The Alcoholic's Daughter

by David Sherman

  Hard to keep her romantic history straight. There was a local TV anchor that she saw on and off, a household name if you watched the TV news.

  “It lasted 15 years,” she said. “But he was seeing someone else, too. Maybe a few someone elses.”

  They were at Annie’s house, far apart on the sofa. Danielle was at home, Evan was supposedly having a few drinks with a friend. He and Annie were still circling each other, trying to see if the parts fit. Couples were like two pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that was life: you could force some of the edges but things worked better when the fit was natural.

  “He just couldn’t love me.”

  “I don’t want to get involved with you if you’re going to go running to him if he asks you back,” Evan said, a bookend on the sofa while she sat squeezed against the opposite arm, their relationship a fully-clothed endeavour.

  “No, it’s done,” she said, looking at him with the deep eyes, defences down. “I want to love you. Will you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  It wasn’t hard. Her mind turned him on. Her instant opinions on everything were sometimes incredibly incisive, sometimes incredibly arrogant. But her mind worked so fast. Some riffs her brain raced so far ahead of her tongue she wouldn’t bother finishing her sentences.

  “I didn’t buy that scene at all, did you see the way he lit it and the woman, where the hell did she … I didn’t mind the stupid ending so much but why did they have to end up … That long tracking shot is just showing off. Who needs … and the costumes, did you see the way she was falling out of her top. Give me a break. It’s the 21st century, I don’t need to see boobs …” They would still be on the escalator, climbing out of the depths of the Cineplex and she had her critique roiling. When she ran out of steam, she’d ask him: “What’d you think?”

  “Well,” he’d say, smiling, “sometimes I like to think about a film for a minute or two before I pronounce.”

  “What’s there to think about? It’s terrible.”

  In those early days he found it amusing that she seemed to always know what was best for everyone. Even came to his barber and lectured him on how her new lover’s hair should be cut. He sat in the chair and smiled, enjoyed the show in the mirror, the befuddled gay coiffeur listening to this little woman lecture him on his shortcomings.

  And she could make him laugh.

  She took his hot underwear out of the dryer and stuck it on his head.

  “Underwear head,” she called him. There was a little girl there under all the intellectual posturing, the gravitas she imbued most things with.

  Once they started living together he discovered she couldn’t pick up a loaf of bread or milk or anything on the way back from her run. It was odd. He puzzled over it on his way to the corner store. She had the car or the bike, the bakery was a block away. But she wouldn’t. Food was neither passion or interest, only an intrusion. She’d rather eat a four-day-old crust than make the minute trip to buy a fresh loaf. To him fresh warm bread was right up there with sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. How could you live without it?

  But she was programmed to eat half a slice of anything after the run and then go right to work. It was an incorruptible process. Then, on occasion, she would eat a bite or two of his leftovers. It reminded him of his shrunken grandmother who used to pick through the discards of his breakfast when he was five.

  “You can’t waste all that,” she said as she dug into the remains of his grapefruit or his steel-cut oats. She didn’t eat from hunger; she ate to avoid waste.

  “I’m never really hungry,” she said. “Eating gets in the way of what I have to do.” Instead he walked or biked to the bakery to get the requisite fresh bread while she indulged in whatever scrap she could find to wash down with dark espresso diluted with whole milk and climbed upstairs to her computer to wait for the Earth to move. The day could not properly begin until her bowels did.

  “Partnership’s a foreign concept to her,” he told Franklin over wine one night. Franklin directed his plays, ran the theatre. Somehow, cobbling plays designed to open wounds, they became friends. “She has never had a partner, has no clue really about domesticity for two.”

  “She’s never been a mother,” Franklin said. “There’s no nurturing gland in her.”

  Seemed to make her more exotic. Evan had never lived with a woman who had been single all her life. It was a late-in-life adventure, was it not? And that was part of the thrills and spills. If he needed something, he would get it himself. When she needed something — her diet consisted of coffee, orange juice, milk, salad, carbonated water, almonds, fine cheese and, of course, wine, he retrieved it. He thought that’s what lovers did. He wanted to be there for her. He had abandoned Danny, now he would be there for Annie, make reparations to the female sex and his conscience.

  One day she shocked him by bringing home a bread after her run. But he had already done his morning rounds, including the stop at the bakery. She looked at the two breads, grabbed one and threw it in the garbage.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s just going to go to waste anyway,” she said, and went upstairs to her office. She never bought another loaf of bread.

  Yes, she was different — dedicated, driven, a tad eccentric, from time to time, bizarre, but wasn’t that the ginger in the soup?

  He was riding through Parc Lafontaine at dusk, Annie at home at her desk. She didn’t go out weekday evenings unless it was the theatre, where she could sit in the dark. Evan liked to ride after dinner and liked the park, liked watching baseball, liked seeing lovers curled up on the grass or walking hand in hand.

  It had all worked out perfectly. He had convinced Danielle it was a good time to sell their house. Prices were high, the neighbourhood was overly gentrified. And it sold as soon as he had met Annie. A friend was leaving for France for a couple of years and said Evan could have her apartment across from Parc Jeanne Mance.

  He had money in his pocket, cash in the bank, a place to live and a new woman. The stars were aligned. Amazing good fortune, he thought, watching the ducks honk their way along the pond in the park, lovers tossing them scraps of bread and laughing. He didn’t mind being alone.

  Annie and he had spent a few late nights as bookends on the sofa, not wanting to get too close, lose control, get it on before he left Danielle. Was he really going to give up Danielle? He couldn’t wait to give up Danielle. She loved him and would do anything for him, but relationships were expendable, or so it had seemed. Hadn’t Norman Mailer said leaving a woman for another didn’t mean you hated that woman, any more than leaving New York for L.A. meant you hated New York. Sometimes you just needed a change. Forever was a great concept and the romantic in Evan bought it, even worshipped at its altar. But increasingly, forever seemed traitorous, fickle. He loved with all his heart and then came the flat wheels, the unbanked curves, the ever-increasing number of potholes. Yes, forever was a pretty tune and a stargazer’s ambition but inevitably the busted road came either to a grateful dead end or an even more adventurous fork, a signpost painted with a new lover’s glossy lips and her welcoming scent.

  Evan loved women. They were easy to talk to about real life, broken hearts, fractured ambitions and impossible dreams. He loved to watch how they ran their fingers through their hair, how they smiled, how they walked, how they teased, how they could touch your wrist to emphasize a point and open your imagination. He loved how they looked in clothes. And how they looked without clothes. He loved how they loved and how they could admit hurt. Women were real.

  Love was a banquet table and he had indulged. Now maybe, it was time to diet. The courting, the roller coaster rides, the hurricanes, were as exhausting as they were inevitable. He saw him and Annie living and dying together. There would be no more hurricanes, no more courting, no more disasters. In Annie would be salvation. There would be a forever. The past did not have to dictate the future. There were new scripts to write.

  He dropped his bike on the grass and
sat down and watched the ducks. He thought hooking his wagon to Annie’s, that was her phrase from another era, seemed the perfect way to spend the rest of his days. There had been other wives, other lovers, other affairs in motels and hotels but he was in his 50s and time was speeding up. He wanted the merry-go-round to stop. So they were hooking their wagons together for the ride into the sunset. Right now, in the park on a summer night, surrounded by couples bathing in the coolness of the grass and the certitude of their shared promises, life couldn’t be better.

  He had a big heart except for the woman he had once loved. His boundaries were expanding and he wanted more than Danielle. She couldn’t get her life on track, was perpetually lonely, depressed and resentful. And she was standing in the way of wrapping himself around Annie — bright, outgoing, successful, funny. Talented — nearly goddamned perfect.

  “Why do you have to go with her to the theatre?” Danielle asked. She was bristling, suspicious, arms folded over her breasts, a familiar pose when she was pissed, which was often. “Why can’t she go with someone else?”

  “I’m the playwright-in-residence,” he told her. “Gives her colour for whatever she’s doing on the radio. It’s part of my job, hustling the press.”

  “I thought she did the travel section,” Danny said. “Why’s she doing theatre?”

  “She has a friend in the arts at CBC; she does theatre reviews sometimes. It’s a feminist play.”

  Lying to Danny to spend an evening with Annie was perfectly legitimate. He was delaying the storm, waiting to sell their house. The sign was on the lawn. It was just a question of time and he felt not an ounce of guilt over it. The means always justified the rapture of new love.

  Finally, the house sold and Evan left. Danielle was shocked and hurt and angry. She stopped talking to him. Evan moved into his friend’s apartment while the paper work got sorted out, and had not a shred of sympathy for Danny. He wondered what was wrong with him. How could you obsess over someone, make love five times a day when you first met, not share a cup of coffee without touching each other and then the lights just go out? And feel not an ounce of guilt. What was wrong with him? He didn’t know and wasn’t interested in finding out. Love conquered all, even narcissism and selfishness. Maybe he was the biggest son of a bitch in the world, but he had Annie. He had been zapped by lightning.

  The sublet across the park grew tiresome. He had room to work, play the guitar and lots of room to roam just on the other side of the door but he wanted his own place, his own furniture, a bedroom where the paint wasn’t peeling off in sheets. Annie no longer wanted to go out on weeknights. She had too much work to do. The weekends were theirs but he spent his weeknights alone or with friends or working in the decomposing flat. It was time for a change.

  “I’m going to buy one of those studio condos across from the park around the corner,” he told Annie one night when he was over for a pasta dinner. It seemed that’s all she ate. Pasta, salad and cheese.

  “They’re less than $200,000. I got about $75,000 cash from the sale and I could carry the rest of the mortgage. I’d be right around the corner.”

  “Why?” she said. “You can move in here. We can use the money to renovate. Build you an office, too. It’ll be great, working in the same house. We can get that architect that did Donny’s apartment. It’s lovely. I always wanted to use him. He’s brilliant. He’ll turn this place into a palace.” She was jumping for joy. They hugged and kissed and made feverish plans.

  “And we can use Michel, the guy who did the first renovation. He’s a great contractor, he knows the house. We’ll have our own paradise. I love you.” She jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around the his waist. He thought of dropping her on the sofa and dropping his pants but … she just didn’t seem the type.

  If there’s forever I’ ll find you without fail

  Whatever the weather I’m faster than the U.S. mail.

  If there’s forever, I’ ll be there beside you

  And forever we’ ll do anything we want to …

  When he sang it at the club, he dedicated it to Annie. It was Guy’s club and he said the song gave him goose pimples. Annie would always look at him as he sang it, big eyes shining. He’d smile back. It was their song.

  With their clothes all over the floor of the room at the auberge he had booked to consummate this irresistible attraction, they were finally naked and in bed, bodies pressed together, lips and tongues flashing. He was inside her and he was gently moving, not sure how deep to thrust she was so small, kissing her mouth and neck. She made little “uhmmm” sounds and suddenly she rolled him over onto his back, said: “You don’t mind, do you?” and climbed on top of him, closed her eyes, giving instructions on where and how to use his hands, and then disappearing someplace as she began to massage her clitoris.

  This was a new one on him but he was far from a prude and so happy to be in bed with her at last, so if that’s what she needed, so be it. She went off like a rocket, throwing her head back and screaming, and then pounding up and down and yelling: “Oh man, oh man, that was good, that was great,” as he held on for dear life, fascinated by her thrashing and yelling. She seemed to have a pretty good time.

  When she came down she calmly asked: “What would you like?” Then gave her body to him. He entered her from behind, but she was doing the thrusting and he couldn’t find his rhythm. She was silent. Her passion had dissipated but her ass was pumping back and forth like a little machine. She was giving him access to the Promised Land but it seemed somehow dutiful. He couldn’t get the proper angle or rhythm going. He was forced to be still as she did the thrusting. It was odd, watching himself watch her ass move back and forth. He chalked it up to the first time. They’d have to get to know each other, Evan figured. He’d been holding back, waiting for her, and somewhat distracted by her disappearance. But when he finally let go, it was not too bad. She held on to him for a minute or two. Then asked what he wanted to do for dinner.

  Jail is pretty much what you’d expect if you read crime novels or watched TV. Cleaner than he would have imagined, not a bad sized place with two platforms of hard wood behind a row of green bars. And a stainless steel toilet with no accoutrements for modesty. It was quieter than he had imagined but then again he had never imagined he’d be here. But it was afternoon and maybe by night time it would get wiggy. Quiet enough to lie on that hard bunk, head against the cement block wall and remember how you got here. To jail. On a Thursday afternoon. Waiting for a lawyer. He had been surrounded by cops, one of them took his possessions and then asked him how much he weighed.

  “One seventy five,” he said.

  “No way,” he said, laughing. The cop was having a good time, seemed to love booking people. “At least 200.”

  “No, one seventy five, one eighty, tops.”

  “I’ll bet you,” the cop said, taking five dollars from the cash Evan had given him, laughing. “Let’s go see.”

  With his boots on, they had taken the laces — there was always a chance he could hang himself — but left the shoes, he weighed 180.

  The cop laughed again and waved his five dollars in his face.

  “You win,” he said, enjoying himself, then he took all he had, glasses, belt, cash, laces, watch, put it in a bag and he was led away.

  At first it was too surreal, like watching a film except he was the leading man. An hour before his life had been pretty normal or as normal as it could be living with Annie. Now it had all been blown up, the extent of the damage had yet to be assessed but of all the madness Annie had perpetrated in their 10 years, this was No. 1 on the list. Maybe 1AAA. He sat there, staring at the bars, kind of numb.

  Manny had been mastering his CD. Between sessions they got to know each other. Left his wife after 10 years. He said she spent the decade trying to convince him he was useless, inept and dumb as a slug. She resented his playing gigs, resented his friendships and made her displeasure known through insult, scorn and a punch here and there. He gave her
the house and said he’d be back for his things, his antique guitar collection, his recording studio, his car as soon as he found a place to live. He camped out on his brother’s sofa and when he found a small apartment he went back to his wife to get what was left of his life. He was on disability, his hips shot, his back shot, his shoulders shot from years of construction when music was fallow. But she had sold everything he owned, every last guitar string. Value maybe $100,000.

  “I didn’t give a shit, you know,” he said. “I needed to get away from her. If that’s what it took, okay by me, man.” But as far as the government went it wasn’t okay. They told him if he wanted to keep getting disability, well, he had to sue his ex, get his assets back or they’d cut him off. By law, his wife had to support him.

  “I had no choice, man,” he told Evan as they sat in front of the studio. “All I want to do is get away from the bitch and the fucking government says I have to sue her and they even give me a lawyer. Legal aid, man. Been two years, can’t get away from her. And she won’t make an offer, won’t answer a letter. It’s fucked up.”

  Annie and Evan were entwined on the sofa under a blanket, a fire going, the kitchen stainless and shining, a single lamp burning, the cats asleep on each arm of the sofa, her head was on his chest and all seemed right with the world. The kind of moment he wished could last forever.

  “We never went on vacation, hardly ever, ‘cause he was never sober,” she said. “But he had stopped drinking for a week or two, I can’t remember, and we piled into the car and drove to Lake Huron, Pinery Provincial Park. Just like a real family, I guess, but I never knew what real families were like.”

  She was silent for a moment and he felt her arms tighten around him.

  “He went out for cigarettes, found a bar, then bought a bottle and came back to the motel drunk. We had our own room; they stayed in an adjoining room and we heard them screaming. And then something smashed, I think the coffee pot or something like that and my mother was crying and he was hollering and my sister started to cry and my brother, he just turned our TV up louder. I still remember, it was the Beverly Hillbillies and the canned laughter blaring over my mother’s crying and my father’s screaming. It made me crazy. It was chaos. Noise still makes me crazy.”