He never hated cats before

The man I loved is gone. Gone forever.

It would’ve been better, easier, if I had admitted that to myself the day I met him at the train station. A shadow of his former self, eyes sunken, uniform tattered, a far cry from his honourable send off a few years prior. I thought I could love him out of it; reverse those years at the front, half starved and near frozen from frostbite. I thought enough tenderness, warm meals and a tidy home could turn the tides. That’s how we were all raised. We were healers; menders who kept the home fires burning. It was my job, my mother said, to smell of scented soap and talcum powder. To re-pin my hair before he came home each night. To always ask how his day was first, regardless of mine.

Sometimes things get worse before they get better. That’s what I thought of the night terrors, the far off look in his eye. He could look right through me as if I ceased to exist, not even respond to my speaking. Where are you my love? I wondered. Are you in the trenches? Are you afraid? So I would silently rise from the dinner table and begin the washing up until he would lift his gaze as if he recognized me once more. I naively imagined I could find solace and understanding at the knitting circle. They were war wives as well. The war to end all wars, they promised us. Engaged in a good cause, they said. And while our men were away, we spoke of their news and the letters we sent. We imagined horses and muck, a solitary military postman trudging over terrain ruined by warfare to pass our words to their hands. We felt we made a difference. After all, morale is the backbone of any fight and if we could keep that up, we were part of the effort too. But these conversations between the women had disappeared.

Needles clicked and clacked furiously as if the craft was somehow a race against time. Tea was consumed, baked goods laid out on the table on lace doilies while recipes, children and current events were discussed. Nobody waded into the dark waters of the post war reality. Every now and then, one of the members, usually MaryAnn would say, “You’re sure quiet, Elsie…” and I would emit a small, somewhat uncomfortable laugh.

The words simply couldn’t make the journey from my head to my mouth. I didn’t want to wreck the pleasantness of these moments and on the other hand, how could I explain something I didn’t understand myself? How we had gone from a young couple, smitten with undying love and commitment, to a woman in a home with a man she barely recognized. Furthermore, I was constantly scanning my mind for what I had done to provoke his rage, how I was somehow guilty of crimes I didn’t commit.

I feigned sleep when he came in late from the bar. I wrapped myself tightly in blankets like a protective barrier, hoping if I appeared like an innocent child lost in a dream, he would leave me alone. Sometimes he did. But other times he pushed or poked, or began a nonsensical argument in his drunken stupor. Reason didn’t work. Kindness didn’t work. It fell on deaf ears. One time he pushed me into the closet and locked the door. He then fell asleep in his clothes, on the bed. In the morning when he called me and I answered, he opened the door and took me in his arms with no memory of the night before. When saw the welt on my face he said, “I didn’t do that did I?” and in truth, I didn’t know who did. Because the man I knew had never struck anyone. The man I loved was raised right and was good-natured. But this man was someone else altogether.

That day at the general store, something changed in me. When Mr. Tom’s resident cat tried to curl around Ernst’s ankles on our way out, he blurted out, “Goddammit, I hate those good for nothing pieces of shit!”

“Ernst’, I said, taken aback, touching his arm, “You had a cat yourself growing up and you loved it so. What’s wrong? You never hated cats before.”’’

“Before what?” he yelled.

The obvious answer was the war, of course. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Passers by were unnerved by this scene and so was I. But moreso, I knew that the man I had once loved no longer existed.

My sole friend was my neighbour, Maria Andretti. You can’t imagine how I admired her. The single daughter of Italian immigrants, now in her late 80’s, Maria was totally and completely independent. She walked everywhere and knew everyone in our little town; not that Coleman was a raging metropolis, it wasn’t, but still, she was an indomitable figure. Widowed two decades before, she never showed even the slightest weakness or bother about being on her own or her place in society.

Our homes were three in a row, all built by the same builder. A-frame, with a small living room and kitchen, one bathroom and two bedrooms. The basements were unfinished with a coal chute and dirt floors; chilly enough to store preserves there. Maria was an expert gardener who shared liberally with me. She did things with food that were very exotic to the prairie palate. Fresh tomatoes with herbs and vinaigrette, pasta with sauces and small cakes made with cornmeal. She sang the folk songs of her youth without regard to anyone listening, her hair under a wide brimmed hat while she knelt in her garden.

I imagined myself like her, living here alone one day, reliant on no one, which I suppose was a form of escapism but also caused me tremendous guilt. After all, Ernst had bought us this place, brand new. What newlywed could ask for more? He worked hard in the mine and was well respected. But the idiom “Home is where the heart is” did not apply to us anymore. He didn’t take me in his arms to twirl me while he sang out of key or hold me against him in the night. His touch was rough or not at all.

The Miner’s Union was formed in 1923. The wife of the foreman said it had taken all those years to calm the men that served. The dynamite would send many into a state of panic, and the camaraderie that used to exist was only now returning after years of broken conversations and long periods of silence. It was whispered amongst the women but never discussed openly. Why hurt the pride of the men that served to protect us? Let them deal with it in their own way, which seemed to me, not at all.

Maria Andretti knew my plight, at least somewhat. But she never mentioned it directly. Instead, she would work to impart wisdom into everyday conversation, to empower me somehow without ever implying I was anything but. She told me the secret to her marriage with Antonio was letting him believe he was in charge. A successful banker and a good man, she said, hardworking and patient though desperately disappointed they never had children. She said in the old country, the women understood they were strong, powerful and capable. They managed finances and networking within their villages and towns. They made sure everyone was taken care of. They believed their role was integral because it was. She said I was no different.

I was raised to take my pursuits seriously. My training as a secretary led to a position with the Red Cross during the war years. I participated in various committees and enjoyed what socials our little town had and was known for my baking skills. Often Maria would come with me to these events. Admittedly, I lost this sense of purpose in 1918 when the men came home. It seemed we were being asked to recede into the background, that our contribution had been stripped from us in the blink of an eye. There was pride in good housekeeping but with only the two of us, the upkeep was minimal. Washday was always full and I could chat with Maria over the fence. In fact, weekdays in general were alright until supper time, when Ernst came home.

Like the wild animals that live here in the Crowsnest Pass, I became a silent expert at reading the signs and signals, the most minuscule changes around me. I could tell simply by the weight of his footsteps when he came up the back steps each night, what his mood might be. There would be three clunks of steps and three scratches of wiping his boots on the mat, before the door would open. The beatings increased in frequency. It seemed we couldn’t make it even one week without some minor infraction that brought a blow.

How can one be visible and invisible at the same time? He seemed to want to see me right away, some sort of welcoming and yet, I wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else. On the nights he didn’t pick a fight he was often sullen or silent altogether. But little things like him wanting two wear a certain shirt before wash day, meaning it was in the dirty pile, would earn me a shove. And then he would walk at me, domineering, saying I was good for nothing as I stumbled backwards. One time I fell into the vanity. That simple piece of furniture my grandmother left me. The impact sent the hand mirror and hairbrush crashing to the floor.

Ernst looked at me for a moment, and a strange smile spread across his face before he reared back and kicked me so hard in the hip, that I fell flat onto my back. He crashed out the back door, headed to the bar. Picking up the mirror, cracked in three pieces, I saw my shattered image and knew I would die here if I stayed.

Maria Andretti’s heart attack hit me hard. She had been so spry. It did not finish her but almost. I sat by her bedside and the doctor told me it was not long now. She could speak weakly sometimes. The day the priest was called, I leaned in close to her. I told her what a dear friend she had been to me. Maria was old and had lived a wonderful life but she was all I had. She opened her eyes gently one last time and said, “drawer” shifting her gaze to the bedside table. Holding her right hand in mine, I slid it open with my left and pulled out a small tattered black notebook. I leafed through it: notes and recipes, lists in Italian, and finally saw that my name, Elsie, was written at the top of a page towards the back, followed by several more in cursive. When I heard the priest, I quickly slid it into my pocket.

After the blessing I kissed her cheek and watched her slip from this life.

I wept over her.

It took a week to ready myself.

When the day arrived, I sent Ernst to work at the crack of dawn. I had two suitcases: one with the few possessions that meant something to me, the other, a case of bills I retrieved from a precise spot indicated by Maria in the notebook. $20,000 and a one-way ticket to Toronto on the Canadian Pacific railway. I was to be met by her cousins who owned a small deli and would give me work and lodging until I found a place of my own. I reached the train station by taxi, heart in throat and boarded as the whistle blew, never to look back.