No Call Too Small

by Oscar Martens

  Wednesday, same thing: Shithead. During the day, the hobo works his way into Mike’s thoughts: I should sell Headman before they announce their results. Where did the hobo come from? Marissa probably hasn’t executed that order yet. Has she broken up with another boyfriend? Is that why she’s so pissy and forgetful? Her ass looks great in that skirt. When will the hobo go away? Why me?

  At the door of their bedroom Mike watches Maria try to find a pair of underwear. She has arranged her boxes in a semicircle, everything within reach, but sometimes her labels betray her. He wishes she would unpack. It would be cute, something they could laugh about if it weren’t their fourth month in the place.

  Mike has lost weight since the move. He’ll be working in his office and remember that he left his phone in the bedroom. That’s upstairs, through the main living area and down the hallway to the east end. If his day planner is in the kitchen, that’s another hike. Now where’s his phone? It’s like a bad joke. Yesterday he stumbled into a room he had forgotten. Lose your car keys and it’s time to launch an expedition.

  Mike rushes downstairs to greet Maria at the door, eager to share his news.

  —I made $23,000 in thirty-two minutes.

  Maria sighs, takes off her white hospital shoes and begins to massage her feet.

  —Gold star, Mikey.

  —Everyone thought it would go one way. I knew it wouldn’t.

  —Good for you.

  Maria spends the evening on the phone with her sister, shutting the door to the bedroom when Mike walks by on his way to the west end. He watches a movie on TV, a thriller with lots of plot twists, too many for him to follow.

  He’s put it off as long as he can, but it’s time for Mike to drive in circles again, riding the ring around UVic, in search of his father. Last time, he caught him scrambling over the edge of a dumpster. The time before, he was sitting on the steps of Phoenix Theatre, chatting with people lining up for a show. The maintenance worker, changing a light in one of the lamps, doesn’t know what Mike’s talking about. Must be new. A clerk at the library is more helpful, directing Mike to the copiers. His father’s smell lingers, but he is not there. Mike hovers over an artsy-looking kid with thick-framed glasses.

  —Have you seen a stinky hobo guy around here?

  —Do you mean Professor Lensky? I saw him near the Engineering building. And by the way, we don’t refer to him as the stinky hobo guy.

  After a few more directions Mike finds him by the Sedgewick Building. The shopping cart looks new but everything else is the same. The library on wheels is half full of photocopied articles, his own from twenty years ago and those of his contemporaries. There is no sign of the golf umbrella Mike gave him last month. Or the rain jacket, sweater, emergency cell phone. All those useful gifts are gone, but see if you can get him to part with that Javex bottle. Mike tries to guess if he drinks from it or pisses into it. He still wears that reeking shredded poncho Mike has been trying to replace.

  A blonde teenager parts with her boyfriend long enough to leave a muffin on a napkin in front of Mike’s father. The old man picks away at it, relaxed, entitled.

  —They bring me things. I’m like a squirrel in the park. You can gauge their generosity by the size of my gut.

  —I bring you things all the time.

  —Did you see the way she looked at you, like you were a cop or a lawyer?

  —Next to you I look like a head of state.

  —Yeah, think of all the child labourers who suffered so you can feel superior to me.

  —This suit was made in Canada.

  —Where was the fabric made? Where was the silk and cotton harvested? By whom? Under what conditions?

  —I’m sure that wows your muffin-bearers, but you can spare me the commie propaganda.

  The professor goes back to his wrinkled, water-stained articles. Mike pulls out a fat roll of hundreds and presses it into the old man’s hand. Warmth spreads inside his chest as he walks away, until something hits him in the back of the head. His father has gone back to reading, and the roll sits there in the damp grass. It would feel good to leave it there, have the groundskeep shred it with his mower blades, have a bird rip off bits for its nest, have the next muffin-bearer pay off part of her student loan. Mike covers the distance between them, crouches and pulls his father close.

  —Listen, you smelly old fuck. I made $23,000 in thirty-two minutes today. How much did you make? Hey? How much did you make?

  The old man’s shock fades and he begins to laugh. Mike backs away and picks up his roll. Let muffins sustaineth he who hath rejected the love of his only son. Mike grabs another young lovely’s arm as she appears, ready to make an offering of a personal-sized pizza.

  —Stay away from the old man. He has rabies.

  On Thursday the hobo says, Looking good. Mike was ready for Hey Shithead, even expecting it, and now this. The hobo must be camping out nearby. The surrounding woods, such a great selling feature, now seem menacing. He is camping in there somewhere, possibly spying on them, possibly taking in every detail of their domestic lives.

  The next morning, Mike takes extra time setting out his clothes. Three ties are considered and rejected for the new suit, but at least he’s settled on the shoes. Maria watches him in the bathroom mirror as he stands, paralyzed by the choices.

  —Meeting an important client today?

  —Uh, yeah. What do you think of this tie with that shirt?

  —That goes fine.

  —Wouldn’t the blue one be better?

  —You wanted my opinion, right?

  Mike leaves his topcoat open so the shirt and tie are clearly visible. He rolls the window halfway down as he approaches the hobo. Hey, Shithead. He pounds the wheel and swears as he pulls out onto Arbutus.

  Mike stands between Maria and the television.

  —You’re blocking the view.

  She shuts off the TV and flings the remote to the opposite side of the couch. Mike rips a piece of paper in half and gives one piece to Maria, along with a pen.

  —You’re making me nervous, Mike. What is this for?

  —I want you to write down something nice about me, and I’ll write something nice about you.

  —What do you mean? What kind of thing?

  —Can you think of any reason we’re together other than convenience and inertia?

  —Can we do this some other time?

  —No. Just think about it. Would life without me be better or worse?

  —What have you been reading?

  —Just write.

  Maria pulls a coffee-table book onto her lap and sets the paper on top of it. She doodles in the upper left-hand corner. She writes number one and then makes a series of ornate enhancements to it. The tiny hole she began with her pen is enlarged until she can put the paper to her face and see Mike through the peephole, scowling at her. Mike boldly writes numbers one through ten in the margin. Maria does not appear to be taking this seriously.

  —How’s it going?

  She snaps back to attention.

  —Fine. And you?

  —I’m thinking about it.

  —Yeah, me too.

  The sun is hot on his neck. He stands to shut the venetian blinds. They clack against the window, startling Maria. A house with a wall of glass seems like a great idea, but only to people who’ve never owned one. There’s a lot to be said for traditional architecture. It’s hard to control the temperature in a glass house. On sunny days it’s a sauna; at night it’s a heat sink.

  —How many do you have?

  —I’ve got one.

  —Me too.

  —What’s yours?

  —Maria does not intend to hurt me. And you?

  —Mike tries very hard.

  —Those are pretty pathetic.

  —It was your idea.

  The hobo is probably within three hundred feet of their house, covered in a stinky blanket or a clear plastic tarp. He may or may not have clear insight into his own actions. It seems a lot to a
sk of anyone. Neighbours probably pass nearby, take a sharp whiff, and then dismiss it as the rotting carcass of a raccoon or some other woodland creature. The dogs must go nuts, straining against their leashes. Mike imagines a simpler life: survive the night, stand at the end of the drive, call some guy a shithead. It has some appeal. There might be a certain purity in surviving off turfed food scraps, or root vegetables from backyard gardens.

  Maria waits till Mike is almost asleep before pushing into his back steadily with her elbow.

  —What is it?

  —I don’t think we’re doing anything wrong, you and I, but I’m not having any fun.

  —Fun? We’re not kids anymore.

  She sighs and rolls over to her side. He waits for her to say something else but soon her breathing is deep. What was the last fun thing he did with Maria? When was the last time he had any kind of fun? It’s not the same as satisfaction, enjoyment or a feeling of well-being. Did you have fun? An immediate, honest answer is either yes or no.

  2009. Maria and Mike were playing badminton on the beach at the El Cid resort in Mazatlan. They were both very drunk and well on their way to sunburns. Everything that followed on that trip would suck, but at that moment, full up on fruity drinks, chasing after the bird, whacking away at it with cheap rackets that were coming apart, falling on the sand and on each other. That was fun.

  Mike hasn’t even finished dressing, and already the adrenaline is flowing. There will be no more casual insults at the foot of the drive. He has no plan other than weakly muttering tough-guy lines from bad movies and trying to convince himself that under the right conditions, depending on the other person’s self-esteem and general level of fear, in the right light, it might be possible for some other person, of lesser height and weight, to be intimidated by him. As the garage door rises, he grips the wheel, ready, determined. Fog spills down the hill like a gas as he waits for the hobo to appear. He gets out of his car and looks as far as he can in every direction, fully satisfied there is no one there before driving on.

  HOW BEAUTIFUL, HOW MOVING

  THEY COME AT NIGHT AND ENTER THE house like thieves. They know the history and the value of the items. They know the owner lies dying in the hospital.

  LEONA RUSHES INTO BELLA’S ROOM, pushing a gust of perfumed air. Leona is the angel of death. What else could you say about a woman whose mission is to see old fools through their last days and then stand up in church and tell the congregation about it? Edna Cardinal, how beautiful a death, how peaceful. Harold Steiner, with the Creator now. Joseph Fothergill, finding his final resting place. Just as the military has an arsenal of euphemisms for killing, Leona calls death anything but death. The elderly pass away, pass on, slip away, go to a better place, become one with the Maker, or go to be with Jesus. This attractive thirty-seven-year-old will stand up and tell rows and rows of withering crones that death is part of life. Bella knows Joseph Fothergill didn’t find his final resting place. He spent his last conscious minutes screaming for the doctor to kill him, even after they had drilled three holes in his head to drain off the fluid. In any case, Leona by your bedside with a smile and flowers is a bad sign on any day of the week.

  ROB STANDS IN THE MIDDLE of the living room as Susan darts after porcelain ballet dancers and cats in various playful positions. Veronica tries to get a heavy painting off the wall. Boxes spring to shape and packing paper is ripped off the roll. Rob’s feet are shoulder width, his arms up, showing a palm to each sister like a cop trying to stop traffic. He has pleaded with his sisters for an organized, orderly approach, but they’ve gone straight to looting and pillaging.

  Failure to act now will leave him with nothing from his mother’s estate. He has to start with something small, the closest thing, a glass candleholder from Sweden that feels heavy in his hands. He wraps it badly and places it on the bottom of a cardboard box with his name written on the side.

  Soon he has momentum, launching expeditions to the upper rooms, throwing anything that looks valuable into his box. He can trade some of it later for stuff he really wants, but right now he needs to hoard or he’ll lose his stake.

  BELLA HAS COME TO UNDERSTAND the widely misunderstood concept of the hospital visit. People who don’t really want to be there guilt themselves into staying longer than they should, when she doesn’t even want to see them. Some would rather hide than visit, hoping that death is just a popular plot device. Others make short calls to her room early in the morning with detailed lists of the obstacles preventing them from visiting today, but they’ll come; they’ll come as soon as they can.

  As a service to others, she considers writing a pamphlet that could be printed and stacked with other public-health notices near Admitting. She would call it “Your First Hospital Visit.” Her suggestions would be simple: If you don’t want to come, don’t. If you do come, don’t stay too long. Don’t say stupid things. Think about what you’re going to say before you say it. Don’t say it’s something we all have to face. Don’t ask someone if they’ve made their peace. Don’t stare with a pained expression as if watching a boring and sad television show that only gets interesting toward the end, with a close shot on the death rattle, the slight change in the angle of the head on the pillow as life leaves the body.

  Bella alternates her gaze between the muted TV and the definitely-not-muted Leona, a self-appointed hope dispenser who attempts to cheer up Bella by describing her latest trip to Paris. The whole congregation tracks Leona’s husband’s promotions by the way she dresses on Sunday mornings and their vacations, which have progressed from a week in a bed-and-breakfast near Stonehenge, to a four-week bird-watching tour in Costa Rica, to a month and a half on an Antarctic cruise. She is also the woman of a thousand hats, some large, some disk-like, some flouffy and ruffled, each one attached to a charming story: a tiny shop in Munich that was just about to close, the merchant in Hong Kong who haggled with her for almost half an hour. Today, instead of some exotic flying saucer that would take up half the room, she wears a small navy-blue thing, not at all overpowering or flamboyant, perfect for visiting the terminally ill.

  Bella hates her room. It seems tired and worn from the lives that have passed through, the pain held in its walls. Lying on the thin sheets of a beaten-up hospital bed, flashed with scenes of junk TV, is not a dignified way to pass from one realm to another. Today’s viewing included a show about a couple whose seven adult children all refused to leave home. There were a lot of talk shows hosted by people who were not very good at talking or listening, only good at being stars.

  She fantasizes a renovation where the bed would be widened, covered with a duvet and positioned to face an enlarged window. All wires, tubes and machines would be removed and replaced with plants. The current setup, a technologized pen designed for the convenience of the body mechanics, would be covered with fresh rich paint, Navajo red maybe, anything but the current institutional mint.

  BOTH SISTERS GRAB THE VASE that sits on the mantle over the fireplace. Both smile at each other as they get a better grip on the thing. Susan was the one who gave it to Mother. But Veronica gave Susan a loan to pay for it, a loan which has not been repaid. Robert, coming down the stairs with his box heaped full, also made a contribution to the vase fund that Christmas. Eventually they agree to put it in a box marked “Contentious Claims.”

  Rob looks closely at two serviette holders he found in a cabinet in the practically untouched dining room.

  —It’s real silver.

  Both women rush toward him. Veronica’s elbow knocks a lamp to the floor. The screaming starts just as the last rounded fragment has stopped rocking. Yes, it was Veronica’s elbow that knocked it off, but Susan was the one who tried to push past her. Robert quietly slips the holders into his pocket and moves on to the kitchen. It’s probably safer that way.

  BELLA CAME IN TWO WEEKS ago with a bad fever and a cough. She was scared enough to bring her will and a list of relatives she thought she should call. Dr. Phibbs was puzzled and the testing was e
ndless. She lost her appetite and couldn’t keep anything down. Within five days they were considering feeding her intravenously. The emphasis of the doctor’s brief chats changed from fixing her to making her comfortable.

  She went along with the dying to meet expectations. The children were already on their way. She was about the right age for it. Sixty-seven seemed a bit young, but no one was too surprised. There was nothing else to do but get on with it. Her bed should be used by someone who might recover. She was a drain on everyone’s resources. She didn’t want to be like an employee who announces she’s leaving, attends a big farewell party and then decides to stay.

  When her children come to visit, they file in with sad faces and pile small useless gifts on her bed until they spill onto the floor. She wishes they would spend more time with her now that they’re here, a few minutes from the hospital, in a city where they have no business and few friends, but they’ve trained her not to question their busy lives. The efficient daily visit enables them to fulfill their obligations to their dying mother by offering things. It’s her obligation to decline these things.

  Leona begins to wrap up the visit in a rising tone. In summary, have faith and try to eat. Bella doesn’t tell her that she’s been eating like an animal, just not the death cookies that Leona brings over.

  POLICY FORMS QUICKLY AND NEW rules are shouted back and forth between the children, who spread through the house, mining every cupboard and drawer. The giver of a gift to Mother has the right to take back that gift. Susan cedes all claims to flatware in exchange for all the linen, including the crocheted tablecloths. And finally, worried about the big boxes Rob keeps hauling downstairs, Susan insists that packing should proceed one room at a time with all present.

  ON THE MORNING OF THE sixth day, Bella awoke confused by her condition. Her cough was gone and when lunch arrived, she looked down at the inoffensive vegetable soup with its pack of plastic-sealed crackers ready at the side, and it looked good to her. It tasted even better. It wasn’t possible to keep the dirty secret of her health for very long. Nurses and doctors checked, then rechecked her chart. She heard quiet conversations in her doorway, murmured measurements and acronyms, the names of drugs no longer required.