So Much It Hurts (12 page)

He makes a little snoring sound. He's our kitten. Mine and Mick's. I promise myself that we'll give this little guy a good home—a safe, calm place where he won't be too lonely for the rest of his family.

That's when I come up with his name. William Shakespeare. And I'll ask Mick not to call him by a nickname the way he does with me.

He'll be William Shakespeare because he's smart and noble and by calling him that, he'll always remind Mick and me of the day we met.

Someone's tapping on the car window. The tapping wakes William Shakespeare. His little ears twitch back and forth. “It's okay,” I tell him, “go back to sleep.”

The person doing the tapping is dressed in jogging gear. When he pulls up his navy balaclava, I see it's Tommy. What's he doing out in this weather?

“Iris,” he says when I roll down the window, “I thought it was you.” His eyelashes have snow on them. “Nice Jeep. Whose is it?”

“A friend's.”

Now he notices William Shakespeare nestled inside my coat. One of the kitten's eyes is closed; the other is on Tommy. “I didn't know you had a cat,” Tommy says.

“We—I just got him. I better roll up the window now. I don't want him getting cold. Be careful out there,” I tell Tommy. “It's slippery.”

Tommy adjusts his balaclava before he jogs back out to the street. I watch as the reflective stripes on the back of his pants get farther and farther away.

A few minutes later, Mick opens the back door of the Jeep and tosses in the things he's bought. He doesn't mention Tommy. He must have been at the cash when Tommy stopped to talk to me.

“Meet William Shakespeare,” I tell Mick.

“It's a good name,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”

“Not Bill,” I say in my firmest voice. I'm not used to standing up to Mick. “William Shakespeare.”

The streets are getting slushy, especially at the intersections. Mick speeds up to make it through a yellow light, and a wave of gray slush splashes into the air. I see Tommy on the sidewalk, jogging on the spot and shaking his head. Mick has just drenched him.

Mick doesn't seem to notice what he's done—and though I feel bad for Tommy, I figure it's better not to mention it.

I pet the soft spot between William Shakespeare's ears.

“If you keep cuddling up with that bloke,” Mick says, “you're gonna make me jealous.”

I laugh. I also release my hold on William Shakespeare. He opens one eye as if to say, “Now why in the world would you do that?”

CHAPTER 16

“He was a man. Take him for all in all.
I shall not look upon his like again.”
—HAMLET
, ACT 1, SCENE 2

T
he needles are falling off the Christmas tree in the lobby of Mick's building. The packages underneath— some wrapped in shiny Christmas paper, others in blue-and-white Hanukkah paper—are getting dusty. I'm wearing the vintage wool coat Mick surprised me with for Christmas. So what if the fox collar tickles my neck? It makes me feel like a movie star.

When I let myself into the lobby, Mrs. Karpman is there, waiting for the elevator. She is surrounded by shopping bags. “I can't resist the January sales,” she explains. “I already bought the children presents for Hanukkah next year.” She insists on showing me the turtleneck sweater she bought for her eldest grandson.

I help Mrs. Karpman with her bags. I can't say no when she invites me in for tea. I try telling her I want to do some studying before Mick gets back, but she insists. “Just a quick cup of tea, Iris. I do so want you to meet Sunshine.”

Only with Mrs. Karpman, nothing happens quickly. She wants me to choose a teacup from her extensive teacup collection. “That one's bone china,” she says when I choose a cup and saucer with dusty-rose cabbage leaves on it. “Nelson bought it for me when we were in London in 1965. It was a marvelous trip. Next time I'll show you the album.”

Sunshine lives in a small cage by the window in Mrs. Karpman's kitchen. He's egg-yolk yellow with a sharp orange beak, and when he sings, he makes a happy trill.

“Only the boys sing,” Mrs. Karpman tells me as she pours my tea. “If you put a female canary into a cage with a male one, he stops singing.”

I don't have the heart to tell Mrs. Karpman that maybe Sunshine is singing from loneliness. For a moment, I remember how I felt before I met Mick—as if I'd never find anyone who really
got
me. I'd have sung, too, if I'd thought it could help me meet someone like him.

I tell Mrs. Karpman about William Shakespeare. She says she'd like to meet him sometime too. “Though, to be honest, I have more of an affinity for birds than cats.” She looks over at Sunshine when she says that. The canary is swinging back and forth on his wooden perch.

Mrs. Karpman relaxes into her velvet armchair and sips her tea. “Loneliness is a dreadful thing,” she says. The comment seems to come out of nowhere. Will I do that too when I am old?

“How long has it been since Mr. Karpman—Nelson— died?” I ask, hoping the question won't make Mrs. Karpman miss him even more. But she looks pleased that I've remembered her husband's name.

“It's been fifteen years,” she tells me, looking into her teacup as if she can see Nelson's reflection there. “He was considerably older than me. A little like you and that Australian charmer of yours.”

“The age difference doesn't matter to us,” I say quickly. “We're interested in all the same things. Mick's a theater director; I want to act.”

“Nelson and I had a great deal in common too. We both loved to travel. And he was a wonderful father. He changed diapers and helped with the feedings. In our day, there weren't many men who did those things. Do you suppose your Mick will make a good father?” I can feel Mrs. Karpman's eyes watching my face as she waits for my answer.

“He already has a son. A little boy named Nial. He's in Australia with his mother. They're divorced—Mick and Nial's mother, I mean.” Somehow, though I hardly know her, Mrs. Karpman's opinion matters to me. I don't want her to think I'd have a relationship with a married man.

“How old is the little boy?” she asks.

“Almost two.”

“He must miss his daddy,” she says, sighing.

“What about your kids?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “Are they in Montreal?” If they are, they don't come to see her very often. In all the times I've been at Mick's, I've never heard or seen any visitors next door.

“My son and daughter are both in Toronto. And I've got five delicious grandchildren.” She says the word
delicious
like she's describing a cinnamon Danish, not people. “The eldest, Errol, what a doll that boy is. He might be coming to McGill next fall. Now that would be a blessing. He says he'll come for Friday-night dinners because no one makes a roast chicken like his bubbie.”

“Did you ever think of moving to Toronto—to be closer to them all?”

Mrs. Karpman looks around her little kitchen and smiles. “I try to get to Toronto whenever I can. In fact, I'm going next month. But no, I'd never move away from Montreal. I couldn't bear to leave Nelson behind.”

“But Nelson's dead,” I say softly. For the first time, I wonder if maybe Mrs. Karpman is so old she's getting senile.

“Nelson and I lived together in this apartment for twenty-two years. I feel his spirit everywhere all the time. He dried the dishes at that sink. And he put up that shelf for me—for my salt-and-pepper-shaker collection.” I look over at the shelf, which is jammed with shakers. I'm sure that, like Mrs. Karpman's teacups, each pair of shakers has a story and that if I asked, Mrs. Karpman would be only too happy to tell me all of them. “He's buried in Montreal too—at the Mount Royal Cemetery.”

I can't imagine relying on a dead person for company.

I set my teacup down on the table and walk over to the birdcage. Sunshine is pacing on the bar of his wooden swing. When I make a kissing sound, he jumps off the swing and grabs onto the cage bars with his scaly feet. He's staring right at me now.

“I think Sunshine likes you,” Mrs. Karpman says approvingly.

She wants to show me some photos in her living room. There is one of just Nelson and several of the two of them together. Nelson has a broad moon face and hardly any hair. In the photo, he is holding a gold pocket watch. “I took that one of Nelson,” Mrs. Karpman says, pointing to the portrait. “He was always fiddling with that watch. Setting it and resetting it, checking the time. I bought it for him when he turned fifty. I had the jeweler engrave it with the letter
N
. Nelson always kept it with him. He said it reminded him of me.” She sniffles when she says that.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. I don't know what else to say.

Mrs. Karpman taps the glass over a photo of the two of them. A much younger Mrs. Karpman beams as she holds on tightly to her husband's arm, as if she's afraid he might take off.

“Did you two always get along?” I ask. It's strange that of everyone I know, Mrs. Karpman is the only one I can talk to about my relationship with Mick.

When she pats my hand, I get the feeling that although she's hard of hearing, she's heard Mick and me fighting. I feel my cheeks heating up in shame. “No two people always get along.” I know she is choosing her words carefully. “I think Nelson and I squabbled more in our early days together. It's all part of getting used to each other.”

I nod. What Mrs. Karpman has just said makes so much sense. Mick and I have been squabbling too. That's exactly the right word. A squabble isn't as bad as a fight. Mick and I squabble sometimes because we're still getting used to each other.
No two people always get along.

“One thing though—I always knew Nelson respected me.” Mrs. Karpman watches my face when she says this, as if she's weighing whether to say more.

I nod again. Mick is always saying how much potential I have as an actress and how beautiful he thinks I am. That's respect, isn't it?

“Sometimes,” Mrs. Karpman says, “a woman needs to stand up for herself and demand respect.”

“I'd never need to do that with Mick.”

I don't like that Mrs. Karpman is making me feel I have to defend my own boyfriend. She must realize I'm offended, because she changes the subject. “Now let me show you the grandchildren,” she says as she directs me to another wall of photos. There, I see all five grandchildren, photographed at every age and in various combinations. With each other, with their parents, alone on baby blankets, and posed against blue backgrounds, with their hands folded, in school photos.

“That's Errol,” Mrs. Karpman says, tapping her finger on a chrome frame. “Have you ever seen such a good-looking boy? That turtleneck is going to look so good on him!”

I say yes, Errol is handsome, but the truth is, I hardly look at the photograph. There is only one good-looking man I want to look at. In that way I guess I'm a little like Mrs. Karpman. I'll never stop loving Mick, just like she's never stopped loving Nelson. That thought makes me forgive her for hinting that maybe Mick isn't right for me.

“I'll drop by again,” I tell her. Even if Mrs. Karpman is a little nosy, I'd still like to invite her to meet William Shakespeare. Only I don't think Mick would want an unexpected visitor. It'd be better, I think, to invite her to come sometime when he isn't there.

“I'm going to the seniors' center to play mahjong with some friends this afternoon,” Mrs. Karpman tells me when she takes me to the door. “Nelson hated mahjong. He didn't see the point of it. You know, dear”—Mrs. Karpman drops her voice as if she's about to let me in on a great secret—“it's not always so terrible to be alone. Nelson, bless his soul, could get a little bossy sometimes. And now, well, I'm my own boss.” Her pale eyes twinkle when she says that.

Mrs. Karpman kisses me on both cheeks. “I've just thought of something, Iris. Would you mind looking after Sunshine when I go to Toronto next month? You'd just have to freshen up his birdseed and give him water. I'd pay you, of course.”

“I'd be glad to do it—and I wouldn't want any money.” Somehow, I like the idea of sitting by myself in Mrs. Karpman's apartment with just Sunshine for company.

Mrs. Karpman wants me to take the spare key she keeps on a hook behind the door. “So you'll have it when I'm away,” she says. An Eiffel Tower ornament dangles from the keychain. It must be a souvenir from one of the Karpmans' trips. There's also a little
ID
tag on the keychain. In neat, bold letters, it says
KARPMAN
.

CHAPTER 17

“The native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought…”
—HAMLET
, ACT 3, SCENE 1

I
've spread out the college brochures on Mick's coffee table. Every one is plastered with photos of happy teenagers who have no trouble making decisions. It's as if there are thirty faces smirking at me from the glossy sheets, all asking the same question:
What's wrong with you, Iris Wagner?

I have to decide which college I'm going to apply to for next September and what program I want to go into. I've got brochures from four colleges—one private, three public. I'll have to pay tuition at the private college, but the classes are smaller and the school has a good reputation. One of the public colleges is on the metro line, so that'd make it easier to get to school for early classes. As for programs, I need to choose between Arts and Science, Arts or Science, Creative Arts or Social Science. My head hurts from trying to keep track of all the options.

Like Hamlet, I'm terrible at making decisions. I think it's because I worry I'll end up regretting whatever I decide. When I was little, I used to take forever to choose a chocolate bar or a flavor of ice cream. If I chose butterscotch, I'd wonder as soon as I took the first lick if maybe the double fudge would've tasted even better. I know a person is supposed to be able to make a decision and live with it, but that's not how it works for me. I come close to making a decision, then change my mind, then wonder if the first decision would've been the better one.