Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) Read online

  The landscape whirled by as the train rocked with speed, heading west through rural Ontario. As she peered out the window, catching glimpses of green fields, swaying pines, quaint towns and picturesque white churches with solitary black crosses perched high on top, their windows ablaze with the morning sun, she wondered if she would make it home in time for her job interview at 1:00 p.m. She looked up to see a friendly male attendant who had just approached with the food trolley, regarding her with curiosity. He inquired in his broken English, “Anyt'ing to eat, mademoiselle?” A Quebecker, she thought; his accent was thick, and his words rolled off his tongue with difficulty. She glanced indecisively at the selection, not feeling very hungry, while the smiling attendant waited patiently as she tried to decide between a ham and a turkey sandwich, then finally settled on the peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich washed down with hot tea in a large styrofoam cup.

  At the next stop, which was Belleville, a male passenger boarded the train. He was middle-aged with small apprehensive eyes and a rather large high forehead. The hair on his scalp was thin and sparse; it reminded her of the tufts of grass growing unruly in her mother's flowerbed.

  Jillian, the best way to control weeds is to pull them up as soon as you see the pesky things. Never put off to tomorrow what can be done today.

  He sat in the vacant seat directly next to her.

  “Excusez-moi,” he announced, his eyes gleaming brightly like shiny black pebbles. “You don't mind if I sit 'ere, do you?”

  Her sensitive nostrils pinched. A strong smell of either aftershave lotion or cologne tainted the air. At once she disliked the man, but she looked up from her newspaper, greeted him with a vacant smile, nodded her head to show indifference and promptly returned to her reading. On the front page of the Globe and Mail the headlines read: “Global Warming: Environmental Changes Ahead!” Scientists were concerned about the melting icecaps.

  “Not'ing but doom and gloom!” the man announced loudly with distaste. “Dis is what de media 'ave to print to sell de papers.”

  The words were like a jab to her ribs. She looked up again from her paper and this time gave the man a hostile glance.

  The man quickly wiped his fingers over his nearly bald scalp and leaned forward. With a wan smile, he added, “De winters 'ave been getting hotter, I 'ave noticed.”

  She smiled briefly and nodded assent, then craned her neck to see above the seat in front of her, looking for an escape, any vacant spot in the narrow overcrowded compartment. None was to be found. She slowly turned back and glanced at the man, who was still looking at her, expectantly, smiling hopefully. She felt a low throbbing pain like a migraine developing but resigned herself to her spot by the window, chiding herself for not having taken an earlier train. Undeterred by her hostile glances, the man continued to make attempts at small talk, while she replied in monosyllables and tried in vain to avoid making eye contact with him; instead she would stare at the back of the seat straight in front of her as she spoke. Over the next hour, she learned the man's name was Pierre la Boite; he talked about his background, his family, his wife, his two kids, the amount of rain that had fallen within the past few weeks and whether global warming could have anything to do with it. Maybe the newspapers were right. As the time passed she grew increasingly anxious and alarmed by his shiny coal-black eyes with their penetrating gaze.

  At last the train wheezed as it made its way slowly into Union Station; the anxious passengers waited eagerly to escape the confined hot space and proceed to their destinations. Hurriedly they retrieved their luggage from the overhead compartments, struggling and pushing to be first off the train. The ride had left Jillian exhausted. The snapping sound of the luggage compartments opening and shutting, like bullets, seemed deafening. There was a buzzing in her ears; people were pushing past her, struggling to get out. She was swaying, wiping at her eyes in a half dazed state. She retrieved her day bag from the compartment above her seat. But Pierre la Boite was hovering directly behind her and suddenly laid a clammy hand on her shoulder— an unexpected movement that caught her off guard and caused her to straighten and freeze, dropping the bag with a thud. She turned sharply to face him, forcing herself to view him more clearly, and was immediately struck by the anxious look in his beady black eyes. So embarrassing! The same look Selby Travis had used to give her— a boy in her sixth-grade class who had had a crush on her— the only boy ever to accidentally wet himself in front of the whole class while the teacher was giving a lesson in Canadian geography.

  “Yes, what is it?” she asked, her voice faltering. She absent-mindedly wiped at the beads of perspiration forming above her brow. The compartment had become unbearably hot and oppressive, and the smell of his cologne was overpowering.

  Pierre la Boite continued to stare at her with his sheepish grin, sweat gleaming on his forehead. His mouth was moving but with no sound coming out, like an announcer on a TV set on mute, but then slowly his words became clear; he was speaking half apologetically: “Per'aps we could get together some time— maybe for coffee?”

  She was astonished: “Coffee? I'm not a coffee-drinker,” she retorted.

  “It doesn't 'ave to be coffee,” he said in an apologetic tone, his face turning red.

  Had she heard him right? The competing voices in the background had become disconcertingly loud. Her eyes widened in alarm, and as she stared at this middle-aged man standing before her, every detail came into focus: the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw, like a razor blade. She felt the blood rush to her face as she grabbed her day bag, then pushed and slammed past him, stammering what she had meant to be an apology: “Sorry, I don't date bald, ugly men, and especially not married ones!” She headed off in the opposite direction.

  With its maze of underground tunnels leading to the subway line and office buildings, Union Station was a place of bustle and confusion. Sharp wedges of refracted sunlight from the clerestory windows caught the floating motes suspended in the air, giving the place an odd dream-like quality. Passengers were boarding and trains departing to places all over North America; knots of people with indistinct faces were looking about. Announcements were being made over a loudspeaker system in both French and English: “Now boarding, train No. 85 for Port Hope.”

  The prevailing smells were of diesel oil from the train, fresh-baked cinnamon buns from Cinnabon and fresh-brewed coffee from The Second Cup. Everything else was a blur as Jillian walked along the marble corridors, hearing the echoes of her footsteps ricocheting off the walls, while overhead the arched coffered ceilings soared twenty-seven metres high. She gazed up at the enormous columns and decorative friezes where pigeons had settled and were now peering down from dark nooks at the passing crowds below. Suddenly a woman with a heavily made-up face, a billboard face, loomed in front of her, clutched at her right arm and began speaking to her in a foreign language; was it Russian? Jillian could make nothing of it. She recalled reading stories in newspapers of purse thieves who could skilfully snatch a person's identification, credit cards and money within a matter of seconds. The woman spoke loudly and was persistent.

  Jillian stammered and apologized, “No! I have no money. Please l-l-leave me alone,” then broke free and pushed her way blindly, all but stumbling, through the crowds. Then she was struck by the sight of a gaunt man lying on a sleeping-bag. He looked quite out of place in the business district— a sharp contrast to the well dressed people walking by. His head was bent and his eyes were half closed, moving only now and then, oblivious to the passing crowds. He had tucked his arms behind his back as if he were cold and needed to lie on them to keep warm. He lay pressed down amid empty Macdonald's wrappers and had set out a dirty Styrofoam cup to collect loose change. A stench of cigarettes and unwashed clothes drifted towards her as she walked past him. He was one of the many homeless, and she could almost hear his moans in the midst of the noise of Union Station. How easy it is to just fall out of society— to give up, she thought. Her heart sank; she turned
back, dropped a ten-dollar bill into the styrofoam cup and walked away quickly, not daring to look back.

  Moments later she was standing outside on the busy corner of Front and Bay Streets among well-dressed people pushing past her, with the tall office and hotel buildings soaring high above. She was grateful for the outdoors, for the feeling of invisibility in the midst of the shifting crowds. Cars were inching forward in the congested streets, and taxis were lined up along the curbs, idling their engines. Their exhaust fumes were spreading, invisible but all too evident to her nose. They gave the air a mahogany haze, and the clouds looked menacing; the wind was picking up leaves and debris and scattering them across the dusty sidewalks. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. A yellow taxi had just crawled up to the curb where she was standing. A dream-like sequence of events began: she stretched out her hand, about to grip the rear door of the taxi; but just then a voice, like a firecracker going off from behind her, asked, “Is this taxi free?” A tall young man in Levi's jeans and a grey T-shirt stepped out abruptly in front of her and was about to claim it.

  “Hey, this is my taxi,” she protested.

  The young man, who was carrying a heavy-looking knapsack, edged away from the cab and brushed her shoulder with his bag as he turned around. “Oh, sorry! Sure, go ahead. I can get another one.” Her eyes were drawn to his lean, athletic build and his teeth, which flashed white and looked flawless. He held the taxi door open for her as she stood on the busy pavement, regarding him doubtfully, maybe looking helpless. Her mind had gone blank; but then, regaining her composure, she exclaimed, “I'm sure you'll have no trouble at all.” Hastily she grabbed her bag, climbed into the car, settled herself in the back seat and proceeded to slam the door shut. She gave the driver her destination, 35 Baby Point Crescent, but then quickly rolled down the window as the harsh smell of his cigarette hit her nostrils, mingled with spicy curry. The driver, a thin middle-aged man, swept around the curb to make a U-turn, barely missing a fire hydrant; and she saw the intriguing young man still standing on the curb, staring back at her. Their eyes met again for a split second, and in that instant she pictured herself with this young man, whom she had never met before, walking hand in hand beneath a canopy of crab-apple trees in full bloom. She saw it all quite clearly. She felt his kiss, his touch. Then a warm breeze wafted through the open window and drew her out of her reverie. She glimpsed a quick flicker of a smile on the corners of his mouth. He nodded to her, and she raised a slightly trembling hand to wave back, smiling. As the taxi rolled away down the street, she turned back once more and saw him still staring avidly after it. The smile faded from her lips; she shook her head and tried to convince herself it was all nonsense. The whole thing was absurd, irrational— just her imagination running wild. She had been reading too many trashy novels.

  *****

  Cars were stalled for several blocks as they waited for the lights to turn. Jillian stared vacantly at the traffic and the roads crossing each other like a maze, still thinking back to the young man. She smiled uneasily, leaned back against the vinyl-cushioned seat and listened to the taxi driver go on about the stresses and trials of being a cabbie; he actually had a Ph.D. in his home country, but here in Canada the only job he could get was driving a taxi. His English was too poor, he supposed. A look of sorrow had spread over his weary face. He was a friendly sort, she thought, perhaps a little lonely, looking at her through his rear-view mirror as he talked about his life back home in India. She watched the windshield wipers wagging back and forth as the windows and streets were doused with a spring shower that seemed to have dropped from a blue sky. Then she looked more closely and realized that there was just a small patch of blue sky; the rest had turned grey. The shower proclaimed that life was hard.

  Twenty minutes later, the taxi turned off the Expressway at the South Kingsway and began climbing up that winding tree-lined street to the part of Bloor Street West that the locals called simply 'The Village'— a small community within the City of Toronto. Most of the homes in this part of the city had been built in the 1920's and had a quaint middle-class charm. The meandering Humber River ran along one side— flowing down from its headwaters in the Niagara Escarpment, collecting various tributary creeks and streams now mostly turned into storm sewers, until it emptied into Lake Ontario.

  Whizzing quickly through the Village, her taxi passed a peaceful scene of wet roads and cast-iron streetlamps, with a sprinkle of pedestrians leisurely walking hand in hand while others sat in groups at outdoor cafes and restaurants. The homes stood within comfortable walking-distance of boutiques, specialty shops mainly featuring Ukrainian and Polish fare, cinemas and restaurants. As the taxi continued on its way, she caught fleeting images of windowsills brightened by blue and yellow pansies in terracotta flower pots and elderly ladies dressed in black, hunched forward, cleaning up the dead foliage and debris of the winter. Spring in Toronto could be so unpredictable: it could still snow as late as April, when the trees were already beginning to bud with a bright green haze; but then the next day, rising temperatures could melt the snow to a mushy slush, and house windows would then be flung open to release smells of stew, pizza and fish. Spring was never a proper season, only a brief stop-and-start transition from winter to summer. The rain had finally stopped.

  The taxi approached Jillian's home on Baby Point Crescent. It stood on a half acre of land in an old neighbourhood of single-family homes, set well back from the main road at the end of a long driveway that swept in a wide semicircle to the front door. The driver turned off the meter.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  The driver swung his head back and replied, “Twenty-five dollars.” She paid him. He looked ashamed, and she wished him well and urged him not to give up in his search for a better job. They shook hands vigorously. She walked away from the car and did not look around until, after what seemed a long silence, it began to roll away. She looked up at her home. It was a large house. The front was flanked by three old silver maples, whose trunks were thick and gnarled. The land to the rear was a ravine of trees and marshland. As a child, Jillian would often secretly crawl out her bedroom window at night onto a small balcony on the slate-shingled roof and gaze far off at the CN tower and all the downtown skyscrapers along the horizon; the lights from the city would gleam with the stars and the moon clear across the trees in the Humber ravine.

  Her parents had bought the house 32 years before, when grass three feet high and overgrown weeds had covered the lot, while most of the neighbouring ones had manicured lawns. The property had been tied up for years as part of a disputed estate, and its run-down condition was what had enabled the young couple to afford it. Damp had spread through the whole house; the roof and walls had begun to rot from neglect. Her parents had bought it just in the nick of time, before it collapsed. Jillian recalled stories of how they had stood knee-deep in the tall weeds, scratching their heads, staring in disbelief at a garage whose roof had sunk under the weight of a tree that had sprouted inside and reached a height of three metres. Nightshade creepers and Boston ivy had run riot over the house walls, sinking their roots into the porous brick and mortar. Untended, nature finds her way into any available crevices and cracks.

  As she walked briskly along the path, a warm breeze picked up, and the heady scent of lilies suddenly became overpowering. She glimpsed a blur of Shasta daisies, irises and Campanula bluebells lined in rows, frequented by bees and white winged butterflies that floated through the air like gauze, drifting from one flower to the next, gathering pollen, as petals spilled onto the pavement and scattered in the wind. Her tread was light and quick as she came up the front steps, then took firm hold of the doorknob and turned her key.

  *****

  Silence reigned except for the grandfather clock with its long golden pendulum ending in a large moon face, which swung slowly and gracefully, its rhythmic ticks filling the house like a heartbeat. She noted with relief that the time was only 11:25 a.m., well ahead of her job interview. Wond
ering if anyone else was at home, she called out, “Mom, Dad, anybody here?” A black dog stirred uneasily as it pricked its ears forward; its tail thumped a few times on the wooden floor, and then suddenly it jolted up and came running through the French doors from the dining-room, leaping and skidding as it rushed about the living-room and finally jumped up onto Jillian's waist.

  “Molly!” Jillian shrieked with glee. “Down, girl!”

  But Molly went on sniffing and licking Jillian's hair and face with her warm wet tongue. Her melancholy eyes peered so close, her furry face soon went out of focus.

  “Molly, girl,” Jillian cooed as she put out both her hands and buried her face in the dog's rich black fur, pressing her cheek firmly against her body, which smelled of grass and outdoors. She hung up her coat in the hall closet while Molly trailed close behind, tail whipping back and forth as Jillian rushed up the stairs and placed her knapsack on the floor by her bed. She took a quick look around her bedroom with its high ceiling in cheery-yellow paint and white-trimmed walls. Every article evoked a part of her childhood universe. Perched on the dresser was Socks, her favourite teddy bear, well worn over the years from many hugs. On the bed was the colourful handmade quilt her Aunt Jean had given her for her eighth birthday and on her desk were medical encyclopaedias and other books piled one on top of another; everything was in its proper place. She quickly changed into her dress clothes for her job interview, raced down the stairs and out the front door and briskly walked to Bloor Street.

  Her steps were more of a dance than a walk as she made her way along the sidewalks through the Village on that warm spring day. The pavements were crowded with young mothers pushing baby strollers and others carrying fruits and vegetables; some still wore thick wool sweaters, not knowing what the weather might do from one minute to the next. She herself was wearing a brand-new dress and shoes and carrying a matching clutch from Banana Republic, stopping every once in a while to admire her reflection in the store windows. Her thoughts were on the job interview at 1:00 PM with Ms. Bradshaw, the head of human resources at the Toronto General Hospital. She needed this summer job to help pay for her two semesters at Queen's University. Sure, her parents were going to pay for a large chunk of the tuition fees and also the rent; what decent well-to-do parent wouldn't? They couldn't expect an eighteen-year-old girl to pay ten thousand dollars for tuition fees and books, could they? Well, her dad had just recently made “a killing,” as he called it, in the stock market, an easy $200,000 in one afternoon! He was always following the latest stock craze, trying to find investment opportunities. Her thoughts were in a whirl when a figure suddenly stepped out from one of the stores and nearly collided with her; it was Andrew Waits. For a moment he squinted at Jillian in the bright sunshine without seeming to recognize her. Shiny-faced Andrew, staring at her as if she were an alien from another planet! But then his face brightened and approached hers as if it were the most natural thing to do. They were now standing on the pavement as people walked by, perhaps mistakenly thinking they were boyfriend and girlfriend. Andrew was smiling straight into Jillian's embarrassed face. She did feel something for him, but how she disliked any outward show of affection— from him especially. It was too real.