The Age of Hope Read online

  “I’ve known Frida for all my years, George. There’s nothing weak about her.”

  “You’re not welcome in our home, Hope.”

  “Frida agrees?”

  “We both agree. We’ve talked about you, about you and Roy, and we agree that you like to encourage other women to leave their husbands because you didn’t have the same courage. Those are not my words. Those are Frida’s words. She said that.”

  Hope set the receiver down. Her hands shook. She realized she was gasping for air.

  A month later, she phoned Frida’s house and Frida answered. She sounded so soft. So careful. “George has changed, Hope. It’s much better now. You see, I answered the phone. It feels like when we were young and first married.” She giggled.

  “I’m happy for you, Frida,” she said. They had little to say to each other, as if both ashamed in some way by what had come to pass.

  She wondered if the shame she felt was for herself or for Frida, or for women in general. For a week she found herself disliking her own kind, the frailties and weakness of her sex. And then, the following week, she felt tremendous strength and was proud of all women, especially Frida. Why had she expected Frida, who had been married forty-five years, to simply walk away from her house, her linens, her towel sets, her silverware, her recently renovated kitchen, the solidity and comfort and scent of everything she had wished for, fought for, acquired, and accrued? Who was Frida, if not all that?

  She knew that she had fallen short in some way with Frida. The sense of failure was like the smell of a mouse rotting in the ceiling tiles—faintly sweet and occasionally overpowering and then sometimes not there at all. And then the stink eventually dissipated and all that was left was the carcass, hidden and dried out, the infinitesimal skeleton of a rodent that once scampered through the house.

  The problem, she came to see, was that she had tried to liberate Frida even though Frida hadn’t felt the need to be liberated. Over the course of time, she had convinced Frida that she lived in a prison. But who was to say that Hope was any less manipulative than George? They both wished to control her. Hope thought that she might have misplaced her righteousness. Her virtuous act was, from Frida’s point of view, not so virtuous. And so she forgave her.

  Hope was discovering that she was most in need of forgiveness. Because she was living with a sense of sin herself. Six months before Roy died, Hope had told him that she was no longer interested in sex. She had been working up to this announcement for a while, and then one evening, during an argument about something completely unrelated to sex, she had declared that she was done with the act. She no longer had the desire. “You can go elsewhere. Hire someone or find a lover, but I’m finished.”

  “Hope, that’s ridiculous,” Roy said. “I’m not going to go elsewhere. You know that.”

  “Well, I’ve made up my mind.”

  Roy did not speak to her for several days. And then one evening he presented her with twelve roses in a cut-glass vase. There was a card attached that read, “To Hope, with love from your husband, Roy.” She suspected that this was a trick of some sort, and so she was muted in her response, though she did thank him and kiss him on the forehead. She knew that men, even as they grew older and were less inclined, believed sex was a necessity. It was a performance, a testament to their potency. It was as if men were employed by a circus that demanded a nightly trapeze trick. Even old age should not be an impediment. Emily’s brother, now in his eighties, had remarried, and in order to have sex he required a penis pump. Why? Why not just accept the frailty and weakness of old age and simply cuddle? Why such a need to stay youthful?

  In some closeted corner of her mind she wondered if Roy had died of rejection and heartbreak. She had kept her word, no sex, though there had been a minor setback one night after they had watched a movie together and she had drunk too much wine and she had entwined with him. This was the word she used, but only with herself. To “entwine.” He had been so grateful that night, so effusive and soft, that she wondered if she should reverse her decision. And then, after he died, she found herself in bed wanting him. She was bereft, and she thought that she might have sinned.

  She hadn’t confessed this sin to anyone, not until Judith came for a visit. It was Hope’s seventieth birthday, and Melanie would be arriving from Vancouver the next day, but on this evening, sitting with Judith on the balcony of her condo, she began to speak in broad terms about love and marriage and children. Earlier that day, Penny had told Judith of Hope’s attempt to free Frida. Hope had listened to the story as well, trying to interject once or twice, but failing, because it appeared that Penny knew the story better than she did.

  “No shit, Mom,” Judith had said. “You did that? Where did that come from?”

  Hope was insulted. Who did her children think she was? Some weak nondescript seventy-year-old who no longer had any purchase in the world? The cult of youth had inflamed even her daughters, who were themselves practically too old for that. And now, in the evening, Judith was confessing that she was sorry she hadn’t had children. “I’m forty-six. I know there are women who have babies at forty-six, but think of the poor kids, stuck with such old parents.”

  “Does Jean-Philippe want children?”

  “He would. But he’s sixty-six. I look at him sometimes and imagine that I will be his nurse. We still have sex though.”

  “Oh,” Hope said. She wondered what had happened with Judith’s affair. And then, for whatever reason, perhaps guilt wedded with opportunity, she confessed that she had deprived Judith’s father of pleasure late in the marriage. “Only for a bit. He died not long after, but I see now that I was wrong. And selfish. Why couldn’t I have just given in? I guess I’m saying this for your sake, Judith. Take my advice.”

  “Jesus, Mom, I’m not a kid anymore. I can decide for myself what I want. Anyways, I don’t think you killed him.”

  “Don’t say ‘Jesus.’ And I didn’t say I killed him. I disappointed him. And that’s a terrible thing.”

  She was sorry she had told Judith this little tale, as if forgiveness could be had through public confession. She knew better. She knew that by talking intimately with her children she was making herself into a comic figure. Her children, kind as they were, had no inkling about her inner life, her dark and wayward thoughts, her need for independence, even her lack of affection for them. There were times when Penny was overbearingly self-righteous, and Judith mean, and Conner a disappointment, and Melanie simply unreliable. Emily would have understood. With Emily, Hope could say just one word and immediately there was a mutual vibration, even when they fought or disagreed. They understood each other.

  When Melanie arrived for the birthday party, she brought with her the young woman who was her partner and lover. Hope had not yet met Ariel, and so was slightly nervous, though she needn’t have been, because Ariel was very much like Melanie: young and immature and easy-going. When Melanie had told her mother that she was in love with Ariel, Hope had said, “Are you sure? You might want to be sure.” Melanie had laughed and said that she was as sure as she needed to be.

  Hope was very happy for her youngest daughter. She was even happier when she heard that Melanie was trying to get pregnant. The sperm was donated by a rower on the Olympic team. Allan Forsythe, six foot six, and a man who, Melanie claimed, if she had been attracted to men, would have made a fine husband. Hope imagined a granddaughter becoming an adult in a world in which she no longer lived. This was her melancholy bent, and it did not sadden her as much as amaze her. There was so much that she would miss. A toast was proposed and white wine was found in the fridge, a half bottle that had been opened two weeks earlier when Hope had entertained Emily. “Where’s Judith?” Penny asked, looking about, and Conner made a face and said that she was crying in the bedroom.

  “Oh, shit,” Penny said, and she raised her glass, drank with the others, and then went to console Judith. They returned later, arm in arm, and Judith approached Melanie and hugged her and said, �
��I’m so happy, and so jealous, but mostly I’m happy.” And then she hugged Ariel as well, and Hope was aware of how muscular Ariel’s forearms were, and how short she was.

  There was some discussion among the children that weekend about Hope, and she was pleased to be the centre of attention, even though much of the conversation focused on her reckless driving and the need for a maid. Well, the truth was, she was a bit of a menace on the road, but then she had always been a reckless driver. The Belair she had inherited upon Roy’s death had gradually acquired various nicks and dents, testaments to a corner cut too close or an attempt at parallel parking gone awry. When she hit a parked car, she immediately left the scene of the crime and moved on down the street to find a different parking spot.

  However, she was offended by the idea of a maid. “What are you thinking? I can still cook and clean. And I’ll be driving when I’m ninety. Mrs. Kraus, in Eden, she’s ninety-five and still drives a standard.”

  “That’s wonderful for her,” Penny said, “until she kills some kid on a bicycle.”

  One evening after dinner, Hope said, apropos of nothing, “I refuse to be a burden on you kids.”

  “Oh, Mom,” Penny said, “you’re not dying.”

  “Of course I’m dying. We’re all dying.” She turned to her other three children. “Your sister’s writing a book. About me.”

  “What?” This was Judith.

  “I am not, Mother. It’s a novel. And it’s sliding all over the place. It lacks structure.”

  “Like my life,” Hope said.

  “That’s not true,” Judith said. “Do you feel that, Mom? Your life has been full.”

  Hope sensed that Judith wanted her life to be full because if it wasn’t, then she was an embarrassment and a failure, and perhaps this meant that Judith’s life was not full either. It was a selfish statement, completely without empathy.

  “I know that it’s been full,” Hope said. “Look at my children.”

  Conner had stepped outside to the balcony for a cigarette, and he returned now and studied Penny. “Are you? Writing a book about Mom?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Hope said, “it’s about a woman born in 1930 and it follows her life. That’s what you told me, isn’t it?”

  “Does she have children?” Melanie asked.

  “Three,” Penny said. “Maybe.” She made a face.

  “Where’s it set?” Judith asked.

  “Oh, here and there. Eden. Winnipeg.”

  “You’re actually using the name Eden?”

  “For the rough draft. It feels more authentic.”

  “If I’m in it, I’ll sue you,” Conner said. He looked quite serious, and then he grinned.

  “She won’t publish it till I’m dead,” Hope said. She was enjoying herself. Her heart was full. She loved all of her children. She was going to be a grandmother. Immortality beckoned after all. “I wish we had more wine.”

  Mr. Arthur Templeton. What a debonair and aristocratic name compared to hers. She ‘d always felt, deep down, that her name belonged on a farm, that one might easily conjure up the image of a long row of cages filled with hens, poor girls, losing track of their eggs as they rolled down into wire gutters. In her early days, during the age of her despair, she had opened the Concise Oxford Dictionary and discovered to her chagrin that the word “coop” came from Middle Low German and was, variously: 1 A basket. Only in ME. 2 A wickerwork basket used in catching fish. ME. 3 A cage or pen for confining poultry etc. ME. 4 A narrow place of confinement; slang, a prison. She imagined a dirty little shanty in which a family of sixteen lived, though she wasn’t sure where this idea came from. Over time, though, she managed to sublimate all these images and definitions, and had come to see her acquired name as positive. She construed associations. A coop represented a safe place. It provided food. Wickerwork baskets, freshly dipped in the Sea of Galilee, full of fishes. Various other baskets, replete with loaves. The Sermon on the Mount. Jesus come to walk among the poor, freeing prisoners. Eventually, she came to accept her name, and to appreciate the sharpness of the singular syllables, the symmetry in the number of letters: Hope Koop.

  She first introduced herself to Arthur Templeton in the lobby of her condominium. She had just returned from a shopping trip at Safeway and was standing near the elevator when the bag that she was holding broke and five potatoes, Yukon Gold bought in bulk, spilled out and bounced along the tiles, coming to rest in various corners. She was alone in the lobby—Ibram was outside talking to a tenant—and so she set about gathering up her potatoes. She had retrieved four of them and was down on her knees, peering under the couch in the middle of the lobby, trying to find her last one, when the elevator doors opened and out stepped an older man dressed in a dark suit, wearing a fedora, and wielding a cane. The man paused in the middle of the lobby and said, “You lost something?”

  Hope looked up. She was aware of the man’s polished shoes, the fine cut of his suit, and his sharp jaw, above which played a slight smile. She felt foolish, caught in this humiliating position. She stood. Brushed off her slacks. “Oh, no,” she said. “Well, yes. I lost a potato.”

  “Under there?” The man pointed at the couch.

  “Yes, it escaped.”

  “Indeed,” the man said, and he lowered himself with great care to the floor and peered into the dark space where the potato had disappeared. “Aha.” He swung his cane under the couch and the potato rolled out. He picked it up, stood, and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He held out his hand. “Arthur Templeton.”

  She took his hand and said, “Hope Koop.”

  “Ah, yes,” Arthur said, as if he recognized her, or had been waiting a long time to discover her. He said, “Spuds for dinner, then?”

  She was surprised to hear him use the word “spud.” It seemed so out of place with his dress and demeanour.

  “I like to bake a potato every night. It’s easy, I find.”

  “It is.” He studied her. “I’ve not seen you before. You live here?”

  “For four years.”

  “Well, I’m a blind man then not to have noticed such a beauty.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Thank you for your help. It was nice to meet you.” And she passed through the open elevator door and did not look back at him.

  How odd, she thought as she rose to her floor. There was mirror in the elevator, and she saw herself and was grateful that she had worn her finer dark blue slacks and a cream-coloured jacket to walk to Safeway. After her trip to Paris she had become more careful about what she was eating, or perhaps she was just less interested in food since Roy died. In any case, she had lost a little weight and had acquired a new wardrobe. Even her daughters had remarked, at the time of her birthday party, on her new outfits. She had her hair coloured with highlights every four weeks at a small salon down the street, and now, aware of her appearance, she thought that while she might no longer be a beauty, she wasn’t bad looking. “Oh, look at you, Hope,” she said. She felt light-headed.

  Over the past few years, Hope had begun to feel invisible. She belonged to a whole herd of grey-haired women in running shoes who apparently did not exist. She felt it when she came face to face with the young girl who served her at Starbucks and she had to navigate the silly debit machine. All those buttons. The younger girls were often kind and helpful, certainly because they must have grandmothers her age. The disdain she felt came from women in their forties who were desperately trying to stay young. It was as if these women saw a reflection of their future selves and were frightened. Hope was slightly offended and slightly amused by this.

  So now, to experience the flutter of being seen was special indeed. Indeed. Hadn’t Arthur just used that word? What a confident word. As if there were nothing to be doubted, complete certainty. This was something else she had noticed about Arthur during that brief encounter. He seemed so sure of himself.

  She kept an eye out for him, subtly, but she did not
see him. And then, two weeks later, on her way to meet Conner for lunch, she ran into him just outside the lobby doors. She thought later that he might have been lying in wait for her—the encounter was too coincidental—but at the time she put it down to chance. He raised a hand and bowed slightly and said, “Hope Koop.”

  “Mr. Templeton.”

  “Arthur, please.” He said that he had just been thinking of her. He had an extra ticket for the symphony the following night. Would she like to join him? “I hope this isn’t too forward, but my daughter, who was supposed to be joining me, had to postpone her trip. She lives in Kansas City.”

  “Oh, but I don’t know you.”

  “I’m not dangerous. In any case, you can outrun me.” He lifted his cane and smiled.

  He was quite brazen and she wondered if Arthur Templeton was fast. A playboy. However, he had a daughter, which made him, in Hope’s mind, a family man and therefore safer, and so she said, “Yes, I would like that.” She was immediately sorry because she felt that she was betraying Roy, and she couldn’t imagine what she would wear.

  “Good. Then I will call on you at 6 p.m.” He nodded, said goodbye, and slipped away.

  She wore a dark dress with a matching belt and a necklace of pearls. She was dressed and ready to go by 3 p.m. and spent the remaining hours alternately studying herself in the mirror and sitting at the dining room table staring out the balcony windows. She had not eaten since lunch, and by the time they were seated, her stomach was grumbling and all she could feel was embarrassment. She needn’t have worried. Arthur was hard of hearing. It felt very intimate sitting side by side with this strange man who, during the concert, leaned towards her and whispered little details about Shostakovich and the various movements. Arthur, she realized, was erudite and well informed.

  He insisted on taking her out for a late-night snack—highly unusual, he admitted, as he was usually in bed by 10 p.m. They ended up in a French café not far from the condominium, where she finally ate. Creamy pasta with legumes and shrimp. They shared a litre of wine. She learned that his wife had died six years earlier, and he had been an economics professor at the university. He had one daughter, Cheryl. He was eighty-two. He did most of the talking, though she did manage to tell him a little about herself and her children. And Roy. She felt that Roy should be sitting at the table with them.