Hominids

Ponter’s heart was pounding. It seemed he was going to get to see her again.

Who knew what would come of it?

Well, there was only one way to find out. “Yes,” said Ponter Boddit, smiling. “Let’s get to work.”

Usually, one had to wait until September for Toronto to be so heart-stoppingly beautiful, with the sky’s complexion clear and flawless, the temperature perfect, and the wind a gentle caress—the kind of profound pleasantness that reminded Mary of just why it was that she believed in God.

But September was still two weeks away, and, of course, when Labour Day, that final, abrupt punctuation mark at the end of summer, came around, Mary would have to go back to work, back to her old life of teaching genetics, and having no one special, and eating too much. For now, though, for right now, with the wonderful weather, Toronto seemed like heaven.

While in Northern Ontario, Mary had lost a few of the extra pounds she normally carried around, but she knew they would return. Every diet she’d ever been on reminded her of Crisco oil: it all came back, except for maybe one tablespoon.

Of course, she hadn’t been on a concerted diet. She simply hadn’t been eating as much as usual. Part of it had been excitement during the time she’d spent in Sudbury, the time she’d spent with Ponter, over all the incredible things that had come and gone.

And part of it—the part that wasn’t over, that could never be over—was the aftermath of the rape.

Mary had agreed to come in to York today, a Monday, for a departmental meeting, and so, for the first time since that horrible night—had it really been just seventeen days?—Mary had to walk by the spot on the campus where the attack had taken place, the concrete wall that the rapist, his head sheathed in a black balaclava, had slammed her body against.

But, of course, it wasn’t because of the wall that she’d been raped. It was because of him–that monster—and the sick society that had produced him. As she passed by, she ran her fingers across the wall, taking care not to chip her red-painted nails—and, as she did so, a crazy thought occurred to her. She remembered another wall from long ago, one she and Colm had carved their initials into.

It was a ridiculous thing for a thirty-eight-year-old woman to contemplate, but maybe she should carve MV+PB here on this wall—although to do it right, she supposed, she should really carve MV plus the symbols in Ponter Boddit’s language that represented his name.

Either way, she’d then smile every time she saw the wall, instead of being disgusted by it. To be sure, it would be a rueful smile, for she knew she’d likely never see him again. But, still, a memory of … love, yes: a memory of love lost was infinitely preferable to one of what had happened here.

Mary Vaughan continued on past the wall, forward, into the future.