Vera

The following story is fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

"To be one's self, and unafraid whether right or wrong, is more admirable than the easy cowardice of surrender to conformity." (Irving Wallace)

"To see the right and not to do it is cowardice." (Confucius)

k.d. lang, her voice like a bell, was going crazy imitating coyotes howling at the full moon of love. She, or rather her CD, entertained my seventeen-year old daughter and me while we sorted through the years of junk that had accumulated in our basement. Faith would've preferred working to the accompaniment of other, cooler music, but she made no complaints and claimed to enjoy hearing k.d. again, "...after all these years."

We were having a good time at this task that I'd avoided for so long. Both of us had our hair tied back with kerchiefs, the universal symbol for "Caution: Female at Work". However, the job meandered along due to pleasant interruptions whenever one of us uncovered a memento. We'd stop, gush or laugh, and reminisce over pictures, kindergarten artwork, and other family artefacts. It was quality time, mother-daughter bonding, and a host of other psycho-babble terms.

k.d. had just started crooning about fallen leaves and arms opening like school doors to summer holidays, when Faith called out, "Mum, who's in this picture with you? She's gorgeous. I've never seen her before. She looks like Salma Hayek. Look at the two of you! You must've driven the boys wild."

Without looking, I knew which photo my daughter held. It was a Polaroid of Vera and me. We were dressed for an evening out, young and confident, and around her neck hung the green silk scarf that I'd bought for her birthday.

I first laid eyes on her at a wedding reception for a classmate in the spring of '79.

Although the wedding took place in a small church, it was a large, lively affair with plenty of odd but charming customs. The reception itself was held in the church basement hall. Many of the guests were recent immigrants with thick accents, so I was one of the few who didn't belong to their ethnic group.

I noticed her as soon as she entered the room. So did many others, especially the men, and they flocked around her, greeting her with kisses on her cheek. I was wowed by her dress: gold silk material, high neckline with a scooped back, tight and fitted—amplifying her curves—with a tapered calf-length hemline straight out of the '50's. But I was more impressed by how she wore it. On me it would've looked loud, flashy, and pretentious, but on her it was beautiful, natural, and sophisticated.

Initially, her style, class, and long neck reminded me of an olive-skinned Audrey Hepburn. Yet Audrey never struck me as someone who'd get down and dirty. This girl, on the other hand, most certainly possessed that earthy quality. Finally, it hit me that her looks, walk, and figure resembled those of a smaller-busted Sophia Loren. A part of me fancied that she'd just walked off the set of

Houseboat

, so I wondered with silent amusement if, while swinging her hips, she'd break into song:

"Presto, Presto; Do your very best-o!"

One of the ushers led her to our table, causing me to palpitate, which surprised me. Upon introducing herself, she took me aback. I'd expected an accent, but she spoke without a trace of one, other than the pronunciation of her name. "Hello, my name is Vera." Not Vee-ra with a slurred

r

, but Ve-rra: the

e

as in

bed

and the

r

lovingly tongued and trilled.

She sat next to me and we hit it off, soon chatting away like long-time friends. Conversation flowed from her with animation and passion. Her hands, occasionally stopping to light a cigarette, waved about while she talked. And her eyes, perpetually dancing and accenting her expressions, captivated me as we exchanged our stories.

Her exotic face kidnapped my breath. Large, almond-shaped dark brown eyes served as the centrepiece. They, in turn, were capped by full black brows and underscored by magnificent high cheekbones. The long, prominent nose suited her well; a cute little ski jump would've looked ridiculous. Her dark, flawless skin, Mediterranean in tone, made her teeth all the whiter. The shoulder-length straight black mane framed her dazzling face perfectly. A slight gap between her top front teeth, potentially an imperfection, added all the more to her allure. It obviously didn't bother her: Everyone received her smiles.

I watched her as she spoke and discovered that we were the same age, twenty-one. She was born in Europe but had lived in Canada most of her life. Although Toronto was home for both of us, we were finishing our third year of undergraduate studies in other cities. She attended the University of Western Ontario, in London, enrolled in an arts program, while I went to Queen's, in Kingston, studying economics.

She adopted me that night, introducing me to her friends and trying, in vain, to teach me the most basic steps of the folk dancing that whirled around us. Some of the melodies were sultry and seductive, conjuring decadent images of belly dancing. Vera seemed to enjoy dancing to these the most. With her eyes closed, she'd smile in rapture and let her entire body shimmer to the music while her feet capered with nimble precision.

She invited me to a party at a friend's place that night. We left the reception together at about 11 p.m., ending up in a house shared by several guys Vera had introduced me to earlier in the evening. I'd expected the party to be a continuation of the wedding, with ethnic music and dancing. Instead, my nostrils detected the sweet smell of pot while my ears absorbed a deafening Joe Strummer snarling questions about whether making tea at the BBC or being a cop were desirable careers.

A joint came Vera's way; she inhaled expertly and passed it to me. I chuckled, took a toke, and handed it off, remarking, "I'm surprised. I didn't expect to run into pot heads here."

"Normally we sit around telling folk tales and crocheting, but tonight's a change of pace," she joked without rancour. She could've easily shown petulance, but wearing a chip, I discovered, wasn't Vera's style.

My new friends were a bit of an enigma. They switched seamlessly from earthy peasant charm to chic Euro cool. Vera proved especially chameleon-like in her transitions, one minute gushing with old world enthusiasm over baby pictures of someone's nephew ("Look, B, isn't he adorable!"), and the next arguing, through a haze of smoke and over the din of XTC, about the shifting balance of power portrayed in Wertmuller's

Swept Away

("It's not misogynistic!").

We stayed in close touch that spring, and when classes ended and summer began, we became inseparable. Vera was beautiful in heart, soul, and body; I loved her like a dearest sister and never questioned her sincerity. She walked the tightrope between chic and earthiness with the ease of Blondin, surefooted and impeccably balanced. I admired her spontaneity, which she achieved without flightiness, and yet she could be serious but never humourless.

I tried emulating her stylish sense that avoided fads. So for her birthday that summer, I saved to buy her an oversized green Italian silk scarf that had caught my eye. It was a significant amount of money, especially for a student, to spend on a square piece of material. But I wanted to please and give her something of value. Besides, I knew that the quality of the scarf wouldn't be lost on her.

So we became close friends that summer, and there were few topics we didn't discuss. Men, sex, hopes and dreams, fashion, politics—we talked about all of these. But, by far, music was our favourite subject.

At that age, music isn't a diversion; it's a statement. One's taste in song spoke volumes about one's values and beliefs, or so we naively thought. We were fans of new wave, alternative, whatever you wanted to call it: The Jam, Elvis Costello, The Talking Heads, to name a few artists. Although neither of us had a favourite band, we loved the wealth of material that was coming out.

However, our hearts belonged to an earlier generation. I was mad about The Beatles, and for Vera, nothing could touch The Rolling Stones. She always seemed be grooving to one of their records.

On one occasion, within seconds of us walking into her house, she slapped down some vinyl. In no time, Charlie started tapping on the cowbell and soon pounded out the beat with his bass and snare drums. Keith joined in with that oh-so-raunchy guitar riff. Finally, Mick began slurring about Memphis barroom queens, blown noses, blown minds, and those honky-tonk women. The volume was high, so it wasn't long before Vera's mother, Nada, showed up to complain.

"Vera! Vhat is da metter vit you!? Are you krezy? Is too loud!" Vera danced across the room to her mother and, giving her a big kiss and hug, tried getting her to dance to Mick and the boys. Nada strove but failed to maintain a stern façade. Dancing to the Stones wasn't going to happen, not in this lifetime, but she couldn't help smiling at her daughter's infectious, fun-loving nature.

I loved Vera for that. She didn't shy away from her immigrant mother in childish embarrassment but instead embraced her openly. And if someone didn't like it, tough shit for them. If there were fun to be had, everyone was invited, even the clad-in-black women of her culture.

When she'd visit my house, I took my turn at indoctrinating her with The Beatles. I was particularly fond of

Rubber Soul

and

Revolver

: Paul enthusing about having just seen a face sweet enough to dream about, George deadpanning about carving numbers on walls, and John foreshadowing about remembering people and places and loving them all. Vera politely paid attention, but the mop tops weren't displacing the Stones in her heart, not by a long shot!

Fall finally arrived, as did the commencement of our final year of studies. Although we saw much less of each other, we stayed in touch by phone. The bills broke my budget, yet, early that winter, the frequency of my calls increased when, terribly, Vera discovered that she had lymphoma.

She suspended her studies to return home for the arduous chemotherapy and radiation sessions. I visited as often as I could, travelling from Kingston to Toronto to see her on weekends. As the treatments progressed, she changed. Yes, her raven hair fell out, her gorgeous facial features lost their sharpness, her body bloated, and her skin took on a pallor. But it was her eyes that broke my heart: They were empty of all hope and faith.

It's strange when humorous episodes occur against a backdrop of misfortune. Vera's oncologist suggested, off the record, that marijuana might help her cope with the nausea caused by chemotherapy. She, in turn, informed Nada, who immediately gave Vera money to buy the weed.

Vera and I laughed endlessly about it, especially once we'd get high on the grass scored through Nada's love and generosity. The image of Nada—conservative, traditional, constantly working in the kitchen and clad in widow's black—as a drug peddler would send us into marijuana-induced hysterics. Which was good, for Vera needed to laugh, even if it was at her wonderful mother's expense.

In early spring, Vera achieved remission. Nada was delirious with joy and full of hope and endless faith in God. Her husband had died about 10 years earlier, so Vera, her only child, was all she had. Consequently, I didn't have the heart to question her why Vera initially became sick with cancer.

Vera eventually gained enough confidence to venture into public again. Her wig couldn't compare to her own hair, but she'd rather endure inquisitive looks than remain cooped up at home. She longed for social intercourse.

She came to visit me in Kingston for a few days, and one night we went out to see

All That Jazz

. As we left the cinema, I noticed Gavin, a friend of one of my classmates. Gavin, who was in the music program at Queen's, had blue eyes and was boyishly handsome despite his out-of-style Prince Valiant haircut. He was somewhat shy, but once he knew you, his guard dropped, allowing his wit and intelligence to show.

I caught his attention by waving at him, and he came over. After introductions and some chit-chat, the three of us decided to go to a nearby pub for a drink. Gavin was enthusiastic about the movie and especially attracted by the idea of Jessica Lange as Death. But Vera thought the device was over the top; she saw nothing attractive about dying. As they debated this, I held my breath, waiting for her to announce that she had a rather different perspective than he and, perhaps, to chide him over his silly, romantic notions about death. But that just wasn't Vera: They were discussing a movie, and she kept it at that level.

That was their first meeting. I could tell that Gavin was drawn to her, and a few days later he phoned me to find out more about Vera. I told him about her illness, that she was in remission and continuing to recover. None of this seemed to bother him—in fact, it seemed to intrigue him—and he began pursuing her.

They started going out that spring, and I took glee in teasing her that Gavin looked nothing like Mick but uncannily like Paul. She endured my gibes easily: She was happy and in love. He'd returned the beautiful sparkle to her eyes, and I loved him for that.

She began making regular trips to Kingston to visit Gavin. As a result, I saw more of her, but her attention was elsewhere. She fell head-over-heels for him. Vera, in her classy way, was able to convey, without giving me intimate details, that their relationship was extremely physical.

Yet as time passed, their love affair waned, largely due to an increasing disregard from Gavin. Oddly, the more she recovered and returned to her former glory, the more he seemed dissatisfied with her. By mid-summer, Gavin broke with Vera.

She took it hard and often complained to me about Gavin. Why didn't he phone? Why didn't he want to see her anymore? Why did he like her when she was sick but now that she was better show disinterest? I had no answers for her but tried to comfort her as much as possible.

Nevertheless, Vera fell into a funk. Similar to the summer before, we were again inseparable, only this time our pot smoking, instead of providing us with giddy highs, acted as a bass note for her despondency. I tried to steer our conversations and activities away from anything related to Gavin. Eventually, I began cursing the day that I'd introduced him into her life.

By late summer her spirits seemed improved, although I was unsure if Vera, embarrassed by her melancholy, had simply decided to keep her blues to herself and present a cheerful front. Hindsight tells me that this was probably the case.

Late one August night in a Queen St. club, we sat at the bar, talking and drinking more than usual. Vera was uncommonly animated that evening. The Tubes' "What Do You Want From Life?" played in the background while a cigarette held between her long, slim fingers flitted to and fro as she gesticulated about her young life.

"B, I want to grab what I can, while I can."

"Vera, you're fine now. You'll live to be a hundred."

She exploded, "Fucking hell, B! Please, not you. You've been the only one throughout this—this fucking nightmare—that hasn't fed me bullshit. Not you. I couldn't take it."

She was right. It was a trite thing to say; I apologised immediately. "So what are some of the things you want?" I asked.

"I want to have a baby."

"A baby!" I blurted. "And if you die, who'd take care of it?" She wanted honesty, so I gave her honesty.

"Look, the chemo's probably ended my chances for pregnancy. But if it happened, my mother would gladly do it. It'd be a surrogate for me once I'm gone."

I wanted to say, "I'd take care of it," but I bit my tongue. Instead, I asked if Gavin would father it. The booze had clouded my thinking; otherwise, I'd have never asked that stupid question.

"Fuck him, the son-of-a-bitch! Yes, I want him to father it!" A tear bulged in the corner of her eye and slid down her beautiful cheek, the path marked by smeared eyeliner.

She was in a bad way, letting it all out, so I said, "Fuck Gavin. You don't need him. There are heaps of guys that would fuck a cancer patient."

For a second, her eyes bulged in shock, but then she threw her head back and laughed. "Thanks for putting up with me, B," kissing me on the cheek while giving me hug.

Carole Pope came over the speakers singing "Birds of a Feather". "What else?" I asked, taking a healthy slug of scotch.

"Travel, explore sex more thoroughly... "

She'd once expressed a disgust at oral sex, but had since meeting Gavin confessed that I was right—it wasn't that bad. Perhaps Vera wanted to expand further?

"...maybe even try sex with a woman."

I gawked at her, staggered by what she said, but she stared straight ahead at the rows of glinting liquor bottles and dragged on her cigarette.

"Well, go for it," I finally stammered, trying to regain my balance. "The only serious thing is having a baby. And you're right; your mother would cherish the child."

But while Bryan Ferry extolled the virtues of mother of pearl, my mind wheeled in numerous directions, all in response to her last remark. With whom did she want to have sex? We were best friends, so was it me? If so, how would I react?

Ian Drury's "Hit Me" came on. Vera stood and swayed her way onto the dance floor, her arms raised, the red glow of her cigarette making traces above her head in the dark bar. God, she could dance. Her hips seemed to lead a life of their own.

She loved that silly song. I took another sip of whisky and joined her. We shimmied about, miming the words, trying to outdo each other with our antics, and laughing at our actions.

We partied hard the rest of the night, but her remark kept prodding me. As if to reaffirm our heterosexuality, we both left the bar that night with a man. I have no idea how Vera's adventure turned out, we never mentioned it, but mine was uninspired.

Despite Vera's best efforts at hiding it, her mother sensed her depression over Gavin. Nada responded by packing us off to Montreal for several days of shopping, paying for my ticket and accommodation as well. It was an extravagant gesture by Nada, but she'd have done far more if it meant helping her daughter.

So in early September we went off to Montreal, travelling by train. Vera's appearance belied her illness; she was her stunning self again. She had short hair, for reasons obvious to me, but it was styled and suited her. And the further away we got from Toronto, the more she loosened up, transforming into the Vera I knew before cancer had set her back.

Shortly after the train left Union Station, we ambled and swayed our way to the bar car. Once there, several men struck up conversations, buying us drinks and sharing laughs. When we passed through Kingston, she quieted somewhat but became chatty again once the train resumed its journey. In Montreal, we said goodbye to our temporary friends, disembarked, and took a taxi to our hotel.

We stayed in a small hotel on Sherbrooke near St. Denis, close to the shops and night clubs. Neither of us had mentioned anything since that evening when she confessed her bisexual curiosity. But now, suddenly, tension and nervousness appeared between us. In retrospect, perhaps we wondered if either of us would make an overture and whether the other would accept. The fact that our room contained a single queen-sized bed compounded our anxiety in all likelihood.