Night, / As a feather is wafted downward / From an eagle in his flight.’ ”
“That’s nice,” she said. “John loves that one.”
“Where’s John?”
“He isn’t home yet.”
“Read more.”
“ ‘I see the lights of the village / Gleam through the rain and the mist, / And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me / That my soul cannot resist: / A feeling of sadness and longing, / That is not akin to pain, / And resembles sorrow only / As the mist resembles the rain.’ ”
The wetness on Effie’s cheeks caught her by surprise
.
“That’s enough reading,” Mrs. Gillis said. “You come with me now. I have the supper on.”
“I have to wait for Duncan.”
“We’ll leave a note for Duncan.”
The second major snowstorm of 1999 moved in on Wednesday night. By noon on Thursday, media reports of chaos in the streetshad generated hysteria at city hall. The mayor of Toronto asked the federal government for help. The federal government, with tongue in cheek, Effie was convinced, sent in the army: four hundred soldiers armed with brooms and shovels, backed up by a mechanized brigade of snowploughs. Effie found it all hysterically funny, but she was also grateful that she was able to stay home, marking exams, while the less fortunate were forced to flounder to their dreary offices.
JC called her on the Friday night. His voice was subdued. He wasn’t feeling well, he said. A bit of flu. He was lying low, but he wanted her to know that he planned to go away on Monday for a while. Heading south.
It was a great idea, she thought, and she told him so. Cuba or Barbados would be lovely. Even just the Keys. She envied him. He corrected her: he didn’t plan to go quite that far south. He’d asked the office for a leave of absence, and they’d consented to four months. He was going to go to Texas for a week. Hang out in Huntsville, spend some time with Sam. He was going to try to get his head around what was really happening there.
“At the very least, it might be healthy to get a little perspective, spend some time with someone worse off than I am.”
She choked off the logical response: “How can you compare your life with his?” Once upon a time she would have said it, spontaneously. But she also knew that she would quickly have regretted saying it, and that the injury inflicted by her words would far exceed the insult that she felt.
She asked if he’d be coming by before he left. He didn’t think it would be wise, he said, to risk passing on whatever bug he had.
“I was out of line the other night,” he mumbled.
“I understand,” she said.
“Sometimes I’m a bit—I don’t know.”
“It’ll be okay.”
Saturday night she attended the symphony. She wasn’t particularly fond of classical music but found a deep resonance in the musical themes and rhythms of certain serious performers and composers. The program on Saturday featured violin concertos by Antonio Vivaldi, and he was one of those composers who, at times, evoked a rare serenity and memories of her father seemingly transported to a place of harmony as he listened to the local fiddle players.
The invitation had come from a history professor whose husband was down with the flu and who didn’t want to waste expensive tickets. After the performance, they had a quiet drink on King Street, not far from the concert hall, then she dropped her colleague at her condo near St. Lawrence Market.
Driving up Jarvis on her way home, Effie noticed a man standing at the corner of Carlton, waiting for the light to change. Even before his face confirmed it, she knew it was JC. He’d said he was preparing to leave town, to go to Texas. He wasn’t well. Why was he there on a seedy part of Jarvis? He was a long walk from where he lived, but maybe not for a man who was working through the challenge of a mid-life crisis. She decided not to think about it any further.
But at home she felt restless. The post-concert glass of wine sat like a sour scum
“That’s nice,” she said. “John loves that one.”
“Where’s John?”
“He isn’t home yet.”
“Read more.”
“ ‘I see the lights of the village / Gleam through the rain and the mist, / And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me / That my soul cannot resist: / A feeling of sadness and longing, / That is not akin to pain, / And resembles sorrow only / As the mist resembles the rain.’ ”
The wetness on Effie’s cheeks caught her by surprise
.
“That’s enough reading,” Mrs. Gillis said. “You come with me now. I have the supper on.”
“I have to wait for Duncan.”
“We’ll leave a note for Duncan.”
The second major snowstorm of 1999 moved in on Wednesday night. By noon on Thursday, media reports of chaos in the streetshad generated hysteria at city hall. The mayor of Toronto asked the federal government for help. The federal government, with tongue in cheek, Effie was convinced, sent in the army: four hundred soldiers armed with brooms and shovels, backed up by a mechanized brigade of snowploughs. Effie found it all hysterically funny, but she was also grateful that she was able to stay home, marking exams, while the less fortunate were forced to flounder to their dreary offices.
JC called her on the Friday night. His voice was subdued. He wasn’t feeling well, he said. A bit of flu. He was lying low, but he wanted her to know that he planned to go away on Monday for a while. Heading south.
It was a great idea, she thought, and she told him so. Cuba or Barbados would be lovely. Even just the Keys. She envied him. He corrected her: he didn’t plan to go quite that far south. He’d asked the office for a leave of absence, and they’d consented to four months. He was going to go to Texas for a week. Hang out in Huntsville, spend some time with Sam. He was going to try to get his head around what was really happening there.
“At the very least, it might be healthy to get a little perspective, spend some time with someone worse off than I am.”
She choked off the logical response: “How can you compare your life with his?” Once upon a time she would have said it, spontaneously. But she also knew that she would quickly have regretted saying it, and that the injury inflicted by her words would far exceed the insult that she felt.
She asked if he’d be coming by before he left. He didn’t think it would be wise, he said, to risk passing on whatever bug he had.
“I was out of line the other night,” he mumbled.
“I understand,” she said.
“Sometimes I’m a bit—I don’t know.”
“It’ll be okay.”
Saturday night she attended the symphony. She wasn’t particularly fond of classical music but found a deep resonance in the musical themes and rhythms of certain serious performers and composers. The program on Saturday featured violin concertos by Antonio Vivaldi, and he was one of those composers who, at times, evoked a rare serenity and memories of her father seemingly transported to a place of harmony as he listened to the local fiddle players.
The invitation had come from a history professor whose husband was down with the flu and who didn’t want to waste expensive tickets. After the performance, they had a quiet drink on King Street, not far from the concert hall, then she dropped her colleague at her condo near St. Lawrence Market.
Driving up Jarvis on her way home, Effie noticed a man standing at the corner of Carlton, waiting for the light to change. Even before his face confirmed it, she knew it was JC. He’d said he was preparing to leave town, to go to Texas. He wasn’t well. Why was he there on a seedy part of Jarvis? He was a long walk from where he lived, but maybe not for a man who was working through the challenge of a mid-life crisis. She decided not to think about it any further.
But at home she felt restless. The post-concert glass of wine sat like a sour scum
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