the minuscule washroom to get away from her. I came back to my seat, hoping that the Inquisition was over. It wasn’t.
“Are you from Montreal?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.” I was going to have to jump off this bus. I didn’t care if it was speeding down a highway. I chose the only other option. Lurch down the aisle to the washroom again, and when the smell got to be too much, lurch back to my seat.
“How old are you, dear?”
“I’m sixteen.”
“Oh, my dear! Sixteen! If only I could be sixteen once again with all the experience I have, dear! Life would be so cool!”
Cool?
I’d never heard an old lady use that word. Weird.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
What kind of person was this? The source of my profound knowledge of the citizens of Barrie was Jul, and she had led me to believe that they were normal. Not if this lady was an example. She was odd, strange, and if I hadn’t written the word
weird
three lines up, I would have usedit again here. What was strange about her was not the persistent questioning, but the fact that I somehow felt compelled to answer. I had never needed to be told “don’t talk to strangers.”
Shy
was my middle name. By some magical force, she had me spilling my guts.
“I used to, but it’s over now. She was
verboten
”
Verboten.
I had no idea what the word meant, but I liked the way it sounded so I used it whenever I wanted to make an impression.
“Oh…I’m sorry.” She sounded puzzled. “You know, I had my first boyfriend when I was sixteen. I ended up marrying him, and we were married for seventeen years. Then he died.” She smiled at the memory, as if she were skipping over the
died
part.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, my dear. He’s been gone a great many years, now. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Just my little brother.”
“I only had the one child, my daughter. She was nine when her father died. It was a long time ago.”
I held the foil-wrapped turkey sandwich out to her.
“How kind of you. Don’t mind if I do.” She took half.
“My father died too,” I said.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to him?”
“Sorry, I have to go to the washroom.”
My hands were wet. I went to the washroom once again, but eventually I had to leave the fetid little cubicle because someone was pounding on the door. Besides, theold lady was a perfect stranger. I would probably never see her again.
I sat back down beside her and said, “My father committed suicide.”
“My poor boy.”
No surprise there. Everyone always said that when they heard the news. Poor boy, poor Francis, poor whatever.
“Do you want to know how he died?” I said. I wanted to head her off at the pass.
“Only if you want to talk about it.”
“He hanged himself in the attic.”
She didn’t say anything, just looked out the window at the cars speeding in the opposite direction. I wasn’t sure that she had heard me.
“That’s not all. Do you want to know something else?”
“Well,” she hesitated, but there was no stopping me.
“His neck was so swollen that they could only keep the coffin open for a few minutes. Is there anything else I should tell you?” I realized I was almost shouting, my hands gripping the arms of the seat.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I didn’t want to cry, so I concentrated on the bus ceiling, forcing myself to keep my eyes as wide open as possible. That’s what I usually do when I know I’m going to cry, but I don’t want to. It sometimes works.
“You must be very sad.” She put her hand on mine. “Let me tell you something. My husband did the same thing. He committed suicide too. Funny, isn’t it, howone person being gone can make the whole world seem so empty.”
The bus arrived right on time at seven-thirty in the evening. I carried her bag to the platform where her bus was due to leave for Barrie. We kissed goodbye, and she fished a small box of raisins out of her handbag.
“Raisins are
“Are you from Montreal?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.” I was going to have to jump off this bus. I didn’t care if it was speeding down a highway. I chose the only other option. Lurch down the aisle to the washroom again, and when the smell got to be too much, lurch back to my seat.
“How old are you, dear?”
“I’m sixteen.”
“Oh, my dear! Sixteen! If only I could be sixteen once again with all the experience I have, dear! Life would be so cool!”
Cool?
I’d never heard an old lady use that word. Weird.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
What kind of person was this? The source of my profound knowledge of the citizens of Barrie was Jul, and she had led me to believe that they were normal. Not if this lady was an example. She was odd, strange, and if I hadn’t written the word
weird
three lines up, I would have usedit again here. What was strange about her was not the persistent questioning, but the fact that I somehow felt compelled to answer. I had never needed to be told “don’t talk to strangers.”
Shy
was my middle name. By some magical force, she had me spilling my guts.
“I used to, but it’s over now. She was
verboten
”
Verboten.
I had no idea what the word meant, but I liked the way it sounded so I used it whenever I wanted to make an impression.
“Oh…I’m sorry.” She sounded puzzled. “You know, I had my first boyfriend when I was sixteen. I ended up marrying him, and we were married for seventeen years. Then he died.” She smiled at the memory, as if she were skipping over the
died
part.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, my dear. He’s been gone a great many years, now. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Just my little brother.”
“I only had the one child, my daughter. She was nine when her father died. It was a long time ago.”
I held the foil-wrapped turkey sandwich out to her.
“How kind of you. Don’t mind if I do.” She took half.
“My father died too,” I said.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to him?”
“Sorry, I have to go to the washroom.”
My hands were wet. I went to the washroom once again, but eventually I had to leave the fetid little cubicle because someone was pounding on the door. Besides, theold lady was a perfect stranger. I would probably never see her again.
I sat back down beside her and said, “My father committed suicide.”
“My poor boy.”
No surprise there. Everyone always said that when they heard the news. Poor boy, poor Francis, poor whatever.
“Do you want to know how he died?” I said. I wanted to head her off at the pass.
“Only if you want to talk about it.”
“He hanged himself in the attic.”
She didn’t say anything, just looked out the window at the cars speeding in the opposite direction. I wasn’t sure that she had heard me.
“That’s not all. Do you want to know something else?”
“Well,” she hesitated, but there was no stopping me.
“His neck was so swollen that they could only keep the coffin open for a few minutes. Is there anything else I should tell you?” I realized I was almost shouting, my hands gripping the arms of the seat.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I didn’t want to cry, so I concentrated on the bus ceiling, forcing myself to keep my eyes as wide open as possible. That’s what I usually do when I know I’m going to cry, but I don’t want to. It sometimes works.
“You must be very sad.” She put her hand on mine. “Let me tell you something. My husband did the same thing. He committed suicide too. Funny, isn’t it, howone person being gone can make the whole world seem so empty.”
The bus arrived right on time at seven-thirty in the evening. I carried her bag to the platform where her bus was due to leave for Barrie. We kissed goodbye, and she fished a small box of raisins out of her handbag.
“Raisins are
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