74 Lakeview Avenue

By Barb McIntyre

While newer and taller buildings, growing between 74 Lakeview Avenue and the lake itself, forever changed their exterior landscape, the growing social unrest of the sixties forever changed the inhabitant's internal landscapes. The old roles are evaporating too quickly, the new ones are solidifying too slowly, and free-floating angst is seeping into the corridors from under many of the closed doors.
It is the late seventies, and the lake can only be seen from the bathroom in number ten. Behind every door in the apartment building, people are struggling to establish and maintain relationships within the context of a new and still evolving society.
74 Lakeview Avenue is written from the perspective of a superintendent named Earnest as he retells the stories of his tenants and the struggles they hide behind closed doors. Through a series of short stories, the reader learns about the many characters, their lives, and how they each deal with their struggles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667845425

Book preview

PROLOGUE

  The red brick apartment building on this site does not require an elegant name to give it the pretence of distinction. Designed to afford a view of the lake to as many tenants as possible, these two and three-bedroom units were built with the best quality materials available at the time. All of the rooms are large, and the walls are thick.

Unfortunately, Lakeview Avenue is now a misnomer. The water has gradually been hidden by newer and taller buildings, and today the lake can only be seen from the bathroom in number ten.

The tenants of newer buildings have few secrets. Their lives are exposed through the sights (a baby carriage, a new bicycle, a worn mat), sounds (music, sobbing, laughter, angry words), and smells (apple pie, steak, frying onions) in the halls.

Here, the spacious halls are quiet and uncluttered. The heavy, dark doors must be opened if secrets are to be revealed. I can open these doors for you.

I am going to introduce you to the people who live behind those doors and a few of their visitors. I want to tell you their stories.

CHAPTER ONE

Now You Know

The superintendent was, for the second time in a month, unplugging the blocked toilet in number twelve. Max Wilson was more than capable of doing it himself, but Earnest Likely takes his job seriously, and he insists that the tenants not work on any of the repairs in the building.

Max, in fact, was pleased at the excuse to sit down and watch Earnest work. At ten in the morning, Max is already behind the day’s schedule. Being a mother-housewife was not quite what he had expected.

Hey, Earnest, I noticed on the rent receipt that you spell your name with an a. Isn’t that unusual? Max asked.

I guess so, Earnest answered distractedly.

As he watched the tall, neatly-dressed superintendent finish disassembling the toilet in the seemingly effortless manner in which the man did everything, Max thought about how the taciturn man grew on you. Since Earnest spoke little, Max usually did most of the talking and described at length all the problems and anecdotes associated with full-time housework and mothering.

Is that the way it’s spelled on your birth certificate? Max asked. He knew that he would have to keep asking questions and that the answer would come out little by little.

After another short pause, Earnest answered, My mother believed that people grew into their names. She named me Earnest, and my sister’s name is Joy.

Max studied Earnest’s features as a small hairbrush fell out of the disconnected toilet bowl, which Earnest was holding upside down and shaking vigorously.

Max’s wife, Lois, insisted that the man looked like Clint Eastwood without the muscles. Max could not see the resemblance.

Max picked the brush up and put it in the sink to be washed when the water was turned back on.

Earnest began reassembling the toilet as Max said with only a little embarrassment, At least it’s not as bad as the last time. That toy the little bugger flushed down a few weeks ago had you taking apart half the pipes in the basement.

Earnest grinned at him and said, No problem.

You can’t take your eyes off him for two seconds, but he’s into something. Full of life, I guess, Max explained apologetically.

Twenty-month-old Jason, the little bugger in question, who had been watching Earnest in a rare period of silence, asked, Brush go bye-bye?

No, Jason. The brush hasn’t gone bye-bye. Mr. Likely found it. Daddy’s told you not to make things go bye-bye in the toilet. Mr. Likely has enough work to do without your giving him more.

Jason’s big blue eyes stared questioningly, first at Earnest and then at his father. Gradually his features screwed themselves into tightly knit, angry wrinkles, and he screamed, Brush go bye-bye. Brush go bye-bye.

Jason! That’s enough! Max commanded in his most authoritative teacher’s voice. The tone was either unnoticed or ignored, and Jason’s screams reached close to their maximum volume.

Max sighed and picked Jason up as he walked down the hall towards the smallest bedroom. If you’re going to behave like that, young man, I’ll just have to put you in your room.

Jason’s screams did reach their maximum volume when Max deposited him on the other side of the gate attached to his bedroom door.

It was the same gate that Lois had used to isolate eight-year-old Julia and four-year-old Dorothy when they were at Jason’s stage in life. Max had frowned on the use of the gate then, but he had quickly retrieved it from the basement storage area the day that Jason found a glass and drank water from the toilet bowl, and later emptied one of Lois’ planters in the middle of the beige living room rug.

By the time Max had succeeded in quieting Jason by getting him involved with stacking blocks, Earnest had reassembled the toilet and was replacing the tools in his toolkit.

I’ll get the water back on right away, Earnest said as he picked up the kit and walked towards the front door. Both men saw the living room bookshelves at the same time.

Max couldn’t see the look of pity on Earnest’s face, and he only half heard the other man say, I’ll let myself out, Max. You look like you’ve got your hands full.

Max was too busy staring at the empty shelves, the mountains of books on the floor, and the look of joy on Dorothy’s face as she said, I’m helping you, Daddy. I’m cleaning all the bookshelves. I’m a good girl, eh Daddy?

Max fought for control and said, Yes. You’re a good girl to help Daddy, but you should have asked me first. His control suddenly disappeared when he realized what was in her hand. Dorothy! You’re not using your mother’s white sweater! Max rushed across the room, grabbed a soggy, dripping, gray mass of wool out of Dorothy’s hand, and held it over the half-full pot sitting on the floor beside her.

What the hell did you put in that water? he shouted angrily: all attempts at self-control forgotten.

Mommy uses that, the now frightened child cried.

Max could not identify the smells from the pot of brown, slimy water, but Javex was certainly one of them.

That does it! Max continued shouting. You’ve ruined your mother’s sweater, and you’ve made a bloody mess out of this room. You too! Get in your room and close the door. I don’t want to hear a word out of you until I say it’s okay. Do you hear me? Move! 

The sobbing child ran into the room she shared with her sister and slammed the door. Max carried the sweater, letting it drip into the pot, towards the kitchen sink. He swore when he stepped into the kitchen. Dorothy had obviously mixed a number of ingredients into her pot of water. Open containers of bleach, dish soap, floor wax, and rug shampoo littered the floor. That cupboard was usually locked, but Max must have forgotten this morning.

Max recited his entire litany of obscenities more than once while he restored order to the kitchen, attempted to wash the sweater, and finally tossed the gray, still dripping remains into the garbage. 

Then he stomped across the living room, dried the wet shelves, and replaced the books in a less organized manner than before. As he put the last few books away, he realized that he had not heard sounds of movement from Jason’s room for quite a while. He went to check on his son.

Jason was lying on the rug, his thumb in his mouth, sound asleep. Max picked him up and put him gently in his crib.

He wanted a beer but decided it was too early and that he would use the half-hour before preparing lunch to wash the kitchen and bathroom floors. The afternoon would be filled with laundry, shopping, and chauffeuring Julia from school to her piano lesson and home again.

As Max jabbed at the floor with the mop, he looked no different from the man who last year at this time had been teaching high school science classes. A lock of his wavy, dark hair bounced on his forehead, just as it had when he demonstrated chemistry experiments to his students. Anyone who had seen him standing, with his shirt sleeves neatly rolled up, facing the class across the wide laboratory table, his gray eyes flashing behind heavy, dark-rimmed glasses, his thick mustache touching his upper lip, and his voice and hands equally animated as he described how the chemicals in front of him were interacting, would wonder why he chose to be washing a kitchen floor instead. Max had looked like a man who very much enjoyed teaching.

Max’s mother had described him as a ‘born teacher’ from the time he was four, when he started spending hours at the large blackboard in his room lecturing to his class of stuffed animal.After graduating with a major in chemistry he attended teacher’s college, and it was there that he met Lois.

They were married a week after graduation and started teaching at the same high school the following September. He taught in the Chemistry Department, and she taught in the History Department. They had agreed that Lois would be a full-time mother for as long as the children needed her at home and return to teaching at some indefinite time in the future. Lois had, with no more than the usual amount of complaining, mothered both Julia and Dorothy. But when Dorothy started walking, Lois began secretly counting the years until she could return to her other world.

When Jason’s unexpected arrival was discovered – Jason had, very definitely, not been planned – Lois realized that she could not start counting from zero again. She began, quietly at first and then quite loudly, talking about wanting to go back to work, at least part-time.

During the years that Lois had become progressively disenchanted with motherhood, Max had become equally disenchanted with teaching. Committee meetings, administrative stupidity, the department head’s total lack of interest in progressive ideas and philosophies: all these were painful, but he could have tolerated them. It was the students’ indifference that he could not tolerate. There were a few, of course, with quick minds and excited curiosity. But the majority of the time, he faced blank stares, or worse, purposeful class disruptions. Trying to convince himself that the few made it worthwhile became more and more difficult.

The November that Jason was born, both Max and Lois were depressed. Lois, because despite her verbal insistence that they could find a good babysitter, she could not make herself feel comfortable with the idea of leaving the children with a stranger. Max, because there were no quick minds that year: not one.

By January, both tired of their respective worlds, both tired of hearing the other complain about theirs; they started joking about trading worlds.

By April, the joke had become a future reality. Lois would go back to teaching in September, and Max would stay home and be a mother-housewife.

They had each frequently, laughingly told the other, You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.

Lois had just started hanging up her coat when Max attacked her with a detailed list of his day’s frustrations. And to top it all off, he concluded, Julia’s coming down with a cold. She sniffled all the way there and back. Now she’ll be home all day tomorrow, driving me crazy with her sniffling. Who the hell ever heard of an eight-year-old who can’t blow her nose?

Lois glared at him and answered in a theatrical voice, Oh, it’s so lovely to get home to the peace and quiet of my family after hours of slaying dragons. Just think, I’ve been anticipating this moment all day long.

  Her short brown hair had retained only a trace of the curls so carefully put there with the curling iron before leaving for school, and her make-up had worn off. The wrinkles in her plaid skirt, the grey smears on her white blouse, and her pale, tired face were badges of a very difficult day.

  Lois’ eyes brightened, and her face seemed less pale as she smiled at Jason, who was toddling towards her with a huge grin on his face. She brushed past Max, picked Jason up, and kissed his chubby cheek as she said in a soft voice, Hi, Baby. Did you miss Mommy? I hear that you and Daddy had another visit from that nice Mr. Likely today.

Brush go bye-bye. No! No! Jason said emphatically as he shook his head from side to side and pointed to the bathroom.

Still carrying Jason, Lois walked across the living room to where Julia and Dorothy were engrossed in cartoons. Hi girls. I’m home, she announced as Jason squirmed out of her arms to join the girls in front of the television set.

Hi, Mom, they answered in unison without removing their eyes from Bugs Bunny.

Did you two have a good day? Lois asked.

After a pause, Julia answered, Yes, in a clearly disinterested voice.

Dorothy appeared to not have even heard the question.

Lois stood looking down at the children for a few seconds and then sighed as she turned and walked to the kitchen to help Max get dinner on the table.

Sorry I snapped, she apologized as she reached into the cupboard for the plates, but I had a pretty rotten day myself.

Was the staff meeting bad?

The usual junk: vandalism, absenteeism, missing records … Oh! I don’t want to talk about it.

Well, I want to hear about it, Max said through clenched teeth,

For God’s sake, why?

Max slammed the oven door shut with his foot and almost threw the casserole dish on the counter as he said, Because it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with screaming kids or dirty floors.

They stared angrily at each other.

Just then, the three children trooped into the kitchen. The cartoons were finished, and they were ready to eat. Max and Lois silently declared a truce.

Jim didn’t call back? Lois was standing beside Max and drying the dishes that he was washing.

No. I guess he doesn’t think a housewife fits into the poker game image.

Do you really believe that your friends have dropped you? Did you ever wonder if maybe you’ve dropped them?

Max opened his mouth but then closed it again. After a short pause, he said, You may be right. I don’t have anything to say to them anymore. I sure as hell can’t tell them about the hairbrush going bye-bye. He looked up from the dishwater and smiled weakly.

Lois smiled back at him and said teasingly, What you need is a hobby.

Okay. Okay, Max said, flicking his finger at her so that she was sprayed with a little dishwater. Don’t rub it in. I know I used to give you that lecture. You were right about that. You were right about a lot of things.

The next few hours were filled with Julia’s homework, games, baths, bedtime stories, the final putting away of toys, and goodnight kisses. It was after nine o’clock before they had a chance to talk again.

Coffee? Lois asked as they walked towards the kitchen.

Yes. Thanks. I need one. God, it’s a relief when they finally get to bed.

Max slumped down in a kitchen chair, and Lois filled the coffee maker. 

We’re doing it again, aren’t we? she said. We’re back to snapping at each other and spending our evenings complaining.

I know, Max answered. I know. The only difference is that this time we’re reciting each other’s lines. He shook his head. Maybe we’re both just complainers. We’re never satisfied, either one of us.

They sat in silence until Max continued, It’s just that I never get a minute to myself. He sat up straighter and continued, The kids are right there, all day long, undoing what you’ve just done, demanding attention, demanding to have you do something for them. It never stops. He took his glasses off, put them on the table, and rubbed his eyes. At least you get a break at school. You get some of your day to yourself.

That was one of the best things about going back to work. Lois chuckled. I’ll never forget the feeling I had when I went to the john at lunchtime and realized that no one, short of a major disaster, was going to call me out. I could stay there till I was good and ready to leave. That was a heavy.

Now that you mention it, I’ve forgotten what that feels like. Max put his glasses back on.

Lois filled two mugs, handed one to Max, and sat down opposite him. She took a sip of her coffee before asking, Max, do you think it’s working for the best? This switching, I mean. Are you happier?

I guess so, Max answered hesitantly. The kids are great when they’re not bugging you. Jason’s so warm and cuddly, and when he looks at you with those big blue eyes of his and laughs. Well, it sort of makes it all worthwhile, doesn’t it?

Lois nodded her agreement but did not smile.

What about from your end? He asked.

Lois sighed. I guess so too. Like for you, the bad parts seem impossible to handle sometimes, but … Oh, Max. That’s not true. Tears began trickling down her cheeks. I hate it! I can’t stand the rudeness and the lack of caring. I can’t stand the stupid committees. It’s not what I thought it was going to be at all. It’s horrible.

Max stared at her in amazement, but Lois could not see him through her tears. He stood up, got a few tissues from the box on the counter, and handed them to her.

Lois covered her eyes with a tissue as she continued, You’ve got it good here, and you don’t even realize it.

Max sat down, stared at her for a few moments, and then spoke very quickly. Do you want to switch back?

Oh, you’d never agree to it, Lois answered without looking at him.

Try me! Max declared.

Lois stopped crying and wiped her eyes. She peered questioningly at Max over the top of a Kleenex, blew her nose, and said in a soft, hesitant voice, Would you really be willing to switch back? Face old man Turner again?

I’d take old man Turner over emptied-out bookshelves any day.

Staff meetings?

Easier on the nerves than overflowing toilets. Max grinned.

Blank faces staring at you?

Max hesitated only a second before answering, Yes. At least I can get away from them. They’ve got to be easier to take than constant sniffling.

Oh, Max! Lois exclaimed. She stood up, rushed over to stand behind his chair, put her arms around him, and pressed her cheek to his. Do you really mean it? I mean, I think you’re crazy to want to go back, but I’m not going to try and talk you out of it.

Max chuckled and squeezed her arm as he said, I think you’re crazy to want to come back to this. But I mean it if you mean it.

Max eased his chair away from the table and gently pulled on Lois’ arm so that she stepped around and sat on his lap. He put his arms around her and asked, You’re sure now? Remember, no privacy in the john.

Lois looked at him seriously and said, "I admit that was great, at first. But I kept repeating those things to you because I thought that was what you wanted to hear. I’ve been sure since about November. For the first month, everything was so exciting that my feet didn’t touch the ground. By October, I started realizing that I wasn’t back into what I’d left. Things had changed, and not for the better. Or, maybe I’d changed. My values were different. I’d gotten used to being my own boss and to doing things at my own speed. I hated the rushing. And I hated the pressure of being the breadwinner. I’d never even thought about how that can bother you. I felt so trapped because I never thought you’d change your mind. I thought I’d be facing the rushing and the pressure for years.

And I miss the kids so much. I hate leaving them every morning. I realize that they don’t really miss me. They have you. That’s the worst part: knowing they don’t miss me. Maybe it sounds crazy, but I want to be important to them for as long as I can. Do you understand all that?

Max grinned. We are a crazy pair. Here you’ve been going around since November thinking that I’d never change my mind, and I’ve been going around for just about the same length of time thinking the same about you.

Really? Lois asked. But you kept saying how much better it was.

So did you.

Do you think you’ll have any trouble getting back on staff? she asked.

No. I heard that the guy that got my job intends to move back out West next summer. I’ll call Turner tomorrow to be certain, but I’m sure there’ll be no problem.

We’ve still got a few months to go, you know. She ran her fingers through his hair.

They’ll go fast, he reassured her. And then we’ll have the summer together.

They sat in silence and held each other close for a few moments. Then Lois pulled away, looked down at Max, and asked, What if we’re wrong? What if, when we get there, we think we’ve made the wrong choice again?

Max grinned up at her. It’s only for a year. We can always change our minds again.

CHAPTER TWO

Happy Women (Joan)

Beethoven could hardly be heard over the din of female voices in number nine. Marilyn Wright was hosting the first meeting of what would eventually be called the Happy Women’s Book Club. This was not an ordinary book club. The members were not planning to read and discuss books written by famous authors. They were planning to read their autobiographies.

They had met in an evening writing class. Their first assignment was to write about themselves. The teacher, a tall, thin woman with a high-pitched voice, told them to start with the words, When I was a little girl, I wanted ….

They had arrived at their second class, manuscripts in hand, and chatted happily while waiting for the teacher to arrive.

A half-hour later, a flushed, irritated man rushed into the room, announced that the class had been cancelled, handed out their refunds, and left the room without answering any of their questions. After he rushed away, there were a few moments of bewildered silence followed by a period of loud complaints and shared irritation.

Then Dawn Foster, a former business executive who obviously had not lost the capacity to both solve problems and take charge, spoke up. We don’t seem to have a teacher, but we all have these, she waved her small sheaf of papers, masterpieces. She grinned at the titters that filled the room as she continued, And I think we all want to share them. I have a proposal.

And that is how all but four members of the original class ended up meeting in Marilyn’s living room at 74 Lakeview Avenue. Once everyone was settled, Marilyn clapped her hands together, and the room quieted. You all know why we’re here, so I think we should just jump right in. Joan drew the unlucky number, so she’ll go first.

All eyes focused on Joan Sullivan. She hesitated a moment and then began speaking in a nervous voice. Before I start reading my masterpiece, she grinned and waved the bundle of pages held tightly in her hand, I want to thank Marilyn for having us here tonight, and I want to remind everybody of what we agreed on during the first class: total honesty, nothing is off-limits, no judgement, and complete secrecy.

Everyone nodded, and a few clapped softly before Joan continued, I pretended that this was a real book, and I wrote a dedication. She cleared her throat and added, I think I spent more time writing this dedication than I did on my whole story.

Joan cleared her throat again and read, This book is dedicated to every member of the oppressed majority. But especially to those few who are aware that our revolution has not been successful because we have done battle only with the privates in the enemy’s army. To those who understand that to become free, we must acknowledge and deal directly with the generals, those responsible for our continuing lack of autonomy, ourselves.

The room was filled with loud clapping and enthusiastic agreement for a minute or so. When everything was quiet again, Joan began reading her story.

"When I was a little girl, I wanted to live in a small brick house with a fireplace and have a husband who would kiss me like my friend Susan’s father kissed his wife. As I grew older, I fantasized about lying in front of that fireplace with that husband for hours. I could almost hear the roaring fire and feel the loving body beside me.

"My father had a religious devotion to physical fitness. Strength of character was synonymous with a strong, healthy body, and all of his seven children were brought up in a manner designed to ensure their excelling in both.

"Our rambling, old house was never heated past twenty degrees Celsius because warmth sapped your energy and led to laziness and moral degeneration. He explained that sweating was good for us during the summer months: it cleaned out the pores. The thought of challenging him on that contradiction has tantalized me ever since I can remember. But even now that I’m forty-one, I wouldn’t dare.

"I was intrigued by, and I must admit jealous of, the physical demonstrations of affection that I occasionally saw in friends’ homes. I never saw my parents touch each other. And once we were past infancy, they didn’t touch us either. However, they did tousle our hair once in a while.

"Being the fourth of seven children, I was lost in the middle, but I do remember strong fingers running through my hair twice. Once when I came first in an English exam, and once when I had the lead role in a school play. I’m fairly sure that there weren’t any other times. I wouldn’t have forgotten them.

"Our family spent a lot of time together. Every weekend was planned to include as many sports as possible. We all had to be there, we all had to exert ourselves, and no matter how hard any of us tried, we were never as good as we could or should be. Every once in a while, my father would praise one of us, and that made the whole crew try even harder.

"From a very early age, I felt sorry for my mother. If there is such a thing as a born athlete, my mother is the exact opposite. She did poorly in every sport she tried, and although my father never said a word to her, you could see both his disapproval and his disappointment in the tightness around his eyes and in the way he ridiculed the performance of the closest child every time he watched her. I’m sure he made a point of trying not to watch her.

"When I was eight or nine, she developed a back problem that excused her from our activities. She always came and watched however, and once, when a bystander offered her his sympathy for having to sit on the sidelines while we had fun, I’m sure I saw her smile.

"I didn’t realize that my father really did love us until I was almost fourteen. My brother – Derrick was eight at the time – had been hit by a car while riding his new bicycle. Derrick was the best athlete, but the most defiant of all of us, and was by far the most frequent recipient of my father’s anger and ridicule. The doctor had sent my parents home from the hospital, insisting that they needed to rest. He assured them that he would call if there were any changes. My grandparents were taking shifts so that there would always be a family member sitting beside Derrick’s bed until my parents got back to the hospital.

"My father walked into the house with an expression on his face that none of us had ever seen before, and he rushed past us towards his bedroom. My mother stopped long enough to tell us that Derrick was still unconscious and that the doctors gave him only a fifty-fifty chance before following my father into the bedroom and closing the door behind her.

"All six of us stood outside their door in stunned silence and listened to my father’s strangled sobs. Those sounds frightened us much more than Derrick’s accident. He must have been motioning at my mother to leave the room because she kept repeating, ‘No. I won’t leave, George. I’ll stay right here beside you.’

"After what seemed like a very long time, he stopped crying, and we heard him say, ‘It’s all my fault, Hazel. I should never