If she walks away forgetting it, he'll claim it. Inhale her, in her absence.
When can I see you? he says. The hot breeze stirs the leaves, light falls through, there's pollen all around her, a golden cloud. Dust, really.
You're seeing me now, she says.
Don't be like that, he says. Tell me when. The skin in the V of her dress glistens, a film of sweat.
1 don't know yet, she says. She looks over her shoulder, scans the park.
There's nobody around, he says. Nobody you know.
You never know when there will be, she says. You never know who you know.
You should get a dog, he says.
She laughs. A dog? Why?
Then you'd have an excuse. You could take it for walks. Me and the dog.
The dog would be jealous of you, she says. And you'd think I liked the dog better. But you wouldn't like the dog better, he says. Would you? She opens her eyes wider. Why wouldn't I? He says, Dogs can't talk.
The Toronto Star, August 25, 1975
Novelist's Niece Victim of Fall
SPECIAL TO THE STAR
Aimee Griffen, thirty-eight, daughter of the late Richard E. Griffen, the eminent industrialist, and niece of noted authoress Laura Chase, was found dead in her Church St. basement apartment on Wednesday, having suffered a broken neck as a result of a fall. She had apparently been dead for at least a day. Neighbours Jos and Beatrice Kelley were alerted by Miss Griffen's four-year-old daughter Sabrina, who often came to them for food when her mother could not be located.
Miss Griffen is rumoured to have undergone a lengthy struggle with drug and alcohol addiction, having been hospitalised on several occasions. Her daughter has been placed in the care of Mrs. Winifred Prior, her great-aunt, pending an investigation. Neither Mrs. Prior nor Aimee Griffen's mother, Mrs. Iris Griffen of Port Ticonderoga, was available for comment.
This unfortunate event is yet another example of the laxity of our present social services, and the need for improved legislation to increase protection for children at risk.
The carpets
The line buzzes and crackles. There's thunder, or is it someone listening in? But it's a public phone, they can't trace him.
Where are you? she says. You shouldn't phone here.
He can't hear her breathing, her breath. He wants her to put the receiver against her throat, but he won't ask for that, not yet. I'm around the block, he says. A couple of blocks. I can be in the park, the small one, the one with the sundial.
Oh, I don't think…
Just slip out. Say you need some air. He waits.
I'll try.
At the entrance to the park there are two stone gateposts, four-sided, bevelled at the top, Egyptian-looking. No triumphal inscriptions however, no bas-reliefs of chained enemies kneeling. Only No Loitering and Keep Dogs on Leash.
Come in here, he says. Away from the street light.
I can't stay long.
I know. Come in behind here. He takes hold of her arm, guiding her; she's trembling like a wire in a high wind.
There, he says. Nobody can see us. No old ladies out walking their poodles.
No policemen with nightsticks, she says. She laughs briefly. The lamplight filters through the leaves; in it, the whites of her eyes gleam. I shouldn't be here, she says. It's too much of a risk.
There's a stone bench tucked up against some bushes. He puts his jacket around her shoulders. Old tweed, old tobacco, a singed odour. An undertone of salt. His skin's been there, next to the cloth, and now hers is.
There, you'll be warmer. Now we'll defy the law. We'll loiter.
What about Keep Dogs on Leash?
We'll defy that too. He doesn't put his arm around her. He knows she wants him to. She expects it; she feels the touch in advance, as birds feel shadow. He's got his cigarette going. He offers her one; this time she takes it. Brief match-flare inside their cupped hands. Red finger-ends.
She thinks, Any more flame and we'd see the bones. It's like X-rays. We're just a kind of haze, just coloured water. Water does what it likes. It always goes downhill. Her throat fills with smoke.
He says, Now I'll tell you about the children.
The children? What children?
The next instalment. About Zycron, about Sakiel-Norn.
Oh. Yes.
There are children in it.
We didn't say anything about children.
They're slave children. They're required. I can't get along without them.
I don't think I want any children in it, she says.
You can always tell me to stop. Nobody's forcing you. You're free to go, as the police say when you're lucky. He keeps his voice level. She doesn't move away.
He says: Sakiel-Norn is now a heap of stones, but once it was a flourishing centre of trade and exchange. It was at a crossroads where three overland routes came together-one from the east, one from the west, one from the south. To the north it was connected by means of a broad canal to the sea itself, where it possessed a well-fortified harbour. No trace of these diggings and defensive walls remains: after its destruction, the hewn stone blocks were carried off by enemies or strangers for use in their animal pens, their water troughs, and their crude forts, or buried by waves and wind under the drifting sand.
The canal and the harbour were built by slaves, which isn't surprising: slaves were how Sakiel-Norn had achieved its magnificence and power. But it was also renowned for its handicrafts, especially its weaving. The secrets of the dyes used by its artisans were carefully guarded: its cloth shone like liquid honey, like crushed purple grapes, like a cup of bull's blood poured out in the sun. Its delicate veils were as light as spiderwebs, and its carpets were so soft and fine you would think you were walking on air, an air made to resemble flowers and flowing water.
That's very poetic, she says. I'm surprised.
Think of it as a department store, he says. These were luxury trade goods, when you come right down to it. It's less poetic then.
The carpets were woven by slaves who were invariably children, because only the fingers of children were small enough for such intricate work. But the incessant close labour demanded of these children caused them to go blind by the age of eight or nine, and their blindness was the measure by which the carpet-sellers valued and extolled their merchandise: This carpet blinded ten children, they would say. This blinded fifteen, this twenty. Since the price rose accordingly, they always exaggerated. It was the custom for the buyer to scoff at their claims. Surely only seven, only twelve, only sixteen, they would say, fingering the carpet. It's coarse as a dishcloth. It's nothing but a beggar's blanket. It was made by a gnarr.
Once they were blind, the children would be sold off to brothel-keepers, the girls and the boys alike. The services of children blinded in this way fetched high sums; their touch was so suave and deft, it was said, that under their fingers you could feel the flowers blossoming and the water flowing out of your own skin.
They were also skilled at picking locks. Those of them who escaped took up the profession of cutting throats in the dark, and were greatly in demand as hired assassins. Their sense of hearing was acute; they could walk without sound, and squeeze through the smallest of openings; they could smell the difference between a deep sleeper and one who was restlessly dreaming. They killed as softly as a moth brushing against your neck. They were considered to be without pity. They were much feared.
The stories the children whispered to one another-while they sat weaving their endless carpets, while they could still see-was about this possible future life. It was a saying among them that only the blind are free.
This is too sad, she whispers. Why are you telling me such a sad story?
They're deeper into the shadows now. His arms around her finally. Go easy, he thinks. No sudden moves. He concentrates on his breathing.
I tell you the stories I'm good at, he says. Also the ones you'll believe. You wouldn't believe sweet nothings, would you?
No. I wouldn't believe them.
Besides, it's not a sad story, completely-some of them got away.
But they became throat-cutters.
They didn't have much choice, did they? They couldn't become the carpet-merchants themselves, or the brothel-owners. They didn't have the capital. So they had to take the dirty work. Tough luck for them.
Don't, she says. It's not my fault.
Nor mine either. Let's say we're stuck with the sins of the fathers.
That's unnecessarily cruel, she says coldly.
When is cruelty necessary? he says. And how much of it? Read the newspapers, I didn't invent the world. Anyway, I'm on the side of the throat-cutters. If you had to cut throats or starve, which would you do? Or screw for a living, there's always that.
Now he's gone too far. He's let his anger show. She draws away from him. Here it comes, she says. I need to get back. The leaves around them stir fitfully. She holds out her hand, palm up: there are a few drops of rain. The thunder's nearer now. She slides his jacket off her shoulders. He hasn't kissed her; he won't, not tonight. She senses it as a reprieve.
Stand at your window, he says. Your bedroom window. Leave the light on. Just stand there.
He's startled her. Why? Why on earth?
I want you to. I want to make sure you're safe, he adds, though safety has nothing to do with it.
I'll try, she says. Only for a minute. Where will you be?
Under the tree. The chestnut. You won't see me, but I'll be there.
She thinks, He knows where the window is. He knows what kind of tree. He must have been prowling. Watching her. She shivers a little.
It's raining, she says. It's going to pour. You'll get wet.
It's not cold, he says. I'll be waiting.
The Globe and Mail, February 19, 1998
Prior, Winifred Griffen. At the age of 92, at her Rosedale home, after a protracted illness. In Mrs. Prior, noted philanthropist, the city of Toronto has lost one of its most loyal and long-standing benefactresses. Sister of deceased industrialist Richard Griffen and sister-in law of the eminent novelist Laura Chase, Mrs. Prior served on the board of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra during its formative years, and more recently on the Volunteer Committee of the Art Gallery of Ontario and the Canadian Cancer Society. She was also active in the Granite Club, the Heliconian Club, the Junior League, and the Dominion Drama Festival. She is survived by her great-niece, Sabrina Griffen, currently travelling in India.
The funeral will take place on Tuesday morning at the Church of St. Simon the Apostle, followed by interment at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Donations to Princess Margaret Hospital in lieu of flowers.
The lipstick heart
How much time have we got? he says.
A lot, she says. Two or three hours. They're all out somewhere.
Doing what?
I don't know. Making money. Buying things. Good works. Whatever they do; She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, sits up straighter. She feels on call, whistled for. A cheap feeling. Whose car is this? she says.
A friend's. I'm an important person, I have a friend with a car.
You're making fun of me, she says. He doesn't answer. She pulls at the fingers of a glove. What if anyone sees us?
They'll only see the car. This car is a wreck, it's a poor folks' car. Even if they look right at you they won't see you, because a woman like you isn't supposed to be caught dead in a car like this.
Sometimes you don't like me very much, she says.
I can't think about much else lately, he says. But liking is different. Liking takes time. I don't have the time tolike you. I can't concentrate on it.
Not there, she says. Look at the sign.
Signs are for other people, he says. Here-down here.
The path is no more than a furrow. Discarded tissues, gum wrappers, used safes like fish bladders. Bottles and pebbles; dried mud, cracked and rutted. She has the wrong shoes for it, the wrong heels. He takes her arm, steadies her. She moves to pull away.
It's practically an open field. Someone will see.
Someone who? We're under the bridge.
The police. Don't. Not yet.
The police don't snoop around in broad daylight, he says. Only at night, with their flashlights, looking for godless perverts.
Tramps then, she says. Maniacs.
Here, he says. In under here. In the shade.
Is there poison ivy?
None at all. I promise. No tramps or maniacs either, except me.
How do you know? About the poison ivy. Have you been here before?
Don't worry so much, he says. Lie down.
Don't. You'll tear it. Wait a minute.
She hears her own voice. It isn't her voice, it's too breathless.
There's a lipstick heart on the cement, surrounding four initials. An L connects them: L for Loves. Only those concerned would know whose initials they are-that they've been here, that they've done this. Proclaiming love, withholding the particulars.
Outside the heart, four other letters, like the four points of the compass: F U C K The word torn apart, splayed open: the implacable topography of sex.
Smoke taste on his mouth, salt in her own; all around, the smell of crushed weeds and cat, of disregarded corners. Dampness and growth, dirt on the knees, grimy and lush; leggy dandelions stretching towards the light.
Below where they're lying, the ripple of a stream.