Hard Times in the Old Town

“I don’t think my boat’s ever going to come in,” I say, standing in the doorway of Abie’s office.
He inserts a floppy into his Mac, its crisp click reminding me of a winter morning in the Laurentians, my boots and my grandfather's beside me on fresh packed snow.

“I’m digging my feet in the sand and I’m staring out—you know with the wind in my hair and blowing my skirt. And the waves roll in and back out and I’m still standing there, flat feet, bunions and all. I can’t even see the horizon anymore.”
“You don’t wear skirts anymore either,” Abie says, inserting a roll of paper into the printer.
“I thought we were going to be happy together. Remember you used to make me laugh. And now all you do is work or watch TV,” I say and he says, “Well someone has to learn a living.”
“I was going to be a famous actress. I was good you know.”
He looks up. “You were great.”
“But not enough I guess.”
“That’s not what Robin Spry told me—or Gino Empy.”
“It’s too late.”
“So that’s it? You’re giving up? Just like that?”
“I didn’t like the directors coming onto me.”
“Who you talking to? You loved it.”
I laugh. I like talking about myself and I adore compliments.
“Yeah well that’s all water under the bridge. I’m a writer now and not some flaky dilettante. Anyhow we’re too broke for me to come out. Look whom I kidding? See all those books?” I point to our first shelving unit, the one that holds itself up, something to do with suspension posts, the ceiling, and a leveller. We’re already in our sixth house; some of the shelves are warped, and each time it takes longer to convince Abie to set them up and each time it’s harder and he’s grumpier.
“Get to the point,” he says.
I can feel that old washer-ringer starting up—the one with double rollers you feed clothes through.
“You’re impossible to talk to, you know that? Some friend you are!”
“Have it your way,” he says, “I’m tired of fighting with you.”
“And remember what Asbel Green said? And what able that note from Ramparts?” he calls out, but I’m already on the top stair.

I sent the book to Ashbel Green. Abie thought it would look more professional if it were bound, a nice thick plastic cover, something dark with a texture to it. We chose navy blue. I sent the book to the New American Library because I figured if Erica Jong could publish her work there, maybe they’d accept mine. And I thought once I was at it, I’d send my poetry collection which also included one short story and four pieces of creative non-fiction. I like to think of myself as a Woody Allen in drag. I didn’t include international postage or a self-addressed envelop. The name I used was Pandora Cohen—Pandora because of all those unspeakables flying out from that box and because of the word box and Cohen because I wanted to be true to my Jewish roots. Actually I wanted to take advantage of my Jewish roots and although my father’s last name is Colman, it was actually Cohen until some time in the forties. He couldn’t get a job in Quebec, couldn’t get his circumcised prick in the door. Abie says my father wanted to assimilate, because of his parents being greeners. “You’re wrong,” I say, “It’s because he was blacklisted. It was because of Duplessis.” He shakes his head. “Dream on,” he says. “You’re the one who’s dreaming,” I say.

So many tears—vats and vats of them—I should give some away. Thing is almost everything is eventually seized and angry landlords had not use for my tears. Neither did Abie. I stashed the tears on the top shelf in the blue writing room. My girls were never as curious as I was, driven from a young age to snoop and seek. Maybe the howling in the blue room gave away the box's contents. But when you have three days to pack up, when you sneak off in the dead of night with green garbage bags which only now sixteen years later can I look at without grimacing, when the sheriff shoves his steel toes in the opening of your door, when it's over one-hundred degrees and you have your daughter red-faced and over-heating from her meds and only a gym bag on your arm, when you can't hear the phone ring or knocking at your door without diving and huddling --- secrets slither silently into my daughters' brains, waking and sleeping. I have nightmares about snakes, but I'll do anything to protect my girls.

Once when Caroline lay in intensive with wide transparent green tubes as blood conduits, the nurse whispered something to me about extreme self care. "Take a bubble bath," she said. I went to the Y and did ten sets of deadlifts instead. And now we have a garden in Roncesvalles. Last year I spent all summer in thirty degree weather squatting in my yard and claiming the earth. I met new neighbours that way. "What a gorgeous garden," they'd say, "so green." I smiled. The garden was the greenest on the block, not that I'm given to comparisons. I just emptied those old boxes and watered the grass--how does the song go?: "With the Salt of My Tears."