THE SHELTER.Short Fiction by Balwant Bhaneja

Caspar David Friedrich, early 1818./https://threearts.org

L

ying on the park bench he turned around, turned again. till his back was to the river and the narrow asphalt path that ran between the dandelion patch and the water.  Around this time of the day, the mid-afternoon, there were hardly any people in the park. The path was used mainly by cyclists and joggers. His eyes remained half closed. Inside the dark interior of his skull, he enjoyed the images of objects surrounding the park bench – the laser like flicker of the sun reflecting in the water, the continuous drone of summer birds – the black and red robins flitting in the green canopy of the large Dutch elm trees; the intermittent sounds of bicycles whizzing by and the joggers’ sneakers pounding the asphalt path.

He could smell the whiff of the last runner’s sweat. There was a strange familiarity in that combination of the fragrance and her body odour. He wanted to turn to look at the jogger’s face but did not bother. For a moment he stared at the freshly stained horizontal wooden strips at the back of the bench, then closed his eyes again.

The time between lunch and supper, was the longest part of the day. The mornings were easier. Once he left the Mission, he would walk around the Mall checking out the new stock which had been put in the windows. On special days he would buy a fancy coffee from southern exotic lands in the fancy coffee chains. If he had some time before the Shepherd’s of Hope kitchen for homeless opened, he would walk over to the park with the leftover bread and donuts to feed ducks. He enjoyed watching the marble-green slender neck loons paddling in the river and leaving behind a v-shaped water trail.

In the early years, he had not paid much attention to his appearance, but lately, before leaving the Mission shelter, he would make sure that he looked neat and tidy. The free disposable razors came in handy. The security guards at the shopping centre Mall wanted to hassle him, but with his combed hair and clean face they felt awkward to push him outside. He would smirk at his inventiveness in outsmarting them. Yet he was afraid that his worn-out shoes or his old jacket (his eyes had lately been looking meek) might give him away.

Even with his eyes shut, he knew who sat at all the benches in the park: The regulars – the retirees, the lovers, and his fellow occupants from the Mission. Thank God, there were no guards here. He was annoyed by their endless questions about tags, IDs, names, charging a fee for putting your butt on the bench.

The name. All wanted to know the name –.the cops, the doctors, the social workers, the park mafia…  even if you didn’t have one, they would invent one for you. True or false, the name clung like skin sewn to your bones. Funny names they all had – Duck, Tobby, Cake, Teach, Beard…. It was once again like school yard. He wasn’t sure of the name given to him. He knew everyone else’s – the lame black man in the green raincoat who stood the whole afternoon at the junction of St. Germain and Halifax streets, waving his crutch and swearing at passing by cars who refused to roll down the car window to hand out to him spare change. The Duck, probably of his funny walk. The Teach, an introvert, because he always carried a brown book that he held closely to him.

Near the fountain in the center of the park were two men and a woman. He knew them from various towns he had been through, living in the same shelters and eating at the same soup kitchens where free meals were served. Until the evening, they stayed by the fountain drinking anything drinkable. Often they would be lugging the jar with cheap red wine and sharing among themselves in the Commons.  He did not know their real names except that the woman was called Old Mary. Anyone looking for information on soup kitchens, hostels, and social workers took the advice of Old Mary, she had in her head a directory of national social services. It looked like she had been on the road for a long while. He remembered her once shouting at him, ”Aye, you sicko moron!” The trio was known as the Geysers.

He kept himself at distance from them. At the Shepherd’s during the noon meal, he had an altercation with them. One of the two Geysers sitting facing him had asked for a light.  He had missed the question.

“Bonehead!” cussed the man. His beet red face, distorted as he glared at him through one half-open eye and his other purple. “I am asking for a match, Bonehead!” There was saliva drooping from his mouth, he could smell the liquor.

“I don’t smoke.” He replied.

“You don’t eh?  The Geyser laughed, “Hey listen guys, this bonehead doesn’t smoke.” Then staring into his face, he shouted,” But I do dickhead — I smoke, drink, and I screw too.” Winking his bruised eye, the Geyser had abruptly stood up with his food tray and walking out screaming at him, “See you in the park, buddy!” He wasn’t sure whether it was a threat or one of their Geyser jokes.

The shelter must be vacated in the morning before eight. In the early days, you could get a locker without much problem. Now for security, the Mission had introduced new regulations – only for the most deserving ones. He turned over to ensure that his nylon hand bag and his jacket were still under his head. The plastic totes with bread, donuts and soft drinks he had picked up from the Shepherd’s, were safe between his thighs.

His taste buds were gone around the time they first took him in. It must be the strong dosage injections — felt like each crevice in his mind had become a burnt page, curled up into black soot, a heap of ash settled inside his head. The most vivid image he could remember was from at work. Picking the round granite ashtray and throwing it at the sandy haired man across the large desk. He wasn’t sure what had made him do that? Must be the man’s drained out irises or it could have been just the shine of his auburn wavy hair. He could recall a shattered window pane, both the ashtray and the glass hurling down unto Bank Street, the splintered glass scattered on the large mahogany desk…. The man with sandy hair is stunned, his face has gone pale. Agitated, he shouts across the corridor. “Jesus Christ, he wants to kill me. Will someone call Security! Have you gone nuts, Pete?” He does not remember anything else, except a giant screen-like whiteness, the snow covered ground, and the long plastic drapes around his hospital bed.

***

Mary Beth said, “Yes Dad, I did come to see you.” Mary Rose pitched in assuring him that Mary Beth had indeed come to visit him at the hospital. Lies. He knew they were scared. Those steel doors of St. Vincent’s scared them. They didn’t know that there were even worse cases than him farther down the passage – more barred gates, more plated doors, more dark hollow eyes, trying to suck you into the vortex.  Both Mary Rose and Mary Beth had questioning looks wanting to know why the hell would he want to throw an ashtray through the glass framed window? They didn’t realise ii didn’t matter, he would have instead picked a chair and hurled it at the window. Only lately, he had come to realise that the intense urge to shatter the window had something to do with him finding a way to walk out of the office, sixteen floor high above the ground into the thin air!

Hushed voices. Mary Rose wanted to know the reason.  He wished he knew. He had overheard her asking the doctors the same question. “Who knows why he saw an orange fox?” Reassuringly she’d be told, “Don’t worry he is responding well to the new dosage. He should be ready to go home soon.” Suddenly, the real reason behind Mary Rose’s unending curiosity had dawned on him. It had nothing to do with the explanation of his sickness. It was about Mary Rose’s fear of him.

***

Even though the wooden bench had begun to hurt, he kept his eyes shut wanting to listen to the sound of the water. The gurgling water of the stream had a pure and gentle sound. Spiralling inside his skull, the sound went up and down, left and right – the salmon in the spring water thrashing upstream to spawn.

When they were kids, Jimmy and he would bike over to the creek. They used to love crossing the rapids on their bikes, splashing, doing stunts on the water. It was Jimmy who had spotted that bright afternoon the two girls on the bank amusingly watching their buffoonery.

“Which one is yours?” Jimmy asked him.

“The red head,” he shyly admitted. There was a magical sparkle he had noticed in the eyes of the slim red head girl in the beige frock.

Jimmy agreed. “Sure, the one with the dark hair is mine.”

Unlike Jimmy he was uneasy with the spoken word.

“My friend’s name is Pete.” Jimmy had already begun the process. “I’m Jimmy. And you girls?”

The girl with the dark hair in the blue dress chuckled at Jimmy’s candour. “I am Rita, my friend’s name is Jenni.”

Then, standing knee deep in the water, they shouted across to the girls about their favourite groups, shows, bikes – each of these interspersed with Jimmy and his acrobatics, making their bikes sail on the water. The more the two fell off their bikes the more the girls laughed. Just then, in the middle of the rapids, he thought he had fallen in love. He made up his mind that on getting out of the water, he would rush to the red head  Jenni, sit next to her, hold her hands and kiss her. Jimmy must have noticed the change, “You are in love!” Jimmy started teasing him. “Pete is in love with Jenni.”

He tried to brush him aside, “Go off!”

Jimmy shouted to the girls. ”Hey Jenni, Pete is in love with you.”

The girls laughed.

It was Rita who had shouted back. “Jenni has a boy friend.”

“Where do you live, Jenni?”  He doesn’t know why he asked.

“First you tell?” Jenni was asking him.

He was excited. “Lower Town.”

“That’s where the losers live!” Jenni remarked.

Puzzled he looked at Jimmy. Soaking wet both Jimmy and he stood stunned on the rapids not knowing what to say. They have never heard anyone express their neighbourhood that way.

“Bye!” The girls had hopped on their bikes and disappeared among the trees.

Loserville! The silly boys from the Lower Town never saw the two girls again. He wished he’d had nerve to say something to Jenni.

****

Mary Rose was surprised at his insistence that the baby girl be called Jennifer. She hated that name. It was too common for her. Mary Elisabeth. That was the name Mary Rose chose instead.

He could see both Mary Rose and Mary Beth huddled on the brown beige plaid sofa watching TV under the dim lit table lamp – the mother –daughter duo. At the ads, they would talk to each other in hushed voices, and then for no reason begin to giggle. As soon as the ads would be over their eyes would be glued to the TV again. He wondered if they even knew of his existence in the house. Did his presence matter anymore? Both Rose and Beth would complain that they were too tired to answer his questions, talk to him. Except a few wry “how are you – how are you” addressed to him, they would be only talking about Bob, Dick, Nick…at work, at school, at the store…he couldn’t stand those names being spoken of. He would feel his blood rushing up to the back of his neck, spreading some sort of poison in his head, increasing palpitation in his chest. He would try to make them change the topic to the things he had been doing at home during the day – tiding up or cleaning the yard. The girls, that’s what he called them, after a while would look bored. They would turn away, and turn on the TV to watch the sitcom or talk about the same old Bob, Dick and Nick, the mother-daughter duo lapping up each other with their whispers.

In frustration, he would bellow, “For God’s sake, would you stop muttering.”

“Don’t worry honey, it’s girl talk.”

The girl talk – clothes, dates, boyfriends… He did not know why he wanted to hear every word, know their every secret. Did Mary Rose have a secret boyfriend? He couldn’t imagine anyone going for her now. She used to be beautiful.  Like her name, a wonderful fragrance emanating from her, long soft hair, strong thighs, soft breasts… He remembered his pal Jimmy who had come from Minnesota to their wedding. On seeing Mary Rose, he could not resist whispering, “You lucky bugger, where did you find that lovely girl?” It was luck.  The fragrance had all but evaporated. The fool believes that daughters, sons and relations belong to him. He sees his wife, and is pleased, not knowing that those who bring joy could also bring sorrow. Eventually, the body compounded of blood and semen withers away.

Mary Beth was pretty like her mother, but bitter and barbed like him. No wonder they never got along. How she hated him when he stopped her new boyfriend from entering the house. She had yelled at him, “Fuck you! Don’t touch him, Dad.” He was about to slap her, but she had walked out in a rage, shouting, “You are a moron!”

He did not mind Mary Beth’s barbs or Mary Rose dismissing him. He was sure once he was able to get back his job everything would be like before. The personnel officer, who knew him over the years, had supported his theory that it was not the sex but the job which served as the glue to a marriage. Still on the question of rehiring, shrugging shoulders he had with a friendly grin, remarked, “The position is still there, but you are not ready for it, Pete.” How did he know that he was not ready.  Was his forehead stamped with a flashing neon sign saying, Peter is weird. He was tired of this put on sympathy. The thought of looking into a field full of foxes overwhelmed him —  their sandy coloured coats, protruding teeth, orange orbs mockingly stare at him.

He felt a spit on his forehead. Startled he got up. “Shit!” It was. The bird on the tree had done its deed. He picked up a piece of old wrapper from the rubbish can and wiped the mess of his face.

He looked around. All the benches were empty. Even the Geysers were gone. The asphalt path was however busier, more walkers than joggers. The harried civil servants returning home after their day’s work at City Hall. Despite the green surroundings, they looked bland,  walking cloth hangers with their drab grey and dust-coloured raincoat and black briefcase in their drooping arm. He wondered what they carted back and forth every day. Whether their brief cases were full or empty? He wondered what they did at City Hall. From their faces he could make out which one was the fox, which one the rabbit. Who devoured whom? He had gone back to his bureau one day to see if things had changed. The boss man was still there. His glistening auburn head was shining under the fluorescent light, his untroubled disdainful look asserted his invincibility. Grinning, the supervisor inquired about his health, he had even offered coffee. “It is nice to see you, Pete. Feel free to drop by again.”  Both had cordially shook hands, yet he knew he would not be returning.

It was time to get up from the bench. He checked his bag, straightened his jacket which he had rolled as a pillow, picked up the tote bags. He ran his fingers through his head to straighten his hair and then walked on to the river to sprinkle water to freshen his face. Instead of the bike route, he took this time the narrow dirt path along the river, covered by wild dandelions on both sides. He made sure not to step on the yellow flowers.

He had observed that river throughout the year – bright and shining in the summer, flooded during the rainy season, mellow in the fall, and frozen in the winter. He remembered during the early Spring standing on the parapet of the old concrete bridge watching the blasting of the frozen river. Under the blue sky, a single charge of the dynamite would shatter the thick ice into jagged pieces and clear water would begin to gush beneath and over the broken snow. He had never seen a frozen stream transform so rapidly into a torrential river, flanked by the deep snow covered banks of the park. Winter yet so close to the Spring.

As he sauntered towards the town, he heard from behind in the distance a thumping sound of feet approaching him, enveloped in a rhythmic sound of an evenly paced breath. A familiar fragrance and sweat odour. “Excuse me!” As if someone had gently whispered into his ears. He was about to trip. By the time, he could recover himself; the jogger with her rhythmic stride had passed him by. She was a tall slender woman in white shorts, her golden hair held tight at the back by a rubber band in a ponytail. She carried herself forward, her high firm legs forming a triangular shape in motion, meeting at a pinnacle.

On reaching the top of the path, the woman turned around and started to jog back.  This time he could see clearly in the crimson light of the setting sun the woman’s face. Almond shaped eyes, wide mouth, thin nose, high cheekbones. The evening light had made her angular face glow. As the jogger came down the hillock towards him, his heart began to pound. It must have been a long since he felt that way. He tried to step out of the path on to the dandelions. As the runner approached him, he noticed that she had smiled at him – it was a smile that expressed a notion of friendly warmth for his stepping aside to let her pass by. While the jogger moved in the Northwest direction, he stood impassively watching her, staring at that tall female figure disappear into the distance.

***

It was dark. Normally, there would be a long que outside the Mission shelter, people like him waiting to find out the vacancy for beds. In the summer there were more spaces available as some preferred to sleep outside in the park or on street between the shop doors.

“Early in, Peter. How was the day?” Kevin, the shelter Super inquired.

“Umhh! Alright, I suppose.” He mumbled.

Kevin passed on the blanket and the pillow to him.

“Your bunk is number six.”

Taking the key and the bed covers, he moved inside the hall.

He was ready to plunk himself on the sheet-less bed. The dormitory was empty. Perhaps boarders were out in the TV room watching the Hockey Night in Canada. It was growing dark. He was glad he was alone. He looked outside the window. The tall female jogger’s image kept on intruding before his eyes. It wasn’t her physical sensuality, but an unblemished aura around her he had never seen before.

It had been years, centuries, he had held a woman in his arms. For a second, images of Mary Rose, Mary Elisabeth, and his mother flashed by. He remembered the old geyser Mary mumbling by the fountain to him, “Good, you deserved that kick in the arse.” There was no lust, no desire left anymore. He felt empty. His eyes drifted to a half-opened ragged book in the brown cover lying on the adjoining bed with an intriguing title, “The Book of Lute”, written in a strange form of verses. Curious, he picked it to read the open page.

“He who is the same to foe and friend
And also in honour and dishonour,
Who is the same in cold and heat,
In pleasure and pain,
Who is free from attachment,
To whom censure and praise are equal
Who is silent
Content with anything,
Homeless,
Steady- minded,
Devoted,
– that man is dear to me.”

He looked outside the window and gently chuckled if that might be him.

***

billbhaneja@rogers.com