Evdokija's New Name - Ania Vesenny
The day Evdokija changed her name to Joan there was an explosion downtown. She didn't find out about it until the following morning when she got off the subway at St. Patrick, ducked under the yellow tape, and ran up the stairs, skipping one with each step.
Joan faced the round and shiny ass of a policeman's horse. The coffee shop where she worked gaped at her, charred and black, window glass missing. University Avenue was blocked from Queen to College. The stillness of the morning rose towards the skyscrapers in languid, transparent columns.
If anyone would have asked Evdokija about her sudden change of name, she might have recalled that the first letter for Joan Smith had been delivered to her home address three years ago. It must have been late October, as the maple tree in her yard was egg-yolk yellow laced with thin threads of red, and when the wind blew, a leaf would glide down. Instead of her usual under-the-breath cursing, Evdokija inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, and tucked her rusty blond hair behind her large, flat ears.
When she found the second letter in her mailbox the falling snow reminded her of unusually large cornflakes.
Soon Evdokija had a shoe-box full of the bulky letters, and when she looked at each closely, pressing on the envelope, she could discern faint cursive loops.
While she was waiting for a streetcar on a humid, hot summer night, her hands damp with perspiration, she heard someone yell ''Joan!'' Evdokija jumped, looked around, suddenly aware of the exact location of her heart - under her right breast. Evdokija didn't like to be reminded of her abnormal heart location, but she liked the cool tingle in the fingertips and right under the nails.
The morning of the explosion Evdokija woke up at 9:17 AM, instead of her usual 6:30, and she knew the day had come. Joan Smith was here. Evdokija Stjurytcheva was gone.
She embraced her new name immediately and fully, even though, due to her Russian accent, she called herself 'John'. She reported sick, and instead of going to work took the streetcar to the Beaches. She bought a 3-scoop chocolate ice-cream in a crispy waffle cone, and lapped its dark airy surface with her tongue fully extended, rather than eating it in small discrete bites. She didn't ask for a napkin and was not at all disturbed by the large brown stain spreading on her white ironed blouse, right over her left nipple.
Joan walked on the grass beside the bicycle path, her narrow hips swaying to a Sinatra tune that played in her head, but was getting louder and louder. When the path turned, Joan turned with it and saw a small bald man in gray pants and a pink tee-shirt playing the keyboard.
The morning after the explosion, standing at the corner of University and Dundas, she was surprised by the thought that swished through her mind: ''I hope that no one died.'' She walked right under the yellow tape, and came close enough to the policeman to see the hair inside the soft trembling nostrils of his horse. And when she was told that no one indeed was hurt, she, for the first time in her life, touched a horse's warm muzzle. Her fingers lingered on the warm lips, and Joan Smith was overwhelmed by the realisation that the letters, once opened and read, would bring her inexplicable sorrow and joy.
~~~~~~~~~~
Ania Vesenny was born and raised in the former USSR. She lives in Iqualuit, Canada, with her husband and two small children. Her fiction appears or is forthcoming in Per Contra, Smokelong Quarterly, Cezanne's Carrot, Heavy Glow, FRiGG, Mad Hatter's Review, Staccato, and Grimme Magazine. She is an associate editor for Vestal Review.
