Cut to the Quick (19 page)

Replicas of official documents punctuated the interstices between photos. Curt's dated application for divorce led the way. The court order mandating shared custody for Ivan and

Tomas, with a note affixed indicating the boys' involvement in the choice, followed it. Next, a photo of Curt and Manon's wedding.

The dry, technical police accident report, providing minute details of a young man's horrible death, came next. The documents' magnification enabled viewers to read them several feet away.

Hollis froze as she contemplated a photo from Ivan's teen years in which his longing eyes followed Curt, Manon and Tomas as they walked away from him. Curt's arms draped over Tomas and Manon's shoulders impressed the viewer with the trio's close-knit intimacy. If this was a true picture, Manon
should
have acted—should not have increased Ivan's misery. Her stepson, eleven when he came to live with them, had deserved her protection. In psychobabble terms, she appeared to have played the enabler's role. No wonder she felt guilt-ridden.

A lump formed in Hollis's throat, and tears threatened. It would have been wonderful to have reached out to Ivan and told him how sorry she was that his parents had behaved so badly. And were still behaving badly. How could a mother, no matter how she hated and blamed her ex-husband, have revealed her son's pain?

Hollis, walking to the second room, glanced down, gasped and stepped quickly to one side. She'd been standing on a red shoe print. These crimson records marking someone's passage to-and-fro, in-and-out, wove around the room. It felt to her as if Ivan's ghost had traipsed through the show, examining the evidence.

In the second room, Lena had magnified various other documents: excerpts from Ivan's high school diaries relating to his disastrous relationship with his father; school reports revealing his abysmal marks; and a counsellor's summation of his problems culminating in the remark, underlined in red, “his problems may stem from his relationship with his father.”

She had juxtaposed documentary evidence with more photos. Hollis felt like a voyeur when she read the diary excerpts. What an unhappy, unloved teenager Ivan had been. Where had his mother found this private document? How cruel it was of her to exhibit his confessed pain. She hoped his year at George Brown had made him happy.

Beside the exit from the second room, Lena sat in an alcove behind a table draped with a black silk-fringed shawl. An open notebook's white pages, a sign requesting “comments” and a vase of red gladioli, a summer funeral flower, contrasted with the black tablecloth. Hollis had procrastinated—she hadn't arranged to speak to Lena. She promised herself to make an appointment soon but also admitted that she didn't want to. The woman frightened her.

Lena wore a long black voile dress, lavishly decorated with jet and bugle beads. With its stand-up collar edged with lace and its voluminous leg-of-mutton sleeves, it was either an original or a replicated Victorian mourning dress. It underlined Lena's theatrical presentation.

Although she had the same washed-out blue eyes as Ivan, mascara set them off like well-displayed artwork. Acne scars faintly marred her fair complexion, but her over-generous carmine mouth, perhaps enhanced by botox injections, drew attention away from her skin. Her thick blonde hair, again like Ivan's, skewered in a perfect chignon, added to her imposing presence.

The desire to rush over, grab Lena's neck with both hands and tighten her grip until the woman crashed senseless to the floor almost overwhelmed Hollis. While she struggled to control her feelings, she tried to focus on inhaling through her nose, expanding her rib cage and exhaling until she'd emptied her lungs. Distraction intended to diffuse her rage.

When another woman moved close to the table, Lena looked up at her. “Well, did he do it? Did he kill Ivan?”

Did he do it? What a question. The woman was crazy— crazy and obsessed. Hollis shook her head slightly and moved backwards, but not quickly enough. Lena's jaw jutted forward. She rose and pointed a long fingernail tipped with scarlet polish. “You!” Her voice rose.

Nearby gallery viewers moved closer. Probably they anticipated a confrontation, a scene to titillate and provide them with a good dining-out story.

“You,” Lena repeated at a decibel level louder than the repeating accident tape.

Hollis took another step back. Lena strode forward, shaking her outstretched finger at Hollis.

“You,” she shrieked for a third time and jabbed her sharp nail in Hollis's shoulder.
“You
were there after his murder.
You
were at the funeral. You are
that
woman's friend.
You
engineered their affair.” She reared back and launched a gob of phlegm that landed on Hollis's shoe. “I spit on you, and on all women who break up homes, who cause pain and destruction.” Her voice dropped. “I will have my revenge.” Her sibilant whisper penetrated like a knife.

The mucus insinuated itself under Hollis's sandal's strap and slid between her toes. If only she could whip off her shoe and immerse her foot in a pail of disinfectant. Or defend herself. She wasn't a homebreaker.

There was no point. A rebuttal would antagonize Lena even more and bring on another attack. There would be no apology—she had nothing to apologize for. Imagine anyone forcing Curt to do anything. If the situation hadn't been so embarrassing, she would have laughed in Lena's face. Hollis pushed aside Lena's stiletto finger, rhythmically stabbing a tattoo on her chest. She forced herself to walk away at a measured pace.

Outside, hot Toronto evening air assailed her almost as forcefully as Lena had. She sucked in deep breaths, even though she knew the summer air's high pollution level. Before she moved, she waited for her pounding heart to resume its normal rhythm.

A man aggressively swinging a placard jostled past. A second then a third person carrying signs followed. “Save Our Children”, “Parents Against
SOHD
”, “Curt Hartman: Baby Killer”; the slogans varied as widely as the people carrying them. Pedestrians hurried by. Those scurrying into the gallery resembled furtive porn parlour patrons.

“Wow, what a performance! Hey, there's one out here too,” a female voice said. Kate, Patel and David clustered on the porch behind her. Inside, wrapped in her own drama, she hadn't noticed them.

Patel took her arm. As if they'd agreed on a course of action by osmosis, her fellow students hustled her away.

“We'll buy you a drink. You look like you need one. Lena Kalma is one crazy woman,” Patel said keeping his hand under her elbow.

“Crazy is an understatement. That was a shocking show. Let's make for the Star Tavern. I need a couple of tall cold ones,” Kate said and the quartet set out.

“In India, what did you drink?” Hollis asked Patel, to change the subject. “When I think of Asia, I think of the drinks mentioned in novels written about the thirties and forties—Pink Ladies, Side Cars, Black Russians. I imagine a Singapore Sling in Raffles bar or a gin and tonic on the long shady veranda of a tea plantation in Malaysia's Cameron Highlands. I visualize huge fans hanging from the ceiling, operated continuously by servants pulling on ropes.”

“It wasn't as glamorous as Somerset Maugham made out,” Patel said. “And don't forget how racist those societies were. People like me served the drinks or swished the fans. They'd certainly be privy to all the secrets, because white people didn't see them, didn't think of them as people.”

David, walking in front of them, turned. “It was the same in Canada then and even now. Even though it isn't politically correct to use racial slurs, discrimination is alive and well.”

Hollis wanted to ask Patel and David if they spoke from personal experience but figured she'd been tactless enough in her romanticized version of life on the subcontinent.

“I've never suffered much,” Kate said. “But then I'm younger, and Toronto is so racially mixed.” She giggled. “Actually, I grew up in Markham. You guys probably don't know the Pacific Mall, but if your first language isn't Chinese, some stores would be a total mystery.”

“You're exaggerating,” David said.

“I'm not. And it isn't the only one. There's a herbal store and a restaurant next to it in one of the plazas near my house where nothing is in English—not the menu, not the signs—nothing.”

“That's because you're the majority there. Try being the minority. I come from B.C., where there's lots of prejudice, particularly on Vancouver's lower east side,” David said.

“It can't be against the Chinese. They've got to be the majority in parts of Vancouver. I know, because I've been there, that sections of Richmond are one hundred per cent Chinese,” Kate said.

“I wasn't talking about the Chinese or about Richmond,” David said. “You manage to turn the conversation the way you want, but you don't have a clue about a lot of things.” He scowled at her.

“Enough of serious topics. I'm drinking Molson Canadian in honour of my new homeland.” Patel smiled at Hollis.

No gentrification marked the tavern on Queen Street. Dark mirrors, stained wooden tables and dim lights preserved the atmosphere where the patrons drank beer, sometimes with whiskey chasers, and ordered greasy fries if hunger pangs struck. Hollis looked around with interest.

“Not your usual stomping grounds?” David said to Hollis. “What do you think Curt will do about the show?”

The show. She didn't want to think about it—the horrifying sounds, motorcycle parts strewn randomly, photos and documents recording Curt's failure as a father.

“My guess is nothing. Lena may be out of control, but she was crafty enough not to accuse him directly. She allowed the photos and documents to do her dirty work. He'll consult his lawyer and tape any
TV
or radio interviews she gives. But unless she flips out and makes specific accusations, what can he do?”

Patel tapped the table. A frown on his normally long and serious face and his repeated clicking signalled his disagreement. “But those damning photos—he clearly never liked the child. And it seems to me...”

Kate interrupted. “Not necessarily. Remember, she also made photo collages for the visitation, and they were totally different. Lena's an artist, a compulsive photographer—she must have thousands of slides and photos. Think about it—in those numbers there were bound to be ones portraying him in a bad light. Curt might have held Ivan at arm's length because he had a dirty diaper. In those later shots, he could have felt angry because Ivan had dashed out in traffic. The before and after are important.” She sipped her beer. “And another thing—if his mother was recording true hostility, where the fuck was she in this story? People will wonder why she wasn't protecting Ivan.”

Hollis could have added another question. What was Ivan's stepmother doing? Where did Manon fit in this picture?

“Good point, Miss Social Worker. In
your
perfect world, mothers are
supposed
to keep their children safe. Fathers and mothers have responsibilities to be there. They pay a price if they're not.” David paused. What could have been the beginnings of a smile marked the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were cold. “Sometimes the cost is very high, but Kate has a point. You
can
make photos say anything you want. How did you all react to the show?”

“It shocked me,” Hollis said. “In my opinion, Lena designed it to shock and horrify. She wants the viewer to jump to her conclusions without posing the questions we're asking. She wants viewers to leave the show thinking, ‘Curt Hartman is a monster'. How did it affect you?”

David leaned back and said nothing for a minute. The other three waited for his pronouncement.

“It'll stir up a controversy. The art world will love it. Legitimacy will be an issue. Is it legitimate to exploit family and friends in your art? I remember an American photographer who photographed her naked children and almost lost them to a social services agency because the police charged her with pornography. Critics will question whether or not it is art. They'll challenge Lena Kalma's motives—her disregard for her dead son and her obvious intention to harm Curt.”

“It's awful that the family has to cope with this,” Kate said. She sipped, put down her bottle and looked from one to the other. “In my community, they'd be taken care of. It wouldn't just be Hollis who'd be there to help. There'd be food and visits and support.” She fixed her gaze on Hollis. “Is that happening?”

“It did right after Ivan died. They're getting cards and letters.” Hollis shook her head. “But it isn't the same. Manon's mother is a widow with her own business. She had to go home. There aren't any other relatives.”

“When there aren't relatives, that's when my community really swings into action,” Kate said.

“Mine too,” Patel added.

“Since they don't have a Chinese or Indian support network, it's a good thing you're there,” Kate said.

Hollis didn't want to be painted as the do-gooder. “It works both ways; it's lovely to have a place to stay where my dog is also welcome.”

Conversation ranged back and forth. Eventually they talked about their hopes and dreams for the future and shared their insecurities—their difficulties expressing their vision. But they divided into camps: professionals who worked on regardless of obstacles, and amateurs who talked more than they worked. Hollis was beginning to believe she could move from the second to the first group and make it as a professional painter.

The server stopped for repeat orders. Hollis considered a third and reluctantly declined. MacTee drank gallons of water in the summer and would need his evening walk. The others also refused.

They gathered up their belongings, ready to pay and leave. Hollis reached in her purse for her wallet and managed to upend her bag on the floor. She scrambled to retrieve her belongings. A lipstick tube rolled far under the next table. When David crawled to retrieve it, his black
T
-shirt crawled up his back and revealed a blue tattooed spider hovering at his waist. He handed the lipstick to her.