And I find no rest...
Even the ghost
Of a window curtain,
Reminds me of you
In your white dress.
Elaine
I’m returning to the past and my dead wife—I have no idea how or why she came back.
In a way, she’s Persephone, the goddess of spring, who was entombed in the underworld but now returned—dwelling subterranean in our old basement apartment.
Perhaps she’s lonely and wants to abduct me to live with her in the land of the shades, and as much as I grieve her passing the thought of living forever in cold darkness underground, terrifies me.
I guess I’m like most people—I want Paradise, but in the land of the living.
I walk down the familiar street, past the tiny park, toward our old triplex, with the garden hedged all around like Eden in Genesis.
I ring the bell, half-expecting Elaine not to answer, but she cheerily opens the door and gazing at her loveliness my breath catches.
I’m invited in once again to take part in her mystery.
“It’s a lovely day, Paul—hard to believe summer will soon come to an end.”
“You can’t hold back the fall,” I smile, though like Gatsby, I wish I could.
“I just put a pot of coffee on the stove—it’ll be ready in a few minutes—please, take a seat and make yourself at home.”
I sit down on my parents’ sectional couch, the one they donated to us when we first married and lived out of boxes.
A sob catches in my throat as I glance round the room recalling what our life once was.
Elaine’s back with a tray of Peak Frean cookies and I can smell again the dark aroma of fresh perked coffee—a sweet scent long forgotten in the age of smart technology.
“I don’t know if I told you I’m looking for work," she says brightly.
“Oh really—what type of work do you do?”
“At the moment I’m looking for a secretarial position. I’m waiting to hear back from the TD Bank at King and Yonge Street—do you know it?”
“I do,” I smile. It’s the head office where Elaine worked. A profound nostalgia overwhelms me.
Elaine sits down opposite me in a leather-tooled chair we bought at an antique store one Saturday.
“And where do you work, Mr. Bond?”
“Oh please, call me Paul—I was employed as a reporter at The Toronto Telegram, but freelance now. Actually, I’m thinking of getting back into the newspaper again.”
“You’re a journalist? That’s so familiar…”
A frown furrows her brow and she stares off into space as if trying to recall a certain detail.
“I really do love the trade,” I laugh, “I often say I’d set my own typeface if I could and get my hands black and white and red all over.”
Suddenly, her eyes widen and there’s an unmistakeable moment of recognition.
“Oh!” She exclaims and is about to say more when there’s a knock at the door.
“That will be Walter,” she says hurriedly. “Can you answer for me? I left the coffee on.”
She hurries out to the kitchen, leaving me to open the door.
Walter’s standing on the front step smoking a cigarette and admiring the just-trimmed hedge.
He turns to greet me and extends his hand. “You must be Paul—I’m Walter. So, what do you think about the place? Are you interested in renting it?”
I’m dazed for a moment and at a loss for words.
Walter simply stares waiting for a reply, so I tell him, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.”
He looks annoyed and begins to stutter: “I..I…was…asking what you think about the place? Are…are you interested in renting it?”
It’s my turn to get frustrated.
“Oh no, I think you misunderstood Elaine —she was calling to ask if you had an address for the previous tenant.”
Walter looks puzzled. “There seems to be some confusion here. The realtor said you were stopping by to look at the apartment today at 3:00 pm and could I meet you here?”
“We’ll have to ask Elaine about that -she’ll clear up the misunderstanding.”
A cloud of suspicion clouds Walter’s features.
“Elaine—who’s Elaine?”
“Why your tenant of course.”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Preston—the apartment is unoccupied at the moment.”
I turn around and gaze dumbfounded at a vacant apartment.
― Margaret Atwood