Red Walls
“This won’t work,” I say dismissively as we enter the living room. “The walls are red and my sofa is pink, purple, and green.” I’ve decided to hate this place. We’re going to buy that little house on John Street with the concrete in the backyard and the questionable basement tenant. I don’t love it, but over the last two nights, Jack’s convinced me we can make it cute. He’s promised he’ll tear up the concrete so we can have a garden. Jack’s very persuasive and it’s the first place we’ve seen that even comes close to ticking all the boxes. I was about to put in an offer on it tonight until Bill, our realtor, mentioned this place on Joseph.
“Come on, Celia-mia, we can look,” Jack said, outside the John Street house. Ever open to changing his mind, he put his arm around my back and tried to tickle me into changing mine.
“No, we’ve decided on this house,” I replied, escaping from his grasp, resisting the tickle.
Our house search started about two months ago, although Jack began preparing the ground for cohabitation about a year before that. “It’s time to share the burden,” he said. I’m fine with my own burden and don’t want to add to it, I thought to myself but didn’t say it. It would be an adventure, that I knew. I agreed to begin to look when it appeared Jack would be homeless, his still-wife having decided she wanted to move back into the marital home. My condo, with its two cats, one bedroom, and no balcony, isn’t really an option to accommodate Jack and his two dogs. Jack’s ruminated about living in his shop where there is no bed, no shower, and no kitchen; or sleeping on a very uncomfortable looking couch in his sister’s basement. Neither of these options seem viable or conducive to a workable relationship for us.
As I’ve been priced out of the downtown market, I’m resigned to living north of St. Clair for the first time. We’ve toured about 15 houses, mostly in Weston, an affordable, inner suburb of Toronto with character homes, close to Jack’s work, and with a GO Train station to get me to work.
Bill and Jack have talked me into looking at Joseph, so here we are surrounded by red walls.
“I can’t live here, Jack. The windows don’t open. And seriously, red?” I grimace. We tour the house and I gloss over the vintage Arborite kitchen counter, the 70s bar, the clothesline, the adjacent park, and the overgrown gardens with good bones. Instead, I see only the things I hate - windows that don’t open; no dishwasher; concrete walkways all over the backyard; a falling-down garage; dated trim; limited closet space; unsafe electrical; rolls of asbestos in the basement ceiling. And red walls.
“Let’s go for dinner before we make any decisions,” Jack says. Food is a great softener and Jack knows he’s got some sharp corners to wear away. “Where shall we go?”
“Don’t care. There’s nothing around here worth eating.” I grumble, angry at the familiar bile of stubbornness rising in my throat but unable to stop it. I wish I were more go-with-the-flow like Jack.
We settle on a Chinese place recommended by someone who will be a neighbour at John Street. The meal is edible but not like Chinatown. Our conversation lacks its usual ebb and flow as Jack keeps gently trying to shift me from John to Joseph, each attempt met with walls, some red, some metaphoric.
“Need a smoke before I drive you home,” Jack announces as we exit the restaurant. He knows I’m prepared by necessity to ride in his Element despite its smell of gasoline from the jerry can in the back mixed with stale tobacco, but I can’t stomach fresh smoke in the mix.
Standing beneath the overhang outside the plaza restaurant, we see lightning to the northwest. It’s hot and windy and the smell of the thick air collides with DuMaurier smoke and the Chinese food grease.
“Joseph Street is so much better than John. It’s double brick!” He’s going for the full-on offensive now.
“Jack, you already talked me into John. John is fine. We can make John work.”
“But Joseph is better. Only a cow doesn’t change its mind.” Jack’s been a fountain of interesting and entertaining Polish expressions like ‘not my pair of shoes’ instead of ‘not my cup of tea.’ As he says this one, he reaches for my hand. I pull it away, angrily.
“Fuck off with your cow expression.” What does he know about cows? Was he a dairy farmer’s daughter? And why does he think he can get away with likening me to a cow? “You just spent two days convincing me to like John. Is this how it’s going to be? Am I going to be forever buffeted on the waves of your opinions? Do I not get to have my own?” This is new for me. I am used to having full control of my destiny. I don’t like having to bend.
“Oh my god, look at that!” I’m distracted by a sheet of lightening across the expanse of black that has developed in the sky.
“Sometimes you’ll decide. Sometimes I’ll decide. Sometimes we’ll decide together.” His simple reply, a man with experience in such matters, although about to divorce his second wife. We’re yelling now over the roar of thunder. Huge raindrops hit the hood of the Element in front of us. One, then two, three, and then so fast, they cannot be counted. We look at each other and my anger melts away. Although Chinese food couldn’t quell my ire, a good storm always does.
I grab his face. “Shut up and kiss me,” interrupting his pro-Joseph street arguments. Debating red walls can wait for another day as we rush to the cab of the truck and roar downtown, away from the storm, laughing over the jazz pumping out of the Element’s speakers.
***
Four weeks later we moved into Joseph Street, as I was able to see for myself it was a better house for a better price. I have no regrets. For seven years those red walls enveloped us as we ate, drank, laughed, napped, read, played cards, entertained, and just, well, lived. Although we talked about redecorating, we claimed the timing was never right. Truth is, we both shied away from the debate that would result: if not red, what?
Since Jack died, the red walls have been the backdrop to my pandemic life as I’ve sat alone on my multicoloured couch to write, read, and Zoom.
***
I’m having my house renovated. Nothing really significant - mostly patching holes and repainting. The red is giving way to primer and eventually, Silver Sage. As the place is neutralized for the tenants who will live here, I ready myself for the new life I plan in my laneway suite. The red walls are symbolic of the life I made with Jack here but only a cow doesn’t change its mind.
