair of beige running shoes, the cheap, old-lady kind you might pick up at Honest Ed’s, then faded jeans and a dull beige nylon jacket. The woman crouched down beside Alison — pale face, long white hair drawn back in a clasp. She looked as if she belonged in the encampment, as if a large eraser had smudged her colours from the page of life. She was lugging a small thermos bin.
“My name’s Maggie,” she said.
“Is that your real name?”
“It’s Marguerite. But they like to call me Maggie.”
Alison eyed the woman. “Are you French?”
The woman said yes, that she’d grown up near Sudbury in Northern Ontario.
“My mother taught me French,” said Alison.
“And where is your mother?”
“In Montreal with her boyfriend.”
She felt Maggie’s gaze, her dark eyes betraying a deep sadness. She had an honest look that softened the planes and angles of her face.
“But she left you behind.”
“There was trouble at home. It’s partly my fault. I have to think about things.” She watched Maggie, her eyes taking in the tent, its open flap, the crucifix suspended from a metal strut, the sack of peanuts, her backpack and books. The woman explained that she was here to help, to let her know where she might find medical assistance or relief from drugs or counselling or a hot meal; that she came by every week to visit.
“I want to stay here,” said Alison. “As much as I can.”
“You like these woods, is that it?”
“My father loved the woods. He told me to come here.”
“And where is he?”
“He passed away.” She told her about the owl sent by her father who came by night to watch over her, the protective hawk her father had loved who flew to her side every morning, her task of feeding the squirrels and mice, how comforting these creatures were. Maggie took her hand in hers. “And what does your father say to you now?”
“He tells me to be patient, to see God in everything.”
“Alison, you’re very brave,” she said. And much too thin. Alison could read her face.
“Don’t make me leave.”
“I won’t do that. But I’d like to give you something to eat.” She dug into her bin, opened a thermos, and poured some hot chicken broth into a cup. Alison reached out to take it, but her hands were shaking. Maggie put the cup down, found a blanket in Alison’s tent and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Afraid of looking weak, Alison tried to stop herself from shivering. Maggie fed her, spooning the broth into her mouth.
Bird in a Cage
MAGGIE CAME TO VISIT EVERY WEEK, and she brought Alison some warm clothes, a winter overcoat and boots, hot soup and sandwiches. She was a nun, a modern one, who lived with some other nuns in a house downtown.
“Maybe you taught at my school,” said Alison. As it turned out, she learned that Maggie used to go to church in her parish; a tall, spare woman who would stand at the altar reading the scriptures during Mass.
“My dad used to say he liked the way you read,” she said. “Like you meant it.” Maggie told her that she was a student then, studying to be a social worker.
Alison lapsed into silence. She did not want to say anything that might provide the woman with a tool, however gentle, to unravel the ugly chrysalis from which she would one day emerge. Hanging from a branch, bound in frail skin, she slipped inside an invisible glass jar, a tight seal on the lid. Her safe place, whenever Maggie came.
“Do you know we’re into November?” the woman asked her. “It’s going to snow soon. You have to keep warm.”
Alison shook her head, no. She felt puzzled, that she had lost track of time, but she’d lost the little notebook-calendar where she used to mark off the dates. Yet she’d arrived here in September; she knew this because her mother had moved on Labour Day, but she had thought that only a month had passed. “I don’t know what day it is,” she answered.
“Alison, how are you feeling?” the woman asked, and she replied, “I’m fine,” but Maggie persisted. “No, I mean about your life.”
And so Alison replied, “When I came here, I thought it would be like a retreat. I enjoy the outdoors, camping with just a few things. I want a simple life. I pray to God and feed the squirrels. I’m trying to get down to what’s important, so I read a lot.” She paused. “Sometimes, I drink.”
“You’re still young,” said Maggie. “Your whole life’s ahead.”
“I don’t know how long I have,” she replied.
“Do you need help, dear?” Maggie took her hand and held it between hers while Alison thought of what her life had become, how she drank more than she used to, and how when she saw Gavin a week ago, he said, “Got some great weed, sure you don’t want to try?” and she had changed her mind, smoked up because she felt cold and lonely and the weed cheered her, and made her look at him with the hard, bright eyes of animal wanting. “My sweet little bird in a cage,” he had whispered, and she had longed for him then.
There was no help for that. She knew better than to sleep with Gavin, but even so, these were not feelings that a nun would understand, even a modern one. Yet she could sense Maggie’s eyes on her. Do you need help, dear? as if she were waiting for an answer.
Protection
HER GREATEST SOLACE WAS READING. She bought weed from Gavin and smoked it in the tent, borrowed and read his books: Joyce, Woolf, Faulkner, O’Connor, Dickinson. They would meet in the morning and talk about them, and one day, Gavin drew close and stroked her hair and told her that he was here to protect her, that she must not be afraid of him. She let herself go limp in his arms. He did not rock her back and forth as he had in her dream but held her instead like a package in the mail, delivered into his hands at last.
Snow Globe
ALISON DECIDED TO STOP DRINKING. She told the others in the encampment that she was not sleeping well. No longer putting money in the kitty for cheap booze, she saved the cash for Gavin’s quality weed. By now, she had realized that the well-read student did a lucrative business in drugs on the side, and the fact that she was no more than a client brought relief. Yet his sales tactics struck her as odd, luring her with books and conversation as a way of enticing her to try his product. She feared he might try to lure her with heroin, and she prayed to God that she would not be weak. By night, she asked the owl for protection.
One morning, she awoke to greet the red-tailed hawk in a world transformed by frost and falling snow. It was December. Maggie had given her a calendar so she could enter time, so that she could draw a line through each passing day, but Alison did not want the splendour of today to be hidden by the indifferent stroke of a pen. She had woken up inside a snow globe, suspended in a timeless moment, a glittering world transformed, an image of the soul’s transformation that she longed for.
Yet today was a Monday. Bank day; email Mom day. She spent time with the hawk, fed some peanuts to the squirrels, then took her pack and headed through the ravine to the community centre for her morning wash. Along the trail, she strode through drifts, in awe of the white silence, the dust and sparkle of snow on a squirrel’s tail, the red flash of a cardinal on a bough. Adrift as she knew herself to be, she felt at peace.
When she reached the washroom door, she found it locked.
“First of December, that’s when they lock it for the winter.” Gavin stepped out from behind the trees. “You didn’t know that?” he asked.
