Lillian hears a voice but doesn’t know where it is coming from.
Before this interruption, she was enjoying a late afternoon mug of tea at her rusty, but still sturdy, patio table.
“Hello?” she answers back into the emptiness of her back yard.
“Will you be there long?”
Lillian swivels her head. The question came from behind the garage. A child’s voice.
“Well,” she answers slowly, “I live here, so I suppose I will be here quite a long time.”
Silence ensues and Lillian goes back to her dog-eared copy of Reader’s Digest. Its short stories, amusing anecdotes, and one-page articles are perfect for how out of sorts she is feeling today. Restless. Lillian wants to shut out all the noise and irritation and allow herself the luxury of emptying her brain and thinking of nothing all day long. Her mother used to tell her she had ants in her pants and that sums up how she feels today.
“I’m coming out now,” the voice tells her.
Lillian delicately licks the tip of her index finger and flicks the page, landing on the Word Power section, her favourite.
“Oh goodie.”
As a child this was the page in the magazine she and her father would share, quizzing each other and sounding out the words. Thanks to Word Power, Lillian fell in love with words, savouring the feel of obscure letter combinations on her tongue. Exuberant. Dubious. Impugn. Calumniate.
“Here I am,” the voice says right in front of her. Lillian looks up.
“Yes. There you are.”
The child looks to be about ten, but she could be wrong. Lillian really has no luck guessing ages of children. She fares better with teenagers. That’s what thirty-five years as a freshman English teacher will do for you. This child has pale skin, extremely curly auburn hair that circles her head like a cloud and is not much taller than Lillian’s patio table.
“Are you going to arrest me?” the child asks.
Lillian pauses and purses her lips, trying not to smile. “Doubtful.”
She gives the child one of her patented do-not-mess-with-me stares, squinting out her right eye, and closing the left. “Can you assure me you have not stolen any of my property, spray painted graffiti on the back of my garage, or knocked over my garbage cans in a random act of vandalism?”
Lillian is enjoying gently teasing the child but takes a breath, wanting to appear as serious as the occasion calls for.
The child places her hand over heart. “I solemnly swear that I have not stolen from you, graffitied your walls or vandalized your garbage cans.” Precocious. And darling.
“That’s good to hear. I will take your word for it. My name is Lillian. Who are you?”
“My name is Suzette Laframboise.” She says her first and last names en français with a distinct upper emphasis on the ette, pronouncing the end of her name properly with a soft eh. The other words are said in flawless English.
The child is beguiling.
“Well, Miss Laframboise.” Without mocking Suzette, she imitates her pronunciation of her last name, lightly trilling the fr sound. “Are you from around here?”
Lillian decides she is enjoying herself. She can’t remember the last time she spoke to a young person. Perhaps the other day when Brian from the local pharmacy dropped off her prescription, but he really isn’t that young. He had a baby seat in the back of his car, which means he is either a father or the older brother of an infant.
Suzette has turned and is pointing to the house behind Lillian’s. “See that house?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t live there. I live on the other side of that one.”
“Ah.”
“And what brings you to this neck of the woods, Suzette?”
“Hunh?”
“By this neck of the woods, I mean here, this place. My backyard. How did you end up here, behind my garage?”
Suzette stands as stiff as a statue. Lillian knows that the child is about to tell a lie. You don’t teach fourteen-year-old children for more than three decades and not know a few things about body language. She looks at the child’s hands, waiting for her to clench her fist, a sure sign of an amateur fibber. Equivocator.
“I, uh, was looking for my cat.”
“What is your cat’s name?”
Suzette thinks hard for a moment. “Kitty.”
Feeling bad that she was now tangling up this child in a web of useless lies, Lillian ends the charade. She picks up her Reader’s Digest.
“It’s been very nice meeting you Suzette Laframboise. Thank you for not vandalizing my property.”
Every Tuesday at 4:00 p.m., Lillian is joined by three friends for several games of Contract Bridge. Judy and Elaine are seventy-five-year-old identical twins who dress alike and delight in tricking people on who is who. They had their most fun fooling their students. Like Lillian, they are retired high school teachers. Judy was a math teacher and Elaine taught chemistry. Amanda is in her late fifties and teaches seventh grade. She always arrives breathless and slightly angry, insisting as soon as she walks through the door that she just needs a moment, sensing that her bridge partners are about to hurry her up. Lillian remembers her teaching days and how she needed silence and calm after the last bell.
Today Lillian is partnered with Elaine. Well, she said she was Elaine and Lillian is past trying to figure out who is who. Really. At what age do childish pranks fail to amuse and become tiresome? She accepts that it is Elaine sitting across the table from her and waits while Amanda produces a bottle of white wine from the depths of her shoulder tote. She has not stopped talking since she arrived, and Lillian is becoming impatient to start the game.
Lillian and her partner lose several hands. She is having a hard time concentrating on the game, feeling restless, again. Her mind wanders to the strange encounter with Suzette and she smiles.
“I’m sorry. What was your bid?” she asks Amanda who is sitting on her right.
“I passed.” Amanda is short with her.
Should I remind her that I am not one of her seventh-graders, or would that be rude?
“Thank you. Two clubs.”
And so it goes. Today she is grateful for the hands where she gets to sit out, not needed in the game, allowing her the mental freedom to daydream. She’s becoming bored of the sameness of her days, itching to do something weird or out of character. She feels frozen in the moment, too old to move on and not young enough to matter. In two years, she will be eighty-five, a number that is hard to fathom. Inscrutable. What if she takes up a hobby and drops dead at her third class? Imagine, finally getting to use a potter’s wheel and doing a face plant into a wet blob of clay.
“Lillian.” Amanda is leaning over, nudging her. “It’s your deal.”
The sameness of this game is driving her bonkers. She sneaks a look at the score sheet as she swiftly and neatly deals the cards around the table. Please make this the last hand tonight.
Lillian and Elaine win two rubbers, and everyone finally leaves. She locks the front door and goes to bed. It’s only 7:30 p.m.
Falling leaves, birds starting out on their winter journeys, and shorter days bring Lillian up short with the realization that another season is almost over. Time is rushing by at a snail’s pace. Aging has started to feel like a punishment that was never meant to include grace or acceptance. Sadness, mostly in the form of regret, has become her unwelcome companion of sorts.
Determined to enjoy the day, she looks around the yard. The leaves are brightly coloured and perky and hanging on for dear life. Despite a dwindling supply of chlorophyll, they are dressed up in brilliant reds, delicious tones of orange, and sublime yellows. Like a drag queen in all her glory. The three large sugar maple trees in her backyard are at a perfect stage, reminding her of last night’s episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race. She smiles. What was the name of that drag queen? Her runway look took Lillian’s breath away. Head to toe adorned in a ruby red, sequined ball gown that she’d made herself. Lillian savours thoughts of her latest guilty pleasure, watching RuPaul, the drag queens, and the weekly drama in the ‘werk’ room. Indulgence.
Today Lillian is wearing a cashmere cardigan she bought in 1971 at Bloomingdales that now has holes in the elbows and a gaping tear under the left arm. The cashmere has become more supple with age, and it warms her in the chilly fall air. Lillian often jokes that she will be buried in this cardigan but is now wondering how resplendent she’d look in her casket, laid out in a burial gown of red sequins and some gaudy costume jewelry.
“Hello.”
Lillian doesn’t open her eyes, recognizing the voice and not wanting to be bothered. She pretends to be napping. Suzette is once again behind the garage. What was that drag queen’s name? Yes! Jaida Essence Hall. Lillian is proud that she remembered.
“Hello.”
This time the voice is in front of her, and Lillian opens her eyes. Suzette is standing a foot from Lillian, almost on top of her feet.
“Hello. Are you looking for Kitty?”
“Kitty?”
“Yes. I believe that’s the name of the cat you were looking for the last time you trespassed on my property.”
Suzette’s eyes widen. “I’m not trespassing. Am I?”
Stop teasing the child. “No.”
“Oh. Okay. Good. I thought I would stop by your neck of the woods and say hello.”
Lillian smiled at Suzette’s remembrance of the expression. “Hello to you too.”
Lillian doesn’t feel like talking today. Her mind was made up to savour thoughts of a life as a drag queen, dressing up in outrageous gowns and six-inch-high heeled shoes.
Suzette leans in and peers closely at Lillian. “You seem older today.”
Lillian sits a little taller in her patio chair and looks at Suzette, searching for signs of sassy talk.
“And you are always sleeping. Are you tired?”
Lillian smiles. “Well, technically I am older than the last time you saw me. And sometimes I close my eyes to daydream. Not sleep. Do you do that?”
“Daydream?”
“Yes.”
Suzette crinkles the end of her nose, pondering this. “No. I know what it means, but I don’t think I do it.”
“Don’t you ever dream about how you could make magic? Or think about how ordinary things might be different? Like how it might feel to fly across the sky on a horse?”
Suzette pulls her head back a bit, squinting her eyes.
“That’s not possible.”
“How do you know?” Lillian teases her.
“Because I know how things work. And horses don’t fly.”
“And why aren’t you in school today?”
“I was in school today. But it’s over now.”
Lillian can’t figure out where the day has gone. Has she been sitting here all day?
“It was nice to see you again, Suzette.” Lillian stands up from her patio chair. “But I have to get ready for my friends who are coming over.” Lillian wobbles a little. Puts her hands on the tabletop to catch her balance.
“See? You are old. Old people tip over all the time. Be careful.”
“Yes.” Lillian sighs. “I am old. I will try and not tip over.” She smiles at Suzette.
The bitter scent of something burning wafts past like a yellow maple leaf floating to the ground.
“Are you sure?” Suzette is concerned.
Lillian opens her mouth to tell the girl not to worry but nothing comes out. She cannot form words. Aphasia.
What is that awful odour? Are the neighbours burning leaves. Again? No. That smells like something from a kitchen.
Yes. Burnt toast. Aneurysm?
The days are shorter and colder, but Lillian cannot bear to be cooped up where the air does not move. The doctors said she had a minor stroke, but everyone seemed more concerned with her broken wrist. The heavy cast on her right arm is making her irritable and it gets in the way. She hasn’t had a bit of fun since she fell over at her patio table.
Now she feels old. Just like Suzette said. She never paid attention to the fact that she was the oldest person she knew. Before, Lillian would tell admiring people who commented on how spry she seemed, that age was just a number. Granted, it was a number closer to the end than the beginning. She worries about death. Stupidly. She knows it won’t make a difference to her when her heart stops and her body decides it has had enough, it’ll just be the end of it.
The sugar maples are bare now. Too cold to sit at the patio table, she walks to the back of the yard, peering behind the garage. This is where Suzette would hide before calling out. She can’t remember the last time she walked back here, a mere forty feet from her back door. Looking up to the bare trees and then back to the fence, everything seems foreign to her, like nothing seems to fit, or she doesn’t belong. Discombobulated.
She hasn’t seen Suzette since the day she tipped over, and Judy and Elaine haven’t been over to play bridge. In three months, she will be eighty-four. Oh goodie. She takes off her jacket even though the temperature is close to freezing. Lillian wants to feel something. Anything. She unbuttons her blouse, exposing her chest and belly to the cold air. Invigorating.
A good sign. She must be alive.
Suzette has reappeared several times in the last few weeks and her visits are now a highlight of Lillian’s day. She looks forward to the voice from behind the garage. Lillian was not surprised to discover that the child is possessed of an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and a stevedore’s appetite for the mundane. During visits, Lillian finds herself explaining and defining words, historical and current events, and questions that come out of nowhere. On a recent visit, she gifted Suzette with her red and blue edition of Roget’s Thesaurus, which Lillian always believed was better than a dictionary. With the gift of the thesaurus, they have started a game of synonyms in honor of Peter Mark Roget.
“Salve. Salut!” Suzette calls out.
The child is speaking Latin. Lillian smiles.
“Halt. What interloper goes there?”
“It is I. Suzette. Encroacher on the lands of Lillian.”
“Show your face Suzette.”
They are also role-playing in Norman times, the historical period that has Suzette’s attention. Last Friday Suzette had declared, “Next week, we will talk about Norman times, and the French influences in England. It’s a fact Lillian, my family can trace its lineage back to Norman times. The French side.”
“Really? I was a teacher of English literature, not history. I don’t know anything about this era.”
“Fear not, Lady Lillian.” Suzette has directed that Lillian will play a tenant in chief, one of the favoured few who were granted lands in England by William the Conqueror. Lillian gets a little confused with the make-believe and games, but she goes along. Suzette denies daydreaming but has a remarkable imagination. Exceptional.
Their time together is shorter every day as the late fall days turn to winter and daylight hours wane. Suzette must be home before dark, and the sun sets at just past five now. The child is bundled in a winter jacket and wool hat that is tied under her chin. Lillian has a blanket over her legs. Today they are taking a break from playing-acting their roles as faithful servants of King William.
“Lillian, why do you live alone? Where are your children and your husband?”
“I have no children and never married. So. No husband.” Spinster.
“Does that make you sad?”
“Not really. There were two people who wanted to marry me. But I don’t think I was meant to be a wife.” Now why did she tell the child that?
“I don’t want to be a wife. Or a husband.” Suzette ponders what she has just said. “I can be either you know.”
Oh dear. “Of course you can.”
“So, if you aren’t sad, are you happy?”
The conversation jumps around a lot.
“I suppose so. Perhaps more content.”
“Jean-Paul Sartre has a view on that.”
“Sartre?”
“Oui!” Suzette says this gleefully.
Flabbergasted.
“Suzette, where did you learn about Sartre? You’re only in sixth grade.”
“I read about him. Our library at home has his books and I’m allowed to read what I want.”
“That’s admirable. You’re only ten and already you’re reading philosophy. How does that make you feel? Are you proud of yourself?” Unbelievable.
Suzette ponders this for a moment. “I haven’t thought much about that. I suppose I can be proud, but really, it’s just reading and almost everyone does it.”
“Well, you are remarkable. You should be proud of what you have achieved.”
“Happiness does not just appear, you know. Not just like that.” Suzette snaps her fingers.
Oh, the things this child says. Out of the mouths of babes.
“Yes, that is true, Suzette. Very true.”
“Aeschylus says that happiness is something you have to work at. Like learning another language.” Suzette had pronounced the Greek philosopher’s name phonetically and it took a moment for Lillian to realize who she was talking about.
“Let me guess how you ended up with Greek philosophers.”
“Sartre was confusing. So, I wanted to read something easier to understand.”
Lillian looks at Suzette. She is exceptionally bright and overly logical. Lillian chuckles. Something easier like Aeschylus? Lillian doesn’t know what to make of Suzette but thoroughly enjoys spending time with her.
The following Friday, Lillian finds she cannot get out of bed. She does an inventory of her body parts, all of which appear to be in working order. She rolls on her side, pulling the covers with her. Maybe she just doesn’t want to get up. Maybe she is finished with the ordinary. The mundane. She supposes this would be easier if she had something to look forward to. Some family to visit? Friends to travel with. It’s quite pitiful really, having three friends she plays bridge with, and a ten-year-old prodigy of sorts who visits on a whim. Amazing really, how it’s all come down to this. Pathetic. Lamentable.
We make choices that seem right at the time. She hadn’t lied when she told Suzette there were two men who wanted to marry her. But she did leave out the part about the third man who she wanted to marry but couldn’t. He was married. She refused him. Conundrum.
So here we are. A long life on her own. For what purpose? Are we meant to wait out the days, with nothing to look forward to? Lillian sleeps the rest of the day and forgets to eat.
Lillian is hearing ‘hello’, over and over again. It’s annoying and she pulls her pillow over her head, but she can’t block out the noise. Where is it coming from?
“Hello?”
Who is that? She is so tired and cannot think straight. Lillian tries to sit up.
“Dammit Judy, get in here.”
Suzette. It must be Suzette. Lillian really needs to talk to the child about her language. Dammit is not something a ten-year-old should be saying. Brazen. Cheeky.
“Suzette?” Lillian says.
“Oh no.”
“Suzette?” Why is no one answering her?
“I think she’s trying to say something.”
Goddamn aphasia.
Why can’t they hear her. Where is Suzette?
The Reader’s Digest had arrived in the mail last night. Ten-year-old Lillian is anxious with pent up excitement, waiting until after dinner when she and her father will pore over the Word Power section.
“Sit still Lillian. It’s as if you have ants in your pants.”
Lillian ignores her mother’s admonishments. Word Power with her father is her time. Her mother’s nagging can wait. Shrew.
Lillian sits opposite her father on the floor of the living room. He has the magazine open and is making a big deal of poring over the words, running his finger over the list. Tingling with anticipation. Agog.
“Oh, there are some goodies!” Her father is teasing her. “Hmmm. Let me see. Okay.”
Lillian is holding her breath.
“So, my red-headed beauty,” her father says. “Who will you be tonight? My regular daughter Lillian or will you be my prodigy, Suzette?”
Lillian loves play-acting with her father. She ponders this for a moment.
Her father urges her on. “Ready? Prêt?”
She decides. Suzette nods and snaps her fingers. “Oui! Allons y!”
