SCENE 21:

Summer of Possibilities

Summer 1969

On July 20, Apollo 11 landed on the moon. Although Loddy was a woman, not a man, she too decided to take small steps, letting her hair grow to her waist and wearing long, loose, gauzy dresses in psychedelic colours, solid red and flamingo pink. This infuriated Alma.

“Why you wear nightgown? You look like you go to bed.

Loddy sometimes framed herself against the sun, her legs in a wide stance, and let the light filter through the garment, revealing the outline of her chunky body through the flimsy fabric. The fashion suited her though, and made her feel ethereal. She was again cocky and confident. Perhaps it was because Fury loved her unconditionally, ripples and all. Perhaps it was because of the positive recognition she received from the nude paintings at the Gallery Den. Perhaps it was because of the good reviews for Evil Ed ... (and without saying a word ... left an indelible impression on the mind ...). Perhaps it was because of the business card. She hadn’t shown it to anyone, not even Fury.

After the recording session in Lennon’s room, she had lingered in the hotel bar on the main floor, and had ordered a martini, her current favourite drink, while Dewey completed a call. A burly man, bald as an eagle, a Telly Savalas look-a-like, introduced himself. He asked her name, said he worked for a New York talent agency, and had heard her sing. “I was standing behind you in the room and you have a great voice. Very Joplin.”

He flipped open his cardholder, pulled out a business card and said: “If you’re ever in New York, come see me.” Then he was gone.

Loddy wondered if he too was a figment of her imagination. But this ... this card was concrete, solid. If she chose to, she could crush it, tear it into a million pieces, chew it and swallow it even. Of course, she had seen enough movies to not take the man seriously. And yet ... and yet, there it was in bold and embossed letters:

Robert Marks

Creative Talent Management

She didn’t crumple, tear up or chew the card. She kept it in her wallet like a potentially winning lottery ticket to be brought out whenever she needed reassurance, whenever the world made too many demands, whenever there were obligations she couldn’t ignore, whenever she doubted her own abilities. That card represented the possibilities of something more. One day, like Armstrong, she would take a giant leap and float-walk on red carpets among the stars. One day.

Loddy worked the summer for Ulu at the youth hostel welcoming the promise of an administrative position in the fall — if she wanted it. Aretha, with the gypsy soul, had received an invitation to a music festival and couldn’t pass up the experience. She had met some transients at the hostel, who were en route to Bethel, New York, and a small town called Woodstock. They convinced her to join their party.

“You don’t even know these people, Aretha,” Ulu said, scolding her with the exasperation of a mother with a delinquent daughter. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t care. We are all one with the universe. Any­how, I hear there’s going to be all these fab bands —Grateful Dead, Creedence Clearwater, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Ulu, you’re getting so establishment.”

“Janis Joplin!” Loddy exclaimed. “Like, you’re not kidding? She’s my favourite all-time performer now. She sings with such force. I cry every time I hear Ball and Chain. I get her.”

And indeed, Loddy had ripped off the Cass Elliott posters, replacing them with Janis Joplin in all her wrenching pain: Janis, stooped over holding her stomach, fierce voice screaming into a mike at Monterey, feathers fluttering in her hair; Janis, anorexic from too many drugs; Janis, full and stocky from too much Southern Comfort and fried food.

“Come with me, Loddy. It’ll be fun!”

“I promised Ulu I’d help out here.” That foot in cement, again. So solid. So reliable. So Loddy-Dah.

Ulu squeezed Loddy’s arm in reassurance. Both followed Aretha as she boarded the psychedelic-painted van parked in front of the Y, and kept an eye on the vehicle until it merged into the busy traffic on Dorchester Street and was out of sight.

xxx

Since the exposure at the Gallery Den, both Fury and Dewey were busier than their schedules allowed. While Dewey maintained his part-time job at The Montreal Star, his freelance work now required him to travel to Toronto and Vancouver for various commercial and private assignments. Fury, in the meantime, renewed his teaching contracts at the museum and the university while also receiving a steady barrage of commissions to paint and design for corporate, public and private collections. He and Dewey shared a common artist’s corner on Place Jacques Cartier in Old Montreal where they would alternate a timetable of sketching and selling their work to tourists, who crowded this historic quarter every summer. When the humidity reached unbearable levels, as it always did in July, Loddy slathered herself with sun screen lotion and would accompany Fury to the site, settling beside him in a canvas lawn chair under an expansive beach umbrella. At the end of the day, they would sometimes sit on the edge of the circular fountain in the centre of the square, throw pennies and make a wish, letting the spray graze their backs. Then they would run amok, kicking up the frothy water to soothe their tired, hot feet. Other times they would order a cold beer at one of the outdoor bistros and listen to sightseers with pocket-size dictionaries in hand, rehearse their French with English waiters. Loddy couldn’t remember when she last felt such joy.

At the end of July, while the city broiled under a heat wave, Loddy and Fury escaped to house-sit a cottage in the Laurentians. The retired couple, friends of Fury’s parents, was away for the weekend in Montreal, a family gathering to welcome a new grandson.

xxx

The dirt road ended in a cul-de-sac from where Loddy could make out the rustic house, an unpretentious log cabin, which seemed to sink into a garden of delphiniums, hollyhocks, goldenrod and flowers she couldn’t name. When the lake came into view, Fury had barely time to stop the motorcycle before Loddy leapt off and skidded down the sloping gravel path to the wharf. After Fury tugged the bike alongside the house and unloaded their backpacks, he joined her.

The sun hung low on the horizon, and dragonflies, like miniature helicopters, hovered over the translucent lake. Loddy felt his fingers caress her tailbone and wondered if it was the chilly country air or Fury’s touch that made her shiver.

“Can we go on the lake now?” she said, with the excitement of a child.

“Anything you want, my love.”

They found each other as though for the first time. He guided her down to the surface of the wharf with
the care and attention given a one-of-a-kind orchid. They peeled off each other’s clothes, and located the sensitive spots that made each convulse with pleasure. Together they peaked and the sounds of their rapture penetrated through the density of trees into the nearby woods. They lay on their backs for a minute, catching their breath.

“Feel my heart,” he said and laid her hand on his chest. He touched her nipples, still hard, and leaned over to kiss her breasts again and again.

She could hear the croaking of frogs and the chorus of crickets in the tall grass among the wild flowers.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen so soon,” she laughed.

“Really?”

Loddy rolled over onto her side and came face-to-face with a huge bullfrog that had borne witness to their passion. He croaked unceremoniously, like a shoddy drunk with an unstoppable burp, and sent her screaming as though someone had set her on fire. Fury laughed and drew her tighter until the frightened toad vaulted from the wharf and onto a lily pad.

The interior of the cabin was what she expected. The décor was plain and simple. A rectangular handmade oak table, large enough to accommodate the diners at the Last Supper, occupied the length of the room, and a kerosene lantern dangled over its centre. A wood stove in one corner, a deep old-fashioned sink with a water pump, and an icebox completed the kitchen.

“There’s one bedroom on the main floor and three upstairs. We get the one down here.” Fury pointed to a small tidy room with an overflow of cushions, rag quilts, kitschy artifacts and framed petty point on the walls.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Did you see that narrow upright rectangular building near the road? Looks like a cheap wooden coffin? Well, that’s the outhouse.”

“I suppose we shower in the lake?”

“You got it. It’ll be fun.”

Fury took a gander inside the icebox. The owners favoured them with food and drink, along with a thank you note, and invited them to make themselves at home. “You, me, a loaf of Italian bread, provolone, prosciutto, and a bottle of home-made Italian red wine. What more do we need?”

After a late night dinner, they carried their wine glasses to the sun porch and installed themselves on an old couch layered with handmade coverlets. The glow from the kitchen lantern reflected through the window behind them, their only source of light, other than the intermittent pulses from fireflies as they performed their magic.

“What was that?”

Loddy, alarmed by a sudden splash in the lake, was ready to scuttle back inside but Fury restrained her.

“Probably fish surfacing to feed on insects.”

“You sure?” She listened with the concentration of someone who had just regained their hearing, and there it was again, the same plop, amid the choir of crickets and the busy burp of a bull frog.

Fury kissed her cheek then stood up and headed inside.

“Where you going?”

“I forgot something.”

“You can’t leave me here — alone.”

“I’ll be right back.”

And true to his word, he quickly reappeared with a small parcel, gift-wrapped in a collage of printed photos from the Gallery Den exhibition, and the entire presentation held together with a satin red ribbon.

“I know your birthday isn’t until October. But I saw it, and I know you’ve wanted one for a while, so, for you.” He laid the package on her lap.

“Oh, my, it’s too gorgeous to open, Fury. It’s a work of art in itself.”

With meticulous precision, she untied the bow, removed the paper, and folded everything into a neat pile for safekeeping. She fretted about the box, the uncertainty of its contents, and finally removed the protective white tissue to expose a transistor radio.

“Dewey told me it was your signature; you’d wear it around your wrist all the time, and then you lost it and ...” She was speechless. “It’s got batteries already, love. Go ahead.”

She switched on a station and Sly and the Family Stone were singing Hot Fun in the Summertime. She burst into giddy laughter alternating with constricted sobs in her throat, her nose running like a kid with a bad cold.

“Is it all right?”

“Yes, Yes. Very all right.” She inserted the transistor into its leather case, snapped it shut and threaded her hand through the leather handle. “I lost my last one on McGill Campus, one night. Somewhere.”

She didn’t know how it happened, but the story unfolded in the obscurity of night, another test for a listener who said he loved her no matter what. He now knew all her secrets and that thought alone disengaged her, made her feel vulnerable, defenseless.

Loddy tripped her way to the lake, mewling, sobs punctuated with hiccups. She arrived at the water’s edge, hugged herself from the chill, the lights from the cottages across the lake transfixed her. She heard the swish of grass, a fine trample of steps behind her and then Fury touching her back.

“Love, forget the past,” he said.

She hiccupped again, nodded her bowed head several times as though it were beyond her control to stop. Fury led her back to the porch where they settled themselves for the night.

“You know everything about me, Fury, and I know nothing about you.” She fiddled with the knobs on the transistor, switching stations.

“Nothing to know, love. I come from a big Italian family who likes to eat. I have a lovely, older sister who thinks she can boss me around, great parents, and my life was nothing until I met you.”

A distant train whistled a lullaby but neither was sleepy. Fury offered his hand and they danced in a slow circle, clock-wise then counter clock-wise, barely moving, only a sway of their upper bodies, and Janis Joplin singing Summertime.

Early next morning, Saturday, the sky brisk with a red face, another scorcher, they dove into the lake naked and splendid, disturbing the perch and sunfish with their splashing and child’s play. They bathed, washed each other with a face cloth, all the crevices and folds, played tag, and rediscovered each other in the buoyancy of water. They leeched their bodies, limbs entwined, inseparable, until their love movements dissipated into the currents, cresting towards the soapy shoreline, signalling satisfaction. When they were done, they charged to the kitchen, massaged each other dry with plump lavender-scented towels and toasted the seduction of the morning with wine.

They consumed the remaining day in the nearby village of St-Emile meandering through its air-conditioned ateliers, quaint craft boutiques and antique shops, losing themselves in the landscape of meadows and hills, stopping for ice cream cones, and picking strawberries for supper on a U-pick farm. By the time they reached the cabin, it was already midnight.

A sweltering, muggy night, they once again searched the coolness of the lake to temper their hot naked bodies. With Fury’s encouragement, Loddy was becoming comfortable in her nudity and floated on her back, breasts round and buoyant like a life jacket. A thousand stars dotted the sky and the moon lit the lake.

“Look at all the stars, Fury.” He also rolled on his back, afloat now like a sailboat, when she caught sight of his erection. “Look, Loddy, I’m ready to sail.” He pointed to his rigid member. “Come and steer.”

“Fury, you’re so funny.”

She drifted towards him, using her arms as oars. They both shot for the stars, their raucous play bouncing across the lake, rebounding like a boomerang, and later they lay awake, bare and open, on the sofa bed in the sun porch. Exhausted, yet unable to sleep because of the unbearable heat, they repeatedly consumed each other throughout the night and into the day until they were drenched and there was nothing left. Eventually, they fell asleep in a deep slumber of dreams, their bodies wrapped around each other like a gift.

Sunday morning, their last day, Fury woke Loddy up as the sun climbed above the trees on the other side of the lake.

“Going fishing, remember?”

“Noooo.” She reached out to him, an invitation, and he obliged.

Later they packed the boat with thermoses of strong coffee, a pail, fishing rods, tackles, and bait. Loddy rowed while Fury prepared the lines. Another perfect day. The sun spilled onto the stagnant water and into the fissures of forest. Fury showed her how to thread a worm on a hook, toss the rod and reel it in. But all she wanted to do was savour the moment, the day, the weekend, for as long as she could. The fish teased, amused themselves near the boat, but not even a nibble.

“You sure you have the right bait, Fury?”

“Maybe we’ll have better luck tonight.”

It was almost noon when Fury shocked her again.

“Marry me,” he said.

“Can’t.”

“What was this weekend about then, love?”

The boat swayed with trepidation as she stepped towards the stern. The bow tilted upwards from the added weight as she dropped herself on the seat beside him.

“Marriage scares me, Fury. It’s a long road and people fall out of love. I’m not sure I can keep all those vows in the long run.”

“What! You don’t want a big Italian wedding? My mother will be hurt.”

“Fury. Seriously, I just can’t. Besides, we don’t really know if we can stand each other every day. I mean, I’m a slob.”

“Well, so am I.”

“There you go. One of us will have to learn to be organized and neat.”

“We’ll figure it out, okay. What say we live together for a bit then? See how that works out.”

“Living in sin, you mean? Like, my mother would disown me completely.”

“She doesn’t have to know. Besides, that’s a cruddy apartment you live in with the cockroaches. And you’ll save money living with me. I’ll pay for everything.”

“Oh, so you’re bribing me now?”

“Anything that gets you to say yes, love.”

As far as Loddy was concerned, nobody had ever loved her, but this, this thing with Fury, terrified her. Nobody loved like Fury.

“Let me think about it.”

“Okay.”

Fury’s line jerked.

“Oh, you caught one!” Loddy cried out as he reeled in a small perch and then let it go.

“You threw it back?”

“I like them full-sized,” he smiled.

Fury with a boyish mischievousness rocked the boat and heaved Loddy into the lake. He dived in full pursuit of her, both of them cavorting among the sleepy schools of fish until they worked up an appetite and headed back.

As the temperature soared to unbelievable levels of humidity, neither wanted the weekend to end.

“Just another swim and then we’ll go for sure,” Loddy said.

“And we have to finish this bottle of wine, of course,” Fury reminded her.

“Of course!”

They fell asleep on the sun porch in each other’s arms. But early that evening, they were on the road back to Montreal. They stopped for dinner at a roadside casse-croûte and fed each other poutine and more kisses.

As they reached the city limits, the intensity of magnetic rays from the sun overcame her. The neckline of her t-shirt dripped with perspiration. Montreal stood at attention, firm against the setting sun, a stern parent waiting on the doorstep.

Loddy locked her arms around Fury’s waist, kissed the back of his neck, and rested a cheek against his spine. She squished shut her eyes, afraid that, should she open them, the motorbike would turn into a pumpkin and her very own Prince Charming would vanish.