He returned to his bedroom and his waterbed. Leaving the door open, he shuffled back into his bedroom, which was located right beside the washroom. Donatella saw him slip into the washroom through the light of the open door, stepped into his bedroom, and slipped into his waterbed. He stepped back into bed, his body nearly naked and uncovered by sheets because of the extreme heat and stifling humidity, which he hadn’t bothered to attempt to combat and control with the air-conditioner, because he was attempting to conserve energy, to save money on his electrical bill, conserve his low funds, due to his unemployment. He attempted to find a comfortable position in bed and constantly adjusted the position of the overhead lamp. He was trying to read a popular novel with philosophical themes and overtones, virtually the first time he had read any such type of book, since he graduated from college, when he first sensed Anastasia huddle in bed right beside him. She had stripped off her t-shirt and placed his hand on her breast.
Early in the morning, Anastasia heard her friend crying passionately, moaning obliviously, beside herself, in that peculiar fusion of pleasure and pain. She expected to find the reassuring presence of Donatella’s body beside her as she threw her arm over to the other side of the bed, but felt nothing but the cool blank sheets. Anastasia opened her eyes and glanced at the empty crumpled sheets, confirming Donatella was not in bed beside her. Wearing only her bikini swimsuit bottom, clutching at her side the pocketknife, which she had bought from a sporting goods store during a trip to Beaverbrooke in the midst of her tree planting days over the summer, she rose from the waterbed, and went down the hallway. She stood outside her uncle’s bedroom door, now slightly ajar. She saw Donatella with her legs stretched and upraised, in a yoga position they had learned together, gasping “Right there, right there, right there, Oh my God, Oh my God, right there, right there, yes, yes, yes.” Spying Donatella in bed with her uncle sent a surge of energy through her body. Her heart palpitated. She threw herself back into the bed, gripping tightly the open knife, slicing the uppermost layer of skin on her thigh, sobbing against the pillow. (So began a habit of cutting and slicing herself that lasted years.) She had kept the knife as a keepsake, souvenir, and for handyman purposes and rather perversely for protection on the train, since she had never travelled on a passenger train before, and was not certain what she should expect. Only halfway through the journey from Beaverbrooke, twenty-four hours long, did she realize that knife, for protection purposes, was unnecessary; the best use to which she could put the blade was to slicing microwave sandwiches and pizza slices from the snack concession. When Anastasia woke again, she went to his bedroom and pounded against the door, but they were nowhere in the house.
She meandered and wondered throughout the house and then watched them through a laundry room window. She spied them through dusty window down the back alley, in the early morning sunrise, holding hands, and she screamed in frustration. Later in the morning, after Sergey returned from an early morning walk, with Donatella, feeling more refreshed than he had in months, actually looking forward to the day ahead, for the first time in months, he promised them he would help them retrieve their luggage from the station. Donatella, still excited about being in the city, asked if they didn’t mind excusing her from breakfast, so she could get the newspaper, since she was anxious to check the classified ads for available rental accommodations. Although the girls had already paid a damage deposit and first and last month’s rent for a dormitory room with twin beds, she still wanted to find an apartment. Sergey was prepared to tell her she could stay at his place. He gave her directions to the nearest newsstand at a convenience store down the street from a row of crackhouses.
“Oh, Uncle, how could you,” she shouted after Donatella departed.
Sergey was taken aback. “I was reading. Donatella needed to go to the washroom, and she saw me reading this novel she says she loves, Zen—“
“Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Oh God. What a piece of—“
“Yes, well, she wanted to talk about the book then and there, and she was wearing this sexy bra and panties.”
“She is always wearing a sexy bra and panties,” Anastasia exclaimed in exasperation. “We were with a tree planting crew this summer, in the middle of the bush, with nobody around for three hundred miles, camping, swatting flies, smearing bug repellent on ourselves, not having showered for four weeks, smelling like a fish, and there she was wearing sexy lingerie. She’ll wearing a Victoria Secret’s bra and thong anywhere, like she’s expecting to seduce and impress some bearded logger with a chainsaw, an outdoorsman with a fishing rod, or hunter with a big game rifle.”
He put some whole grain bread in the toaster and the slices popped up out of the toaster. He poured coffee and sipped it, but it tasted far too strong and bitter and he winced. “Anastasia, what did you expect? I’m single. I’ve never married. And I’m getting older. I can’t remember the last time I slept with a woman.”
“But we’re lesbians.”
“So you’re lesbians. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“But we’re lovers, and best friends. We’re supposed to look after each other, trust each other, and be faithful to one another.” She looked away from her Uncle Sergey and sobbed. “My own uncle, fooling around with my girlfriend. I can’t believe this.”
“Donatella, please forgive me. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry. We can’t stay here. We have to go.”
“That’s nonsense. Where will you stay?”
“We’ll camp out in the park, or on the beach, or in the arboretum at Humber College, if security doesn’t rape us. We only have three days until our dorm room is ready.”
“At least let me help you with your luggage.”
“No, no, no. You’ve done enough damage already.”
