Viaticum

  Kat spoke about love. She spoke about loneliness and being trapped, about being in a world where you couldn’t touch ­others, where you see them and know them but are separated somehow. Annika looked around: at Barry beaming with his two dates, at Cosmo and Sasha; even Helmut, it seemed, had found a kindred.

  She sighed.

  Then the door swung open and a man she’d never seen before stood in the entrance. He was tall and handsome and she liked him immediately for, despite the expensive coat, he had a look on his face that was exactly as lost and lonely as she felt inside.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Matt got up from the hotel room bed and looked out the window to find the view obscured by fog. Even the parking lot directly below was barely visible, the fluorescent sign at the entrance a blur of colour, the streetlamps down the hill faint smudges of light suspended in the darkness. Saltery Bay, he reminded himself again. I’m at the Captain’s Inn in Saltery Bay and yet a queer doubt remained, a strange dream-like feeling, like he’d been cut adrift and was floating, a floating man in a floating hotel at the edge of the world.

  He lay back down on the double bed. There were football highlights on the TV. The talking heads talked. He drank a beer, then another. On the ferry ride over, he’d imagined that this would be a kind of personal vacation, a night off from Daddy duty with a few beers and sports on TV and no one to tell him otherwise; but now he felt trapped and listless. The hotel lobby, with its nautical theme and rope trim, had been quaint and tidy, but the room itself was shabby and cheap. Everything in it was beige or tan, the only decoration a nondescript still life of brown flowers in a brown vase. The whole place smelled faintly of smoke.

  Restless, he put on his coat, went outside and started walking in the direction of the town. It was down the hill by the water, he knew, yet he couldn’t see it for the fog. Christ, it was black out! He walked along, then came to a stretch of road with no streetlights where he had to feel for the pavement with every step, unsure of what angle it rose or fell. It made him dizzy, made the whole world seem off-kilter and strange, as if the very ground were playing tricks on him. He’d had this feeling before, one time when he’d gone down to Mexico, back when he was single. He’d gone on a boat tour and been fine onboard, unfazed by the choppy seas, but then, back on land, he’d been barely able to stand, the whole world pitching and rolling beneath him.

  He inched along until he came to an intersection where the streetlamps started again, then he followed them down the hill. Soon, he came to a cluster of buildings that he assumed was the downtown. He passed a health food store, a massage clinic, a small grocery and a barber shop but they were all closed. There was no one else in the streets.

  Then he heard music, a single guitar screeching out a bad cover of Guns and Roses. Thank God, he thought. He wanted to sit down somewhere and have a drink, no matter how awful the band, to get out of the cold, deserted street and be around other people for a while. He began walking towards the sound but then the music stopped and didn’t start up again. He wandered for a while looking for the bar but couldn’t find it. He was just about to give up and go back to the hotel when he looked up and realized he was standing in front of the café. Twisted Anni’s. It was right in front of him, a small unpretentious shop next to the hardware store. He stood and stared.

  It was getting late but there were still lights on inside. This struck him as odd for a coffee shop. He took a step closer. The windows were foggy with condensation, yet he sensed that the place was full of people. He stood in the street, unsure of what to do.

  It wasn’t at all like he’d expected. In his most bitter fantasies, he’d imagined it would be a brand new, over-priced joint with five dollar coffees and organic nut bars but this place looked more like a beach bar, kind of run down and shabby with a strange, driftwood sign hanging above the entrance; the letters that had been carved into the bone-white wood were irregular and got smaller at the end, the last ‘s’ barely making it on, as if the carver had run out of room.

  He took another step towards the door. His plan had been to find it the following day, to enjoy his night off, then go and have a coffee in the morning and ask around for Annika. That was all he’d intended to do. Now, here it was, right in front of him. Open. He stood there, undecided. He could feel the fog, like a physical presence, pressing in at his back. A chill ran through him. He put a hand on the doorknob, his heartbeat in his fingertips.

  He took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped inside.

  Warmth flooded over him, but his relief was short-lived. He’d bumbled into some kind of meeting, he realized. The hushed and solemn crowd turned their faces towards the door as he entered, then they turned back to the front where an enormous woman was leaning on a cane and reading from a notepad. The woman was grossly overweight, a great tube of fat hanging down over her lower abdomen, her vast thighs stretching the wide expanse of her polyester pants.

  “Can’t you see?” the woman said in a thick, rich voice that seemed to well up from deep inside her. “A lifetime of accretion, of landscapes and lovers and dreams, these layers of a self and still love, like a buried treasure, waiting to be found . . .”

  Panic seized him. She was talking about her vagina.

  A chair! A chair! His left nut for a chair! He could feel the crowd’s awareness on him as he stood awkwardly in the doorway. People kept turning and looking back at him, twisting around in their seats and looking back until he felt huge and conspicuous, his black wool coat and neatly cut hair already marking him a stranger, someone who didn’t belong; he could tell right away what kind of scene this was and knew how he must appear to them: Mr. Seattle, Mr. Frat Boy Matty Matt, the kind of guy who barged into rooms and told pussy jokes and made fun of fat chicks and was purposely ruining this woman’s moment in the spotlight; oh yes, he knew how it all must seem but where? Where could he sit? It was packed.

  Now, a trembling, lopsided man with a white-blonde ponytail caught his eye, shifted over and patted an empty seat beside him. Matt nearly wept for gratitude. He picked his way through the crowd as inconspicuously as possible then settled in beside the man and mouthed “thank-you.” The man’s eyes twinkled merrily. The two women at the table beside him smiled benevolently then turned their rapt attention back to the front. They were both extremely thin and were dressed in long, flowing capes like medieval fairies.

  The poetess continued her search for the buried love as Matt looked around the room. There were quite a few Crystal look-a-likes: braless middle-aged women listening intently; a group of younger hippie girls; some hawkish older men with silver crew cuts and furrowed brows; and a group of young men pinching the wicks on the tea lights and dipping their fingers in the wax.

  Then he saw her.

  She was standing behind the counter with her arms folded, perfectly still, her long dark hair cascading around her shoulders.

  Annika.

  He’d expected she would be here but hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t thought he would . . . He shook his head. She was beautiful. He’d seen her in the photo and could tell she was attractive but here, in the candlelight, with her standing there . . .

  She wasn’t sexy in the way he would ordinarily define it. She was too skinny, for one thing, her shoulders too square, her bones too raw; and she was older too, he could tell by her face. Younger women had a prettiness that flushed up from within, something florid and changeable that could be made to blush or scowl or smile and that was all part of it, part of the attraction; but this woman’s face had a set, a stateliness, as if nothing a man could do would change it. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.

  “This love, this love is buried deep,” the fat woman concluded then she closed her eyes and there was an incredible silence that drew itself out for so long Matt was afraid that no one would clap. Then, as if on cue, the entire room broke into thunderous applause. The young men at the front made loud whistling sounds and one of
them yelled, “Boo-yah!” then one of the fairies at Matt’s table leaned in so he could see the deep scoop of her collarbone and said, “That was so brave. Don’t you think that was brave of her?”

  “It takes a lot of guts,” Matt agreed then blushed; he didn’t want her to think he was poking fun, making reference to actual guts as in belly fat, so he rambled on, “I mean, I couldn’t do it, you know? I wouldn’t have the courage to open myself up that way.” Both fairies beamed at him like he was the very paragon of open-mindedness, then suddenly the poetess ­lumbered down among them and everyone leaned towards her and said, well done, well done, beautiful, beautiful and he wanted them to know that he wasn’t a judgmental prick; he wanted them to see he could appreciate this kind of thing so he put his hand on the woman’s round shoulder and said, “I’m sorry for barging in. I thought your poem was awesome,” and she smiled at him so openly, so honestly, that he momentarily forgot why he was there. He felt good, appreciated, like he was part of something even though he’d only been there just ten minutes. It was hard to explain. He leaned back in his chair then remembered his mission. He looked again towards the counter but Annika was gone.

  Jesus, he needed a drink. It was all so strange and his head was already fuzzy from the beers in the hotel. He would drink one beer then leave and come back in the morning, he resolved. That had been his plan in the first place: a simple reconnaissance mission to find out what the hell was going on. He tried to muster his outrage at Annika, at the possibility that this woman had screwed him out of fifty grand, but the atmosphere was so odd and she was so beautiful, he was unable to stay angry for long. He felt like he’d wandered onto another planet.

  There was a lull in the entertainment and he stood up to get a beer. He’d get one for the Trembler too, he decided, as a thank-you for saving him. He stood at the counter waiting for the dreadlocked chick to come back, then Annika was standing in front of him looking him full in the face.

  “Welcome to our jam night,” she said. “You looked a bit surprised when you came in. I hope you’re enjoying it.” There was a disquieting steadiness about her. No extra motions, no nervous fluttering of hands. She just stood there.

  “I kind of barged in at an inopportune moment, I guess, but everyone is super-friendly,” he stammered and almost winced at super. Her eyes were grey and steady. “I heard the music so I was expecting a band but I like poetry. I can do poetry. I’m a sensitive guy, you know?” Jesus Christ where did that come from? he wondered, appalled at himself. Bullshit was pouring out of him, unimpeded, apparently, by the jackhammering in his chest.

  There was a spark of humor in her eye, a slight twist to her mouth. “Well, that’s good to hear, because we’re very into self-expression here in Saltery Bay. This night’s only getting started.”

  “I love poetry. I wrote a sonnet in high school.”

  “I can put you on the list if you’d like.”

  “Maybe not. Motorbikes and suicide. I’d be embarrassed. I’ve evolved.” Jesus. Where was it coming from?

  She smiled. “What can I get for you?”

  “I’ll have two beer. What do you have?”

  “We’ve only got the one kind. Rock Island IPA.”

  “Perfect.”

  She fished two bottles from a cooler behind the till and brought them up to the counter. Her hands were surprisingly mannish. They were broad and muscular like farmers hands and he watched them closely as they fumbled awkwardly with the bottle opener. They looked like they belonged to someone else, not this pretty, frail woman with the beautiful earrings and shiny hair. The contradiction bothered him and now he did feel angry. There was a lie here somewhere, he just couldn’t say what it was.

  He paid her and took the bottles. “Thanks, maybe I’ll talk to you later,” he said, somewhat coldly.

  “I’d like that.”

  It struck him as odd that she would say that and again he felt confused. It was such an odd, odd place. He turned back towards the crowd and saw that the Trembler was watching him with twinkling, knowing eyes. He saw that they were all watching him. Jesus. One beer, he reminded himself, one beer and he was gone.

  An older woman with long, faded blonde hair was setting up a harp at the front. The instrument was gold and impossibly ornate, like something from one of the castles he’d visited in Europe. The woman herself wore a gauzy blue dress and looked like an aging minstrel, a fairy queen from another era. Beside her, a short, impish man with a neatly trimmed goatee took a violin out of a satin lined case and settled it under his chin. The wood was dark and lustrous against his dusty leather vest, the kind with a logo emblazoned across the back that bikers wear.

  The Trembler leaned close. “These two are a real treat. Ed and Linda Goldstein. They both used to play at the Met, then toured on their own for a number of years.”

  “What are they doing here? It’s a funny change of scene.” Matt asked. His eyes followed Annika behind the counter. She looked impossibly healthy. Her skin glowed. He didn’t know what to think.

  “That’s Saltery Bay for you,” the Trembler continued. “A lot of these islands are like that. They’re crawling with artists and talented people from all over the world. See that man over there? He was a reporter for CNN and that lady? She’s a sculptor; she shows her work all over the world, and that other lady beside her?” He pointed to a diminutive old woman with a long silver braid, “She used to be the head of zoology at Cambridge. She’s big into primates.”

  “Monkeys,” Matt encouraged vaguely. Annika had disappeared again. She was somewhere in the back.

  “Now she’s got this beautiful property where she runs an animal rehab. Each month she brings a couple of her monkeys to the hospice to cheer the patients.”

  Matt snapped to attention. “Hospice?”

  “Oh yeah, there’s actually a hospice here now and quite a few private health practitioners. You wouldn’t know it based on the size of this place but you probably have more alternative health care options here than on the mainland. There’s all kinds of clinics and wellness retreats and spas. You can’t get a drink after nine but if you want your chakras balanced. Woohoo. Place to be.”

  “So the hospice, is that for cancer, or what?”

  “It’s not a treatment center. It offers end of life care. People come for all kinds of reasons, though I’m sure it sees its fair share of cancer patients. We all come to the sea to die,” he mused philosophically, then he looked around the room and appeared to reconsider, “Or to be reborn,” he added and winked.

  What the fuck did that mean? Matt sipped his beer. His head was reeling. Maybe she was sick. But the hair, the skin . . . She’d opened a café for fuck sake! Nothing made sense.

  The musicians started to play and Matt settled back into his chair. He watched the woman’s hands on the harp, her long elegant fingers, plucking and flowing as the music filled the room. They were good, virtuoso even; he could tell right away. It was not the kind of music he usually listened to but he liked it. There was a haunting purity to it, a sadness, and he felt his mind travelling with it until he felt like he was far, far away. He would get their CD, he decided. Jen would be surprised that he knew about the Goldsteins at all; she’d be surprised that he was into that kind of thing, that he had such eclectic taste in music. He’d tell her he’d seen them in this quaint little local place and then he snapped to and remembered why he was there.

  He looked again for Annika but couldn’t find her.

  After three songs, the Goldsteins came down and a man stood up and told a joke about fishing and women at which point all the fairies in the room booed and groaned, then there was another lull in the entertainment and people turned towards one another and started talking. The two fairies dove into an intense tete a tete, the subject of which, Matt gathered, was some nefarious he.

  The Trembler leaned close again. “So, what brings you to town?”

&nb
sp; He’d prepared a story, a cover, but the blood still came to his face with the lie. “I’m looking to buy a property here, you know, to get away from the city . . .”

  The man nodded. There was a keenness in his eye despite the slowness of his speech. “I hear you. I used to practice law before the Parkinson’s.” He held up his hand so Matt could watch it shake. “I’m not quite as smooth in the courtroom as I used to be. I came looking for a change of pace.” Now he held the hand out. “I’m Barry.”

  “I’m Ma . . .” Matt began, then halted, thinking suddenly of the letter, of the need for caution. “I’m Michael.” The man had this maddening twinkle like he already knew your thoughts and found them hilarious.

  Then Annika came and sat down across the table.

  Matt stared.

  “This is Annika. She owns the joint,” Barry supplied. “Annika, this is Ma . . . Michael.”

  Annika extended her mannish hand. Her grip was firm and strong.

  “Awesome place you got here Annika. Super fun show.”

  Super.

  She smiled. “It’s pretty basic right now, but it’s a start.”

  “Michael is a . . .” Barry began, then he whispered in Matt’s ear, “What are you?”

  “I’m a real estate agent . . .” Matt stammered then wondered if he should have said it; it was not part of his cover story. “Or, I was . . .” he corrected. Annika watched his face with her steady, agate eyes.

  “Michael here wants to be reborn as a part-time gardener like the rest of us.” The old man seemed to be relishing this role, twinkling all the while. “Annika here is a firefighter turned desk jockey turned café owner extraordinaire.” Then he leaned in close again and said in a mock whisper, “And she’s also single.”

  “Jesus Barry!” Annika exclaimed and cuffed the old man on the shoulder. She looked at Matt. “I’m so sorry. These old people don’t get out enough. Please ignore him.”

  Barry cackled. The two fairies looked up from their emoting and smiled knowingly and then it dawned on him what all the twinkling was about: they were aiming to set him up. He almost laughed out loud for relief.