Read Stones for Free Online Page B

was all there was of that. No conjecture. No predictions.
    Nonetheless, Bragg had felt the urgency burgeoning in Minna’s restlessness and he feared her growing habit of silence. Changing the milieu might not be the whole and only answer—but surely it must be part of it. He, too, wanted to escape. He wanted trees and grass to re-enter his life. He wanted—even once a week—to make his way down the stairs and into the street without the ever-present threat of someone else’s panic waiting to grab his sleeve. Or kill his cats.
    Poppy, his aging Burmese female, had been driven under the traffic by a man with a stick, who was convinced all cats were spreading the devil’s message in their scat. Two days later, Bragg announced he’d found a house on Collier Street, south of Rosedale, north of Bloor. It had three trees and a high board fence at the rear—and, across the road, a park.
    Minna was urged, by dint of Bragg’s enthusiasm, to go at least and take a look. “Give the house a chance to work its magic on you, Min,” Bragg said. “It has the feel of a winner.”
    Minna was guarded about her reaction. The fact was, she liked it well enough—but it had two drawbacks she didn’t want to discuss with Bragg. One was its proximity to Rosedale—Rosedale having been the scene of childhood traumas and, therefore, the only place in all of Toronto to which she had sworn she would never return. The other drawback to the house on Collier Street was its abundance of bedrooms: one too many for Minna to tolerate with any ease. She feared—had feared—would fear forever—Bragg’s desertion of their mutual bed. But she couldn’t say these things, and so it was that she gave her assent to the move and one month later, she and Bragg and the remaining cats moved in. Bragg’s being able to afford it made it easier to reconcile. But Minna told herself that was not the end of Queen Street in her life.

    Down in the kitchen, Minna was drinking her dark red wine and setting the table. A painted wooden tray, Bragg noted, had been lifted onto the counter and sat there waiting to be set. Somehow, the empty tray was like a threat, because it meant the woman in the bed was going to be fed up there, nurtured and urged to stay.
    “What the hell is going on?” he said.
    Minna said: “I’m making dinner. Any objection?” She was belligerent and defensive all at once. Bragg could see the bottle of Cotes-du-Rhone, sitting on the counter beside the empty tray, had been half emptied already.
    “Yes, I have objections,” he said—and got himself a glass. “I have objections to that woman’s presence in your bedroom. Who the hell is she?”
    Minna put her hand out and lifted the Cotes-du-Rhone out of Bragg’s way just as he was about to reach for it. “Why not open a bottle of your own?” she said. “I’m keeping track of how much I drink,” she added—and filled her glass.
    Bragg went and rummaged in the corner cupboard—where he found a bottle of Beaujolais and two more bottles of Cotes-du-Rhone. Choosing the Beaujolais, he found the corkscrew, still with Minna’s cork impaled on it.
    Minna, holding her drink and cigarette in one hand, was standing at the stove and stirring something in a pot with the other. Her back was to him. All the while Bragg was opening the Beaujolais, he was watching Minna’s back to see what it would tell him.
    Nothing.
    At last, having filled his glass, he said: “you haven’t answered my question, Minna. Who is that woman in your bed?”
    “Her name is Elizabeth Doyle,” said Minna. “Calls herself Libby.”
    Bragg found Minna’s cigarettes—took one and lighted it. “And?” he said.
    “And what?”
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he exploded—spilling his wine. “Who the hell is she? What the fuck is she doing here?”
    Minna laid down the wooden spoon and walked across to the painted tray. She began to lay out silver and a napkin on its blue and yellow birds. Her voice was shaking