The Women of Saturn Read online

  Before I can reply, she goes on, “Madonna mia, could it be? Tina called me to tell me that a woman was found beaten on Chabot Street. Maybe it’s Lucia.”

  “Why does Tina think it’s Lucia?”

  “Her husband read the story in the French paper,” my mother says. “It says that a woman was found beaten up in her mother’s home, in a duplex on Chabot Street, facing a park. Tina is afraid that it might be Lucia, and wants to know if you’ve heard anything.”

  Suddenly I realize why the street name sounds familiar. Comare Rosaria lives on that street, not far from my apartment. Her address is on Angie’s registration form. I had looked it up the day before to find Lucia’s phone number so I could call her.

  “If it’s really her, I’ll hear about it when I get to school,” I say. “She’s supposed to come to a meeting this morning with Pasquale.”

  “Oh, Madonna mia. I hope they didn’t fight about school. What did I tell you? Do not get mixed up with Lucia again!” I can almost see the panic in my mother’s eyes.

  “I’ll call you if I hear anything. I’m late already. I have to run.”

  “Don’t say that you know anything,” my mother says. “Who knows what that husband of hers is mixed up in. Pretend you don’t know anything.”

  I hang up, rush to my car, throwing my purse and magazines onto the passenger seat. Suddenly, my head is swirling with images of characters I had known and written about some time ago, people I haven’t seen in years. I drive off, feeling as if I’m in one of those wind-up toy cars that leap from one’s hands the instant they touch the floor and run wildly around the room, smashing against walls and spinning in circles.

  It seems to be the story of my life.

  2. WLHS

  JEAN-TALON STREET CUTS THROUGH every area I have lived or worked in since immigrating to Montreal. The area around the school—Park Extension, or Park Ex, as everyone calls it—has now been appropriated by Greeks and immigrants from Arabic-speaking countries. An abrupt, unexpected stop stalls me as I reach Wilfrid Laurier High School. The automatic, metal-paneled door to the parking garage, usually wide open, is closed. This side entrance of the massive cement-and-brick building, which sprawls over half a block, is at the end of a low incline. I have to get out of the car to open the door. I fumble nervously in my purse for the key. I can’t remember when I last had to use it. I had never even noticed the black graffiti marks that look like Alice Cooper scratched into the paint of the garage door.

  Bruce McLaughlin, the tall, lanky, and good-looking Special Ed department head, pulls up behind me and gets out of his car. He inserts his key into a small metal box next to the door, looks my way and waves. Like a magic cave, the huge, dark lot opens up for me, Bruce, and the string of cars that have collected behind him.

  Bruce is the guy I turned to when Lucia asked me to help her with her daughter, a troubled special education student who had been expelled from the French school she attended.

  I’m already late, and don’t want to get into a long conversation, but Bruce catches up with me. Bruce is dressed casually, in cords and a plaid shirt, his thick brown hair touching his shoulders. I can smell sweet pipe tobacco on his clothes. “What’s with the closed door?” I ask. I follow my mother’s advice and say nothing about what I’ve heard.

  “New directives from the captain … vandalism … fear of mutiny…”

  I find Bruce’s slightly sarcastic sense of humour appealing.

  “Vandalism in the morning’s rush hours? Do you have any idea why Frank called a meeting with Angie’s parents this morning?”

  “The little Napoleon shit hasn’t advised me of any meeting. Why am I the last shmuck to hear about it? New problems with Angie?”

  “I have no problems, but Frank insists on creating some,” I say. “He wants Angie out of my class. Why else would he call a meeting? He won’t give her a chance.”

  “It can’t be that serious, or I’d have heard about it. Just stick to your guns, Cathy.” Bruce sounds cheerful.

  “Ah, no matter what I do, Bruce, things always get twisted around with those guys.”

  “Everyone’s trying to protect their asses. I’ve told you before, there’s a lot of politicking going on.”

  “You’d think they were running the FBI, for Christ’s sake. It’s only a high school, Bruce.”

  “Yeah, but look at the fucking size of it!”

  Wilfrid Laurier High School, or WLHS as it’s commonly called, spreads out over a city block, rises to five levels, and houses over two thousand students. Conceived as a new breed of polyvalent high school, it offers technical-vocational workshops as well as business and general academic education. It’s modern Quebec’s bold version of the quintessential little red schoolhouse that teaches everything to everyone under the same roof.

  Other teachers are breezing by. Bruce and I walk into the school’s receiving area. The large space looks more like a warehouse or manufacturing company. Our voices are drowned out by the sound of another garage door, which is opening up for a supply truck. The truck will drive down into this below-ground level, which also leads to the automotive classes. The area, used to store donated, rusty old cars to be serviced by the apprentice mechanics, resembles a junkyard. Bruce takes my elbow to help me climb a low loading dock to reach the school’s basement level, but I brush him off, afraid he might touch my shoulders and the pins.

  Sensing that he might be offended by my brusque movement, I say, “Bruce, I’m okay.”

  On the dock, Frank Masters stands on supervision duty and hands us the daily bulletin. He’s smiling too brightly today. I’ve learned to read his smiles. The upper lip is raised too high, and the jaw is immobile. Morphology is part of the hairdressing curriculum; I know all about facial muscles, and how some of them cannot be made to lie. The amount of false radiance that is forced out of a smile has a direct correlation with the degree of deception behind it.

  This morning’s smile tells me to keep my guard up. I don’t even trust the small, thoughtful gesture on his part of handing me the bulletin. It could be construed as a statement that, technically, I’m late since I didn’t have time to pick up my own mail before class.

  “Did the parents confirm?” he asks with the same disconcerting smile. I feel relieved: nothing must have happened to Lucia, or he would have heard by now.

  “The mother hopes the father will be able to make the meeting,” I say.

  “Should I attend?” Bruce asks.

  “We’ll take care of it,” Frank answers.

  A group of male students makes chirping bird sounds as they pass by.

  “What a circus!” Frank mutters, shaking his head, and walks away.

  Bruce whispers, “He’s right. Too many fucking clowns in this place, and I don’t mean the students.”

  I open the door to Room 105, the professional hairdressing class, just as the first homeroom bell rings.

  A poster on the door, hand-drawn by last year’s students, reads: Studio 105 – The Amazing Beginners. The heavy cardboard has become unstuck on one corner and tilts precariously to one side. Two students, Franca and Fotini, who are always on time, greet me at the door. The others trickle in slowly before the second bell.

  “Oh, new dress! Do we have something special today, Miss?” asks Franca, alert as usual.

  I’m used to students commenting on my clothes and speculating about my private life. I smile at Franca, and place my things on the desk. I ask the two girls to set up a comb, spray bottle, and mannequin for a demonstration. I station myself in front of the door, but not before checking my reflection in one of the many mirrors on the walls. My face looks strained and dull. Beige is not my colour. I watch the procession of vocational students scurrying to classes. My other students—Mary, Voula, Olga, and Christina—make it on time. Linda, Gina, and Angie are not in yet. I leave the door open. Students are considered late o
nly after the teacher closes the door. To gain more time, I take a roll of masking tape from my desk drawer and re-tape the poster on the door, but the corners are curled up and refuse to stick.

  The hairdressing classroom has the same unfinished look as most of the school basement. Counters running along three walls hold rows of mannequin heads. These are used to practice basic hairdressing skills until students are ready to work on live clients. Four shampoo sinks are installed along the fourth wall. Over the counters and shampoo sinks hangs a row of round mirrors, like portholes. Through them I can see the students’ movements reflected no matter where I stand. The students have decorated the unpainted cement walls between mirrors with a collage of hairstyle photos that keep falling off. A reception desk, located in the centre of the room, is meant to give the classroom the appearance of a professional hair salon. A special perk, much appreciated by both the students and by me, is a working telephone on the desk to receive hairstyling appointments.

  Students file in and sit on the heavy, hydraulic hairstyling chairs facing the teacher’s desk and a movable chalkboard.

  Time to close the door. Frank peeks into the classroom, “Angie’s not in yet?” Then flings his arms in the air, “God, what’s with these special-ed students! If they’re not absent, they’re late.”

  Despite his English name, Frank is of mixed heritage. When I first met him he told me his family’s name was Mastropietro, but his grandfather changed it to Masters after emigrating from Italy in the 1920s and marrying an Irish woman. He only knows a few swear words in Italian. He has never been to Europe, but he’s endowed with Mediterranean good looks—dark, wavy hair that he keeps short and away from his face, a suntanned complexion, and a brilliant smile that he flashes when it’s least expected. His brown eyes are small and inquisitive.

  When Frank first came to WLHS, I found him attractive. He had a certain self-assurance and charisma about him. Though he’s part of the administration, he spends more time in the teacher’s staff room than at his office. A clique of teachers congregates there in the mornings, at recess, and at lunch, for coffee and small talk. Frank pontificates about the issues of the day, both political and school-related, and the gossip is constant.

  Little by little, I’ve noticed how Frank’s form of gossiping is different from the idle but harmless talk of the others. I’ve detected a subtle but consistent pattern in his modus operandi. When he slips innuendoes or unconfirmed rumours into a seemingly innocent, joking manner, I don’t laugh and sometimes I even question his comments. My initial attraction has turned to antipathy.

  I shuffle the papers on my desk and take attendance.

  The hairdressing group, now in their last year, is made up of nine students, all girls. Gina, Linda, Voula, and Christina seem to be cut from the same cloth: tight jeans; knit tops barely covering their midriffs; long, below-the-shoulder hair with a centre part; heavily made-up eyes; and pouty, glossy lips. Linda is rumoured to be an aspiring exotic dancer; Gina to have had an affair with a married teacher. Based on their appearance, if not on their ability, they will probably find employment in the stylish, trendy downtown salons. The four other girls—Franca, Mary, Josie, and Fotini—are more modestly dressed. They aspire to work in the prosaic neighbourhood beauty salons along Park Avenue, and maybe eventually own one.

  When Angie first came in, wearing grungy black pants and sweater, she stood out from the rest of the class, and she still makes little effort to fit in. What I find most surprising is that Angie has befriended Linda and Gina, the two most fashion-conscious of the group.

  I can’t stall closing the door much longer. I look at the daily bulletin, read the first part meant for teachers. Teachers are to lock the garage door as soon as they enter the garage. Some problem students have been spotted there. I then read aloud the section for students: “Because of recent vandalism in students’ bathrooms, a teacher supervisor will be assigned to each of the student bathrooms during recess and lunch breaks. Toilet paper dispensers will be installed outside the bathroom doors.”

  The students squawk: “No way!” “I can’t believe this!” “Are they for real?”

  I quiet them down, and continue reading: “If this measure doesn’t stop the abusive use of toilet paper, we will be forced to ask students to bring their own paper from home. We also want to remind the Tech-Voc students that they are not permitted to use the teachers’ bathrooms on the basement level.”

  There’s a teachers’ bathroom facing my classroom. This directive will be difficult to monitor.

  I say, “Don’t expect me to unlock the teacher’s bathroom anymore.”

  “They’re treating us like kids.”

  “You’re lucky to have bathrooms. When I went to school, we had a hole in the floor for a bathroom.”

  “What century was that, Miss?”

  In fact, the first elementary schoolhouse I attended in Mulirena did belong to a different century. The school had been converted from a large home in the centre of town. An ancient, thick, weather-beaten door, which had turned black over the years, led into an open courtyard with empty stalls that, at one time, had housed the donkeys, pigs, and chickens of the household. I can still recall the lingering smell of damp earth and manure. From the courtyard, the children would go up a flight of stone stairs. The classrooms had large balconies that let the sunlight in and the scent of oleanders from the adjacent houses, as well as the incessant chattering of the housewives. It was the robust voice of the village crier who announced the arrival of the fishmonger or other travelling merchants that signaled the end of the school day.

  I take a last look down the corridor before closing the door. Linda and Gina are running toward the class, both in high heels, their breasts wobbling in their tight knit tops. I motion for them to hurry up.

  “Miss, did you hear the news about Angie’s mother?” Linda yells as she reaches the door.

  “What about Angie’s mother? Lower your voice, please,” I pull Linda by the arm towards the corridor. Gina follows. The two girls talk simultaneously:

  “She’s in the hospital.”

  “She was found almost dead on the kitchen floor.”

  “How did you hear?” I ask

  “Angie called me this morning,” says Linda.

  I let go of Linda’s arm and stand motionless while the two girls join the class.

  The students have overheard and they huddle around Linda and Gina, all asking questions at the same time.

  “Quiet!” I shout as I return to class and close the door.

  I ask them to open their Standard Textbook of Cosmetology to chapter eleven, on “Finger Waving,” and to start reading it quietly. Now that I know for sure that something has happened to Lucia, I look up Rosaria’s number again and call her on the class phone.

  An uncertain, elderly voice answers, “Allo.”

  “Comare Rosaria?”

  “Who are you?” the woman asks.

  “I’m Caterina, Teresa’s daughter,” I say in dialect.

  “Ah, Catarinella? Bella mia,” the old woman says, almost wailing. “What has happened to us? What has happened to all of us?”

  In a screechy voice, Comare Rosaria explains that she was visiting her son Pietro, when she got a call from her other son, Alfonso, that Lucia had been found unconscious on the kitchen floor, her head bleeding. Angie had been out at the park, and she had walked into the scene after Alfonso had called the police. Lucia has fallen into a coma. Her husband, Pasquale, blamed for the assault, has disappeared.

  I stand immobile by the desk, not knowing what to do next. Should I be the one informing the principal?

  The class can’t settle down, despite my chiding them to work quietly. I take the thick hairdressing book from my desk, leaf through it, and ask the students to open the accompanying workbook to the fill-in-the-blank exercises on finger waving, and copy the answers directly from the tex
tbook, a mindless exercise that will keep them occupied.

  Why do I still feel guilty about responsible for Lucia’s fate, even though I have no idea of what has happened? I had spoken to her at around eight-thirty the evening before. Maybe that call, or a call I made to her husband a week earlier, sparked an argument between them.

  The workbook exercise can’t sustain the students’ attention until recess, yet I can’t force myself to give the demonstration on finger waving, as planned. I walk around the classroom, as in a daze. The students chatter, speculate, and build their own script about what might have happened to Lucia. I think back to our time in the village, the summer evenings spent sitting by our doorsteps, telling stories, and then the long sea voyage. Were the seeds of this tragedy sowed early on, without any of us realizing it?

  3. ANGIE WAS HERE

  FRANK HEARD ABOUT LUCIA from Linda and Gina during recess, and is discussing it with the principal, Marc Champagne, as I arrive at the meeting.

  “It seems the family is … well-connected, Cathy,” Frank smiles.

  “Angie’s father and uncle are in business, and they have contacts with all types of people,” I answer.

  “What kind of business?” the principal asks.

  “Construction and real estate.”

  “Aren’t they also in the importing business?” Frank asks. “Calabria Foods belongs to them, I believe.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s the younger uncle who looks after it.”

  “I hear that the Calabrians and Sicilians are in a power struggle. It’s going to be getting ugly,” Frank says.

  I’m puzzled by the remark. “What’s the reason for the meeting?” I ask.

  “Okay. I’ll get to the point,” Frank says and goes on to explain that a report sent by Angie’s previous school board had clearly labelled her a “school phobic,” a condition that requires special help not available at WLHS.