grabbed her gabardine jacket and locked up. They made their way down the stairs.
“Parents coming home soon?” Iris asked, her patent leather heels clunking down the steps behind Rebecca.
“They’ll be back next week for Passover.”
She pushed open the back door of the converted house. What little yard had existed was paved over with asphalt. Iris’ Buick and Rebecca’s Jaguar coupe stood in the waning sun. Behind the buildings opposite, a common laneway of cracked cement ran between rows of garages; their wood, grey with age, leaned in various stages of decay. Rebecca’s heart dipped at the sight of the backsides of these houses, always shabbier than the fronts, always the last resting place of things that had outlived their usefulness. The houses, made up like dowagers on the street-side, with lace trim and correct sashes in place, sagged in the rear, so to speak. Rusting tools lay where they had fallen, wood buckled from the sun. Last year’s chrysanthemums, desiccated, pathetic, crumbled sideways in overturned pots.
“Do you ever watch The Fonz?” Iris said as they stepped onto the sidewalk of D’ Arcy Street.
“The what?”
“You must’ve heard of ‘Happy Days.’ It’s on Tuesday nights. My kids watch it every week. The Fonz is this high-school drop-out with an unpronounceable name. He wears a leather jacket and does this funny thing with his thumbs.” She demonstrated, making fists and sticking both thumbs up in the air.
“Is that the one that’s set in the fifties?”
“That’s the best part. Remember the clothes? Those tight sweaters! Well, you were younger than me — I was in my twenties. They’re too happy — I know things weren’t as good as that — still, it gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling watching it.”
Maybe that was what Rebecca needed. A TV show with a laugh track. Couldn’t hurt.
The evening sun warmed Beverley Street. They passed Lambton Lodge, the mansion built by George Brown, brick-solid with its mansard roof and the windows set in. What one would expect from the founder of The Globe and a Father of Confederation. Looking up to the third storey, she wondered in which room he had died from that gangrenous wound. The violence was out of place; he’d been shot elsewhere by a disgruntled employee and carried to this gentler street to die. Lambton Lodge. Even the name was soft. It was a private school now, with trendy awnings.
They walked up Baldwin Street past the narrow painted-brick homes, their chain-link fences protecting dollhouse lawns of drab brown grass. One bore a single ragged tree; another grew patio stones end to end. The house on the corner had been painted apple green and converted into the Sun Yat Sen Chinese school.
Spadina Avenue swarmed with evening traffic. It was still bright daylight but the pedestrians on the other side were faceless in the expanding distance.
“There’s the El Mocambo.” Iris pointed north to the tavern. Its stylized palm tree sign was a neighbourhood landmark. “Did you see the picture in The Star — Margaret Trudeau hobnobbing there with the Stones? In a tavern, no less. Now that girl’s got a social life.”
Rebecca smiled at her immaculately groomed friend and turned her attention to the street. The heat rising from the cars made the air fluid. They walked toward the push-button stop-lights where even inveterate jaywalkers waited. Trying to cross the six lanes of the street without lights was a quick route to eternity.
They began to walk on the green light, but halfway across the light changed and Rebecca dashed forward. Iris trailed behind, gingerly stepping between the streetcar tracks in her elegant heels, until she reached the other side.
A truck driver stuck his head out the window. “Hey, lady, want me to get behind and push?”
She struck a pose at the edge of the road, hand on her hip, and yelled out, “That depends on what you’re going to push with!”
In the Spadina Garden restaurant Rebecca picked at her meal of spicy cashew chicken in a restless silence. In restaurants lately, the food on the menu always seemed so appetizing, until it arrived. She would take a few bites then realize she was going to gag if she ate anything. She spent the rest of the time pushing food around on her plate, hoping no one would notice she wasn’t eating. But she couldn’t fool Iris.
“No wonder I’m getting fatter,” Iris said. “I keep finishing your meals.” Once it was established that Rebecca was not going to eat what had arrived on her plate, Iris speared her fork into the chicken pieces across the table.
Rebecca tried to smile. “Maybe you need to walk around the block with me.”
“Maybe you need to eat more.” She observed her friend across the table. “You seem distracted.”
Rebecca glanced from Iris’ upswept blonde hair to an old Chinese woman walking past the window. “I’m wondering what happened to Mrs. Kochinsky.”
Iris jabbed her fork into the air. “If we worried every time a patient missed an appointment.... You need to take care of yourself. You’ve been looking pale lately. And you’re not eating....”
“I’m alright,” she cut her off.
Iris’ grey eyes turned away quickly.
Rebecca leaned forward and softened her voice. “I appreciate your concern, Iris, but I’m alright. Really. It’s just going to take time.”
She lifted her finger in the air to attract the attention of the waitress. “Cheque, please.”
Rebecca threaded her sports car in and out of rush hour traffic like an agitated teenager. She usually avoided Bathurst Street if she could but it was the fastest way to Mrs. Kochinsky’s house. A truck honked as she cut in front. The little red Jaguar XJS had belonged to David; he had been the one with a sense of panache. She never cared one way or another which car she drove as long as it got her there. Hers had been one of those beige Oldsmobiles that faded into the traffic, but when he died she had surprised herself by selling hers and keeping his.
Her father liked GM cars. He had driven a long line of Chevys till he could finally afford to buy himself an Olds. His pharmacy had thrived because he never lost his sense of humour and customers enjoyed dealing with him. Rebecca’s mother took care of the buying and kept the books. All in the family. Now that they had sold the business and retired, Mitch and Flo Temple had become snowbirds, migrating to California for the winter. They were finally wending their way home next week, thank God. Rebecca missed her father’s bad jokes, her mother’s strength and common sense. None of them felt in any condition to cook for Passover this year. David’s death had sapped everyone’s spirit and energy. So Rebecca had ordered a kosher dinner from a reliable caterer, mostly in deference to Susan and her Orthodox husband who were driving in from Montreal with the kids. Rebecca wished she were closer to her sister. She could’ve used a friend these past months. Not that Susan didn’t try. She had offered herself as a shoulder to lean on, a phone number at night if Rebecca wanted to talk. But Susan had plenty on her plate already — three kids weren’t enough to take care of? At least her husband wasn’t too traditional to help out. Just traditional enough to require paper plates for the Seder since Rebecca’s kitchen wasn’t kosher. That was all right, they all liked him. But Rebecca knew she wasn’t going to call Susan when she needed to cry at night.
Rebecca pulled into the driveway beside Mrs. Kochinsky’s duplex. Daylight clung to the street in that
