The Complex Arms Read online

  THE COMPLEX ARMS

  THE COMPLEX ARMS

  A NOVEL

  DOLLY DENNIS

  Copyright © Dolly Dennis, 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Publisher: Scott Fraser | Acquiring editor: Rachel Spence | Editor: Dominic Farrell

  Cover designer: Courtney Horner

  Cover image: istock.com/Floriana

  Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: The Complex Arms : a novel / Dolly Dennis.

  Names: Dennis, Dolly, author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190204494 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190204508 | ISBN 9781459746244 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459746251 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459746268 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8607.E671 C66 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

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  Remembering Black Friday

  There is a luggage limit for every passenger on a flight. The same rules apply to your life. You must eliminate some baggage before you can fly.

  — Rosalind Johnson

  CONTENTS

  JUNE 21, 1987

  AIRBORNE

  JULY 1987

  ADEEN

  ALBERTA

  ADEEN

  FROSTY

  ADEEN

  THE TENANTS

  ADEEN

  THE NEW TENANT

  ADEEN

  GOODNIGHT, IRENE

  ADEEN

  MONA

  ADEEN

  ZITA

  ADEEN

  MRS. LAPINBERG

  ADEEN

  FROSTY AND ADEEN

  ADEEN

  HOW IT BEGAN

  ADEEN

  ROSEMARY

  ADEEN

  WAYNE AND CODY

  ADEEN

  PAYTON

  ADEEN

  SHYLENE

  ADEEN

  BLUE VELVET

  ADEEN

  THE MOUSE INCIDENT

  ADEEN

  THE SUMMER FAIR

  ADEEN

  AFTER THE FAIR

  ADEEN

  BLACK FRIDAY

  ADEEN

  JULY 2007

  HOME IS LIVING IN A TRAILER PARK

  ADEEN

  THE MONARCH

  ADEEN

  PRESCRIPTION: BURNS

  ADEEN

  BO’S BAR

  ADEEN

  DISCOVERY

  ADEEN

  SMOKE SUMMER

  ADEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  JUNE 21, 1987

  AIRBORNE

  There is a woman in the air. She seems almost as if she were afloat, suspended above the city. She clutches her three-year-old daughter in one hand, and with the other she clings to her spirit. For a moment she is suspended, moving in slow motion, her gauzy summer dress billowing like Mary Poppins’s umbrella, the wind propelling her to stay aloft. She has lost the combs that had kept her waist-length black hair neatly in place. Long strands now tumble about her face. She cannot see anything. Then her body hits the ground. The little girl lands on her mother’s belly, a pillow for safety. Dead eyes stare at storm clouds above; dead eyes guard the fourth-floor balcony.

  “Where you going?” He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. He had just woken up. Night was the start of his day.

  “I’m going to Vera’s bridal shower,” Jan reminded him.

  “And where’s that?”

  “At her sister’s. Not far from here.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Shannon. You know her. She used to work with me at the hospital, remember?”

  “I don’t believe you. I know where you’re going. You’re going to some bar to meet some guy. You’re staying put tonight.”

  “I’ve got to go! They’re waiting for me.”

  “They?”

  “My friends.”

  “What friends? You don’t have any.”

  “But I promised. I have to go!”

  He sighed. His head slumped to his chest as though he carried the weight of the world and could no longer hold it up.

  “Come here.”

  She approached the table with frightened steps, felt her body fold inside out, her face drain of colour.

  He gripped her wrists. “How are you going to get there?”

  “The bus.”

  He released her hands then swung them back with such force that her shoulder blades almost snapped.

  “What bus?”

  He knew how to get there. This was just a game, an invention of his sadistic nature created to amuse himself, tease her. He loved to listen to her whimper; it heightened his carnal excitement.

  “Go on, TELL ME.” He was shouting now.

  “I’ll take the bus on the corner of our street, then four blocks later get off, cross the street, and there’s Shannon’s house. It’s not far and I promise not to stay long.”

  He whacked her on the side of her head. She became disoriented, kept pointing to the living room window.

  “See, come here. I’ll show you where the bus stops.”

  “Don’t you dare talk back to ME. Not a word. I said NO.”

  “Let me at least call Shannon, let her know I can’t come. They’re expecting me.”

  And then.

  The tears. She knew he hated tears. She rubbed her eyes, pretending they were itchy. Tears triggered some demon in him. Oh God! She shut her eyes. Don’t cry, she willed herself, don’t cry. She could see Nina hiding behind the sofa trying to make herself invisible, sobbing softly. What will she remember of her childhood?

  And then.

  The belt. She cowered, screeching like a pig sent to slaughter, spinning, twirling, running in circles, dodging his buckle, screaming, squealing.

  He shoved her into the bedroom, onto the bed. She lunged toward the phone on the nightstand, her hands blindly searching for the receiver.

  Too late.

  “Do you think I’m stupid, huh? Do you think you can lie to me?”

  And he wrapped the telephone cord around her neck until she pleaded, “No, it’s me that’s stupid. I’m sorry. I won’t go. Please, please, I’m sorry. Plea—” Her words were cut off, fading into a chokehold of surrender.

  He wanted sex, and she let him use her because she was afraid he would hurt her again. And when he had finished with her, he laid his head with tenderness on her lap and moaned, a baby in search of a mother’s womb, a mother’s love.

  “I’m sorry
, Jan, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I promise I won’t do that no more.”

  “No, it’s my fault,” she said.

  It was always like that.

  After he had left for work she bathed herself, determined to erase every sense of him. She scoured her inner thighs and stomach with an SOS pad, brushing lightly over the welts and abrasions. He would punch her in places invisible — never her face. No one knew the secrets her body carried, so no one could help, no one knew to care.

  She let her head slide down the back of the tub — submerging, drowning, weeping, the water a melding of scented soap and salty tears. For a moment there was only a kaleidoscopic muffle of water on water, whirling, swirling; a tunnel of bubbles surging toward the surface. She held her breath and felt her life explode.

  At thirteen, the school nuns had inspired her to consider a life in Christ; instead, she compromised and became a nurse. The idea appealed to her innocent vision of herself as a modern-day Florence Nightingale, a lady in white, a beacon to the sick and dying, the wounded, and the needy.

  She had always considered herself an intelligent, well-educated professional — independent, proud, sophisticated — so how had it come to this? How had she allowed her life to sink into this nightmare?

  They had met at the hospital. He was her patient, a lost puppy with a broken leg — injured, needy, hungry for affection, looking for a good home.

  “There. You should feel more comfortable now. Doesn’t that feel better?” She had just finished washing him.

  “Ah, Jan, you’re so good to me.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Just that?”

  She smiled and covered his good leg. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Not unless your body is pressed next to mine, sweetheart.”

  The day she arrived at her apartment and found a bouquet of flowers outside the door was the day her life changed forever. A steady stream of miniature white roses, her favourite, continued to greet her every evening until she finally relented and brought the puppy home. It took a week to yield to his charms.

  The sudden upsurge of water flooding her nose made Jan gasp for air. She instinctively bobbed to the surface, a survivor still.

  “Mommy, Mommy.”

  At the bridal shower Vera sat on her throne, coloured streamers adorning the only armchair in the apartment, ribbons cascading down her hair like spray from a water fountain. Queen for the day. Someone had planted an enormous bow on top of her head, she a bridal offering to be opened on her wedding night. Silver and gold wrapping paper carpeted the floor; boxes from Birks, the Bay, Stokes, and Totem Outfitters littered her domain. There were gift cards to shop for a lawnmower, a snow blower, furniture, electronic toys, appliances, and gadgets. Her parents had bought them a house in an exclusive neighbourhood, a wedding gift. A forever gift. If any time could be called perfect, this night was it. Her friends shrieked at the size of her diamond, embraced her, and envied her good fortune.

  “You’re so lucky. He’s such a hunka, hunka, hunka,” they said in a scatter of words. And Vera’s face flushed as it always did when she drank too much wine.

  “You should see what he does with his tongue,” she burped. They all giggled and snickered like twelve-year-olds who had just seen their first male centrefold.

  “Hey, Jan, come on over here and join the fun. You need a refill,” Shannon called out.

  Jan rarely drank but this was a special occasion. She had parked herself in an inconspicuous corner just outside the main bedroom in the rear of the living room. Her disobedient, defiant legs had found their way to Vera’s shower, and now she kept an eye on the door for signs of him.

  “I’m okay. I want to stay near Nina just in case she wakes up.” A three-year-old could only survive on so much cake and ice cream before collapsing into sleep.

  Shannon bobbed to the disco rhythms of the Bee Gees. Ten drunken women joined the chorus, a crescendo of voices soaring, flying, ricocheting off the ceiling, airborne, slightly askew, notes off key. Jan smiled at their giddiness. If only they knew. It wasn’t that easy.

  On Jan’s wedding day everyone had thought she and the groom also made a beautiful couple. Theirs seemed to be the sort of relationship that could make you believe in fairy tales. Here was Prince Charming, who was not only incredibly handsome, but also a gentleman — a six-foot-two, dimple-cheeked Adonis, black curls caressing his forehead, cobalt-blue eyes: a Paul Newman look-alike who had no right to be more beautiful than the bride. He displayed all those attributes advertised in personal ads on the back pages of questionable magazines — polite, kind, considerate, sensitive, and generous to a fault. His charisma captivated all.

  “He’s got a job, money in the bank! What more does a woman need? He’ll give you security, honey. Listen to your mother, I know,” she had sighed and patted Jan’s knee for reassurance.

  Her friends had commented on the size of the ring. “My God, Jan, he really loves you.”

  And when he wasn’t lining her living room with flowers, he was offering exquisite gifts, entertaining her at the most expensive restaurants, bribing the other nurses on her floor with chocolates and doughnuts. “Make her say yes, girls.”

  “He’s so romantic,” they would swoon.

  And so obviously in love with Jan — arms always in motion — draping her shoulders, playing with her hair, kissing the palms of her hands, her fingers, her cheeks, her forehead — protective, supportive, dependable.

  “You’d be a fool to let this one go,” everyone cajoled her. No pressure.

  Her mother may have thought that he was perfect husband material, but she still insisted he convert to Catholicism, a religion that didn’t recognize divorce, a religion that had held her own spirit hostage in a thirty-year marriage to an alcoholic. Yes, to justify the expense of a large wedding, he would have to convert; insurance for a marriage that might go wrong, an obligation to honour their vows and stay the course until death did them part.

  At her wedding reception Jan had danced with an old friend. Perhaps he had held her a little too close; perhaps for a moment she had leaned into him, permitting herself to become lost in a high-school memory.

  Suddenly.

  Someone dashed brusquely by her. There was the breezy scent of whisky and Old Spice, the rapid snapping away of bodies, splitting, separating, and stumbling backwards.

  “Don’t you dare look at my wife that way. EVER.” He dragged Jan away, cornered her in the dark, and slapped her face. “And YOU. Don’t you ever embarrass me like that no more.” And he walked away.

  Jan was stunned.

  His mother discreetly brushed by her side and murmured, “He’s been so stressed out lately with the wedding and all, dear …”

  It was one of life’s transitional moments. Jan excused his behaviour, made the mistake of measuring the intensity of his love by the intensity of his jealousy. She forgave him.

  The real nightmare began five months into the marriage. He was fixing a light switch and had forgotten to shut off the fuse box.

  “You’ll electrocute yourself,” she had warned. There he was prodding at the switch with a screwdriver.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself,” she kept insisting. “You’ll see. Call Adeen.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” he shouted back over his shoulder, but she persisted.

  Perhaps if she had held her tongue; perhaps if she had called Adeen, the resident manager, herself, the outcome would have been different. He repeatedly stabbed at the switch, punching holes in the surrounding wall, unleashing a buried fury, a steady jab-jabbing, leaving a trail of dents on its surface, jab-jabbing, and her nag-nagging voice in his ears, finally resulting in the convulsion in his hand.

  “See, I told you,” she scolded, “I told you, but you wouldn’t listen.” And he charged at her, flinging her body across the room.

  “Shut up!”

  When Nina was born, he had denied his paternity and called Jan a slut. He was drunk
. He demanded she quit her job. The thing that had initially attracted him to Jan was gone. She became dependent, and he resented the attention Jan lavished on the child. To him, Nina was an irritant, an obstacle for Jan’s affection.

  That was when he began to drink heavily. Then the fights really began.

  “You should be able to live on what I give you. What do you do with it?” he would holler.

  But he never gave her enough money. In the day, while he slept, she would salvage bottles from the apartment building’s Dumpster, hoping to find enough empties so she could buy Nina milk. She would often battle with her neighbour, Payton, over a found empty beer can. “It’s a fundraiser for the Boy Scouts,” she would say. “Let me have it.” A life just held together, glued by secrets and lies. Once she had whispered in the confessional, “He’s been hurting me, Father,” and her parish priest had sighed and told her to be a better wife and not argue. As penance, he made her recite fifty Hail Marys.

  Jan shut her eyes and rolled the sides of the wine goblet along her forehead, cheeks, and chin, massaging the heat out of her pores.

  “You okay?”

  Shannon had flitted her way across the room in a gyration of various dance steps from the jive to the twist. Startled, Jan sprang from her chair, spilling wine across her skirt, the chair, the carpet.

  “Oh, I’m sorry … I’m so clumsy. I better go. Sorry. Sorry.”

  But before Shannon could dissuade her, the doorbell rang. It was one of those frozen moments, seconds really, when the soul leaves the flesh, when brain cells collide, then die, when fears hurl themselves through the body like so many meteorites hitting earth, electrifying the entire nervous system.

  Two gorgeous young studs were on the doorstep, handsomely dressed in full tuxedos. Shannon ushered them into the room and offered them up to her sister — a surprise present. And there they were. Vera could only giggle. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

  Shannon had seen their amateur Chippendales-type act in one of those nondescript lounges on the outskirts of Red Deer and thought they would be a novelty, a last hurrah for Vera before settling into married life. The other women certainly seemed to appreciate the muscular bodies of the two men, who stripped down until they wore only black bow ties, white cuffs at their wrists, and thongs concealing bulging packages. It was an intoxicating evening. The room vibrated with the hot mix of old and new sounds — the Bee Gees, Rod Stewart, Santana.