[Note: If you want to start reading this novel from the beginning, go here.]
As Constance merged onto the 401 from the Don Valley Parkway and headed east, she pressed down on the accelerator. The tiny stretch in the arch of her foot felt good, and that feeling in turn directed her attention toward a glimmer of optimism in the grey-woolly cloud of pointlessness that normally characterized her thoughts.
While even one bright spot was welcome, over the past several years of increasing desolation, she’d experienced such glimmerings — sometimes they were sharper, more like “sparklings” — before. She had even occasionally (as in this case, if she were honest) taken to engineering their appearance herself, rather than just waiting for them to show up unexpectedly in the post or by phone or email. They made her feel good for a moment, in the manner of a first infusion of good scotch into her system, but she knew better than to put much faith in them. After a time they’d burn themselves out or scatter beyond her reach.
Constance considered it a sign of health or at least of life that she hadn’t entirely given up on hope: she still sought out those little sparks, or worked to make them happen. Perhaps she was “hopelessly addicted to hope,” as some song had once said – or should have said. She believed hope to be an essential attribute of a certain kind of writer – the kind she was herself. But, given their temporary nature, seeking or engineering such bits of optimism was not enough: you had to do something that would breathe them into viable life, and do it quickly before they vanished. And that required energy. That she had summoned enough of it today to get herself properly dressed and out into the city was worth celebrating of itself: it had been months since she’d done that. But now she had to figure what she would do next. She needed to make a plan.
About half an hour from home, snow began to fall and Constance’s thoughts turned to the winterizing Bart still needed to do before their annual parting glass (which would probably feature the aforementioned scotch: Laphroaig or something like it, hers straight up, his demeaned through the addition of ice and ginger ale). That’s when they would do their bi-annual settlement of accounts, and she would hand him an envelope with a few hundred dollars in it – money that he would use up over the winter as he cleared her snow on his own schedule and paid himself at whatever rate he found appropriate. Before then, the last of the garden pots and tools would need to be stowed in the shed behind the house, and he’d want to bring the snow shovels and brooms out into the verandahs front and back. She’d thought he was intending to dig up some of the glads and dahlias and wrap and store them for the winter, but he hadn’t mentioned that again since they’d talked about it in early September; maybe he’d forgotten about them or perhaps he’d changed his mind.
There used to be a final raking to do at this time of year as well, but a couple of years ago the two of them had agreed that they should leave the organic detritus for the comfort of insects over winter. Long ago, when she’d first bought the house, there’d been storm windows to put in each autumn as well, but the royalties from her books had been steady and substantial then and early on she’d installed replacement windows, double-glazed.
With the amount of snow coming down, increasingly as she left the highway and headed south toward Ajax, it looked as though it was too late in the season for raking anyway. Bart Samoil, an unkempt man with a raggedy long beard and ponytail who resembled either a leftover hippie or a lumberjack or possibly even a homeless person depending on the day and context, and whose strength in his late fifties exceeded that of most men in their twenties, worked his several odd jobs on his own timeline, getting to her place either when he could or when he felt like it – she was never sure. In an ideal world, he’d have done the final work of the season at least three weeks ago. Now the ground had grown cold and this new winter was not likely to retreat again. But he was as irascible as she was, and she let him have his way in most matters, out of fear of losing him.
As she pulled into her driveway, she was pleased to see that the timers for the living room and bedroom lights had functioned properly. Especially now, with the snow falling through the darkness onto the trees and lawn surrounding it, the two-story house with its grey-green siding and white porch posts and shutters looked occupied and inviting. Her heart did a little turn of satisfaction at the sight of the little nest she’d created for herself. If anything, the bouts of imprisonment during the pandemic had affirmed the rightness of her long-ago decision to purchase property this far from the city.
She gave a small grunt of discomfort as she reached into the trunk of her car for the few things she’d picked up in town: they included a new queen-sized bedspread and two brightly coloured pillows for the couch in the rental suite downstairs. The suite had been empty since a month or so before the first lockdown started, but she’d posted the unit again on Craig’s List earlier in the week: she couldn’t afford to leave it empty any longer. The house needed new shingles and a few other repairs and updates, and her writing income had been waning for too many years. She told herself that it would be nice to have the sounds of another human in the house, and might even prove practical if she should take a tumble down the stairs or in the shower. Not that she intended to do those things: she may have some arthritic moments, but she wasn’t old enough yet to lose her balance and be unable to recover.
She went up the steps to the verandah, unlocked the front door and stepped inside, stamping the snow off her shoes. She felt a moment of relief at being home again. She’d been worried about going to the reading and had nearly reneged on her arrangement with Jayda to attend. For almost a decade — probably since around the time that her agent had stopped pretending to represent her — readings and writers’ gatherings had left her in despair, even physically nauseated. After attending one, it would take her days or weeks to recover enough that she could write again. The pandemic had provided a welcome reprieve from such encounters — it had been more than two years since she’d felt obligated to go anywhere, especially to an indoor gathering. But now she had, and this time she felt almost certain that a connection had been forged that could be constructive, even beneficial, to her future.
She surveyed the inside of her head and found the bit of optimism she’d noticed in the car. It was safe until Thursday, when she and Sarah had agreed to meet for coffee and after that, who knew? It was in part up to her what happened next, and she had two days to think about it. It hadn’t even occurred to her to make such an arrangement with Sarah until the moment before she’d done it, just as she hadn’t realized that talking with the younger writer might be a brilliant idea until half way through the reading. But she had done it, and she was pleased. This itself could be seen as a corner for the better, turned.
It was almost seven and she was ravenous. After hanging her coat in the front closet, she pulled a leftover serving of tuna casserole from the fridge, along with some romaine lettuce, a cucumber and a tomato. But before she started turning the assembled food items into her evening meal, she was distracted by the sight of one of her notebooks on the table – the one most like a traditional journal, although it was far from a diary. She sat down at the round kitchen table, pulled the notebook toward her, opened it, picked up the ballpoint pen that she kept inside it like a bookmark, and started to record her thoughts.
© Mary W. Walters