Chapter 2: I Stole His Coat

I can start with what I’m positive came first. I was born on May 5^th, 1934, five months after my parents’ wedding. Their Catholic families attended church together. Luckily for good old Mum and Dad, no one was a professed mathematician.

 I imagine my father was a businessman since we travelled a lot, but for all I know he could have been a drug dealer. After four years with them, I was shipped off to my aunt’s place in the city. Never heard from them again. Fine by me. Aunt Gertrude made better desserts than my mother. I think at some point she mentioned that my parents lived in the sky, but that could mean anything. In any event, I was young enough to get over it.

My four cousins were not a large part of my life. The only living thing I could even hope to connect with as a child was an old paint horse cleverly named Spot and a beagle puppy also cleverly named Spot; both who lived on my grandfather’s farm. Twenty years later when Henry and I bought our first dog, guess what we named him?

That said, I did have a few friends throughout the years. At first, it was for Aunt Gertrude, who fretted if I didn’t stay late after school or have someone over on the weekend. Later though, I realized that if I hadn’t hung around the very few tolerable girls of my neighbourhood, I probably would have been bored witless.

But, the older I grew, the more and more smothering my aunt’s little city house seemed. In primary school, I could tolerate playing right in the front yard. But in high school, I preferred my grandfather’s countryside house. By the time college rolled around, I felt ready to board a train to another province.

I’d like to say I remember exactly how it was leaving the house for the first time. But I can’t. All I know is that I thanked the stars. As much as they tried to welcome me as a child, I had been their guest for over fourteen years. It seemed time.

My Uncle Earl drove me to train station. For all the years that I had known him, I had only seen the weakest of smiles, only seen his eyes downcast and never saw his eyes light up. But he’d join in a joke and he’d talk back. I think of all the people in that little city house, he was my favourite. But more importantly, I think he liked me. I think we probably hugged when I boarded the train. I think we probably said heartfelt goodbyes. I think we probably used to say ‘love you.’ But I could be wrong. I can’t trust memories.

There is one odd little detail I remember of that though. With the train well on its way, I went to the toilet. Walking to the back, I passed a man with a gold pocket watch. Don’t ask me why. I have no idea. Maybe that’s when I first started to notice people. There were a million things to see. Then added all together, everyone was the same again. And that’s when it really all started, in that foul smelling bathroom with the minute mirror. Because beyond it, I saw another person. Just a person; eating, breathing, heart beating. Nothing about her was truly unique. Just a person. Hair waiting for a cut, round face, and a sweater one size too small. It took me a few seconds to work out that it was me.

It’s a strange feeling, seeing yourself as someone else would. Because right then, as outlandish as it may be, I wasn’t me…she wasn’t me. That reflection in the mirror, she was someone else. Then suddenly, my heart filled with disgust. I hated her for a reason I couldn’t explain. Looking back, I think it was because of her plainess, in personality, in looks, in life.

Then I realized who it was. My heart skipped a beat. My stomach leaped up and dug itself into my side.

Ah f**k. That’s me. Am I really like that? You see, it had little to do with looks in all reality. It was everything. Looks to personality, to nonsense. She was nothing to me. Save for that splice of hatred, she meant nothing.

When I came to my senses again, and lost that terrible, unsettling feeling, I made myself a promise. I would not become just another person to be lost to the folds of time. History books were irrelevant. I just wanted to be unique. Different. My own unit. In any way possible. I would mean something to myself. Screw everyone else. 

 

I didn’t quite keep that promise to myself in college, but I never strayed from it either. That time period is a blur as I try to keep my memories aligned. There were multiple parties and a handful of friends. They turned out to be satisfactory. There were exams, which I mostly passed, if not all. Money was fine with Sunday, Monday and Wednesday nights spent working as a waitress in a smoky old bar restaurant with music blaring from a scratched up record on a run-down jukebox. Actually, it was in that bar that I first saw a dead body. Or at least in the alley beside the bar.  

 

Usually chattering old men filled each corner of that little dull-lit restaurant. But that night, the only company we had were dust bunnies and that darting-eyed Yankee. He fumbled for his wallet, dished out money for his drinks, and slipped out the back door. I watched as the bartender cleaned his glass, wiped the counter and sighed, nice and deep. A bit exagerrated really. But my feelings were mutual

It always smelt of smoke and grease there, even after the kitchen closed. (It didn’t meet health and safety standards.) Hell, I imagine that even after the place burnt to the ground you could smell it just walking passed. But that didn’t stop the bartender from making us employees smoke outside in the Canadian cold.  

“I’m going to smoke. Call me if anyone comes in.”

He barely acknowledged me, with just a wave of his hand before I left into alleyway.

That’s when I saw him...it. His body. The Yankee himself was long gone. So…it. Lying face down with a pool of blood around its head. There hadn’t been a sound. No scream. No struggle. I took out my cigarette pack and lit one, inhaling once, deeply, heading back inside.

“Hey, boss,” I said. He lazily looked my way. “The Yankee’s dead.”

He slowly turned hs head back to wiping the bar. “Right.”

“No. I mean, he’s dead. Look outside.”

“Evelyn, you’re making this up. I know it. I won’t fall for it.”

“We should probably call the police.”

He stood up, rolling his eyes, and opened the door. I followed him out. It took a second for him to adjust to the lighting. Then he saw it. He screamed like a 5-year-old girl, a high-pitched squeal that sent a nearby pigeon into flight. Then as if to piece together the crumbs of his manliness, he muttered, in a voice an octave deeper than usual, “Holy s**t,” and turned into the bar. I stood there a moment longer, watching a rat crawl over the Yankee’s body before nearly drowning in his blood. I inhaled the smoke, shook my head and turned back inside.

 

Thinking back, I’m not sure they ever did find out what happened there.

 

But as well as I remember that, there’s only one memory from those days that I can describe in perfect detail, right down to the minute of the day. 

 

I was headed to my aunt’s for Christmas break in 1953. It was a 2:00 pm train on December twentieth. Clouds covered the sky. Sheets of snow whipped out merciless evertime the wind rose up. The Apocalypse will look something like that day. No one was out. I walked onto the train shivering in my coat, head down to avoid the snow in my eyes. There was only one other passenger on that train. My first impressions were scarce, a fleeting acknowledgement that there was life in the seat close to the middle of car. I sat down, my teeth chattering against each other. I don’t know why I hadn’t brought my warmer jacket. Maybe someone had borrowed it.

The train started to move. Why I didn’t grab something warmer from my luggage, why I didn’t ask for a blanket from the porter, why I didn’t just live with it, I don’t know. But whatever led me to my next decision led me to the next 58 years of my life.

He was a few years older. Twenty-one, to be exact. He looked like a movie star with a square jaw and combed back coffee coloured hair. Even his style was up to par in the causally fashionable attire of the era, a gray jacket with a white button up shirt, tie and dark jeans. As a single nineteen year old, needless to say, I was overjoyed.

He was reading a newspaper, as typically Henry, with the front headline involving the murder case of a Torontonian housewife. His glistening brown eyes jumped all over the place. I stood in the doorway a little longer than I should have before speaking up.

“Excuse me?”

He jumped up, looking at me as if I were a ghost. I couldn’t help but laugh. He relaxed a little and flashed a sideways smile.

“You scared me.”

“I could tell. Sorry.”

“Not to worry. Can I help you with anything?”

“I was just wondering if you had a blanket or anything I could borrow. It’s damn cold in here.”

He flashed that sideways smile. “I don’t. But I’m not too cold. If you sit here, I can give you my jacket.”

 

I sat down. We exchanged names. Talked. 2:17 pm.

 

“Henry,” I tried the new name on my tongue.

 

Sometimes it’s a stretch to find conversation with people, especially strangers. I think up questions before they give the last answer just to avoid uncomfortable pauses. That never happened with Henry. The three-hour train ride slid by with our conversation. I shook his hand, going to give him his coat. He declined.

“Keep it for now,” he said. “I can get it back next time we see each other.”

“And when will that be?”

“Whenever we’re able.”

“This coming Monday.”

“At six o’clock?”

“Six thirty.”

“Done.”

I smiled. “Done.”

 

By the time I left for college again, silence was an acceptable conversation, his presence made me smile, and his coat was mine.