As She’s Told

The week that followed, all to ourselves, seemed very quiet in contrast.

Even Svend, who had been almost a fixture, was off on his travels again. I slid with ease and some relief back into the usual routines, our private symbiosis.

That Saturday the folk club held its long-planned day of workshops for amateur musicians. Anders was helping to organize and host, and he’d volunteered me for the registration table, so we got there well in advance.

And there was Pam, supervising. I hastily rehearsed the comebacks I’d constructed for the next time she started on me, but she gave me no opportunity to try them out. Her frosty eye never met mine; she literally overlooked me the whole evening. Perhaps Claude had given her a talking-to. And of course there was only tea in her cup, this round. Though Pam was evidently not about to make her peace with me, Nikki had. I’d had to steel myself to phone her, but when I did, once again she surprised me. It turned out that I’d triggered a whole raft of fears of her own about losing control.

There was a dom she was feeling drawn to. Ambivalence and anxiety were plaguing her. Once she had that out in the open we could talk it out. We’d managed to regain some of our subbie camaraderie.

When the workshop registration wound down I began fetching and replenishing refreshments. Anders was introducing the professionals, sorting out the rooms and so on; I got glimpses of him from time to time. He’d brought his fiddle, and I knew he was going to be getting in there later in the program. The quality I heard was uneven, not surprisingly, but there were bursts of really fine music. I stood in various doorways, keeping an eye on the food tables and tapping my feet to the music.

At the coffee urn Anders and I converged; he took a cup from me and gave me a squeeze. But he had too much to do to keep an eye on me, or even to amuse himself with his trusty remote. He had set the GPS monitor to call him if I got out of bounds, and I carried the usual paraphernalia beneath my clothes, but apart from that we were as normal as can be. For the last hour I mostly listened from a corner at the back. All the professionals had gathered for one final workshop, and the tunes were flying, one after the other. Feet pounded, the whole room was keeping time. Grins spread from face to face, until the audience was one big grin.

The grins and energy lasted while the whole thing wound down and the crowd thinned. The volunteers sang and danced a reel or two through the cleanup, and people were still dancing on the way out the door, me included.

I breathed in the damp cold night gratefully after the overworked air inside. In the next instant the wind hit, and I huddled into Anders’ side. The spring weather so far had been lousy. Next to the parking lot entrance was a figure clad in murky greys and browns, camouflaged against the dark pavement. A grubby Styrofoam cup was the thing that was most visible, held out in a hand cracked with grime.

‘Hey Wendy,’ said Anders. ‘How you doing?’

A forced, almost voiceless wheeze. ‘Hey, it’s the Dane. What – ‘ There was a thick cough, then another, and then more. The paroxysm went on, until the woman was half bent, hands on knees, gasping. Anders had a hand on her shoulder.

‘Jesus, Wendy. Have you seen a doctor?’

The head in its ancient toque swung back and forth. The coughing resumed. Anders bent down to her. ‘Wendy? You’re too sick to be out here.

The walk-in clinic’s closed by now. I’m taking you to the hospital, okay?’

No response. Slowly the head came up, the indrawn breath sounding painful. ‘Not the General,’ she wheezed. ‘I got a bitch of a triage nurse last time. St. Mike’s.”

“No problem. Got your stuff?’

She leaned over a cluster of plastic bags and began coughing again.

Eventually we made it the few feet to the truck and Anders began loading her bags into the back. Wendy took one look at the bench seat and stopped in her tracks. ‘Shit,’ she rasped, ‘you two don’t want to catch what I’ve got.’

Anders saw her starting to edge away. ‘Wait. Wendy, it’s all right. We’ll find something to cover your mouth. They’ll make you do it at the hospital anyway. Have you got a scarf or something?’

She gestured weakly to the back where her bags were. ‘I’m not lousy, anyway, you’ll be glad to know. Got cleaned up the other day at the Sally Ann.’

I was glad to know this, if it was true. My thoughts ran to lice, and bedbugs, and Streptococcus pneumoniae, and then shame slapped me. The woman needed help.

Anders appeared from the back of the truck with something white in his hand. ‘Here, try this; it’s clean.’ It was the kind of mask he used for dusty deconstruction. She fumbled it on. Despite the cold wind, her forehead glimmered with oily sweat beneath the street light. Probably a fever. The face was younger than I’d expected, but sanded rough, like a city statue weathered by smog and sulphuric acid.

I felt as if I ought to be making some kind of friendly conversation with the woman beside me, but the last thing she needed was to be forced to talk.

Speaking just with Anders would have been rude. And in any case it felt like all the life in me had drained away like dirty water. On the way out of the folk club I’d been full of observations and questions for the trip home, charged and filled up with sparkling music and ready to pour. Now the whole happy evening was a mockery: a glitter of tinsel caught in the hair of a child who was starving to death in a ditch. I glanced at the bleak-eyed figures to either side of me, and made myself small.

Wendy and I went through the Emergency entrance while Anders parked. The lineup of people waiting just for triage was long and weary; it was Saturday night. Anders helped Wendy look for what little ID she had; her health card had been stolen twice. He made a couple of calls. She asked for coffee and I searched the hospital for it. After a couple of wrong leads I located a Second Cup by the Queen Street entrance that was, miraculously, still open.

We stayed because Anders wanted to make sure that they kept Wendy in and didn’t turf her out into the streets. She sweated and dozed in her chair, waking to cough into her mask and settling to doze again. She’d insisted that we sit across from rather than next to her, and people who sat near her moved away once they heard her cough.

I watched the parade of ill and injured, listened to the arguments, saw the paramedics casual by the doors, stuck till someone took the stretcher occupants off their hands. Sirens wailed closer and closer. Someone came in feet first between six rushing feet and hands elevating IVs, and disappeared through swinging doors. A brief moment of excitement to break up the hours of tedium.

I looked at Anders. The harsh fluorescents seemed to have drained him of colour. His eyes were obscured; the kind of overcast that turns the day cold. I interlaced my fingers with his and squeezed, and he glanced at me.

‘Tired?’ he asked. ‘I could send you home in a cab.”

“I’m all right.’ I ran my other hand up and down his forearm. He sighed, then leaned forward, elbows on knees, keeping my hand tight in his.

‘I can’t do it,’ he said, in a quiet, bitter voice. ‘Can’t help them. The simplest thing, a place for them to stay, and I can’t do it.’

‘But – ‘

‘Don’t tell me I’m helping,’ he said. ‘This is do-gooder Samaritan crap.’

A cleaner swivelled a long, flat, silent mop around the weary groups in their linked plastic seats. I watched the mop as it manoeuvred around the man huddled in a wheelchair to our left, and then around our own feet.

‘What do you expect from yourself?’ I asked. ‘That governments won’t do?’

Slowly he shook his head. ‘I don’t know. All I know is I can’t do it. I have good ideas; really good, workable ideas. I can build. On a shoestring if I have to. But the steps to get there – the politicking – I don’t have it in me.

That’s what has to be done, and I can’t do it.”

“Even if you did – would it help? Aren’t others doing that already?’

‘No excuse. No excuse! Look at her!’ He gestured brusquely at the sleeping Wendy, her pitted skin rusty against the glaring white of the mask.

‘Six months ago she was healthy. She took temporary jobs. She’s got office skills. And now she’s having her second bout of pneumonia, or whatever it is. She needs a roof over her head.’

I nodded, held his hand tight in both of mine.

‘I swore I’d get at least some of them housed by now. A pilot project, something that would convince the government to fund more.’

‘Swore to who?’

‘Myself.’ His laugh was silent, humourless. ‘Maybe it would have happened if I’d been able to kiss up. Manoeuvre and scheme. Without that I’m just – failing them.’

‘No.’ I shook my head, held on tight. Wishing to god I had the skills he lacked, so I could help him. But I didn’t, not even close.

‘I just can’t,’ he repeated dully. ‘Can’t play games. Don’t even try any more. People are sick and dying and I’ve thrown up my hands and I’m going home to my nice warm house.’

Appalled, I pressed my forehead to his shoulder and rolled my head back and forth, whispering, ‘Please, stop. That’s not fair.’

‘Nothing’s fair!’ he cried. I reared back and his expression softened. He rubbed my fingers between his.

I took a breath. ‘Could you partner with someone? Is there a – a game player, a political type, a fund-raiser maybe, that you could work with?

Someone who could do their part so you could do yours?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, wearily. He rubbed his eyes. They looked hollow. A few hours ago they’d been sparkling at me above his fiddle.

They called Wendy in then, and the next phase of waiting began. By the time the doctor had finally seen her, diagnosed her pneumonia and persuaded the nurse that they were going to have to find her a bed, it was three-thirty in the morning.

And we went home to our nice warm house, and went to bed.

***

On Sunday Anders managed to reach Wendy’s worker and the nurse she saw at the Sherbourne Health Centre, and they took on the problem of finding her somewhere to stay until she was better.

He saw Maia watching him, and regretted his outburst. No point in worrying her. Nothing she could do.

And yet it had helped to say it. Like a stinger pulled out of his flesh. But the wound still ached.

Carefully, he maintained her discipline. No going easy this time. And she obeyed with eagerness, begged when he teased her, wept when he made her, and seemed reassured. Still, he sensed her continuing to watch his moods.

One night before bed Anders drew his slave into his lap.

‘You know what tomorrow is, girl?’

She looked up at him, nodded.

He stroked her hair. ‘One year. So it’s question time. Anything to say?’

The head he was stroking shook an emphatic negative. ‘You’re sure?

Nothing I’ve missed? Nothing you can’t deal with?’ Another shake of the head. He took hold of her chin and made her look at him. ‘Does that mean I know whatever I need to know about the state of my property?’

She took in a slow breath. ‘I think so, master. I’m – I want terribly to come, but it’s all right. I can’t.’

He ran a hand slowly up her arm. ‘No choice, so you’re coping?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t – I’m sorry, master, I couldn’t possibly obey without the belt, but with it…’

‘All safe?’

She shuddered a little. ‘Yes.’ She kissed his stroking hand. ‘Thank you.

For making me obey. Thank you so much.’

‘My pleasure,’ he smiled. ‘You came through those weeks with my guests very well. A little balking, easily handled. Otherwise, sweet and graceful obedience.”

“Thank you, master. I’m sorry about the balking – I – ‘

‘You were punished for it at the time; don’t take it on again. You did me proud, you know.’

She thanked him again, eyes swimming, and he leaned down and explored her mouth with his own, thoroughly and at length.

Then he pulled back to look at her, licking his lips. ‘Nothing else?’

She shook her head once more.

‘Then there’s another thing. That vacation you have coming. They’re giving you three weeks. Find out if you can get more.’

‘How much more?’

‘Another three weeks if you can get it.’

‘Wow.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Maybe. I think they might let me. At the last meeting they were talking about cutting hours over the summer. One of the donors pulled out.”

“Oh, yes? Good. Well, bad, but good for us, as long as it gets no worse.

You ask them. All of July and August if they really want to save money. I know you’re necessary at that place, and I know you enjoy the job, but a break won’t hurt.’ He could feel her curiosity, though she contained it through long practice. He settled her more comfortably on his lap.

‘I’ve found a farm to rent over the summer, out near Picton. We’re going to spend as much of July and August out there as we can.’

‘A farm?’

‘Yes. Nice old farmhouse, a barn, some outbuildings. The fields haven’t been worked for a while; pretty overgrown. But there’s a big garden plot that’s workable. Rather an isolated place, out at the end of a road, but not so far out that I can’t get in to work when I need to.”

“You can take time off?’

‘Some. I’ve been limiting the jobs I book. Val is going to take a couple things on for me. Rizal’s very steady. I’ve got it all worked out.’

‘Oh, wait, I know – those pictures.’

‘Yes, that was the farm. I’ll show you.’ He put her off onto the floor, went downstairs and came back with the photos. Back in the chair, they looked at them together. ‘Here’s the house. There’s the barn and the road that goes back to a stream. One of the fields and a nice bit of woods. Here’s the stable. Which is where I’ll keep you.’

Her eyes slid from the photograph to his face, and stayed there. He ran one finger down the side of her face, down her neck and between her breasts.

‘I’m going to train you to go in harness, and pull a cart. The place needs a pony. Plenty of jobs for one. And there’s the stable for when you aren’t needed.’ Anders watched her chest rise and fall rapidly. The big eyes were fixed on him, pupils dilated.

‘Mind you, the house also needs a dog. We’ll see.’ She leaned into his chest, and Anders felt rather than heard a little moan. He took hold of one breast, and she gasped and shook. Anders felt her arousal bloom, like a flower in fast forward, watched her face suffuse with blood, her breathing grow ragged. He held her firm against him, forbidding movement, and gradually she calmed down.

When he thought she could listen, he went on. ‘I don’t see any need for you to pretend to be human when you’re at the farm. No need for you to speak at all.’ Fear flashed behind her eyes. ‘What is it?’

‘Master, if you have to work and I’m – like that – how long am I alone out there?’

‘Not much. Svend and Karl and Ria are all in on this; they’ll be there, too. Svend can write from there, Karl will work on his thesis, and Ria will be in and out. Val is going to come on weekends, some of them. You might be alone if we all go into town for a movie or something. And of course you’ll be by yourself in the stable a good deal.’

He watched her absorb this. The panicky look was gone, but the fading flush returned redoubled. ‘We don’t need a servant,’ he went on. ‘There are enough of us to share the housework. They argued about it; it looks so convenient to have a slave to do the drudgework and scrub the pots. But they gave in.’ He hadn’t given them a choice. He wanted her immersed, an animal 24/7, and compromise wasn’t on his agenda. ‘I don’t want you using these –’ he picked up her hands by their thumbs – ‘any more than I want you speaking. Is that clear?”

“Yes, master.’ He wanted more than simple compliance now. ‘Is it?’ he asked.

She took a deep breath. ‘Master, I’ve only been human when you allow it. Not otherwise. It’s – its always been up to you where I am on the continuum. Animal to human. I know which – to which end I belong.’

‘Good. Now that you know my plans, back to question time. It has been a year. Tomorrow is the day we go to the bank and shift all your money into my account. And arrange that for all your future paycheques, too. That’s pretty major. I’m also changing the question time intervals from three months to six. Yes, I know you hate this, but listen! One last chance. If you have any doubts at all about any of this, say so now.’

She burst into tears and pressed herself into his chest. ‘No, master! No doubts! Please!”

“All right.’ He squeezed her tight. ‘It’s all right. Shh. I didn’t really think there would be, sweetheart. But I had to ask.’

‘Please, no more,’ she sobbed. ‘Please no more question time. I don’t decide. I’m a thing; you own me. Please don’t tell me I have choices.’

He pressed her to him, tucking her head hard under his chin, feeling her sobs against his throat. ‘I have to know – have to know I’m not harming you

– ‘ His voice shook a little. Her shaking, or his own?

‘No, never,’ she said. ‘You must – must know by now – ‘

He grimaced, staring into space above her head. ‘I’ve been wrong before.’

She pulled back and searched his face. ‘That was different,’ she whispered. ‘Not everything is – is controllable. Even you can’t ….’ She closed her eyes and propped her forehead against his shoulder. ‘But me –

I’m getting – master, I need this. This is what I am. Please, no more question time…’

He pulled her back against him, and laughed a little, ruefully. ‘Do you think you get a choice about that, slave, any more than you do about anything else?’ There was a tiny groan below his chin. ‘No, master.’

‘There’s your paradox, then. Our never-quite-ending dilemma.’ She looked up again, sniffling. ‘But it’s over for the time being, sweetheart, at least until November. I’ll think about making it next May instead. If I see fit.’ He tipped her head back and kissed her wet eyes. ‘Not exactly orange blossom and crossed whips, is it?’

She blurted a thick laugh, snuffled again, and scrubbed at the last of her tears. ‘You never did like formalities.’

He reached a long arm for a tissue and handed it to her; she blew her nose. ‘The bank account is a bit of a formality,’ he said, ‘and a pretty major commitment on a practical level. If a bit cold.’

Maia gave her head the hard little shake that meant she was back to normal. ‘Is it much?’ she asked. ‘I’ve lost track. Anyway, it’s yours, master.

Not much more than symbolic, I suppose, compared with what you make.’

‘Are you kidding? A year’s part-time income, untouched. Very useful, believe me.’

Anders sat for a while in silence, his hand slowly circling on Maia’s back and shoulders and hips, gently smoothing her hair. Enfolding the skin, nerves, blood, bone and heart that belonged to him. Reading the thoughts behind the eyes so well now, sometimes better than he read his own. And how well did she read his?

His hands stilled. ‘I’ve been thinking about Saturday. What I said at the hospital. And it occurred to me that we’d had a conversation like that before.

When I told you about Sam.’ She nodded.

‘You noticed that, did you? The egotism on my part. To think I’m the one in charge. That just because I set out to do something, I necessarily have the power to do it. Alone and unaided.”

“That’s because you usually do. Have the power to do things.’

‘Maybe. And the responsibility. But I should be able to recognize my limitations. Because otherwise, when things don’t go my way, I see myself as a – how did you put it back then? – as a god screwing up on the job.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then I’ll stick to the plan in my head, even if it’s a dead end.

Tunnel vision. Trying to be the hero.’

‘And disappoint yourself.’

‘Oh, yeah. Big time.’

She ran a gentle hand over his arm. ‘It’s odd,’ she said. ‘You’re very creative.’ She mirrored his half smile, and went on, ‘I don’t just mean with me. A creative problem-solver; I’ve seen it. Patient, too. And you don’t work alone.’

He considered this, then shrugged. ‘When it’s easy, sure. When I’m calling the shots. Patience, creativity, all that goes down the tubes when I find out I’m not in charge. Especially when it’s people’s lives and I feel responsible.’

She nodded. ‘You’ve been taking it on.’

‘Yes. As a personal failure.’

‘Instead of a national disgrace,’ she said solemnly. ‘Involving three levels of government and decades of societal neglect, indifference and scapegoating. Obviously all your fault.”

“Shit. Some ego, huh?’

She drew his long head down to her own and kissed it. ‘My Superman.

Maybe you’re just Batman. No super powers, exactly, but one hell of a utility belt.’

Anders’ laugh exploded out of nowhere, from nothingness to nova in a picosecond like the Big Bang. There was no stopping it. He laughed until his stomach hurt and he’d collapsed over Maia’s shaking shoulders.

At last he took a breath, said, ‘Wow,’ and wiped his eyes. ‘Just Batman, huh?’ His still laughing slave got a stern look; he pinched her ass till she squealed. Then, smiling, he sat back and sighed. ‘Not enough tools on my belt for this particular job, as it turns out. I think it’s getting through my head, not to treat everything like a nail just because I’ve got a hammer, but whatever the right tool is, I haven’t got it. But like you said, maybe someone else does.”

“Like who?’

‘I don’t know yet. But I’ve more or less come round to the possibility. It doesn’t seem so terrible now, for some reason.’ Slowly his palm circled on her left breast, and then her right. ‘Never mind, sweetheart. This is an anniversary; enough soul-searching for now. We should mark the occasion.’

He dumped her off his lap, went to the dresser and picked up a small brown paper bag. ‘I won’t mark that beautiful skin. Well, not permanently. But I did get Graham to make these up.’ He tipped out four jingling bits of metal, two small and round, the other two long ovals, somewhat curved, and held them out to her.

She examined the engraving. One circle and one oval said, ‘This slave property of Anders Thygesen’ and their Toronto address. ‘If lost contact’ and his phone number. The other two were the same, but with a rural route address. She held these up. ‘The farm?’

‘Yes. The round ones are for your collar, of course. The others are to set into your chastity belt.’ He yawned. ‘I’ll do that tomorrow.’

She ran her fingers over the engraving and looked up, smiling. ‘I’m touched.’

He laughed. ‘So you should be, moppet. You can wear this one to bed.’

He got the pliers.