Spectres From an Angry Past

I was standing at the kitchen sink last night, absentmindedly peeling potatoes for supper, when an image came to mind. It was a pair of women's shoes, high heels, black and shiny. The toes were pointed. Thin straps at the back held them to the feet that wore them. Beneath the shoes, was the grey pavement of a highway, the shoulder of a highway, Highway 427, a major north/south traffic artery in Toronto's west end.

I put the potato in a pot on the stove and turned to look out the window. This was not a happy memory, Ms J. This was a shameful, horrid memory from a time when I was terribly unhappy. I hadn't recalled this story in many, many years. And now here it was, invading my consciousness, uninvited. I tried to will the image away, but of course, the harder I tried, the more insistent it was to be remembered. Two little sparrows lit suddenly on the fence just beyond the window. They both peered at me through the screen and chirped.

"Well go on," they seemed to say. "Tell us the story."

They flew off then, and I knew my story would be heard even by those not present. I believe thoughts and emotions have a way of swelling, Ms J, like ripples in a pond, until they reach the farthest corners of the Universe. Stories too. So I stood and gazed at the clouds as they melted and flattened against the sky, basking in the last of the day's warmth. I nodded my head and frowned and opened my mind to the recollection of an event that until this very moment, had been known consciously only to me and to the poor woman in those fancy shoes.

It was early summer, 1991. Daniel was five. Meagan's soul was somewhere, still waiting for human form. Kelly and I had had a fight, and as usual, it was just as I should have been leaving for work. I don't remember what we'd quarreled about but I imagine it was something trivial. I imagine it was ignited by my selfishness and fueled by Kelly's obstinance. I left for work in a terrible mood, and late. Again.

The morning rush hour traffic was moving slowly on Highway 427 and I glanced for the hundredth time at my watch. I was going to miss my train. Again. They would have to leave without me if I weren't there on time. Trains must operate on time, Ms J. I was sure to be in trouble with my supervisor. Again.

Suddenly I felt a bump. Not a crash, really, but a bump. A good, hard bump. Someone had hit me from behind. I let loose a stream of profanity that would have made my father blush and then I pulled over onto the paved shoulder of the highway. I got out of the car and walked round to the back.

There was no damage at all, really. Not even a mark on the paint. My head was still lowered when I heard a voice. A woman's voice. It was the other driver, now stopped behind me.

"I am so sorry," she was saying, near tears, her voice oozing remorse. "I must have been daydreaming or something. I just looked up and you were stopped. It's completely my fault. I'm willing to pay for any damages. Would you like me to phone the police? I have a cell phone. I'm really sorry sir. I hope you'll forgive me."

I don't know why, Ms Journal, but I could not bring myself to look at her. I remember her shoes, but I have no memory of her face whatsoever. I didn't even raise my head. I couldn't feel anything that day but anger, and helplessness. I was hopelessly stuck in an unhappy marriage to a woman I didn't even like, but with a son I couldn't bear to leave. And now I was in danger of losing my job.

I spat on the asphalt between those shoes and without looking up, I spoke the following words:

"Why don't you watch where yer going, you f#%*in' bitch."

"I beg your pardon?" said the owner of the shoes.

She didn't sound angry, Ms J. She sounded hurt. But she wasn't hurt enough yet to suit me. So I followed with:

"Go f*#* yerself, you c**t."

Then I walked back to my car in a blinding rage and drove away leaving her standing on the side of the busy road. She may have been crying. I don't know. I didn't look back.

So why am I telling you this story, Ms J? Why am I sharing this dreadful tale with you? Well, as I said earlier, I believe that thoughts and stories, sorrows and cares, curses and benedictions all ripple out to the furthest reaches of the cosmos. Somehow, every message is eventually received, although not often in a conscious way.

I am so sorry for the way I behaved that morning. I wish there were some tangible method to apologise to that poor woman, but sadly, this forum is all I have. This and prayer.

"I hope you'll forgive me, Mrs. I am no longer such a bitter man. I was suffering some real challenges back then. I'm truly sorry."

Now, Ms Journal, can I offer my transgressors the same forgiveness? Neil? Kelly? Can I imagine that they may be suffering some real challenges too?

Probably not. But I know I should try.

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