Carla
Gary Thomson
“Because I want to be alone, sort myself out,” she says. “Don’t you think I can manage?”
“No,” he replies.
She tosses her head. Her thin hunched shoulders give her the impression of a hawk readying for flight.
“You don’t own me,” she says. “I can leave any time I choose. Like Carla did.”
“Gawd, you can be ridiculous at times.”
Humiliated, she looks toward the ground.
As I shift on the park bench I lower my newspaper to turn the page. Nearby, a white birch is shedding its leaves. They drift in golden clusters.
“Why wouldn’t I do it?” she says.
“First off, where’d you live, some fleabag rooming house? Second, too many wackos about, bring you bags of trouble.”
“Since Carla left I’ve learned a lot about myself. Putting my own needs out there, learning to say no. I’m not your personal property.”
“We’ll see then, won’t we?” His restless eyes never meet hers; instead he scans the street traffic, always alert, suspicious. Like a rodent. Sniffing his way clear of marauding cats.
She reaches into her purse on the picnic table, retrieves a packet of cigarettes and looks toward me. She holds my gaze. Her dark eyes hint at a shifting torment.
“Besides, you don’t have any business sense,” he says.
“Really? I can economize, keep a budget. Antonio likes my work, says I’m his best waitress since he reopened.”
She holds a lighter to her cigarette and I can see her hand is trembling. “You’re worried I’d not only keep the wolf from the door, but you too.”
He chuckles dryly. “You are cute. The wolf from the door.”
She had flicked her cigarette and a nub of ash had fallen against her ankle. She reaches down to brush it away, then runs her fingers lightly along her calf and her slender pretty legs.
He takes from his Bombay cloth shirt a pencil, then a crumpled white racing form. He begins underlining some figures.
She glances away from him, toward the birch tree and the falling leaves. Her eyes dart in wary thought.
“You wouldn’t follow me? You wouldn’t, would you?”
“Don’t be twitchy. Relax, why don’t you.”
The woman pulls a magazine from her purse, one of those flashy fan magazines with a glossy cover portrait of a movie star. She pauses to read the yellow headline. About drug abuse or a busted marriage, I think.
She looks sidelong from the magazine to the passing traffic, then to me. She stares at me with a dreamy, distant look as if she is juggling an array of desires, emotions, impulses.
“This is a hoot. Listen to this.”
She leans toward him and reads him an account of a Hollywood stunt man knocking about a cat burglar, then stuffing him into the laundry chute until the police arrived.
She laughs. Her momentary joy gives her face a radiant calm. But as with her pretty legs, he does not notice this either.
“Look, they have a picture of him. Bruised like a boxer in a fight.” She hands him the magazine.
With disgust he flings the magazine back at her. She rolls it into a tight funnel for her shame. In the growing lunch hour traffic rush, the droning of cars rises along the street.
“Carla won her own space from you. And I know how she did it.”
His marking pencil stops in mid motion. He does not answer.
Tension sharpens her voice. Her left hand grips the coiled magazine like a dagger.
“I was with her when she picked out that red corduroy suit she was wearing. That’s what she needed, someone nearby. Somebody she could trust, lean on. That’s all.”
A grey Volvo squeals to a stop in front of the light. A waiting woman with a child in her arms glares at the impatient driver. The cars move on.
The man stands up. Stretches. Jams the racing form into his back jeans pocket. Looks sullenly into the traffic. The woman turns toward me. Her eyes hold mine with a strange hypnotic power.
She speaks to him, but she looks at me. “I told you I could leave - any time of my choosing.” A lightness has come into her voice. Gentle, mocking.
He turns away from her. “C’mon, time to be moving.”
He walks toward the park exit and stops at the wrought iron fence. Then with his thumb and index finger he clips a vermilion chrysanthemum from a hanging basket.
She stands up and clutches a gold shopping bag by its string handle. Then she smooths her skirt over her legs. I tuck my newspaper under my left arm, then approach the table.
“Do you need any help?” I say.
“Did you hear me through most of this?”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but.”
Her gaze scans my face. Her dark eyes hold a steady calm. For a moment I think of the magazine, of Carla and the red corduroy suit.
“Will you be all right? If you want I could call a cop.”
She looks toward the park exit gate, to the falling golden leaves. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. It’s a gorgeous day, all this warmth should be enjoyed.” She holds the shopping bag close to her. “It’s okay you were here. I’m glad you were. I’m all right.”
On the street the traffic rush was holding steady. I watch her walk away with a controlled haste, scattering the birch leaves in a golden plume.
Forty yards ahead her boyfriend was moving into the pedestrian crossing. He holds the flower to his nose, breathing the scent with disinterest.
She watches him cross, then turns and walks along the street against the traffic flow, away from him.
He reaches the far corner, and I can see his pale rodent’s head darting the crowd for her, his probing eyes full of dark panic. The passing cars part and I see him fling the rich red flower against the curb.
Gary Thomson
The author lives and writes in Ontario, where in his rec moments he riffs Beatles and blues on his Hohner harmonica, and reads - eg. Ancient Greek tragedy, and medieval themed whodunnits. His flash and short fiction have appeared in various outlets.