Radioland

Chapter 3

JILL

BEHOLD, THIS INVISIBLE HAG! This Dollarama Hecate.

Remember my name.

Breathe and keep moving. Feeling like I’m running but actually stumbling down a grassy hill, staggered steps in formerly pristine white high-top Vans. Hello, Christie Pits, I missed you. So much green open space. KEEP MOVING. Fatigued, like a sullen teenager on a forced errand. You can do this. Remember when you saw Shakespeare staged outdoors here? Wait, that was High Park. s**t.

The night air’s damp, lake breeze clinging to my face like a web, or at least what skin I leave exposed. BLOW, WINDS, I COMMAND THEE! Relax. Catch your breath. This isn’t the heath from Lear, no matter how much a part of me wishes. For one thing, Lear wasn’t this anxious. One part of me wishes I could walk faster, while another counsels me, tells me there’s no rush. I’ll get there soon enough, don’t let things rattle you. Why do I need to coach myself? Relax. Keep moving. In another situation I might even be laughing, exposed to everything despite wearing two layers of clothes. And yet I can’t move unguarded without fearing I’m going to fall to the ground and split into bits, so aware of every object around me, open mic, open human, squinting to discern the unlit park parts materializing through the soot of eventide. Abandoned baseball diamonds and playgrounds. The odd kid hanging out on the swing sets. Autumn wind like a broom, cleansing, brushing tall grass as if it were the back of my fingers sweeping. Couldn’t care less about what skittered across the grounds: skunks, teenagers, liberated house cats. DON’T FEAR, ANIMALS UNITE! Don’t unravel, silly. You got this. Think of a circle. Crawford Street is ahead at the top of the hill. You’ve got a job to do. Keep moving. Relax. Wishing I could strip the residue of Christie subway station from my body, sticking to me like a nervous odour: shearing wheels squealing, PA announcements, cold tile. Those goddamn stairs. Fast-food garbage, Axe body spray and wet dogs. Odours releasing themselves only now from my clothing, my scalp, my nostrils, dissipating in the damp air like coils of steam.

Anonymized in the darkness of the basin I allow myself to be visible again to the outside world. I didn’t care for it, but this was my lot. And if someone caught sight of this overclothed Black girl and had questions, well the answer is: this arrangement benefits both of us. The more skin I expose, the more I feel. And I’ve got work to do. And when I’m feeling extra sensitive I take extra precaution; I make myself disappear.

One thing I’m not particularly sensitive to is people’s bullshit. I have a hard enough time handling my mess, I’ve got no time for other people’s notions of me. For now I will be Jill, whoever that is. The key is I’m the one who gets to say.

Just at the top of this hill, digging my heels into the soil. The pendulating voice within: keep moving, relax. The destination should be clear if I have my direction right, so let’s hold it together. Breathing hard as I get to street level, and I pause for a moment wondering whether it was best to be unseen. DON’T TOUCH PARKED CARS. Relax. Keep moving. It’s an odd house. Breathe. It’s an old house. Tall and skinny but not like most talls and skinnys – not the normal downtown Victorian thing. Beige vinyl siding on the front, like a weird skirt hiding its modesty. A maple tree in the yard circled with ornamental stones. Dial down the curiosity. Not everything needs fleshing out, requires a narrative attached to it. Crossing the street, I stop to address the front yard as a whole. Someone clearly loved here once.

A car passes behind me. What I allow the world to see is up to me. Say it. Remind myself.

Up the path, keeping my breath steady, to where the concrete paving stones break up, rising from the ground like chipped teeth; the steps to the front door are cracked down the middle. Grey hoodie pocket I make a fist. Please be unlocked. Deep breath. Wrap my gloved hand around the handle of the screen door, pull it open, shudder and pause, the main door handle warm. PLEASE. It’s unlocked. Relax. Push the door open. Inside get inside. Was here once before, no surprises. But only once and surprises have that name for a reason. There’s always a precedent. Can’t relax and can’t unravel. Standing in the darkness of the vestibule. All the lights are off, like I asked. Keep moving. Don’t dilly-dally. Gently step through the foyer to the living room. Listen. Shhh. Breathe. It’s quiet. Listen. Quiet steps and floorboard creaks. Breathe. Now extend. Slowly now. Extend yourself, the feelers. Drink. Extend.

I lower myself to the floor, avoiding the coffee table.

Now … start by listening.

I curl up on the carpet, wrapping myself in a circle. Warm. Soon complete. Soon complete.

Waiting for things to settle, the energy of the room, my internal tide. Shake off all the scents and whispers from the trip here, the vapours of the whiskey I tossed back before I left, all the swirling irritants poking to get through my skin. There we are.

Smells are first. Open just a bit. Loosen that inner valve. I always stipulate fragrances be kept to a minimum in clients’ houses. No four-legged pets or people hanging around, any living things while I’m inside doing my job. Long ago in this house: dogs, cats, a canary who sang in the morning, a lizard or two, but nothing now. Geoff, my spiritual handler/mentor/dream boyfriend, was good about communicating my conditions, and to their credit the homeowners warned him that the upstairs bathroom had been repainted. In his text he said they used the low VOC s**t like I asked. Nothing upsetting. They’re clean. So it’s easy to extend myself further. The wafting residue of tens of thousands of meals: roast beef, burnt toast, fresh bread. The hint of kerosene from a hurricane lamp. Candle smoke. Damp straw. The pungent aroma of a child’s India rubber ball.

Do your job. You’re here to work. Extend.

Tug the loose beanie off, thankful I’d switched to cornrows a while back, remove my sneakers and socks. Get up slowly, stepping into the dining area. I recognize the carpet from before. Nice little afghan. Little fingers touching, weaving. Turkmen girls whispering to one another. Remove my hoodie, the sweater underneath, weaving, the shirt beneath that. Unbutton my bulky pants as they fall with their heavy cotton weight, I remove the next layer of tights sitting on the floor. Weaving. Rub my face, restoring touch to my fingers. I am here. Holding myself together. Skin damp.

Extend.

Lie on my side, touching my knees. Just be. Somewhere feel the young wife sceptical of electricity being installed, as if an angry spirit were being introduced. I screened this house last year so I don’t need to dissect it, tease out its stories again, tempting though it is to bathe in its history. I’m here to cleanse. Whatever.

Extend further.

Feelers outward, shyly at first. The angry internal voice from my trip here silenced. Settle. Gliding as slow as the June sun. A thousand sunsets. Clopping horse hooves dissolving into the burr of the firing pistons that replaced them. Unravel. Open up. Church bells in the distance. Extend further. Spread out.

Place my hand on the wall beside me. The skin of my palm the skin of a drum resonating: twelve layers of paint underneath; small bumps of droplets that thickened and set, painted over again and again through the decades. Further. Feeling the energy of those who had been here earlier – hurried homeowners, mostly young, the notable exception of someone, a man, who lived here alone after his mother died, who eventually drove his fist through these walls when he was alone, drunk and sad. Feel my wrist tighten as I pick up the reverberation. Pause to measure his darkness, then move on … Look as far back as the builders who raised the framing underneath the wall, pressing the lath and plaster into place, setting in motion this very space. Feel the plaster in my hand – at first dry and hardened, then supple and foldable, then further back to its basic form as grit shipped in satchels of burlap carted on wagons.

A hundred years of comforting sun and suspicious moon, freeze and thaw. Footsteps up and down the stairs, staggering drunk, small and clumsily on the floor. Toddlers, flowers, the form of framed paintings hanging against the walls. The surge of electricity casting light and activity throughout the interior, objects buzzing alive, shadows generated artificially. Candle smoke. Candles as accents. Rise, gain height up the staircase first to the bathroom and its strata of hurried renovations, then drift along the second-floor hall to the office, the storage room, then the main bedroom; down and across the main floor, time passing like sleep, the sound of jets in the sky; the kitchen with its current imprint of garlic and cigarette smoke; the basement where they watched TV and had s*x, a new bathroom. Encompass. Extend. Encircle.

Now hold.

Focus. Freeze. See all the parts as one in the same space. All the rooms in one block of time and shared experience. The closet beside the kitchen that was used to hang meat. Consider, yes, but hold in place as if permanent, like grit becomes plaster. The grandmother who died of a heart attack in the guest bedroom. A sphere glanced many times over at once. Circle. Hold. Now open up further. Garden that contains dead pets and serviceberry thatches. Depth. Extend. Broadcast. Hold. Broadcast. The father-gambler who lost the house. Feel and know. Extend and strengthen. All inches measured and reinforced, residues leaching wiped away. Someday I will be bleach, an astringent, but today I am the sponge. I drink this. I am the antenna.

For a moment, this is not only a house – this is my home. It joins the lost world inside me.