Chapter Seven Marion
seven MARION
Marion left work early on Thursday in order to be ready for Paul when he came to pick her up for their date. He’d mentioned Yorkville, so for a change of scenery and to clear her mind, she took a different bus route home. As they jostled past Bay and Bloor, she studied the Victorian-style homes converted into coffeehouses. Colourful people crowded the sidewalk.
If a person in Toronto was young and free and looking for fun, Yorkville, she had heard, was the place to be. If a man wanted to wear long hair without being called names, if a girl wanted to kiss another girl, if a person was hunting for drugs of any kind, or perhaps some musical, artistic, or literary entertainment, this was where they congregated. On a sunny day like today, they lined up outside the coffeehouses or sat in contented little circles on the sidewalk, clouds of fragrant smoke suspended over their heads.
Their parents’ generation, they declared through bullhorns and songs, had ruined the world for generations to come. It was time for a revolution, they claimed, strolling across a busy street in bare feet to meet up with friends. It was time for change, they cheered, shaking tambourines over their heads and dancing in circles. From the bottom of their flared jeans to the petals of the flowered wreaths encircling their heads, hippies lived their lives as they wanted.
Marion supposed she had been born ten years too early to really connect with them. Her sister, Pat, had gleefully joined in. Embrace the movement, she had suggested, but Marion didn’t see a movement. She saw a fad.
She also saw both sides. She agreed in theory with what they were saying about the need for progress, but she didn’t see the hippy generation doing anything constructive to fix things. Signs and slogans were not productive.
On the other side of the conversation, she disagreed when they claimed everything that came before had been bad for the world. Knowledge gained from past experience was always valuable, just like with medical history. Mistakes had been made, but scientists learned from those then sometimes created miracles, like antibiotics.
As for the protests, which thankfully were less violent than the ones in the United States, Marion mutely encouraged the participants from the sidelines. Women’s rights, opposition to racism, ending the war in Vietnam, all of those were causes she fully supported.
The first two matters, women’s rights and fighting racism, seemed to be making headway both here and in the States. After all, she was a doctor, and a Black man had graduated among her class as well. She wondered if he was treated differently at his work, too. She suspected so.
But of those causes, the war raged on. Kids the same age as the ones dancing on Yorkville’s sidewalks were being slaughtered in a hellish nightmare called Vietnam.
Her thoughts went to Daniel Neumann, a big man in the physical prime of his life. She had no doubt he had been a powerful fighter out there, before he’d lost his eye. Even with his loss, he was strong and determined. There was so much restlessness in him. So much barely controlled energy. She thought again of a lion pacing, trapped in a cage.
Through the bus window, Marion spotted a mother holding the hands of two little girls wearing matching pink sweaters. She thought of Pat wandering the grounds of Expo 67. Her sister had sent a postcard of the U.S.S.R. exhibit, which looked to her like a snow-covered hill swooping over a wall of glass. In her tiny, neat handwriting, Pat had written how much fun they were having, riding a monorail to get around, going inside to learn about Soviet space technology, even sitting in special armchairs, where they got to experience the sensations of space travel itself.
It’s incredible to see the Soviets’ technological advancements set out for all to see. Then we entered a large area devoted to their rural way of life, art, international relations, and even a fashion show in their six-hundred-seat theatre. The contradiction was quite jarring. I thought a lot about you in there, wondering what you would think of the display and the communists’ message: “In the name of Man, for the good of Man.” The Canadian exhibit on the waterfront was no slouch, but I found the Soviet one more impressive. I am taking lots of pictures with my fancy new Nikon. I’ll show you everything when we’re home.
Marion was quietly envious of her sister, taking in such a spectacle, then she remembered Barbara and Alice and John and all her other patients, each one unique and challenging in their own way, and she was glad she had decided to stay. They needed her, and she needed the routine.
Tonight, however, Marion would challenge herself. She got off the bus and walked the rest of the way down Isabella Street to the apartment, battling nerves. In two hours, Paul McKenny would arrive to pick her up and take her for dinner. She felt slightly nauseous at the thought. Not because of him. He wasn’t that bad. It was the idea of making small talk for hours that made Marion uncomfortable.
“I will be fine,” she reminded herself, riding the elevator up, then stepping onto the fifth-floor corridor.
The door of 509 clicked shut as she passed, making her smile. “And so will you, sir,” she told him. “We will all be fine.”