A Place Apart. Maureen Lennon

      We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative.

      Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

      J. Kirk Howard, President

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      To David, with love, and in fond memory of Barney, with gratitude for all the life lessons so gloriously taught.

      CHAPTER 1

      We make ourselves a place apart

       Behind light words that tease and flout,

       But oh, the agitated heart

       Till someone really find us out.

      It could happen any time. Late on a Thursday night, after the eleven o’clock news, with the garbage pails toppled at the foot of the driveway, forgotten, abandoned to the rain and the dark; in the middle of a dead silent Sunday afternoon, the clocks ticking and the rich aroma of roasting meat and browning vegetables seeping under closed doors; at five o’clock on a weekday afternoon, just as foil-covered meatloaf leftovers were about to be lifted from the oven. Out of the blue, a voice would shrill, or glass would shatter against a hard surface. Sometimes the cutlery drawer crashed shut. More often, though, a door just suddenly, violently slammed, shaking the whole house to its foundation. If it was Sunday, and a lemon meringue pie sat cooling on the kitchen counter, you might see a shiver pass through it.

      For fifteen-year-old Cathy Mugan, waiting up in her room for the night or the weekend to end, the vibrating walls and floors always meant the same thing. But there was never anything that she could do to save herself. Her room was upstairs at the end of the hall, the last door on the left. Running was out of the question. She’d never get past her mother on the stairs. And even if she could, it wouldn’t matter. Outside, the neighbours’ blinds were drawn. Inside, there were no locks left on any of the doors.

      If it was still early, and she was seated at her desk doing homework, she would have to put her pen or pencil down because her trembling hand made writing impossible. If it was late, and she had already gone to bed, she would back closer to the wall, pull her knees up, and mound the covers around herself. Then she began to count, one-Angela, two-Angela, three-Angela, waiting for the door to her room to blast open.

      And blast open it had, right on the count of thirty, hundreds of times. As a little girl hearing what was coming, she had taken refuge in corners, wedging herself between a piece of furniture and a wall, squatting close to the floor, her thin arms covering her bowed head, her splayed hands protecting her exposed skin. But now, at fifteen, she knew these actions were futile. She needed to be behind a wall, not crouched against one. So she counted. Ten-Angela, eleven-Angela, twelve-Angela. Through the floor, she could hear the other telltale sounds: feet pounding along the downstairs hall, the closet door in the room beneath hers sliding on its rails, slamming into the wall, the tinny jangle of unoccupied hangers, the zipping sound of a belt being pulled briskly free from a pair of trousers, feet pounding again, this time up the stairs. Twenty-eight-Angela, twenty-nine-Angela. She had absolutely no memory of a time when things were different. Even her earliest, most shadowy recollections all twitched with alarm.