Fiction

Mayank Bhatt

0 comments

 

Lease

2010

Myrna Ebenezer had a sprawling house south of Lakeshore Boulevard at Clarkson. She lived there with her dog. She was looking for a tenant for her basement apartment. I was looking to move out of the basement apartment of Rajinder’s aunt, where I had moved after Gunjan ordered me out of her home. I had hoped that Gunjan would take me back, but two years later when that seemed remote, it was time for me to move on.

Myrna wanted reasonable rent, something I could afford. I rented a U-Haul van on a Saturday morning, and moved out of Rajinder’s aunt’s basement. The agent who helped me find the apartment had given me the keys. I had gone to inspect it a week before I moved in. The basement had three rooms, one of which had been turned into a kitchen; another room had been turned into a bedroom. The living room had a television set; the washroom was next to the main door, and it was as large as a room because it also had a washing machine and a dryer.

The agent told me Myrna would do laundry on the weekends and would temporarily need to access the basement washing machine because hers was broken. That was a huge problem. I would have to keep the washroom clean. Even after so many years in Canada, I had resolutely refused to get used to the washroom cleaning chore. I preferred to do so once in three months or so, when it became unavoidable. But now, I would probably have to do it more frequently. I pulled my bags in and sat on the couch to catch my breath. From two bags when I had come to Canada, my “stuff” as Arty called it, had burgeoned into four large and small bags. I would still have to buy a lot of “stuff” – such as a worktable, a lamp for the room and for the table, a fan, maybe a few curtains.

The dog on the floor above me sensed my presence and let out a tentative bark. I arranged my clothes and books in shelves, and by late afternoon, was ready to receive the landlady for a home inspection that the agent had scheduled. Myrna was heavyset and tall woman. Her eyes were droopy, and her beak-shaped nose seemed too large for her face. Her hair was short and grey. She wore white shirt that was loose, and loose black trousers, and regular black shoes. She shook my hand firmly and smiled. I assumed she was in her early 60s.

“You are here, finally,” she said, smiling and breathing with some difficulty. “You will like it here. It is peaceful.”
I smiled.
“I will have the cheques now,” she said, abruptly.
I gave her the cheques for the first and last month’s rent, for a year’s lease, to be renewed annually.

It was late afternoon and had become balmy. I decided to take a stroll and explore the neighbourhood. Myrna was outside, watering her plants in the front lawn. Her dog, a beagle, came scampering to me, sniffing my trousers, and gingerly wagging its tail.

“This is Sir Ebenezer. I call him Sir E. He is a lovable idiot,” she said, pointing to the beagle. “Are you going somewhere? Do you need something?”
“I thought of just looking around the neighbourhood, and getting myself something to eat,” I said.
“You don’t cook?” she asked.
“Rice and lentils, mostly.”
“What about your meals?”
“I plan get something from the food court near my workplace on my way home.”
“Why don’t I cook supper for you? But I am a vegan, so my food is simple, but healthy.”
“Yes, please, that would be nice.” I jumped at the offer. This was a major convenience and not a big change in my diet. “How much will you charge?”
“It will be cheaper than your food court. We can start today. We will have dinner together at 7:00 in the evening.”

I nodded and smiled.

“You don’t talk much, do you? Tell me something about you,” she said, as she directed me to sit on a lawn chair. “I will get some tea for us. I hope you like tea.”
“Yes.”

Myrna was nervous and naturally feeling awkward conversing with me – still a stranger. She quickly brought a teapot and poured hot water into two cups, dropped teabags in them and then handed one to me.

“I don’t take milk or sugar with my tea. You may add if you want. Now tell me about you.”
“There is nothing much to tell. I was born and raised in Bombay. I am in Canada for 15 years. My wife and I have separated, a couple of years back. I am on my own, trying to start a new life.”
“Yes, Nathan told me.”
“Who is Nathan?”
“The real estate agent.”
“Oh, and how does he know?”
“They know everything,” she said and laughed.

Her presence, inexplicably, made me feel at ease. I told her about Dadi and Neeta, about Maa and her condition, about Gunjan, Arty and Frank.

“How did your grandmother take your separation?” she asked.
“I haven’t told her, and I don’t think my ex has told her brother either.”
“Hmm…that is…”
“Strange…I know. I don’t want my grandmother to be worried, and I guess Gunjan may be contemplating reconciliation…”
“No, not after two years. Women don’t take that long to decide; she has definitely moved on,” Myrna said, vigorously nodding.
“But we aren’t divorced yet.”

She arched her eyebrows and looked mystified. “I don’t quite get it; it has been two years. You should end this now.”
I looked at her and nodded. She leaned forward from her chair and gently patted me on my arm.

We sat at the opposite ends of the dining table for supper every evening. Myrna was a great cook, turning simple everyday stuff taste like gourmet recipes. We didn’t talk much. She was non-interfering type but seemed perennially uncertain about herself, and in need of constant attention and approval. Over the next few weeks, we developed a bond that was a mixture of friendship, respect, affection, and mutual admiration, but Myrna always maintained a distance; I attributed it to her shyness.
After about two weeks of dining together, she took me on a tour of her house. The upper floor had three rooms, one of which had been converted into a study. There was a large abstract canvass painting in the middle of the wall unit. There was an easel and a work-in-progress painting of a bowl of fruits.

“I am learning to paint; always wanted but never had the time. Now that I am semi-retired, I am doing all the things that I couldn’t do earlier.”

I nodded.

“You will have to learn to talk.” she asked.
I looked at her and smiled. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Yes. It took Aaron years to make a house into a home, then, he had a stroke and died.”
“Oh…” I looked at her. This sudden revelation was a disconcerting. I didn’t know how to react.
“I am sorry. How stupid and thoughtless of me to burden you with my misfortune,” she said quickly when she saw my pained expression.

She put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and led me downstairs back to the dining table.

“This is Aaron,” she said, as she handed me a framed photo from the mantlepiece behind the dining table. The photo was old, from the 1970s or even earlier.
“You husband was a handsome man,” I said.
“Yes, he was handsome, and no, we were not married.”

I nodded and smiled. I refrained from asking the obvious question – why she had stayed single for so long. Maybe when she gets to know me better, she will tell me about it.

From her I learnt that Aaron had died four years ago. They had been together for over two decades. Aaron had been married earlier and had a daughter – Deborah, or Deb – from the first marriage. His wife had Judith died young and Aaron had raised Deb by himself. Then, when she had moved out, pursuing her career, he had joined the Clarkson community centre as a volunteer to work with newcomers. Myrna had always been active at the community centre.

“And that is how we met and agreed to have a life together when we were no longer young.”

Myrna often asked me about Gunjan, and she especially wanted to know more about my relationship with Arty.
“It wasn’t any different than between any teenage daughter and father.”

Myrna didn’t respond immediately, but after a long pause said, “Often teenage girls feel pressured in such a relationship where a stepfather is involved.”

“But I have known Arty for more than a decade,” I said, and then to emphasize my point, said, “She confided in me first about her lesbian relationship before she told her parents.”

I sensed that Myrna wasn’t willing to accept that my relationship with Arty was – and could be – normal. I found that to disturbing, but I didn’t know how to respond to her, mainly because she indicated her incredulity nonverbally.
Then, one weekend, Myrna went to meet Deb, who was an academic at the University of Guelph. “You can stay upstairs if you like, and take care of Sir E,” she said.

“No, he is used to being alone all day. I will be in my basement after dinner.”
“Sharad, I have kept a diary on the dining table. Read it, if you have the time, and tell me what you think,” she said.

The dog followed me in the house, sniffing at my trousers. I went to the dining table and picked up the diary. It was a Moleskine notebook. Myrna had written it in her child’s handwriting. It flipped the pages. It had poems, short pieces of prose, intricate illustrations that were macabre and bizarre, but mostly poems. These poems had either been written by or for Myrna. For whom or by who? Aaron, maybe? From the little that I had known of Myrna in the last few months, I surmised that she had written these poems for Aaron. But then, after the poems ended, there was a sort of a memoir, the handwriting changed. ‘Aaron’s Journal’ was written on its first page, in distinct, neat handwriting. I began to read it, cursorily. I wasn’t interested in knowing anything about Aaron.

My meeting with Myrna’s father and brother was in the evening. I had been preparing for the meeting for a long time. Framing sentences in my mind, answering questions that they would ask me and asking questions that they would answer. When I reached the condominium, Ebenezer was waiting for me beside the pool. I gingerly walked to the table and introduced myself. We shook hands and I sat down beside him.

“What is the purpose of this meeting?” he asked.
“I want to talk about Myrna.”
“There is nothing to talk about,” he said without showing any emotion.
“What could possibly cause such a prolonged estrangement between you.”
“Does she know you are here?”
“No, but I plan to tell her.”
“Why should I talk to a stranger about my family?”
“She is my life.”

I skipped some pages to hopefully to know why Myrna had wanted me to read this journal.

“Myrna has been going through hell lately and I believe you are the cause of it,” Carolina Sloan, her psychiatrist said. I was about to apologize, but she cut me short. “Don’t misunderstand me. It is the best thing that has happened to her in a long time. I have never seen her as strong mentally as she is right now.”
“I have only tried to make her talk to her father. Nothing more.”
“She doesn’t want to, so stop trying,” Carolina said. “She wants to talk to you.”
That evening, when we were home together, Myrna sat beside me on the couch. She held my hands. “I don’t want to talk to my father because he sexually abused me when I was young.”

I was stunned. I wanted to say so much but couldn’t. Shocked, I stopped reading. I wanted to call Myrna, but it was past midnight. The next morning, as I sat sipping coffee, I thought over Aaron’s journal. I finally got Myrna’s cynicism over my relationship with my stepdaughter. I was more relieved than angry; at least now I knew the cause of her strange behaviour. Myrna returned the next afternoon.

“Why did you want me to read it?” I asked her.
“I couldn’t tell you, and I wanted you to know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, after what happened, I just couldn’t trust any man and preferred a life alone. Then, after a lifetime of being alone, I met Aaron and a new, happy phase began in my life. After Aaron, I was reconciled to be alone, but then you came.”
“Huh…?”
“I trust you.” She looked at me earnestly.

 
         
 
 
   

Pages: 1 2

Leave a Comment

x  Powerful Protection for WordPress, from Shield Security
This Site Is Protected By
ShieldPRO
Skip to toolbar