Firefly by Karin Doucette

A large tree in the middle of green woodland. Large white text reads: Firefly. Smaller text reads: Discussing disability in fairy tales and folklore.

The minute he laid eyes on Gwen he was attracted. But he held back from displaying such feelings. Best not to flash your intentions too early. Besides, there was a certain fierceness in her face that made him unsure about whether he could manage her energy.

Sure, he’d been with other women, but he’d never felt the kind of pull he felt with Gwen. It puzzled the hell out of him because it wasn’t just sexual. Not this time. That wasn’t typical. Even her looks weren’t: curly blonde hair, light-green eyes, and an upper lip that was chewable. She made Paul think of the pop star, Pink, but his attraction was solely to Gwen.

That lip distracted him from her clicking elbow crutches. Her legs folded under her and he could tell she had CP. He knew that because of a book his mother had on her shelf about a little girl born with the same condition. No, Gwen’s sticks didn’t bother him. That’s what she called them. All he noticed was where they were taking her – and wanting to follow.

She wouldn’t have cared what he’d thought anyway. Paul saw this whenever she got on a transit bus. This was in the days before buses had hydraulic boarding ramps, so it took Gwen some time to hoist herself up onto the first step then into the vehicle. Riders craned their necks to see what the holdup was. Sometimes the driver grew impatient.

Gwen would just smile and toss her curls, then pause to get her sticks under an arm so she could search for the fare. The bus couldn’t move until she was seated. Paul admired her cool control.

The new transit buses were articulated models. Paul had liked to stand on the accordion section and spread his legs as it turned tight corners, feeling like a downhill skier getting ready for Banff or Whistler.

After he started riding the bus with Gwen he stopped doing this. It seemed right to put aside some innocent fun like that just for her. He didn’t mention it. Some unselfish acts are done in private.

They had met when she moved into his building and took an apartment on his floor. He often saw her in the elevator or standing at her doorway, keys in hand, getting ready to go in or go out.

The first day he saw her, he went up and said hello. Gwen was friendly and they shared names. They had similar work hours, so he started to time his comings and goings just to encounter her.

After they got more friendly, Paul stopped by Gwen’s apartment before noon one Saturday to ask if she’d join him at the coffee shop down the street. When she welcomed him inside her place, he was stunned by the sight.
In the kitchen, food splattered every surface. Filthy dishes cluttered the sink and countertop; the appliances were grubby. Street clothes and lingerie littered the living room. The carpet had grotesque smears. It looked like Pollock had been let loose, minus the cans of paint.

Paul had never known a female who was dirty or unhygienic. His mother had trained him that everything had its place, and he kept his own apartment clean.

Gwen grinned at the look on his face. “I’m not much of a housekeeper, am I? No, I’m a writer. I save my energy for that.”

He mumbled something polite then blurted, “I guess there’s just so much you can do with one free hand at a time.”

She laughed from deep in her belly. The sound was riveting. After that, whenever he got close to her, Paul felt as if an energy field was zapping him. It entered him like soft feelers, made him buzz a little.

Since Gwen liked poetry, he knew she’d appreciate the lyricism of this thought if he shared it. But he didn’t. He had a funny feeling that she’d have something over on him if he did.

Gwen was flirty with men and with women. But mostly with men. He noticed the guys were often unsure what to do. But Paul could tell they were turned on. He mentioned this to her once, just to see her reaction. She startled him by saying, “Men only want to see me naked; to see how the legs work. They want to fuck a girl who isn’t able to hold a guy’s hips with her own.”

She pronounced it fook, like a Maritimer.

‘Now what kind guy who would do that?’ He was disgusted by the picture she’d placed in his mind. Gwen just looked at him and blinked her clear green eyes.

He didn’t press the topic; wasn’t sure he could hold his own if he did. Paul had never felt that way with a woman before. The ones he’d met before Gwen weren’t… magnetic.

After a while, he got the impression that she was busier than he was most nights, that she was out on the town, meeting with others more than he. Setting off sparks, he thought. It made him feel cut off.

He wasn’t good at finding interesting places on his own or mingling among strangers as a one-off. The woman he was dating at any given time handled such matters.

There was no one like that in his life just now; but that would change. He was no Don Juan, by any means, but women always seemed to come to him. Like moths to a hot bulb, his mother had said.

Paul and Gwen would sometimes meet at a bar after work, although not as often as he’d like. He would get there early to find the right seat and scan the scene. Then he’d watch others when they noticed Gwen come in, Lofstrands clicking, searching for him in the room’s cheap lighting.

He saw the men lick her with their eyes and the women look unsure. This made him angry at first. He wanted to defend her against such reactions. Then he felt chagrined, knowing Gwen would shrug it off. Ultimately, he’d fretted that he’d objectified her, too, given how often he’d daydreamed about nibbling that lip of hers.

No, that wasn’t accurate; wasn’t fair to him. His was more an attitude of respect, not one of lust or manipulation. Gwen wouldn’t be taken advantage of by anyone. She stood firm for herself. Those cat eyes, that laugh, those manicured fingers curled around the hand grips of her crutches.

Yeah, Gwen was grounded. She had shown him that up close. One evening, he’d come back from the bar with refills for both of them to find an attractive man leaning over her, talking to her in a low voice. It wasn’t clear if she knew him or if he was hitting on her.

Paul had put the drinks down with a thump and stared at him.

‘Oh, hey!’ said the man, pulling back. He’d looked briefly at Paul then turned his large dark eyes on Gwen.

‘Didn’t realize you were with someone.’ He didn’t say it like a question, just looked from her to Paul to gauge the state of play. Paul had put his hand on Gwen’s shoulder.

‘She’s with me,’ he’d said in a flat voice. He hadn’t meant to sound like that. Without looking at Paul, Gwen had shrugged off his hand.

‘It was good to see you again.’ She smiled at the man. ‘I’ll be at the office on Monday. We can talk better then.’
Red-faced, Paul took his seat, scanned Gwen’s face for some assurance. She smiled at him as the man sauntered off.

‘I’m not with anyone, Paul. We’re having drinks and we’re talking. That’s all.’

She sipped her gin then tapped his hand to get his full attention, green eyes on him like lasers.

‘So, where were we with that?’

Gwen had known all about Paul the minute she’d laid eyes on him months earlier. He was transparent; his innate instability and immaturity were easy to see. She saw he would tap her energy, drain her body dry, then suck the oxygen from around her. Her French grand-mère had told her about all those signs.

The week Gwen was born and this grandmother, Mémé, had held her for the first time, she had recognized the infant’s special life force. Luciole, she had crooned. Firefly. This babe would grow up to be a beacon, a light for others.

When Gwen turned six, her Mémé captured a firefly in a bottle and sealed it without air holes. She and the child watched the glow until the insect’s light flickered and it died. Never allow yourself to be trapped by someone or they will steal your very breath, Mémé said.

Now the look in Gwen’s eyes across the bar table made Paul nervous. Everything had seemed so simple and fun a few minutes ago but an invisible fence had grown between them.

He reached across the table; she took his hand for a few minutes. Paul relaxed and their evening wrapped on its usual casual note.

But he couldn’t help brooding about the scene. As soon as he’d made the comment to that man, he realized that he had felt something for Gwen. She was more than a neighbor or friend. But her response had told him he’d overstepped.

He realized that she stayed cool about everything while he felt hot, yet her power setting was always on high and his on low. When he’d grump about beer prices or his prick of a boss, she would chortle and toss her curls and shift the topic. Bad thoughts didn’t seem to stick to her.

He had always assumed her energy was sourced from bravura or chutzpah to dismiss legs that didn’t work so well for her. Now he realized it was just Gwen. It was her steady state. She’d be the same way with two good legs.

It made Paul think of the novel he’d just read, John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. The central character lived in his own force field. It drew everyone else to him yet he went through the day alternatively oblivious and aware of doing that. His closest admirer, a school friend, got too close and lost himself in that field. Both characters paid a high price for the power imbalance.

Paul identified with that friend. For the first time, he realized an imbalance existed between him and Gwen. At first, being close to her had felt necessary somehow, as if his inner battery needed her electrical charge every day.

But she only let him get so close. Her self-containment was impenetrable. Maybe I’m too dependent on her. Or… maybe she’s too supercharged for me.

The thought embarrassed him and he brushed it off. But it lingered, took a slow hold. If you really wanted to inventory the situation, he thought one day, I do have more choices than she does. I have more going for me. An interesting job, no family concerns, a tidy home. Two good legs that could carry me anywhere, and in a hurry, if necessary.

He reconsidered Gwen’s fearlessness. Maybe it was really just impudence. She must feel some vulnerability about something. She must depend on someone other than herself for something at some point. It was a normal human need. He had it. Why was she camouflaging it?

He was getting pissed off wrestling with all this inside himself, but knew she wouldn’t guess that he was. If he told her, she would likely just turn those green eyes on him and smile. So he wouldn’t. He had some self-respect; didn’t need her approbation.

Then, a new moth entered his space and took his mind off Gwen. Marlene worked at Paul’s company. Well, he was in the Edmonton office and she was at the Fort McMurray jobsite, a four-and-a-half-hour drive north. They started to have regular phone calls every Friday because he needed information for a report.

Marlene’s voice was sexy; words just rolled off her tongue like morsels of food. When they talked, Paul felt as if she was feeding him with that voice. She was book smart like him, too. Soon their conversations were peppered with clever references to Debussy or Groucho Marx.

After several calls, this all began to feel like foreplay to Paul. They arranged to meet for dinner on a weekend Marlene was visiting her girlfriend in Edmonton. Paul spent considerable time deciding the right outfit to wear.
Once ready, he knew he looked snappy in dark pants that hugged his hips, a blue chambray shirt, his new Tony Lama’s. He dabbed Aramis around his neck; just enough spicy citrus notes to entice.

They met at a Mexican restaurant that he’d scouted in advance so he could have a table against the wall. Marlene had described herself well and he saw her come through the door before she could peg him. When they embraced, he was turned on by her stunning blue eyes.

It was good to be with a pretty and intelligent woman who didn’t keep him at arm’s length as Gwen seemed to. They drank too much Chianti and ate too much food. Then she said yes to coming back to his place where one thing led to another.

Marlene plumped the bed pillows and started to strip as he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. At the sink, Paul froze, mind blank.

When she rapped on the door, he croaked, “In a minute.”

She turned on the stereo. Paul heard The Guess Who singing, American Woman. He ran the faucet, rested his palms on the sink edge, and stared at himself in the mirror.

Something inside him snapped, as if a taut cord had been cut. He came out and sat on the floor by the bed with his back to her.

“I can’t do this.”

“What? Why the hell not?”

“I don’t know. It’s nothing to do with you. I… I just can’t.”

She was silent for a while, then got dressed. He called for a taxi. At the doorway, she said, “You’re on overload about something. I hope you figure out what’s wrong with you.”

He was shocked by the situation; even cried a bit before going to sleep. For the rest of the weekend he moped around the apartment.

The next Friday, Marlene was polite on the phone. He saw her again in a local bar a month later. She was crowded with four others in a booth, hanging on to a guy as if she owned him. When she caught Paul’s look, he turned away.

Glad for her and relieved for himself, he refocused on Gwen. But she seemed busier now. Even her aura felt different, like she’d pulled some of her energy back. It made him feel odd. He was feeling hungry a lot of the time, too, and eating big meals.

Although he dawdled at the mailbox and by his front door at the times they usually met up, he didn’t see Gwen as much in the apartment building.

Then one Saturday he saw a stranger open her door and drag in some boxes. Uneasy, he went to the landlady and concocted an excuse to learn more. Gwen had moved out.

Something inside Paul fizzled, like a blown fuse. Later that day he came down with a bad head cold, had to take several days off work. When he recovered, he still felt lethargic.

So he started taking a different route home from the office. One day his bus passed a medical supply house. He got out at the next stop and walked back to it. In the store window were a pair of Lofstrands just like Gwen’s. Paul bought them.

For a few days they stood in a corner of his kitchen. One evening, he slipped his forearm into one cuff, adjusted the leg height, then put the other one on. He dragged one foot, then the other, pretending he couldn’t walk. A couple of times he made his legs go limp but fell over. He marveled that Gwen kept her center of gravity.

Every evening that week he used the crutches. Doing it perked him up somehow; he felt closer to her, too. On Friday, dozing on the sofa, he forgot the pot of spaghetti sauce cooking on the stovetop, and it overflowed. The thick goop blackened the burners and caked the edge of the tiled backsplash.

The acrid smell roused him. Grabbing one of the Lofstrands, he pushed the hot pot off the burner. The mess was as bad as anything he’d seen in Gwen’s kitchen. The minute the thought occurred to him Paul felt a shiver of cold.

Something surged through him, made him toss the crutch aside as if it were red-hot. Now it was clear. Gwen didn’t use her metal sticks for locomotion; in her hands they were power poles.

He felt taken advantage of in some way that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe she’d been playing him. Paul leaned against the sink feeling lightheaded. He found it hard to breathe, pulled his shirt off, and started to pant. It was as if all the air had been sucked from the room. Falling to the tile floor he was sure he heard Gwen’s belly laugh.

Then…. blackout.

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About the author:
Karin Doucette is a Canadian writer of short fiction and memoir, and a playwright. She has ranked in international story and stage play competitions and was a Finalist in UK's 2023 Page Turner Awards. Karin also reads story competitions, most recently for Scottish Arts Trust.