Guy Vanderhaeghe - Homesick

“Oh. Sorry.”

Minutes later he was back. “Please come out, Vera,” he said. “I know you feel embarrassed but there’s no need to be. I want exactly what you do. It’s natural for people our age to want to get married. You needn’t hide. We both want the same thing.”

“Like hell we do!” shouted Vera. No, that was not the way to handle the situation. She must control herself. Vera took a deep, calming breath and spoke very carefully. “You’re wrong, Thomas. A terrible mistake has been made. You’ve not understood me from the beginning. I don’t want to marry you, Thomas. I didn’t even want to spend Sundays riding in your car. But I did and that was my mistake. But I’m not going to let this go on any longer. Do you understand? It would be easier on us and better if you left now. I’m sorry for everything. I really am.”

There was a moment of terrible, hushed silence and then Thomas began to shake the bathroom door.

“I blame myself, too,” said Vera, stumbling to offer an apology as the door rattled and jumped in the frame. “I ought not to have encouraged you with these Sunday rides. But I felt bad that you had bought the car. I didn’t mean for you to waste your savings like that. And I wasn’t sure exactly what it meant or what you were after. I kept thinking that maybe you just thought of me as a good friend, a pal. After all… what I mean to say, you never got overly friendly or anything, did you now?”

“I respected you, Vera.”

“And I’m glad you did. I appreciate how you’ve always behaved as the perfect gentleman. And still will now, won’t you, Thomas?”

He ceased rattling the door. All was still. Vera laid her ear to the door and listened intently. There was nothing to hear but she could feel Thomas on the other side. Then he spoke. “Who’s your other Sunday man? The one you see when you won’t see me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas. There is no other Sunday man. Or Monday or Tuesday man for that matter.”

“Who is he?”

“I’m not talking about this. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Who’s your other Sunday man?” Thomas demanded, his voice rising dangerously.

“If you continue with this nonsense it’s the end of our conversation. Do you understand?”

“Who is he !” The cry was sudden, so piercing that Vera sprang back from the door, startled. Thomas resumed his attack. The door wobbled, creaked, bulged as he flung his weight against it. Vera jerked open a drawer beneath the sink, seized a pair of scissors and retreated from the door as far as possible. This meant climbing into the bathtub. There she stood with the scissors clutched in both hands, extended at arm’s length from her body and pointed at the heaving door.

“Who’s your other Sunday man! Who’s your other Sunday man! Tell me !” implored Thomas wildly.

“Stop it! Stop it this minute, Thomas!”

“Who?” It was his last question. He could not continue the interrogation because he had begun to sob.

“Thomas? Thomas?” Vera realized he had fled his station when she heard him trip over the loose tile in the hallway. Vera clambered out of the tub, rushed to the door, listened. The faint sounds of Thomas moving about in the kitchen penetrated to her. They were muffled and indistinct, unidentifiable except when she heard him blow his nose loudly. The dim noises shifted location, now they seemed to muddle about the living room. After a bit the apartment door slammed. It seemed Thomas had gone off. Vera proceeded cautiously nevertheless, scissors in hand. She did not rule out tricks. Perhaps he lay in waiting for her. She discovered his message in the living room where the word CUNT was written on the davenport in mustard, the letters a foot high.

Vera arrived for work Monday, hopping mad, determined to slap Thomas’s face in front of everybody. If he thought he could get off scot-free after the disgusting thing he had done to her davenport, he had another think coming. And if anybody wanted to know why she had slapped his face, she’d tell them, word and all.

But there was no face to slap. There was no Thomas. A relief projectionist was in the booth and rumours were flying. Someone had heard that Thomas had phoned Mr. Buckle at home, on Sunday, and quit his job. No, said another, he hadn’t quit, only requested sick leave because he was rundown, needed a rest. Despite the differences in the rumours all seemed to be agreed that Vera had had a hand in Thomas’s disappearance. Doris and Amelia hinted to Vera that Mr. Buckle was furious with her and held her responsible for the loss of the best projectionist he had ever had, one who didn’t smoke in the booth in the midst of highly inflammable film and didn’t show up for work drunk. When Frank spoke to Vera he did so gently and mournfully, in a doe-eyed manner appropriate in addressing the wretched in love, the heart-broken.

Vera didn’t give a tinker’s fart for what they thought as long as she was rid of that geek Thomas. It looked as if she was. But shortly after she decided that, the letters began to arrive.

Dear Miss High & Mighty ,

I dont expect anyone to feel sorry for me hut isnt it funny. Here I am without a job and no savings because I spend my money on the Dodge all for you to make you happy. And now I cant enjoy it myself without the money to fill the tank or even buy a spark plug. Well remember lifes a funny thing and those who think there on top dont always finish that way .

People have played Thomas for a fool before like at school and whatnot. But tell your Sunday man that this fool has often fooled them and got what Thomas wants. So dont bother to laugh yet the two of you. Another thing Ive got my ways of finding out who he is .

Yours ,

Thomas

Several days after this letter was delivered Vera came out of the theatre after it had closed for the night and spotted Thomas. He was across the street, huddled up in the dark doorway of a music store. It gave Vera quite a fright to see him there, spying on her. Her first inclination was just to walk quickly, to pretend he didn’t exist. But maybe that was running away. She took three or four brisk steps, then changed her mind, swung round, and saluted him by waving to him in an exaggerated fashion, like a woman flagging down a bus from the side of a highway.

Thomas betrayed not a flicker of recognition. He remained slouched and unmoving until Vera exhausted the novelty of her performance and walked on with an angry toss of the head.

Dear Miss High Opinion of Yourself ,

I suppose you figure it was a big laugh waving like that the other night. Well I wave to my freinds and I have plenty of them good ones more than you think and I dont wave to people who think waving is to make fun of somebody. I could have waved back maybe for a joke if I didnt love you Vera. But love is not a joke. It is the most serious thing there is. More serious than death is love. If you could learn that Vera you might be happier I can see you arent always so angry. Dont make jokes about me or my love. I have been awfully forgiving but it is hard when you are so miserable like me .

Your freind ,

Thomas

Vera put a paring knife in her purse and slid a hat-pin into the sleeve of her coat where she could get to it in a hurry if she needed to. It was November. The nights came early and there were fewer people in the streets because of the cold. Vera’s walk home after work seemed lonelier and longer than it had in the summer.

One night she stepped out of the lobby of the theatre and into a change of weather. There was a smell of snow in the air and a harsh wind was scurrying scraps of paper down the street and moaning through the telephone wires overhead.