GENEVA ROBERTS STARTED UNIVERSITY in September. In a perverse turn of events, her best friend Darla Collier got married, even though the two girls had planned to room together. The change of plans began when Darla’s mother, Diane Collier, disappeared—suddenly gone from Bradshaw and, for all Geneva knows, from planet earth.
The disappearance inspired Geneva’s mother to tell her own story.
It was a perfect August evening, over eighteen years ago; the scent of Regal lilies, Mirandy roses, and a freshly mown lawn drifted through the garden, and later, when the moon was bright, when the truth was known, droplets of diamond and ruby dew illuminated the petals and leaves and the blades of grass.
Mrs. Roberts, in shorts and maternity top, had been watering the peonies when she saw her own good friend, Muriel Spelling, walk past their house on Main. She had called out to Muriel, thinking they would have a chat, but Muriel strode past, in her all-weather coat, as though her life depended on something. Mrs. Roberts lost control of the hose; it twisted to the ground, spraying her legs and sandals with cold water, distracting her temporarily. When she looked again Muriel was gone. The hose was left running in the grass while she looked down Main. Muriel had reached the edge of town and continued to walk with steely purpose, heading south toward the golf course and the bay.
Mrs. Roberts was miffed but also unsettled, unsure of what was going on. She found out soon enough. Muriel had walked two and a half miles out of town: along a short stretch of highway, down the dirt road to the golf course, along a narrow path lined with trembling aspen and mouth puckering chokecherries to a fount of rocks on the shore, then out into the chilly water of the bay. The matter was attributed to Muriel’s alcoholism, although some say a botched love affair spurred her on in the end. Muriel’s husband wouldn’t say.
Now, in retrospect, Geneva’s mother quips, “That coat was Muriel’s guarantee against getting her life back.” She confides that every August the garden’s aroma reminds her of Muriel and claims that on that particular evening the smell of algae wafted through the yard, temporarily subduing that of her plants. She also tells Geneva that this was just three days before Geneva was born.
There is no reason to believe that Darla’s mother, Diane Collier, did such a thing or that she met with foul play. More than one person saw her head to the train station just before seven o’clock, and it wasn’t to lie on the tracks. She had prepared a special dinner for Darla and Mr. Collier: roast beef and mashed potatoes with strawberry cheesecake for dessert. This in itself was unusual because Diane Collier was not known for preparing elaborate meals. She preferred spending her time curling or golfing, depending on the season, or joining Mr. Collier at the beer parlour. She also worked part-time at the post office. She was one of the first to discover the convenience of TV dinners and often convinced her husband to drive to out-of-town restaurants for Sunday buffets. Yet she cooked a Sunday dinner on a Tuesday night and then left the dishes for Darla to clean up.
The station agent verified that Diane Collier had indeed purchased a ticket for the Dayliner, headed for Edmonton. She carried a large rattan purse and an overnight bag—she had obviously left of her own free will. Ironically, since she was also a serious gossip, she inspired multiple rumours about herself. She must have known what tales could follow. Some say she was obsessed with some guy who was in town for the summer working on the highway, because she disappeared shortly after the crew moved on. Others say Diane was, for the first time in her life, on a quest to determine what her dreams should have been before she rushed into marriage, pregnant with Darla and relieved to escape the alcohol-fuelled battles of her parents. Darla, who seemed to know something about her mother’s absence, was mum on the subject, and Geneva was afraid to ask.
Not only did this change the Colliers’ lives forever, it also crippled the artless friendship between the two girls. Geneva and Darla had shared unexplainable fits of giggling, jabbered on the phone for hours, collaborated on plans to earn respective degrees in art history and pharmacy (underlined with the agenda of meeting more interesting guys). Geneva followed through with her plan and Darla reneged; suddenly she was headed in the opposite direction. Mr. Collier spent more time at the beer parlour, Darla more on her own, although not for very long. Chuck Henderson was the replacement. If Darla skipped school in the daytime or Mr. Collier was out on the town at night, you might see Chuck slinking out of the Collier house and down the street where he parked his parents’ Dodge Desoto—a cover-up that had the neighbours talking. When wedding plans were announced, the women of the town gave their support (how else would you treat a motherless girl?). They threw a huge bridal shower and prepared food for the reception. Though Geneva was the bridesmaid, she felt sidelined not to mention uninformed that a baby was on its way.
Darla and Chuck now live in a rented one-bedroom bungalow right next door to Chuck’s parents. Geneva, home for the weekend, has brought a pair of moccasins, purchased in the souvenir section of The Bay, for baby Dylan. Forget that he probably won’t be walking for another year. Chuck is at work at Ralph’s Motors. Darla is folding diapers, now that Dylan is asleep, and the two girls sip iced tea mixed from powder.
Geneva is compelled to say nice things. “What a cozy house…. Such a sweet baby…. His eyes are so blue, like Chuck’s. What a beautiful quilt! Did Chuck’s mom make it?”
The pinwheel quilt on the bed triggers thoughts of sex, how Darla must have it all the time and how Geneva is holding on by a thread of conviction—one that both girls held not that long ago—for some unknown husband, even while free love is in the air. Geneva doesn’t ask Darla about her mother, about how Diane Collier missed the wedding, how she foregoes holding a grandson in her arms, tweaking him to smile, getting him to hold her finger in his grasp.
Geneva doesn’t tell Darla that she sometimes studies the faces of women with crimped brown hair as she rides past them on the bus, that she sometimes sees the back of Diane Collier when she is at The Bay or Eaton’s, sees her riding an escalator or going through a revolving door, though her identity is never confirmed; her face is always turned away. Geneva doesn’t tell Darla that she has allotted Mrs. Collier to a shadier side of life, one that she doesn’t understand.
At university, Geneva is immersed in the Italian High Renaissance where the cult of genius held sway and the idea of truth was subjective. Sprawled on her bed, in a room she shares with another small-town girl, Joanne, in Kelsey Hall, she studies her art history book. She is drawn to Titian’s Bacchanal; she’s intrigued by the uninhibited revelry of the pagan party where some carouse under the darkest shade of trees while others are redeemed by patches of golden light. On the radio Mick Jagger sings “Satisfaction,” which reminds her of Quinn Munroe. There’s something familiar in the voice, a boyish plea, a barely detectable wavering in the larynx, a rebellious cry for sex that triggers erotic fantasies. And Quinn Munroe has the ability to swing from gentle touch to kinetic drive; he has a wiry energy that excites her and entices her to break her prohibitions.
They met when Geneva was in grade twelve and Quinn was in first year Biology. It was at a Regents dance in Bradshaw, and his ability to manoeuvre her to exacting rhythms, his cagey grin modified by seductive whispers snared her interest. His absence, only calling on occasion, holds her captive.
She watched Ian and Sylvia at the Jubilee during Frosh week, excited by the live folk aura and by the romantic couple; Ian standing tall with his guitar and Sylvia bent like a willow toward him; their voices blending in optimistic harmony, though tempered by the melancholy of “Four Strong Winds.” A transient thought—too bad Ian is committed—opposed her ideal of marriage. The Rolling Stones inspire something else: primal excitement, too hot to talk about, too hot to ignore, and requiring no commitment.
All around her, on campus, are questions about the status quo, about the integrity of big business and Americans in Vietnam, and about old-fashioned fidelity and staying virtuous. The Beatles are singing “Ticket To Ride” on the radio. Less than a year has gone by, and Geneva feels estranged from Darla and her life. Nevertheless, she is still haunted by Darla’s mother, Diane Collier—would still call her Mrs. Collier if they were to meet—who for some reason bought a train ticket and disappeared.
Geneva now lives close to Quinn. All she has to do is look across the court and scan the windows of Mackenzie Hall, guessing which room he might be in. Their contact is still unpredictable but she has developed an ability to imagine a solid liaison. She picks up the phone and invites him to the Wauneita Formal—girls invite the boys.
Quinn dallies. He is reading about inorganic phosphates and asks her what kind of detergent her mother uses and explains that Mrs. Roberts could be contributing to an ecological disequilibrium, unnaturally increasing the population of some organisms and decreasing that of others. He tells Geneva to check the detergent box the next time she is home. (In residence they send their dirty laundry off to Lister Hall, job unseen.) He keeps Geneva off balance then finally accepts her invitation.
That settled, Geneva bottles her excitement for several days until the girls in Kelsey, on sixth and seventh, start a battle in the stairwell, throwing water at each other from bottles and cups. The girls on seventh escalate, filling buckets and waste cans in the showers and dousing anyone below. Geneva runs along her hallway on fifth, drawn by the shrieks and clamour and the rush of water down the stairs. Her wing erupts into action and Geneva, unmindful of Quinn, joins the others, throwing emergency packets of detergent onto the waterfall to entertain those on the floors below with bubbles and sloppy froth; phosphates slipping to ground level.
There is a faint detergent smell, two days later, when Geneva exits the elevator to the lobby dressed in a black strapless gown; it is the opposite of the frothy pink dress she wore at graduation. Her brown hair is swept up in a chignon. Quinn is waiting with a corsage of baby roses. She thinks her nose is playing tricks when suddenly she inhales a whiff of lake water, of algae thriving in a receding bay (it would be frozen over by now). She is reminded of her mother’s story of Muriel Spelling’s suicide. Is it an olfactory memory from the womb? People can trace memories back to prenatal existence (she read it in Psychology Today). She quickly sniffs the roses, declares them beautiful, and asks Quinn to pin them onto her dress where cleavage is the focus. She knows he is focused, and a wild tingle runs through her body.
They park on a street overlooking the North Saskatchewan River in the Corvair Quinn has borrowed from his roommate. It was a relief to leave. Dancing in a room of mostly strangers seemed awkward compared to the familiarity of a small-town dance. Quinn, however, feels very familiar, even with eyes closed. His hands are adept at finding vulnerable zones. Eager mouth, sensitive ears, bare shoulders are all available to his lips. The long gown is gradually hiked, and in a fast move (Quinn’s kinetic expertise) he is pushing inside her and she is agreeable, though partly in shock. “Are you mine?” he whispers and she concedes, “Yes.”
Back in residence she hardly knows what to think or do. She attends to an alien mix of blood and semen, a new emanation, and she doesn’t walk like she did before. She sniffs her baby roses and understands she is not a baby anymore.
Geneva believes they have a serious bond, even though it’s been two weeks since she’s seen Quinn. She picks up her art history book and skips ahead to the twentieth century, to Matisse’s The Joy of Life, a modern classic bacchanal, a simple rhythmic expression of joy with clean lines and pure colour. Figures recline and embrace and frolic in the open; none are looking suspect under the darkest shade of trees. She likes this trend, this equalizing spirit, this celebration of pleasure.
On Saturday Geneva and Joanne take the bus downtown to The Bay in search of new clothes—they have been eating cafeteria food by day and delivery pizza by night. Joanne is the serious shopper. Geneva tags along, though she is mostly watching for sightings. She is now sensitized to two phantoms. While Joanne checks the racks, Geneva watches for Diane Collier and Quinn Munroe. She sees their backs at checkout counters, their legs disappearing around corners, their hands holding onto escalator railings. Joanne tries on stretch pants and Mondrian sweaters. Geneva waits outside the change room then wanders near the main aisle.
Suddenly she sees the real thing, one right after the other. Quinn is bustling along with a twiggy girl dressed in faded jeans and a sheepskin jacket. They are rubbing shoulders and talking fast like they have known each other for a long time. Geneva catches his eye and he nods then steers the girl away. Stunned, she clamps down on her bottom lip, real tight, and holds fast to mounting tears. Then, as if this is not enough of a whammy, she is stopped in her tracks, as she moves into Quinn’s empty path, by what must be the ghost of Diane Collier. They are face to face, no getting away, except for one small thing between them. A little girl is toddling in front, eager to explore anything ahead, but Geneva stands in her way. There is instant recognition beyond knowing faces and names.
“Geneva.”
“Mrs. Collier.”
“Mommy, come.”
Mrs. Collier scoops up the little girl. “How are you? Darla tells me you’re studying art.”
Geneva realizes Darla hasn’t told her anything, hasn’t confided a single thing, but she can figure it out. This little girl is baby Dylan’s aunt, and stories of romance with the highway man are probably true. Here she is, Diane Collier, looking trim, though a little saggy under the eyes and chin. She’s wearing a long coat and fur hat, like Lara in Doctor Zhivago, though she doesn’t exude any smoldering passion.
The toddler wriggles, slips from her mother’s grasp, and starts to run down the aisle. “Sorry I have to go. Nice seeing you, Geneva. You keep it up now.”
Joanne is suddenly there as well. “Who was that?”
“Just someone from home. Lives here in the city now.” She doesn’t mention seeing Quinn.
“Come on. Let’s go look at the fish,” says Joanne, now tired of ill-fitting clothes. Geneva follows without a word. They stare at neon tetras and silver lace, marble and opalescent angelfish. Green fuzz is growing on the ceramic castle and treasure chest and creeping up the corners of the tanks. Geneva thinks of Paul Klee’s paintings: Fish Magic, where the water is so dark that fish and plants reveal their colours in the lowest gradations of light—the more you stare the more you see—and The Golden Fish, large with scarlet fins and a pink flower eye, a superior fish holding sway, sending lesser fish toward the margins. Did Muriel Spelling keep her eyes open in the cold water of the bay? Did she shy away from some great golden fish, feeling belittled even in suicide?
“Ooh, it stinks. They should clean the tanks more often.” Geneva’s voice is wavering and shrill.
“I don’t smell anything,” says Joanne. “You must have a sensitive nose.”
Geneva holds her breath until they get outside and run to catch a bus back to Kelsey Hall. Their footsteps are muted; tires and engines are muffled. Snow is falling in large languorous flakes, accumulating on sidewalks and cars, coats and furry hats. Low-lying clouds subdue the afternoon sun. There’s strange comfort in tempered light, safety in a circumscribed view.
At night Geneva dreams of levitating; she sees colourful fish perch on tree branches, moons and stars slip into the lake below while a golden fish flies through the air, lands right on her chest, then flips back into murky water.
The next day, in her book, she studies Miro’s Dawn Perfumed By A Shower of Gold, where breasts can also be construed as eyes, where wombs and hearts hold the same spot, where red, blue, and black tendrils confuse fish with birds, where a phallic head bone also has eyes; biomorphic forms slipped from Miro’s subconscious and onto his canvas to defy logic, then showered with speckles of gold.
To Geneva this all makes surprising sense. Gone are her girlhood expectations, all replaced by compulsions of an equivocal mind and a disassembled heart. But she is looking for enchantment nonetheless.
Simon and Garfunkel are singing “A Hazy Shade of Winter” on the radio.