by Greg Kearney
“My beautiful boy,” Edmund says, cupping Binny’s face in his hands. “I know you’re not mean in your heart. You’re gorgeous in your heart.”
Binny settles a little. “Only in my heart?”
Edmund can’t help it, he must draw himself close to the boy and nuzzle him, nose-to-nose. “You’re beautiful all over. You are. Let’s smoke some more.”
So begins Edmund’s new love affair. They go to the house where Bernard has been staying, an almost-empty two storey place owned by a tall, gaunt piano lounge performer best known as Toronto’s Peter Allen, because he only plays Peter Allen songs. Toronto’s Peter Allen leans against the fake fireplace in his bathrobe, smoking, as Binny and Edmund stuff clothes and CDs into garbage bags. Peter Allen clucks his tongue and tosses his lank bangs; he attempts contempt in his commentary but can only muster a listless, almost automated play-by-play: “That’s right, you put your stuff in garbage bags. That’s right, you carry your garbage bags out to the car …”
Now that Binny has officially moved in, he is much more relaxed, given to smiling, lolling, making the bed as best he knows how. Tenderness with the new Binny is comprised of spooning, and rolling around while spooning, both of them wired as hell but earnestly attempting tranquility. At these times Edmund believes that he has never known such shattering intimacy. Binny and circumstance and the healing properties of meth have combined to permit Edmund a glimpse into a hallowed world known only to ecstatic nuns. He knows it sounds overblown, and he isn’t a hyperbolic person, but even as Dean lay dying in his arms he still felt a remove; despair and empathy, yes, but also a sense of procession and duty not commensurate with the intense yet sidelong love he felt for Dean. This thing with Binny is … big.
At some point Binny runs to the 7-Eleven for more Diet Coke. Edmund finds himself, pen-in-hand, making a list.
1. Binny — what’s he all about, at the end of the day
2. How can I set about helping him become a biological female pop star
3. Failing that … how do I create the right environment for him to discover himself as a singer-songwriter in his own right
4. You must leave no stone unturned! He is an emissary from a world of love
5. He keeps talking about realness because he is really real
6. What is the strategy? How will you make him happy? You must make him incredibly happy if you do not you will only know burning torment forever
7. REMEMBER TO CALL LILA!
Binny returns, with his Diet Coke and one of the heavy, yellow glass tumblers that Dean got in Italy. Those tumblers are tucked away in a drawer in the dining room — has Binny been rooting through his house? Whatever, it’s fine. He’s allowed.
“I’m so glad you’re back, you. What are we going to do today?”
“I don’t know … party? And do, like, home things?”
“Sounds like a plan!”
15
THURSDAY, THE FIRST DAY OF her plot against Jocelyn Walsh, Teresa slathered on layer after layer of foundation until she looked less like a cadaver and more like an embalmed cadaver with makeup on. She found a pair of earrings she didn’t know she owned, way at the bottom of her jewellery box: silver fish, caught on the hook that hooks through the earlobe. She briefly considered doing the big shave down there, or at the very least her legs and pits, but quickly decided that things wouldn’t go that far that fast. She also waffled on the wig. Would the average man be more grossed out by an obvious wig or by an obviously bald head wrapped in a scarf? At least with the red wig he might perceive her as both sickly and cheap, rather than simply sickly.
Car keys in hand, she hesitated in the front hallway as she looked herself over in the mirror by the door. Was she delusional? What man could want her, the condition she’s in? Didn’t matter how good a flirt she was, nobody wants to fuck the terminal. And what grown-up woman — a wife and mother! a composter! — makes it her dying wish to fuck up somebody’s marriage because they said something mean? Why couldn’t she rise above?
“Shut up,” she said to herself. “Just keep going.” Better to be a vengeful person who finishes what she starts than to be a radiant person who doesn’t do anything.
She drove to the town hall. She’d never been there; it was surprisingly small, more like a town bungalow, one big main room encircled by tiny offices. At the entrance to the main room was a receptionist, on a call. She had a lovely, if slightly frantic phone manner: “Thank you so much for calling! Thank you so much for asking me that question! … I just hope my answer was helpful. Was it? Was it helpful?”
When the receptionist finished with the call, Teresa asked her who she’d need to speak to about a fireworks permit. She shimmied slightly in her seat and told Teresa how much she loved fireworks. So late in the year, though — was Teresa planning a winter carnival type thing? Yes, Teresa said. Exactly that. A winter carnival. The receptionist produced a thick stack of forms for her to fill out. Teresa quickly realized that the fireworks permit tactic was probably not the best strategy.
“Is my buddy Digger here?” Teresa asked musically. “The fireworks are for Jocelyn’s surprise birthday party. We’re planning a real big whoop-dee-do for her in my backyard. Why the hell not, eh? You’re only sixty-three once.” Whimsically tacking on twenty years to Jocelyn Walsh’s age made Teresa’s fake smile briefly real.
“Oh!” squeaked the girl. “That sounds so romantic. Mayor Walsh and his wife have such a fairytale marriage. Mrs. Walsh always tells me my prince will be right around the corner if I would only get my lazy eye fixed. I’ve told her that there actually is no treatment for my eye condition, and she said she would pray that medical science will have a breakthrough so I can have my eye fixed and look good for a man. She’s so nice.”
“She is. So is Digger in his office? I’m just going to pop in.”
“Mr. Walsh is currently not in the office,” said the girl. “I’m not normally allowed to tell people where he is when he isn’t in, but seeing as you’re a family friend and this is such an exciting party idea —”
“Exactly, yes.”
“He’s down at the Kenwood, having his lunch.”
“Of course, the Kenwood. I should’ve known that. Oh, the times we’ve all had at the Kenwood. Thanks so much.”
“No problem. Can I just ask — is Mrs. Walsh really sixty-three? She looks so young.”
“I know. It’s a miracle, what they can do for the aging woman these days. She’s had everything done. Her nose is made of shark cartilage. Her dentures are state-of-the-art.”
The sweet, goony receptionist smiled warmly at Teresa as she turned to leave. The news that Jocelyn Walsh might wear dentures seemed to soothe the girl.
Digger Walsh was at the bar with a burger and fries, chewing and chatting with the bartender. Teresa paused inside the door to study him. He’d put on weight since Teresa last saw him; his stomach strained against his white dress shirt, and his wedding ring made cleavage in his chubby finger. He still had his appeal, though; his jaunty manner and basic charm made Teresa think of President Clinton, who could eat crackers in her bed anytime.
She’d practised this initial encounter over and over in the bathroom at home. Digger would be wary of her, given their history, and she would need to defuse things fast. She decided, in the bathroom, that tearful earnestness was the best way to go. Teresa had never been socially calculating like this; there was a time when such wily pretension would’ve made her nauseous. (How many girlfriends had she ditched in high school for exactly this kind of thing — one minute mooning over Cat Stevens’ long lashes and perfect buns, the next acting the stupid ingénue to woo some dolt?) But she was not ashamed of herself. She was exhilarated. This would be a bit of play-acting, something fun.
She wove her way up to him. Put a pale hand upon his vast shoulder. He startled.
“Oh! Hey, Mrs. Price. I’m just having lunch he
re. I — I don’t want any trouble.”
She shook her head vigorously, as though she were innately incapable of trouble. The act of shaking her head made her unsteady, and she clutched the back of Digger’s chair. She took a moment to contain the tremendous emotion she was faking.
“Mr. Walsh, I don’t want to upset you in any way. I just saw you through the window and had to pop in. So much has happened to me in the last while. You probably know that I’m coping with serious illness.”
“Yes, I am very sorry about that. You’ve had a rough go. But you look good. Your nice hair and all that.”
“It’s a wig. But it’s a nice red, and God knows I’m nothing if not a naughty redhead. Still, I know the truth is I look awful, I do. I run out of steam easily. And it’s also very challenging as a big-breasted woman, having to lug these gigantic things around when I already don’t feel that strong to begin with.”
Digger Walsh studied a French fry pierced by his fork. She was losing him. She had to stop with the leering breast talk. Digger Walsh, Digger Walsh, what did she know about him? He played drums. He seemed to always have a sunburn. His wife was a first class bitch. And he was a born-again Christian; he got baptized in the Lake of the Woods at the harbourfront, a couple years ago. She’d try that angle, the faith thing.
“Anyway. That’s the least of it. It has been a struggle, definitely. But one day this warmth came over me, and I instantly knew that I was being penetrated by the Holy Spirit, and I loved it, it was great. It felt so good. I no longer wanted to kill myself. I only wanted to cultivate my friendship with Jesus. I bring all this up because I know that you’re also good friends with Jesus. So I know that you can relate. I’m a new woman. I’ve accepted him as my personal Lord and Saviour. It’s so exciting. I’ve never known such peace. I’ve forgiven all those who have trespassed against me. I’m sure you and your wife must yap away night and day about how amazing Jesus is. I know I sure can’t shut up about it.”
“Actually, Jocelyn hasn’t yet accepted Christ into her heart, but I’m definitely working on it. She says that she has, but she doesn’t worship with me. A believer can spot a non-believer in a heartbeat. I can spot a believer in a heartbeat, too, and I can tell that you have definitely been transformed by God’s love. I am really happy for you, Mrs. Price. He saved my life, that’s for sure. There’s no reason why He can’t save yours.”
“You know what? I don’t even care about that! If I croak, if I end up dead on a slab in six months, big deal. I’ve got Jesus. Ooh, and please call me Teresa.”
The bartender looked uncomfortable, like he’d stumbled into an impromptu revival meeting, which, approximately, he had. Teresa smiled at him and asked for a glass of water.
“Where do you worship, Teresa?”
“Mostly in the basement at home. It can get kind of lonely, worshipping alone in the basement, but oh well. It’s just that I’ve been hesitant to pick a place of worship. I’m afraid I’ll pick the wrong one. I know that St. Alban’s is kind of dodgy — the little inspirational messages they put on that front marquee are almost always about praying your way through drug addiction or overeating. I don’t want to, y’know, sully my faith by going to a trashy church. It’s so hard to know where to worship.”
Digger put his last bite of burger down. A convert had turned to him for guidance, and he knew he was obliged to do his best to help.
“I go to Knox United,” he said simply. “Reverend Griffin has a real simple, sincere way with a sermon. I always come away feeling refreshed, ready for the week ahead. I also go to Bible study there on Thursday nights, as well as AA meetings, naturally. You can’t come to the AA meetings, but you are more than welcome to Sunday service and Bible study. I would be — yeah, sure, sure I would be — honoured to have you as my guest.”
“Really? I would love that. Should I wear something formal?”
“You can wear anything, Teresa.”
“Anything? Ooh! What about pasties and a G-string? Ha ha ha!”
He didn’t laugh along. He didn’t want her. She was no longer sexy, was only shrill and pathetic. She would need to abandon all her old tricks. Her only play was to pretend to love Jesus.
“I’m so looking forward to Sunday service. It’s been so lonely, praying alone in the basement. What’s today? Friday?”
“Thursday.”
“Right. Sorry. It’s the drugs. I don’t mean drugs drugs, just morphine. I’m so happy. Jesus is so … Yes. I’ll see you Sunday!”
She extended her hand to shake his. He went to shake, then took her stiffly in his arms. How nice, to be held by a man who wasn’t Hugh for the first time in months. There we go, she thought he said as he held her, or possibly here we are; his mouth was muffled by her wig.
THEY GOT JOEL at the bus depot the next day. He looked tired and oily. His hair was a mess of shoots and whirls, and she could’ve sworn she saw a small cockroach dart about in it. Still she pressed his head to hers. He smelled faintly of urine. He whispered how happy he was to see her. They both inhaled sharply, in unison: their way to keep from weeping in public. Showing emotion in public, she always said, was something only crazy people did, or tourists.
Her instinct was to groom him with the palm of her hand, take him to task for smelling like pee, and then, once Hugh was out of earshot, tell him all about her campaign to ruin Jocelyn Walsh’s life. Joel didn’t know the lengths to which Teresa went to extract justice, or at least an apology, from Jocelyn Walsh on behalf of her monstrous middle son; he didn’t know about the gummy bear incident or the attempted hit and run or any of the other, lesser confrontations. So were she to spill the beans now, it would sound to him like the mad tangent of a sick person, rather than the work of art that she means for it to be. She’d wait a while to tell him.
And she was tired. Even an extended hug could sap her now; her limbs were heavy and defiant as she walked back to the car. It was all she could do to toss her purse on the back seat. So be it; later there would be time for Joel, and the giddy stretches of chatter they both so enjoyed. And if there wasn’t? Maybe Teresa had, in her vendetta, a more pressing maternal matter. Maybe Joel would better benefit from this last stand of hers, against pure evil in the form of Jocelyn Walsh, than from any ambling kitchen conversation about horrible perms, past and present; she could see him carefully carrying this understanding of his mother-as-warrior for the rest of his life. He would share this story, The Time His Dead Mom Did a Bad Thing for a Good Reason, warmly and widely with friends, lovers, maybe even — it’s possible, although incredibly unlikely — his own children. She could see this great story turning him into an adult at last, hardening and honing him, pointing him toward an honourable manhood.
She knew, in considering this, that she was only slightly full of shit. In fact, she felt herself straighten slightly in her seat at the thought of this parable-in-progress. She was not full of shit. She was having a vision. She had not had a vision before, but surely she could still know a vision when she saw one.
When they got home Joel had some cereal and went straight to bed. Hugh kept his shoes on and said he was going for a walk around the lake. Since when do you go for walks around the lake, she asked him. He didn’t answer.
Hugh had been very quiet, more than he usually was. She twice walked in on him watching television with the sound off. He’d started spending a lot of time in the bathroom, also silently, ten or fifteen minutes there, several times a day. She thought it was quite witty of her to ask if he was having an affair with the sink. He said he was just taking his time, doing his thing. But Hugh didn’t have a thing; he wasn’t a reflective person. He was never one to take a step back. He was a sturdy, procedural person. That’s why they’d got along, all these years.
But they used to shoot the shit, before, carp about expenses and their insurmountable line of credit. They used to worry aloud about the boys — well, about Joel, really. He would
enumerate the many reasons why Joel would probably end up homeless, and she would agree, and then tack on a hopeful “still … maybe …,” and Hugh would go silent, his version of solidarity. He wasn’t an awful father.
They’ve always slept in separate beds, with Hugh’s shift work, but he would tuck her in, or lie with her, in his work clothes, as she awoke or drifted off. Maybe once or twice a year, New Year’s, Canada Day, they’d get hammered on the back deck and she’d give him a half-assed blow job or he’d beat off on her tits. It wasn’t a great, soaring affair, the thing between them. They were chummy, though. They liked each other.
If he was going all sloppy on her, this late in the game, she wouldn’t have it. She needed him to stay the way he’d always been. She didn’t have time for her own feelings, let alone his. There would be no processing nor would there be any holding each other through the storm. There would be no healing power of sensual massage. There would be no talking, no listening. Like the other day — the newspaper, folded at the crossword, at Hugh’s place at the kitchen table, with only “one down” done, which filled her with affection for his total lack of pretension, his inability to think to pretend that he knew more than he knew: that was a poignant moment. There would be none of those.
Sunday came, and Joel wanted to go to the marina restaurant for pancakes, like they used to years ago. Teresa would take the boys there after she’d been out all night Saturday; this wasn’t a constant occurrence, by any means, but it happened often enough that she’d feel compelled, with her face flecked with mascara and her Jontue smelling less like gardenia and more like bug spray, to make it up to Joel and Dallas with a fun breakfast, and to let Hugh sleep as late as he wanted.
But now she could hardly keep anything down, and today was the day she was going to church with Digger Walsh. She didn’t tell Joel about the Digger Walsh part; she simply explained that she’d been investigating her spiritual side since he’d been gone, and that an hour or so of church was worth a big vat of morphine in terms of true pain management. Joel laughed at this. The one time they’d gone to church for something other than a wedding or funeral was when Patsy Gallant gave a Christmas concert, and even then Teresa made them leave after twenty minutes, when it became clear that the whole thing was going to be in French and that Patsy would not be doing any of her disco hits, in any language. When Joel reminded Teresa of that debacle she cursed Patsy Gallant — after all these years Patsy’s refusal to perform “From New York to L.A.” and “Sugar Daddy” still rankled.