of hers.
“Did you really say that?”
“I think so.” Her eyebrows go up, her mouth crimps at the edges. “At least, if I didn’t, someone did.”
I lift her hand—I can’t help myself—and kiss her fingertips.
“And what’s that for?” she asks, still smiling.
“An attack of poignancy.”
“A serious new dietary disease, I suppose,” Ivy says, and at that moment the steward arrives with our lunch trays.
Ivy and I have been to Vancouver fairly often on business trips or for holidays. This time it’s different; in three months we’ll be moving permanently to Vancouver, and now the two of us are engaged in that common-enough errand, a house-hunting expedition.
Common, I say, but not for us.
We know the statistics: that about half of all North Americans move every five years, that we’re a rootless, restless, portable society. But for some reason, some failing on our part or perhaps simple good fortune, Ivy and I seem to have evaded the statistical pattern. The small stone-fronted, bow-windowed house we bought when Christopher was born is the house in which we continue to live after twenty years.
If there had been another baby, we would have considered a move, but we stayed in the same house in the middle of Toronto. It was close to both our offices and close too to the clinic Christopher needed. Curiously enough, most of our neighbors also stayed there year after year. In our neighborhood we know everyone. When the news of my transfer came, the first thing Ivy said was, “What about the Mattisons and the Levensons? What about Robin and Sara?”
“We can’t very well take everyone on the street along with us.”
“Oh Lordy,” Ivy said, and bit her lip. “Of course not. It’s only-”
“I know,” I said.
“Maybe we can talk Robin and Sara into taking their holidays on the coast next year. Sara always said—”
“And we’ll be back fairly often. At least twice a year.”
“If only-”
“If only what?”
“Those stupid bulbs.” (I love the way Ivy pronounces the word stupid: stewpid, giving it a patrician lift.)
“Bulbs?”
“Remember last fall, all those bulbs I put in?”
“Oh,” I said, remembering.
She looked at me squarely: “You don’t mind as much as I do, do you?”
“Of course I do. You know I do.”
“Tell me the truth.”
What could I say? I’ve always been impressed by the accuracy of Ivy’s observations. “The truth is—”
“The truth is—?” she helped me along.
“I guess I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?” Her eyes filled with tears. This was a difficult time for us. Christopher had died in January. He was a tough kid and lived a good five years longer than any of us ever thought he would. His death was not unexpected, but still, Ivy and I were feeling exceptionally fragile.
“Ready for what?” she asked again.
“For something,” I admitted. “For anything, I guess.”
The first house we look at seems perfect. The settled neighborhood is dense with trees and shrubbery and reminds us both of our part of Toronto. There are small repairs that need doing but nothing major. Best of all, from the dining room there can be seen a startling lop of blue water meeting blue sky.
I point this out to Ivy; a view was one of the things we had put on our list. There is also a fireplace, another must, and a capacious kitchen with greenhouse windows overlooking a garden.
“And look at the bulbs,” I point out. “Tulips halfway up. Daffodils.”
“Lilies,” Ivy says.
“I think we’ve struck it lucky,” I tell the real-estate woman who’s showing us around, a Mrs. Marjorie Little. (“Call me Marge,” she’d said to us with west-coast breeziness.)
Afterward, in the car, Ivy is so quiet I have to prompt her. “Well?”
Marge Little, sitting at the wheel, peers at me, then at Ivy.
“It’s just,” Ivy begins, “it’s just so depressing.”
Depressing? I can’t believe she’s saying this. A view, central location, a fireplace. Plus bulbs.
“Well,” Ivy says slowly, “it’s a divorce house. You must have noticed?”
I hadn’t. “A divorce house? How do you know?”
“I looked in the closets. Her clothes were there but his weren’t.”
“Oh.”
“And half the pictures had been taken off the wall. Surely you noticed that.”
I shake my head.
“I know it sounds silly, but wouldn’t you rather move into a house with some good”—she pauses—“some good vibrations?”
“Vibrations?”
“Did you notice the broken light in the bathroom? I’ll bet someone threw something at it. In a rage.”
“We could always fix the light. And the other things. And with our own furniture—”
Ivy is an accountant. Once I heard a young man in her firm describe her as a crack accountant. For a number of years now she’s been a senior partner. When this same young man heard she was leaving because of my transfer, he couldn’t help ragging her a little, saying he thought women didn’t move around at the whim of their husbands anymore, and that, out of principle, she ought to refuse to go to Vancouver or else arrange some kind of compromise life—separate apartments, for instance, with weekend rendezvous in Winnipeg.
Ivy had howled at this. She’s a positive, good-natured woman and, as it turned out, she had no trouble finding an opening in a good Vancouver firm at senior level. As I say, she’s positive. Which is why her apprehension over good or bad vibrations is puzzling. Can it be she sees bad times ahead for the two of us? Or is it only that she wants solid footing after these long years with Christopher? Neither of us is quite glued back together again. Not that we ever will be.
“I can’t help it,” Ivy is saying. “It just doesn’t feel like a lucky house. There’s something about—”
Marge Little interrupts with a broad smile. “I’ve got all kinds of interesting houses to show you. Maybe you’ll like the next one better.”
