― Erich Maria Remarque
I’ve never been overly sentimental, or tried to hold onto the past. I think it’s because attachment inevitably leads to disappointment—you want things to remain the same, which they never can, and so you’re wounded by your own feelings and resentful that others don’t seem to care.
I’ve never owned a house or squatted on a bit of property long enough to build up an attachment—consequently, I’ve never had to go on sentimental journeys revisiting a place that was no longer mine.
If I ever got sloppy and maudlin, it would be for the streets of my childhood—but common sense won’t allow it. No self- respecting writer should ever eulogize a slum.
I had been for drinks with Evelyn and knew it was a mistake. Seeing her too often raises tender feelings, and inevitably I return home disappointed, and remain keyed-up for days—unable to get her image out of my mind.
But as I said, I acted on impulse—again.
We were sitting in a lonely little bar in The Beach—an area of Toronto that had recently become very chic and high end—but was always for me, just a memory of working class families trying hard to get by.
Can you ever take a child out of a slum?
“You can always come back to the paper, Richard—we need a competent book reviewer.” Ev is saying.
“Yes, and I could always entertain Camus’ philosophical question—whether or not to commit suicide.”
“Oh, c’mon—we had a lot of good times.”
She was right—we did. But even then, I would go home nights, lie on my bed and fantasize about a life with her.
How terrible, those dreams before sleep were—the worse kind, mixing hope with despair.
“Earth to Richard,” she teased, eyes shining, glass held aloft to clink with mine.
Drink to me only with thine eyes. I wonder if Jonson loved Celia. I wonder if I love Evelyn.
We clink glasses and thunder rumbles in the distance. She’s brought an umbrella. I’ll walk her home in the rain—Probably not—that’d be too awkward.
Where did we go wrong? —But don’t ask that—you know the answer to that question. You asked and she refused—better a little love, than no love at all.
“Stormy weather,” she muses, a dreamy look on her face. “Did you bring an umbrella?”
Of course, I didn’t. I shake my head and stare out the window at the rain dimpling the streets.
“You can take mine," she offers, "—I’ve only a short walk.”
I know her street with its towering Maples that form a canopy. She could walk home virtually dry—but I refuse.
“Don’t be silly—if it’s bad, I’ll call a cab.”
“I have to run,” she smiles, a pained look in her eyes. I love her hair—it reminds me of dark trees at night that move upon the sky.
Her willowy fingers brush mine and her lips blur across my forehead.
“Sleep well, Love,” she whispers.
I watch her go, and then, pause outside and unfurl her umbrella. She gives a little wave and buttons her overcoat against the wind. And then she’s gone—out of my life—laughter’s glow on her lips.
It hurts. Part of me wants to run after her—the other part follows her down rain-beaded streets—as a detached observer.
I swallow my Medoc and get up to go.
There’s no streetcars or cabs, so I start to walk. It’ll be a long walk back to my Rosedale flat—one bedroom, an eat-in kitchen, and a bathroom. It serves my purpose.
It is what it is.
An hour later, I’m soaked to the skin and the rain is pelting down heavily. I pass the Dooley Estate—a Victorian house abandoned for a long time. The huge porch is a possible refuge.
I glance about, but no one’s on the street, so I scale the fence and run up the walk to the safety of the verandah.
It’s a nice house, perched high above the ravine. The city lights are milky through the haze and remind me of an ocean liner fog-bound.
I squat down, my back against the brick wall, longing for a cigarette, though it’s been years since I’ve had a drag.
Somehow, the situation calls for a smoke. I chuckle inwardly to myself, and zip up my parka, against a wind that now has turned chill.
I’m sitting there, thinking of Evelyn and me, rehearsing our struggles and pain. It hurts, so I close my eyes.
She walked in one day to the newsroom—smiled at me and blew the dust off my life—but where it went from there, I have no idea.
Now I’m a man adrift, simply waiting for the rain to end.
"It’s a lovely view from here, Walter."
I come out of my dream and look around. I distinctly heard someone talking—a woman’s voice—but there’s no one.
I peer in the darkened windows of the house just to be sure. Utter emptiness and desolation.
It’s abandoned all right.
Normally, I’d be spooked out, but I’m not. There’s an aura here and I kind of like it. It’s peaceful.
An arm of lightning illumines a cloudy geography. It reminds me of bombers in the night.
Where is Life taking me? I wonder but can’t help being intrigued