The Measure of Time

By M M Wagner

The Measure of Time is a romance novel, but with a twist. It is the story of Violet, a woman who embarks on a journey similar to Dorothy's of The Wizard of Oz. Unlike young Dorothy, Violet is a menopausal, anxious, and discontented fifty-six-year-old. She is beginning to face the uncomfortable questions of her own mortality, relationships with others, and the validity of the life she has so far led. The story leads you into a landscape filled with questions of romance, the confusion of sexuality, the repetitions of history, and the pitfalls of denying truth. Violet's journey is a reminder to us all, no matter who we are or where we are from, that all through the ages, our struggles are the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228872863

M M Wagner

M. M. Wagner lives in Montreal with her furry family, a feisty Pomeranian and her cuddly Poodle. Her grown son and daughter, and more recently a high-spirited and utterly charming grand-daughter, have been the deepest inspirations for the scripting of the book. They reside just a few blocks from one another, and she feels blessed that she can frequently saunter over to them, just for a cup of coffee.

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Copyright © 2022 by M M Wagner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-7285-6 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-7286-3 (eBook)

Contents

HALLOWEEN

THE KISS

JAMIE, THE EIGHTIES AND THE NATURE OF SOUL MATES

LIFE IN LONDON – SEX AND CHOCOLATE

VIBRATING STRINGS AND THE PROCESS OF AGING

SEANCES AND WORKING LIFE IN LONDON

NEWGATE AND THE LEGAL SYSTEM

THE FINAL DAYS

HALLOWEEN

I have no idea whether I am a cheery optimist, or secretly, a dark, cynical pessimist. Do the chambers of my mind dwell in walls of rose colored glass, always teetering on the edge of giddy optimism, believing love conquers all, in the grace and good of mankind? Is evil an anomaly, a dark stain, an accidental mutilation growing amidst a utopian realm? Or do I believe Homo sapiens are physically weak animals, where their large brains evolved into a warring destructive mentality? Where genocide, for example, is an integral, essentially needed, ‘survival of the fittest’ evolution of their continuing existence. Did the scientist Darwin get it right? That annihilation of the weakest is progression and evolvement? Or did Jesus hit the nail on the head with ‘turning the other cheek,’ that this act is transformative, elevating one to a spiritual and enlightened realm?

If you were to pose the simple question, Is that glass of water half-full or half-empty? I would not ponder, have a moment’s hesitation, and enthusiastically respond, well of course, it’s half-full! And I would mean it wholeheartedly. But later on, perhaps in the dark of night, unable to sleep, I would sneak to the kitchen counter, where the glass is still standing, and inspect it carefully, picking it up, and gently shaking it to see if I could detect a toxicant, arsenic, or some other clear poisonous substance.

I do not believe in the man-made, institutional construct of religion. I do not believe in God, or at least not in the benevolent god, in the form of the human-fleshed male, robed and bearded, donning a cane, and peering down at us mere mortals, atop a floating cloud. But I emphatically believe in mightier, spiritual forces much greater than ourselves, but are they good? Are they evil? Or are they meaningless and horrifyingly indifferent? I am confused about this and a whole host of other things, too. But right at this moment, my mind is preoccupied with an urgent matter, and I have called my sister to discuss this.

I do not even say hello and simply blurt, Kerrie! Rob is having an affair!

What? Are you sure?

Yes! Undeniably. Yes, of course, I’m sure! Well . . . almost sure.

Impossible! Hold on a minute; I’m going to shut the door.

I detect the sound of papers being swept aside. A university professor at McGill, Kerrie is in the midst of correcting exams in her office.

Rob is amazing. He adores you. He can’t be cheating on you.

He is. I know he is. I found out last night.

What? How? With whom? Her voice is rising with panic.

I have no idea. Marilyn maybe? I am out walking my dog and use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe the beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

Why Marilyn? Oh . . . because she is such a sleaze. She just had her breasts redone . . . again! I bet you it’s her. Right?

No, no, Kerrie. You’re not supposed to agree with me.

What do you mean?

You’re supposed to say I’m crazy, that it’s all in my head. You’re supposed to calm me down. My Labrador retriever spies a squirrel and yanks at my wrist, practically spraining it.

Okay then, Violet. You’re crazy, and it’s all in your head.

"But I’m sure Rob is cheating on me. He’s been acting weird lately. Drinking more, coming home late. I have the worst sense of smell, but last night I detected perfume on his hands when he came home from work."

No way. Oh my God. So, what happened? What did you do?

I was in shock. I asked him why his hands smelled like perfume.

And?

And . . . that’s it. I was in shock.

And then what happened?

He saw my bemused look, said I was crazy, but then . . .

But then, what?

He went to take a shower! I say this like a judge smacking down his gavel, hollering ‘guilty!’

And? Her voice is becoming feeble, losing its hysterical edge.

That’s it. He obviously took a shower to get rid of the scent. I hiss the word scent like a snake.

Kerrie sighs and begins speaking in her normal register, smoothly and an octave lower. Well, that’s not a lot to work with.

This is not the first time I have become unhinged and announced unsubstantiated accusations. "Well, it smelled familiar. Tom Ford . . . maybe Noir De Noir."

Is that what Marilyn wears?

I don’t know’, I answer almost sheepishly.

So, why do you think it’s her?

I don’t know. Look, I feel like I’m losing my mind. I hardly slept last night. I’m a mess.

"Come on, Violet, calm down. Rob adores you.

Einstein! Don’t do that! I turn, bellowing at my Labrador retriever.

"What’s Einstein doing? Where are you?’

I’m on Mount Royal. At the cemetery. I notice no one else is here. It is usually packed with people walking their dogs. I wonder where everyone is and relate this to Kerrie. Thank God no one else is here. He just peed on a tombstone.

Kerrie giggles. Well, you can’t expect him to know the difference.

I swear this dog knows how to read. He just urinated on a tomb that reads Yurie Nate!

Kerrie is laughing harder.

"Can we meet up this afternoon? I need to talk. I love my life and being a nana to Elle and all that, but I’m losing my mind. I miss my work, my stores. I stress over every new wrinkle and check every mosquito bite, thinking it might be melanoma. This morning I stood in front of the washing machine deliberating between Tide and Persil. For fifteen minutes! I actually read the ingredients, and I had to stop myself midway climbing the stairs to check my laptop on what phosphates are."

For sure, we can meet. Do you want to do lunch?

I suspect Kerrie is becoming distracted and has already begun to dismiss my plight as dramatics. I know by the time our lunch finishes, she will have assuaged my fears, and I will attribute this as all being in my head. Maybe a late-ish one. I still have to do last-minute alterations to Elle’s Halloween costume. I’m taking her out as Rapunzel tonight. Einstein! I holler his name in dismay.

What’s happening?

Ach! Einstein just yanked the leash away. Saw a squirrel . . . is taking off. I will call you back!

I thrust my phone into my backpack and chased after him. I am in good physical shape, as I run three times a week and am a gym rat; still, Einstein is gaining distance between us. I keep hollering his name, but to no avail, and soon lose sight of him, dashing through less familiar trails, and begin wondering which part of the cemetery I am actually in.

Mount Royal has a vast 165 acres of beautiful land carved out in the middle of Montreal. It is filled with undulating hills and terraced paths that reach over towards the city’s highest peaks. There are trees many decades old and an array of wild and cultured flowers and vegetation that would suit an arboretum rather than a cemetery. So many species of birds have found their home here that many ornithologists and bird watchers come to observe. Rabbits, foxes, raccoons, and ground hogs are frequently spotted, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police ride through daily, chatting with people and bantering. Though there are by-laws indicating no dogs are permitted upon these hallowed grounds, no one pays attention. In fact, I have never seen a constable actually give out a ticket. It has become a massive and most charming dog park.

It begins to dawn on me; everything looks unfamiliar. Is it possible I have never been in this part? I run past a sign that indicates I have reached a dead-end and begin to slow but end up tripping over a strewn tree branch. Shit! I mutter to no one as I sail over the branch, careening into the dust and stones. My knee is smarting. For sure, I have scraped it badly as it is throbbing underneath my jeans.

I dust myself off, stand, and find myself facing a stony arched passageway. The entrance is dripping with twisting ivies, and I have to move branches aside to peek inside. I am terrible at estimating lengths, but it looks to me about 100 feet long. It is wide and about twenty feet high. I cannot understand why I have never seen this medieval-looking structure before.

EINSTEIN.

I wonder where he is, and more poignantly, wonder where I am. Brushing off the last remnants of dirt and twigs, I begin to turn, intending to backtrack when a startling sensation takes hold of me—that flooding of a sense of dread invading one’s body at the moment of realization of being lost. I feel silly about being lost in a place I come to almost every day but chalk it up to having the worst sense of direction of anyone I know, and again wonder why there is not a soul around.

About to turn, I feel a sweeping movement, like a warm wind, and am filled with an odd sensation. I am gripped with an uncanny urge to travel through this tunnel instead of heading back. I peer through the archway again and feel as if a large hand is pressing up against my back, goading me to continue. I take a timid step forward. It is eerie and dark inside and smells foul, like an ancient tomb, the walls slippery and dank. It feels haunted as if glowing, bulbous-eyed phantoms are spying on me, smirking inside the wide cracks and crumbling crevices. I am swept with trepidation and am about to do an about-face when I hear barking and spy Einstein off in the distance at the other end.

Einstein! I holler. Come here!

But of course, he takes off in the opposite direction. I begin to race through the tunnel to pursue him, muttering expletives.

I come out to an even more unfamiliar landscape—unrecognizable hills, different vegetation—and once again glimpse my dog through a thicket of trees. Pinecones and autumn leaves cover the path in a colorful blanket of sheening bronzes and coppery oranges. There is a hush, no sounds, no wind. These woodlands emit a heavy perfume, drowning me in a heady trance as if the trees are exhaling opium. I willingly surrender to their alluring state.

I finally reach him and snatch his leash. I cannot remain angry with him, for he is licking me all over with slobbering kisses and wagging his tail furiously. We start to head back to the tunnel but are instead faced with a tumble of overgrown weeds. Where is it? For some reason, I seem unable to locate the entrance. I glance at my watch which reads eleven minutes after eleven. I begin the calculations of how long it will take to get home. I left assembling a Halloween costume to the last minute and need to get back to finish the messy job of hot-gluing rhinestones to the crown and adjusting the cape.

We begin trudging towards the direction of where I believe the tunnel is located. More and more time passes. Einstein is sniffing around ceaselessly and erratically. Time is passing, and I grow more annoyed with each minute. I recheck my watch and see, though it is ticking, the arms still indicate it being eleven minutes after eleven. Damn it! A relatively new watch, and it’s already broken. We continue scouting for an exit for what seems another fifteen minutes or so, but still no tunnel and not a tombstone in sight. Where the heck are we?

Einstein stares back, tail tucked between his legs.

We reach a shallow valley and spot a wide road over an incline. I scramble up and over, relieved to have finally reached a road. But there are no bird watchers, others walking their dogs, all is very still. Not a person in sight. I pull out my cell phone, hoping Waze can lead me out, but there is no signal. I try Google navigation with the same results. I try calling Kerrie, but there is zero signal. I am deciding which direction to take when I detect a puzzling rumble emanating from the ground. I turn, peering into the distance, making out four men on horseback. It must be the RCMP, and I am relieved, but as they near, I see they are not uniformed and actually wearing . . . Halloween costumes? They approach me—dressed in actual uniforms, but from some other century. They are donned in ruby red coatees with wide lustrous white sashes, like breast plates crisscrossing their torsos. Gold embroidery is emblazoned down the center and around each gold button, running from their necks to their waists. They are each in charcoal breeches and tall ebony hats adorned with a crimson and white billowing feather. They slow to a trot and begin circling me atop their horses.

Wow. I am so glad you are here! I know this sounds silly, but I am lost.

They look at me curiously, not responding.

Hey, those are great Halloween costumes, but don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?

One of the mounted men stops in front of me, his horse prancing and snorting nervously.

Who art thou? From whence have you come? his voice commanding theatrically.

I begin laughing, Hey, that’s great.

He stares at me, eyes narrowing at my response. He is not bad looking, with dark curly hair, grey eyes, and a cleft in a broad chin.

Really, that’s great. That’s a great English accent. But really, you probably don’t believe me, but the truth is, I’m lost.

What sort of beast accompanies you?

I see him peering at my black Lab nervously. Oh, I continue laughing. This is Einstein.

There is no forthcoming comment. He continues eyeing Einstein with suspicion.

Oh, don’t worry. He’s a Labrador retriever.

"And what, pray tell, is a lab erater retriever?"

A la-bra-door! I enunciate. Gentle as a lamb. Aren’t you Einstein? I bend down to pet him.

There is a noticeable change in the man’s demeanor. Satisfied Einstein will not rip him apart, he dismounts his horse, sword glinting and flanked by his side. It looks real. The other three stop circling me.

And why does this fair damsel feel fit to don herself in the garb of men? ’ He is leering at my jeans.

Okay, enough with the whole Halloween antics. Really. I need to get out of here.

Do you mock me? Respond to my inquiry.

"Oh, for God’s sake, guys. You are good. Really, really good. But I need to get home."

There is no need to use our Lord’s name in vain.

With his response, my plea is ignored.

Where is the home you speak of?

"Look, guys, I get it. You’re probably into that whole recreation of civil war stuff. I just watched it on the History Channel, um, maybe a month ago? But if I don’t get home soon, I will have a civil war with my granddaughter if her costume isn’t ready."

One of the mounted men responds. She garbles like a mad woman, a mortal possessed.

What? I am becoming indignant.

Her threats suggest we could be initiators of a civil war, calls another.

She perhaps poses a danger to us all, the fourth harks in. Snatch her and bind her!

In a flurry of movement, ‘Mr. Handsome, grey-eyed man’ comes barreling towards me. Einstein dashes between us, baring his teeth, snarling. The man brandishes his sword, and I hear myself emit a high-pitched and truly terrifying scream. I am hanging onto Einstein while he is craning his neck, barking wildly.

Are you crazy? I am getting worried now. This charade is being taken way too far. Put that sword away! You are worrying my dog.

He stops in his tracks, looks at his pointed sword, and at Einstein, who is behaving like a lunatic. He does not put it away but lowers its direction towards the ground.

You should be ashamed of yourself scaring my dog like that. Things are beginning to feel whacky, strangely out of sorts, and I feel like Toto and Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

Do thou permit her to speak to you in the manner in which she does? One of the men directs his question to ‘Mr. Handsome’.

Nay! But allow us to remain true to our plans. He turns to look at me, Hand over your sack. He is eyeing my knapsack.

What? I am now becoming genuinely aghast. I realize, with growing indignation, these men are a gang of hoodlums, and a robbery is taking place. I remove my knapsack and realize my hands are shaking.

Here, take it. But there is no money. My wallet is in there but hardly any cash.

He stares at it strangely. Of what materials is this sack’s composition? It does not look to be fashioned of cloth or leather.

It’s a Louis Vuitton. So, it’s . . . um . . . plastic. Which now that you mention it is absurd when you think of how much I paid for it.

"Louis Vuitton? Who is this you speak of? A French fellow of what stature? Do you once more mock me?’ He is turning crimson and growing angry.

No, no! I swear I’m not. It’s an L.V. I guess you can sell it second-hand on Amazon.

One of the other men breaks in, She babbles as a witch, a sorceress possessed. Amazon? Why does she harken to the jungles of South America? Fetch her bag and depart in due haste. We must flee.

‘Mr. Handsome’ steps forward and commands, Pitch your bag towards me, woman . . . carefully. He observes Einstein, who has simmered down but still stands between us, teeth bared.

Slowly, I remove it from my shoulders and gingerly offer it to him. I am definitely frightened. My hands are now quivering uncontrollably, but at the same time, I am becoming aware these men seem to be even more anxious about me. Silly costumed nitwits! I begin to relax.

Look, boys, take the bag . . . really, your band of thieves act is despicable. But do you mind if I take my cell phone? It’s of no use to you. It’s an iPhone X and will be automatically disabled. No use to you. It’s going to be a major hassle to get a new one.

They peer at me, incredulous and speechless.

I guess that means, yes?

They continue staring at me, wide-eyed in bewilderment. I crouch and reach into the outer pocket to extract it. I notice the diamond of my expensive engagement ring glint in the sunlight at the same time as my band of thieves.

Aha! Look, John. Behold what lays entwined upon her finger.

What have we here? another adds, smiling brilliantly. A veritable treasure.

I lift my hand in resignation.

It’s tight. I lick my finger and struggle with it before it loosens, tossing it towards John.

Well, thanks for the cell. Actually, I don’t know why I am thanking you. Thanks for nothing.

I retrieve my phone. I had noticed a lighter and pack of cigarettes tucked away in the bottom corner of my bag. I had swiped them from Rob. I am always trying to get him to quit and throw them out when I discover them in one of his hiding places. These were found in the garage, hidden behind the toolbox. I could use one. I reach for the pack. Anyone want one? I ask sarcastically.

What are those?

Oh, for God’s sake. Stop it already. Take the bag and my engagement ring and just leave.

And once more, one of the bandits repeats, "Do not use God’s name in vain."

Are you joking! You just ransacked me, and now you are giving me lectures on morality? I take out a cigarette and a purple Bic lighter. They are all staring at me and I notice all seem fascinated with the lighter. I flick it on and what ensues can only be described as pandemonium.

In unison, blanching and terrified, they begin hollering.

Fire! Fire! She is a witch with a wand that breathes fire.

Holy Mother of God, ‘tis blasphemy, she is indeed a witch! howls another.

Run for your lives, make haste. She will cast a spell on us all, morbid and for all eternal damnation, wails a third.

Terror-stricken, they boot their horses and take off. The only sign they had been there is the bowl of dust they left behind.

I pick up my ring