The Desperates

by Greg Kearney

  “Why are you so afraid of joy?” is Donald’s response when Joel asks if maybe the new approach to the button show is a little bit tacky. Joel reminds Donald that, historically, he has been the joyous, impassioned one in their relationship, not Donald. Donald doesn’t want to hear it. This introverted man, once so committed to a “life of the mind,” is too busy dancing on the spot in his filthy living room to Ladysmith Black Mambazo.

  The night before the opening Joel and Donald work feverishly on a big banner to be hung in the entranceway: “Buttons! Buttons! Buttons!,” this time in yellow felt.

  “I’ve never felt this way about a display before,” Donald says, glue gun in hand. “It’s like I’m truly greeting and welcoming my community, where once I kept it at bay. When I did the First Nations costume show, I didn’t send out invitations. This one, though … I can’t help but think that the energy of this show will prove infectious. The whole town will get caught up in button fever.”

  Joel looks up from the felt at Donald. Then he says the thing that he would not have said a week ago, the thing that other people might be saying but that he, as collaborator and lover, should never say: “They’re only buttons, Donald.”

  Donald drops the glue gun.

  “Only buttons. Well. Betrayal has a face. How could you say that to me, after all our work and worry?”

  “I’m just saying, keep it in context, y’know? It’s a beautiful presentation and I love it. But don’t expect it to change the face of local culture.”

  “I don’t have that expectation. You’re upsetting me, Joel. I’ve made myself vulnerable to you and now it seems that you’re using that against me as a weapon to hurt me.”

  “Donald, don’t be crazy. I love you. You’re my — very dear friend. It’s important that you not lose your curatorial eye right now. This is still a work in progress. You may need to revise some things after the launch.”

  Donald looks away, puts a tremulous hand to his braided bun. “I need to walk away from this exchange. I don’t feel safe. I don’t know who you are.”

  Donald walks out of the lobby.

  “Oh, c’mon, you so, so know who I am!” Joel calls out after him.

  Joel returns to the felt. He snips away at a “B.” He is twenty. He does not desire Donald, and at this moment the mere thought of him makes him swoon with dread. Years of silent screaming and Ruth Etting records yawn ahead of him. It’s not the best premise for a marriage.

  When he goes to gather Donald for the walk home, he’s gone. At home he finds Donald standing by the buried piano, expectant, almost posed.

  “I won’t be destroyed in the name of love. Not again.”

  “That is so over the top, D. Really. I’m not going to destroy you.”

  “You can’t say that with any certainty. I’ve been destroyed so many times.”

  “I thought the fisherman was your only lover.”

  “I haven’t told you everything about myself. For good reason, I see now. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. I’m so happy. Please love me as the happy person I am.”

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  Donald’s mouth falls open. “How can you be so declamatory? I’m not reassured. I’ve been reassuring about your insecurities — remember how I petted and praised your micro-penis when I first saw it? Why can’t you extend the same tenderness to me?”

  Joel is awash with feelings that are, more or less, new to him: he is annoyed at the sight and sound of this man; he is aghast that this man is turning to him for emotional sustenance, despite his own very recent professions to the contrary; he would not be entirely upset were this man to suddenly fall over, dead.

  He lopes over to Donald. Pats him on the arm.

  “Please don’t pet me like a chow chow. Touch me with love.”

  SOMEONE IS HONKING their horn outside. Joel stills his hand on Donald’s arm. Long honking, then lots of short honks. Joel worries that Donald will freak out again if he pulls away and goes to check on the honking.

  “What if there’s been an accident or something,” Joel says.

  “I’m sure it’ll resolve predictably. Weave your arms through my body.”

  More honking.

  “I don’t know how to weave my arms through your body. Do you mean that figuratively?”

  “I’m too weak to explain myself right now.”

  Lots of honking. Joel can’t stand it. He bolts to the front door. It is his father’s car. His father pops out as soon as he sees Joel.

  “I been honking like a goddamn maniac! What the hell took you so long? Get in the goddamn car!”

  “Dad, we’ve already had this conversation. My boyfriend is feeling fragile right now.”

  “I don’t care if he’s feeling a goddamn heart attack, I have had enough of this back and forth bullshit with you and your mother. Both of you acting so goddamn stupid. That’s enough now. Get in the car.”

  “I’m sorry, I really, really can’t.”

  Hugh stalks his way across the dead lawn. Joel has never seen him this livid.

  “I am going to jerk you baldheaded,” Hugh says, hot breath on Joel’s face. “Don’t think I won’t, just because I haven’t before. I’ll knock your teeth out, see how your boyfriend likes ya then. Now get in the goddamn car!”

  His father’s fervour is mesmerizing. Wordlessly Joel grabs his coat from inside and follows Hugh to the car. As he buckles up he studies Hugh’s face in profile and thinks: if only he’d displayed such parental passion when I was growing up! Who knows what sort of rapport we might’ve had? We could’ve been close. Closer than close.

  33

  WHY IS HE WRENCHING HER out of bed like this? Teresa was in a deep, lovely, dreamless, asbestosless, pain-free sleep. Why is he pulling her into the living room? What’s the rush? He never rushes. Is there a fire?

  Joel. Rigid on the couch, in the shirt and pants she bought for him last year. He looks rested. He’s already more handsome than when she last saw him, with his slicked-back hair and sharp jaw set defiantly, adorably, to show her that he’s still miffed. She wants to run over and cover his face with kisses, but she doesn’t want to spook him. And also she can no longer run.

  “You sit here,” Hugh says, positioning her at the other end of the couch. “There, now,” he says when she sits. “You two sit here and talk to each other and that’ll be the end of it. I’m going to the legion.”

  “I’m not staying,” Joel announces to his dad’s back.

  “You’re staying, or you’ll get a crack in the chops,” Hugh says, not stopping, not turning back.

  Teresa and Joel listen to Hugh drive away. Teresa watches Joel, who watches the carpet.

  “Don’t you look nice,” Teresa says tentatively.

  “I’m sorry, you do not get to have pleasantries with me. I am very angry with you. I’ve already buried you in my mind. Several times.”

  “I never buried you.”

  “That is so lame. Why would you bury me in your mind? I’ve done nothing wrong here. I’m the one who was wrenched from the family home. I came home to be with you and look after you, and you threw me out.”

  “I know that, I know.” Teresa’s face blazes. What a monster she is! An asbestos monster! She rocks in place. She knows she has to wait out his anger.

  “I’ll likely never be the same. I’m hardened now. I have no feelings. This whole experience has probably turned me into a psychopath.”

  She laughs, reaches, puts a palm to his cheek. “God, I’ve missed your bullshit! Everyone is always so … straightforward. Oh, Jolie, sweetie. Tell squishy mommy you forgive her.”

  He takes her hand and pulls it from his face, but doesn’t let go. “I really don’t know if I can forgive you,” he says, seeing her hand, how thin, how still. “You were really mean. It’s not like I’m a bad person. I don’t steal things. I try not to hurt peo
ple. I’m sorry I’m not in the OPP. But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to get murdered, or not try to do anything ever.”

  She pulls herself across the couch. Puts her head on his shoulder. “Mom knows, squishy Jolie. Mom is an idiot an awful lot of the time. Mom thinks you’re great. She just worries. She worries herself sick. I am not going to worry so much now. You’re a nice person, everybody knows that. You just keep being nice, and you’ll be all set.”

  “I really wanted to hang out with you when you’re not feeling well.”

  “Oh, bunny, why not just stab me in the heart with a fireplace poker? Let’s stop talking about all this before I cry myself into a stroke. Let’s sit here and look at the Christmas tree.”

  They look at the Christmas tree.

  “It’s ugly. Did Dad do it?”

  “Yeah. It’s really no hell, is it? All the decorations are up in one little corner. And the branches are quite ratty, aren’t they? Bless him. He’s got his hands full.”

  “I haven’t gotten you anything for Christmas. Sorry.”

  “You never do. Oh shit! I almost forgot again. I forgot to give Dallas his. Help me up.”

  He brings her to her feet. She pads into her bedroom. On the floor of her closet, under a blanket (still she hides the presents, as if there were kids in the house), wrapped months ago and dedicated accordingly on little white cards in her best cursive, are the many gifts she got Joel, Dallas and Hugh when she was in Winnipeg. The big thing she got Hugh is a fancy radio for his basement workshop. She got Joel two big things: an expensive parka from the Bay and that goddamn Onobox, that fucking Yoko Ono boxed set that he begged for that she had to special order at Bill’s Sound Centre. The big thing she got Dallas, that she forgot to give to Dallas, is a camcorder, to document all the baby firsts (that way, she could make it out to both Dallas and Shary, without having to actually shop for Shary). She tries to think of a way to lift and carry everything to the living room. She can’t.

  “Jolie, come on in here,” she calls, her voice froggy and thin. Once in her bedroom he sniffs the air.

  “What?”

  “Smells different in here. Not bad, though. Kind of like Orange Crush.”

  She pulls out a present, rips off the dedication card. “Here.”

  He pretends to be beyond big Christmas gifts, then tears at the wrapping, all giddy.

  “A camcorder! Oh my God. Wow. Ooh, it’s so fancy!”

  “It was on sale. Will you use it?”

  “Totally. I’m not sure how, yet, but … I can use it to tape — things.”

  “Oh, no. You were going to say ‘sex.’ Perish the — actually, yes, you should tape your sex. For evidence, in case you’re assaulted or murdered. I’m sorry. That’s something the old me would say.”

  She gives him the parka, which he pretends to like, and the Yoko Ono boxed set, which makes him scream and flail like a teen girl in the throes of Beatlemania. She laughs and watches him. How quiet this house would’ve been if he’d never come to be. What would she have done without him? Surely she would’ve arrived at things to do in the absence of this son, but any young ideas she may have once had are now distant and vague, harder to haul out than this pile of presents that makes Joel glow like Hugh’s sad, little tree when it’s all lit up.

  34

  THE DAY OF THE BUTTON show arrives. Joel’s been back and forth these past days: sleeping at home, helping his father, sitting with his mother, then running to Donald’s to mollify him. There, he professes his love over and over, assuring him that the button show is a masterpiece and not at all cornpone and tragic, confirming and reconfirming that Joel will be back with Donald just as soon as his mother dies. “When things iron out at home” is Joel’s euphemism when he speaks with Donald, who alights on the phrase and starts using it himself: “So, when things iron out at home, you’ll immediately let me know? I really do need you here with me as soon as things iron out.”

  He is busy, spoken for at every turn, but not harried or frazzled; in fact, the ease in being with his family and tending to them quietly has given him new clarity when dealing with Donald. That creeping distaste for Donald’s unsightly, frothing need has been replaced by a clean-cut sense of duty to the man, as his friend and employee. There will be time later to contend with their stilted romance.

  He irons his father’s dress pants. Hugh has been indefatigable, devastatingly gentle with Teresa, assertive and thoughtful with Joel. Has his father always been like this? Was it only Joel’s preemptive scorn that made him perceive Hugh as a goony simp? In any case, he likes him these days. He likes ironing his pants.

  Today they’re going to use the wheelchair for the first time. Teresa suggested it: “There’s no way in hell I can walk around the museum, with those wonky wood floors.” She won’t allow for his own, silent sadness in her company; she’s busy pointing out how skinny her arms are, how swollen her feet, how laboured her breathing, how slurred her speech. He understands her need to narrate the process, keep it in check like that, but surely their closeness should mean that they both get to observe her dying from approximately the same side? Maybe not. That might be a naïve assumption. The night of Boxing Day she woke up screaming and he got to her before she woke Hugh. When he asked her what her bad dream was about, she said she didn’t know. When he asked her if her bad dream was about death, she said she’d already said she didn’t know what her dream was about, quit bugging her and go back to bed. That felt like a shared moment. Maybe not. Who can say what makes for a sacred moment of intimacy? Joel had thought he’d been having such moments left and right — his night of mutual truth-telling with Edmund. The time with Donald when the long-lost nudes were discovered. But now, standing here ironing, he understands that these instances were not sacred, were only examples of him passing time with strangers.

  He helps Teresa pick out an outfit for the button show. It’s a challenge. “I look like hell in everything,” she says. She’s not wrong.

  “All that’s left are my boobs. There’s that to be said for lung. I’ve known some women who’ve gone from double D to concave after radical mastectomies. Granted, they’re all still kicking, and I won’t be. Give me that pink thing there, that smock thing. That’ll do. Go get your dad.”

  “I can help you get dressed.”

  “Just go and get your dad, please.”

  He calls down to his father in the basement. Hugh comes up with a small, round, black straw hat with a rough clump of plastic red roses. “I found this in the ditch at the end of the lawn,” he says, trying to hand it to Teresa. “I thought you might want it.”

  “Yeah, I just love wearing old lady hats fished from the ditch. Put it in a plastic bag and give it to my mother.”

  Hugh hands the hat to Joel, who picks it up with thumb and forefinger.

  “Go get your mother’s wig.”

  “I’m done with the wig, Hugh. My wig days are over.”

  “I think you look so sexy in it,” Hugh says. “You look like Ann-Margret.”

  She laughs a hacking laugh. “Jolie will settle it. Do you like my wig? Do I look Ann-Margret or do I look like a dying clown?”

  Ordinarily he’d automatically side with his mother’s appraisal, but he sees his father look at his mother with — not desire so much as the solidarity of remembered desire, and opts to indulge him.

  “If Dad likes you in the wig, why not wear it?” Teresa rolls her eyes and says nothing. Joel gets the wig. He’s tried it on several times since he’s been home; he must admit that it is a quality wig: the hair doesn’t have that too-shiny sheen that most wigs have.

  Joel insists on putting the wig on his mother. “You’ve been wearing it too high on your head, like a hat. If you really pull it on,” he says, pulling it on her, “it looks much better.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she says at her reflection. “It does look better. Thanks. How do you know abou
t wigs?”

  “There are lots of drag shows in Toronto. Some of the drag queens are really very beautiful. I don’t know how they do it — seems like so much work.”

  “Well, if it’s work, that counts you out, eh?” says Hugh, his voice less harsh than it has been around this topic.

  “Are you saying you want me to be a drag queen?”

  “Does it have dental coverage?”

  “I — No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, dental is important. You can be going along fancyfree at ten dollars an hour, but if your teeth go haywire, it’s game over.”

  Joel nods. It’s true. Dental is important.

  35

  SHE CLUCKS HER TONGUE WHEN she sees the Buttons! Buttons! Buttons! sandwich board on the sidewalk. She can just imagine the kind of people that a ritzy museum opening would attract: people like Jocelyn Walsh, possibly with Digger in tow, but more likely her best friend, that accountant woman who got braces on her teeth at forty and teaches belly dancing, weekends at the rec centre. If they run into them she can bury her face in Hugh’s parka or just sort of fall forward in her wheelchair and roll past.

  Joel is the greeter today. He’s changed clothes in the back: he now wears a dress shirt, pink and white vertical stripes, and grey slacks. Donald Tait must’ve bought him new clothes for the opening. Nothing wrong with that. She used to buy all of Hugh’s clothes for him. But why didn’t he just bring the new clothes home and dress up before they left the house? Were he and Donald Tait nude together in the back of the museum just now, doing things, then cleaning themselves up with the clothes Joel arrived in? Stop. She must stop. It’s none of her business. Last few weeks she’s been going goofy like this; she gets caught on a detail — a word, an image, a tiny memory — and she loses the thread of conversation, forgets the person she’s conversing with, forgets even, momentarily, where she is. It’s likely the cancer, but how could a diseased brain offer up these long stretches of wayward thoughtfulness? You’d think a dying mind could only offer fog.