SCENE 15:

See Me, Feel Me,
Touch Me, Heal Me

Spring 1969

Fury’s determination and passion frightened her. She played the fugitive game, and spent most of her time hiding in Ulu and Dewey’s new rental on St. Famille Street. Not a cockroach in sight.

“He’s a good guy,” Dewey said. “Give him a chance.”

“Like, I don’t know why he even likes me.”

“Loddy, you can be so frustrating.”

“Just let it happen. Ride the moment. Life can go just like that.” Ulu snapped her finger in a Flamenco flourish.

Since the fire, Ulu’s damaged spirit had assumed a funereal look, her mouth etched in a permanent downward slope. A face now devoid of expression concealed her emotions. She no longer worked the clubs, no longer danced, no longer performed at The Garage Theatre, and donated all her costumes to Marvel. She focused on her studies, determined to re-invent herself after graduation. The downtown YWCA had hired her as a stagaire, a student in training, and she had notions of becoming an advocate for women’s rights.

“My life has been so shallow up to now,” she said.

“I don’t know,” Loddy said. “You’ve done a lot with your women’s libber stuff and burning your bra. You’ve stood up for your beliefs and that’s more than I’ve done.”

The three were relishing an afternoon in the cozy living room, drinking Chianti and listening to The Who’s new album, Tommy.

“Tommy, can you hear me?” screeched Loddy with a suddenness that made Ulu flinch. “Tommy, can you feel me?”

“Must you?”

“I can always, like, start slapping my thighs on the floor if you want.”

“Please, not that,” Ulu said, scowling.

For Loddy, these were perfect moments: simple things like a glass of wine with good friends after a plain but delicious dinner; walking in a downpour without an umbrella; singing in the shower along with Cass Elliot’s solo album. Most of all, she loved her bed. It was there that her tired feet would search for the cooler sections of the sheet, and she would fall into a Rip Van Winkle sleep while counting all the things she coveted for herself.

Dewey had once told her that, with her low expectations, she was a cheap date and should aim higher. “Don’t settle for beer when there’s champagne on the table.”

But Loddy didn’t need much in her life to be happy. Love was missing in the script but then there was Fury if she let him. She dreamed of singing with Mama Cass. Just once do something outrageous. And she wanted to be marvellous and wonderful and ... and ... and ... an endless treasure list of “ands”. Loddy exhaled from the depths of her diaphragm as Rita had taught her.

“What was that big sigh?” Ulu sprawled over the couch, humming to the music as she downed the last bit of wine.

Dewey intercepted: “Loddy, why do you always pretend you can’t sing?”

“Like, I guess I reject me and my singing before anyone else gets a chance. I know it sounds crazy.”

“You fail on purpose?” Ulu said, sniffing the empty goblet.

“You have to work on your self-worth, hon.”

“Well, Dewey, you once told me, like, I have this black cloud over my head and things just happen. So what’s the point?”

“I was only kidding. Do you believe everything I say?”

Before Loddy could defend herself, Ulu chimed in: “You make your life what you want it to be based on your values and choices. You are the master painter of your life. You hold the brush. Paint it black or paint it ... paint it red like that thing on your wall. What do you call it?”

“The Rising Sun.”

“Oh, shut up, Ulu!” Dewey said, rolling out of the beanbag onto the floor. “You’ve been reading too many of those self-help books. Give it a rest.”

“You’re right, Ulu, I know,” said Loddy, sensing an argument and hoping to diffuse it.

“Okay, girls,” Dewey said. “Therapy session over. I’ve got to get back to work. Showing’s next week and I’m way behind schedule.” And he was gone before anyone could comment.

Dewey’s atelier was a dilapidated backyard shed. He had renovated the interior into a functional dark room and isolated himself more and more among the enlarged black and white reproductions of contemporary life that were becoming his signature.

When Ulu fell asleep on the couch, Loddy let herself out and walked the short distance home in the dark. She slipped her hand into her shoulder bag, and gripped the canister in the interior pocket — a spray repellent to ward off any attacks by “shadflies”.

Lorne Avenue with its one highrise, squeezed among the rooming houses and walkups, ended in a crescent of antiquated residences at the top of the hill. The tall, mag­nificent maples formed an arch as their branches bowed from either side of the street and met in the mid­dle. For Loddy, the student ghetto fit into her romanti­cized version of artistic freedom. It had everything she needed for now — proximity to The Word bookstore on Milton Street, an A and P across the lane for groceries, and a downtown core within walking distance to a Metro station, restaurants, bars, stores and The Garage Theatre. In the fall, the street would swell with students enrolled at nearby McGill University while seniors, artists and other low-income tenants inhabited the quarter year-round. She had grown accustomed to the cockroaches and even learned to ignore them. Ulu and Dewey had urged her to move in with them, save on rent, but she relished her tiny apartment and being accountable to nobody but herself.

This night, the building had a stench of late night cooking; a pong of cabbage and curry that settled into her apartment. Since Loddy’s encounter with the Peeping Tom, she kept her windows locked and used a portable fan for ventilation. Adding an air freshener to the mix only exacerbated the problem, emitting a scent reminiscent of Ladies’ Rooms in exotic restaurants. She had settled down for the night, about to tear into a large-sized bag of potato chips, when the door bell rang, followed by a knock.

“Loddy, you there? Loddy?” Another knock.

Fury. He had become a daily nuisance, an annoyance. She stopped in mid-chew, held a potato chip in her mouth like a communion wafer, terrified the crackle and crunch would expose her presence through the thinly insulated walls. She held her breath until she heard the skip of footsteps descending the exterior stairway. Another five minutes of stillness, just in case, and then with measured precision, she chomped down on the chip. A few minutes later, the shrill ringing of the phone made her hack on the potato chip. She thought it was Alma looking for her usual respite from a sleepless night.

“Hey, hi.” Oh, no. Fury. “I came by but you weren’t home. I’m calling from the pay phone down the street. Can I come over?”

“Ah ... ah ... Like, just a minute.” She started to choke on the chip.

“Loddy, you okay?”

She ran to the sink for water.

“I just got in just now, you know,” she said, “and I’m about to go to bed.”

“Oh.” She could hear his breathing between the awkward pauses, and she moved her lips closer to the receiver, short of kissing it.

“Do you like them?”

“Like what?”

“The flowers. Didn’t you find them? I left them just outside your door when you didn’t answer.”

“The flowers. Oh! Yes, yes, the flowers! I didn’t know what you meant. Yes, they’re nice. Thank you.”

“So when can I see you?”

“I’ll let you know, okay.” Loddy squirmed with the guilt of lying and twined a thread of hair around her index finger.

“Are you going to Dewey’s show next week?”

“Huh? Oh yeah. Like, yes.”

“I’ll see you there then, okay? I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh? Okay, for sure.” Loddy hung up and ran to the door. When she opened it, a bouquet of red roses, which had been secured over the doorknob, spilled at her feet.

“Shit!”

xxx

At last, the long-awaited exhibition at The Gallery Den, a modest out of the way gem of an art gallery located on Greene Avenue in lower Westmount. Ulu and Loddy had just arrived, and both were making a beeline for the wine and cheese table when someone touched Ulu’s shoulder.

“Magnifique! Magnifique! You are so beautiful,” he said, then turned to Loddy: “And you, so brave.”

Dewey’s show with its biblical theme, Via Dolorosa, caused quite a commotion. “Sacrilegious! Pornographic! Hilarious! Provocative!” The reviews were good and bad. Fourteen photos depicted the Stations of the Cross and a naked Ulu played Jesus in each scene: from Last Supper to crucifixion. This last portrait sent everyone gagging on their Brie — Ulu with outstretched arms and blood dripping from a crown of thorns around her head like a bird’s nest. Woman crucified.

Loddy turned to Ulu. “What did that guy mean, so brave?”

“Didn’t you see the other room with Fury’s work and his students?”

“No. Like I thought it was only Dewey’s stuff.”

“Follow me and don’t be shocked.”

Loddy trailed behind Ulu in the crush of art connoisseurs who parted a path for them like the Red Sea. They were standing in the archway where Dewey’s exhibit ended and Fury’s began. A large sign on an easel, like a burlesque poster announcing the next performer, greeted them: Rubens’ Model.

“Oh. My. God!” A reluctant Loddy staggered to the middle of the room and pointed to The Blonde, arms crossed, lifting naked breasts, leaning against the canvas of Loddy portraying Venus and her Toilet.

“What’s she doing here?”

“Who, Loddy?”

“Don’t you see her?” She charged towards the figure, but as soon as Loddy reached for her, The Blonde disappeared like a burst soap bubble.

“You okay?” Ulu clutched her forearm.

“Don’t tell anyone okay?”

“Of course not. You can trust me, you know that, Loddy.”

“I’ve been, like, seeing this blond chick for a while now. She keeps popping into my life at the weirdest times. I must be going bonkers like Alma. You honestly didn’t see her?”

“Maybe you should get your eyes checked. Or maybe you should talk to someone.”

“Like someone at The Dougie? No way!”

“Maybe you just need a good vacation.”

“Or like maybe I just need a pill. Got anything?” She laughed. “Just joking.”

Then she saw. Loddy’s eyes darted around the room, zeroed in on the walls, back and forth, back and forth over the familiar canvases by Fury’s students. Some of the portraits were painted in the manner of Lucien Freud using a palette knife to penetrate thick wands of greens and blues into the skin of the canvas. Fury himself had sculpted a nude likeness of her, which was mounted on a platform in the centre, displayed like a hockey trophy — the Stanley Cup, to be lifted, celebrated.

“How dare he do that without my permission? No wonder everyone feels sorry for me.” She wheeled around only to collide into Fury who had been standing behind her all along.

“You! How could you? I thought those paintings were just for class.”

Those magnetic Italian eyes lured her once again, and then the dimpled grin. She could almost forgive him.

“None of those paintings are for sale, Loddy. Never!”

“This is so humiliating!” She attacked his sculpture and hurled it, sending a thud of clay onto the hardwood flooring. Loddy had everyone’s attention now. She brushed by Fury, covering her face with her hands as though she were protecting herself from the sting of bees. And then she was gone.

“Actually I think they’re rather wonderful,” Ulu said.

“Try convincing her, okay.” He picked up a section of the damaged figure and rubbed it like a magic lamp hoping for a genie to appear and bring her back. “I better see where she went before she does something silly and gets hurt.”

Loddy had just passed by the table of refreshments on her way out when Dormer, the gallery owner, barged out of his office. “They’ve bombed the Stock Exchange! The FLQ, they’ve bombed the Montreal Stock Exchange! Now they’ve gone too far!”

No! A chorus of disbelief in the room.

“Just got a call from a friend who works nearby,” Dormer said.

The party chatter devolved into a low panicky grumble as guests gathered their coats: I get the message. It’ll be my house next. I’m getting out of this damn province before they kill us all off. I’ve had enough! I lived through the holocaust. Rumour circulated that the FLQ were on a rampage throughout the city and The Gallery Den, being in the English enclave of Westmount, was on their hit list. Dewey’s camera captured the baffled faces, just a phone call away from a moving van — frightened European faces, recollecting another time, passports always current. Just in case.

“Loddy!” Fury was by her side again.

She swayed in the bottleneck at the entrance while Dormer tried to shoo everyone back into the gallery. “People, people, please come back. Please!” But only Loddy, Ulu, Dewey and Fury remained with Dormer, who was wolfing down the Brie and lowering his anxiety level with glasses of wine.

“Come on you guys, no point in wasting a good evening,” Fury said. “Don’t want the wine to go sour.”

“Like, I can’t believe this is happening. It’s scary.”

“It’ll be fine, Loddy,” Fury said. “People jump to conclusions. I mean look at old man Dormer over there, drunk as a monk. How can anyone believe anything the guy says?”

“And what about you?” Loddy was still indignant over the display of her nudity without her permission.

“What about me?” Fury seemed perplexed.

“How can I ever trust you? You could have at least told me.”

“What? The paintings? They weren’t yours to begin with, but my students’ and to their credit, they should be exhibited. Don’t take it personally. You were just the model.”

“Personally? Just the model? It’s my fat body that everyone is looking at.”

“You see yourself that way, but art lovers see it differently.”

“You think? I feel so embarrassed.”

“Why? You were okay with it in class.”

“The class was private. This ... this is different. I might as well slit my wrists.”

Fury laughed. “Ah come on now. Let’s get us some drinks and we’ll all feel better, okay?”

Those crinkly eyes, that combustive laugh, tender touch. Fury placed his arm around her shoulders and led her to the wine table. Loddy felt herself being seduced, but this time she didn’t have the strength to fight it.