“Saw your lights on. Just thought we’d check everything is okay for you both.”
“Mom and Dad gave up telling me when to go to bed a long time ago,” Rory sasses.
The officers give him a stern look when he responds rudely to their knock. It scares me when he talks back like that, but he correctly feels they’re pushing the line in terms of what they can and cannot legally do. They walk in wearing their big boots and dark uniforms, the voice in my head complains, This is your home, and Did you invite them in? We aren’t playing loud music, or quarrelling, or disturbing a soul. They can’t tell us we’re up too late. No, that’s not why they’re here. They’ve come like moths drawn to light, confident their uniforms mean they can’t be rebuffed.
There’s a 10 pm curfew in our town. Anyone under eighteen years is prohibited from wandering out-of-doors after curfew. The thing is, they view us as a subversive element, though we’re inside our own home and haven’t done anything wrong. Rory wears his hair too long. We don’t cower when they knock. We’re artists, and different from other people. They make my skin crawl because the paintings on our walls have drawn them in to gawk. These aren’t the sort of men who see themselves engaging with art, except when it’s bad prints of good paintings chosen by their wives, or some version of pornography.
It disturbs me that Rory and I accept their quasi-bullying, never knowing what time of night they’ll knock. Reading the open curiosity in their posture, I wonder if they want greater control of us than that 10 pm curfew grants them. They’ve come to domineer in our home. They have no legal reason to challenge us for being awake at 2 am. It’s perfectly legal to have our lights on at any time of day or night. The truth is, they’ve stopped by to check out the canvases, looking for any new ones. They examine Rory’s paintings as they talk, trying to read the messages hidden in the paint. They’ve clued in to the fact that this long-haired painter is displaying his politics through some sort of visual coding, whether it’s nude women, goat heads, candles, or books. But that’s not all there is to their curiosity about his paintings.
Rory paints me in all my glory, even with my growing pear-shaped belly. I discovered my pregnancy six months ago. I’ve already dealt with my heartache over Rory’s response, his refusal to accept the role of father. He insists this child will be adopted. The best I can do, in the end, is to ensure my baby has two parents to shower them with love. I’m hugely unnerved because I know the police arrive here as men, not just policemen. They’re curious about paintings of my naked pregnancy. Their eyes scan my body, return to the paintings, then fall back to me again. I feel them undress me in their minds, confirming their imagination through the paintings. The fact that they struggle to interpret Rory’s messages offers a challenge they’re trying to confront. A slow smile grows on their lips. I’ve begun to wonder how long we’ll be safe in this town. I begin to wonder if I’m safe here at all.
“We should move, Rory,” I say after they’ve left. “I think we’d do better in a bigger city, a place that’s large enough for people like us to blend into the crowds.” In this small town, his long red hair and being a painter makes him stand out. There aren’t many artists here.
“It’s a lot of hassle to move, Elke. I don’t think I’m ready to do that.”
“But the people here don’t understand us. They certainly don’t approve of us.”
Tell him all of it, the voice tells me. Tell him about your fears.
“This whole situation, with the cops coming to our door in the middle of the night, creeps me right out. They’re not just looking at your paintings, you know. They’re looking at the two of us. They think we’re doing something they should stop. They’re looking for something they can prosecute.”
“They’re just being pervs.”
“And that’s another reason. Are you comfortable with that? Because I’m not. With the way they stare at the nudes and me….”
“They’re performing. They’re strutting. They wouldn’t dare do anything.”
“I don’t know that for sure. I don’t think you do, either. Besides, this isn’t about flying under their radar under our own roof. They have no right to intimidate us in our own home like that. We have a right to be who we are without feeling hassled for it. I think a bigger city, like Toronto, or Vancouver, or Montreal, would accept us as artists.”
Rory turns to me then. After a moment, he puts down his brush and comes to where I sit shaking. He pulls me to his chest and wraps his arms around me, kissing the top of my head. I relax against his body, hugging him. He heard my tone of voice. He recognized it.
“We’re okay. You’re okay, Elke. They won’t do anything to us.”
“What I’m saying goes for our neighbours, too, though—not just the police. Everyone here disapproves of my pregnancy.” It became more obvious as my pregnancy progressed. I don’t trust anyone in this town to deal with me appropriately any longer. “Rory, I don’t feel safe anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair. “You’re right, , you shouldn’t be afraid, especially in your own home.”
I lean back, looking up into his face.
“But that’s just it. They’re sniffing at our door, testing our fears.”
“I know. But they need a reason to enter, unless we let them in. From now on, I just won’t let them enter. Okay?”
“They won’t like that. Hell, it might be even more dangerous than just letting then in . Can we please consider moving to a bigger city?”
He laughs, giving me a squeeze. “Okay. We’ll look into it as soon as the baby is born. Everything is set up here, right now, but hiding in the crowds of Toronto does sound good.”
One day, the landlord himself shows up to visit. I’m not talking about the security guard who lives in the basement and acts as our superintendent—a title that exaggerates his role in collecting our rent. I’m talking about Mr. John Irving, known to his elite friends as Jack. He’s a man who wears thousand-dollar suits. He’s one of Canada’s richest men. His family has banked billions off-shore through the oil industry. I open the door to his knock, and I’m surprised to see him standing in our rundown hallway. No, let us be precise. I should say he’s standing in his own rundown, rooming house hallway. He owns lots of properties like this one, corner lots that can be turned into gas stations. I invite him in, not quite knowing what else to do.
“Would you like a tea?”
Rory puts down his brushes as the man enters and walks over to shake his hand. They say their how-do-you-dos. Mr. Irving is on his best behaviour in our humble abode. I seat him in our only chair, while Rory and I sit on two wooden orange crates at our kitchen table. Our unexpected visitor is already scanning the walls as we chat, openly praising Rory’s figures. He likes the slant of light in one, the contrast between forms in another. We begin to foster a slight hope. Mr. Irving says he really likes a quick ink-brushed portrait of me tacked on the wall close to our kitchen area. It’s obvious he’s scouting for art. Clearly, he’s come to sit in our studio/living room to check out Rory’s paintings. Someone’s talk about the paintings on our walls has reached his ears. What a lucky coup that one of his tenants is a bona fide artist. A list of unavoidable questions brought him here to check things out for himself. But it isn’t long before his taste becomes obvious. It doesn’t fall in line with what he sees on our walls. Long before our little tête à tête is over, Rory and I realize we’re out of luck.
