by Greg Kearney
Hugh rolls her to Joel.
“This place looks fantastic,” she says. “Job well done. I can’t wait to look at all the buttons.”
He kneels to hug her. He squeezes her, but doesn’t hurt her. He smells like Joel should smell. Job well done. She remembers when they went to see E.T. and she had to carry him out of the theatre; he was bawling and babbling about nuclear war and how their house was probably going to burn down really soon. She held him like a baby in the front seat as Hugh drove home. He cried and cried. Crying can be so nice. She cries in his arms. Job well done. Hugh has stepped back to give them a moment, and to look at the rack of Kenora snow globes for sale.
“Can I push her for a while?” Joel asks his dad.
“Sure, yeah,” he says. “I see ya got great big snow globes for sale, and then you also have little wee ones, too.”
Joel takes her through the rooms of the museum.
“I quite like this little collection,” Joel says, pointing at a panel. Already weepy, Teresa finds the mounted buttons unbearably moving; they’re like pretty, miniature graves. Rita MacNeil’s flower button, with its delicate, metal petals, could be a tombstone. Teresa herself has a button collection at home, in a wooden box in the basement — nothing nearly as impressive as these ones, of course, but she does remember once raking her hand through them in their box, blindly choosing one, bringing it close to her face to see which one it was, and to remember what garment it had fallen from.
“There’s something really moving about these,” Teresa says, patting at an eye. “You really get a sense of the human beings behind the buttons. Was that on purpose?”
“Was what on purpose?”
“The humanity behind the buttons.”
“Oh. Umm. Yes, I’m sure it was. All Donald’s brainchild.”
“Well, you did a great job, in any case. Both of you. Really. I’m so proud.”
Hugh finds them. “There you are. Christ, it’s like a goddamn maze in here. I kept walking into closets. Thought I was going to have to call for help!”
“Hughie,” Teresa beckons; she’d only ever called him “Hughie” in bed and once when he had Bell’s Palsy. “Have you been looking at all the buttons? Aren’t they wonderful?”
“Yeah. They’re great, for what they are, like. Because they’re buttons, right? I’m not missing something?”
“No,” Joel assures him. “They are buttons.”
“Yeah, but they’re more than that, aren’t they?” Teresa says. “They’re like little people. And they’re all saying ‘hello.’” Now she’s weepy again; who is she? Time was, you could slam a car door on her hand and she wouldn’t whimper.
“Yes, I can certainly see that,” Hugh says, patting her shoulder. “I can for sure see that.”
Donald Tait is dancing to the song he has blasting throughout the museum, “Rise Up! Rise Up!” by she-can’t-remember-who. He sure looks happy; from what she knows of him, you could almost say, for a quiet man, he’s delirious. As he bops past Joel catches his arm.
“Everybody really loves it,” Joel says. “My mom especially.”
Donald’s delirium fades fast. “How nice. When you say, ‘your mom especially’ — have others expressed only a mild appreciation? Mr. Price, do you not like the exhibit as much as your wife?”
“Hey? No, I like it. It’s good. Great effort.”
“It’s just a wonderful display, Mister Tait,” Teresa says, trying not to cry again.
“Thank you! Aren’t you lovely. You all are. I’m sorry if I’m hypersensitive to your response to the work — it’s as though my very soul is at stake, with each and every viewing of each and every button. That sounds histrionic, but it’s true. This is my defining work. And, of course, I absolutely could not have done it without your son.”
Teresa can’t seem to catch Donald’s eye; he’s madly glancing about. Please don’t let him be on drugs.
“It’s funny,” she says, still trying for eye contact. “For some reason they remind me of graves. Chokes me up.”
He gets that paranoid look again. “Graves? Are you being ironic? This is easily the most life-affirming show the museum has ever featured. There’s a thumping heartbeat behind each and every one of these buttons.”
Joel looks Teresa’s way and rolls his eyes. She has missed these moments of … whatever you call it … conspiracy? She’s relieved he can take this wound-up guy with a grain of salt.
“I certainly didn’t mean anything negative,” Teresa says. “Just the opposite, in fact.”
“Thank you. I’m probably too close to the work. Ugh! How this ponytail annoys me!” he hisses, pulling the rubber band out of his hair. “Anyway, it’s marvellous that you are able to graft your own experience of mortality onto the show. I get that. I’ll be your mirror, as the song goes. One couldn’t hope for more, as a curator. I love you all.”
Donald does a Jackson 5 twirl and bops off. Joel winces at his parents. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “He’s really not used to interacting with big groups of people.”
“Did he just tell me he thinks it’s nice I can see my dying self in his fucking button show?”
Hugh looks at his watch. “We want you to come over for supper,” he says. “You and him.”
Teresa forgot that she prodded Hugh to ask. She wishes Hugh could’ve sensed the awkwardness with Donald and not issued that invitation.
“That is so nice,” Joel says, clearly touched by his dad’s effort. “It’s really okay, though. I know he’s not really someone you’d want to — eat with.”
“Just go and ask him so he can’t say that we didn’t offer,” Teresa insists.
Joel nods and walks over to Donald. She watches her boy gently pull Donald away. She has never seen Joel interact with a lover before. He is assured, not skittish at all. He used to be so wispy when interacting with anyone other than her. He’ll never be a politician, but it’s nice to know he can speak his piece without going to pieces.
He returns to say that Donald has already made dinner plans, and wants Joel to join him as soon as possible.
Thank God he declined their invite; she hasn’t the energy to make nice with a guy she already doesn’t like. And she and Hugh need a moment alone with Joel, anyway: they have a very big favour to ask of Joel, the kind of favour that needs to be dropped delicately into otherwise light, pleasant conversation.
36
“HI-DEE-HO! IT’S THE Muffin Man!”
Edmund sees a small old man in a pale cashmere sweater poke his head into the dim room.
“I’m taking a break right now, thanks though,” Edmund says.
“Oh! You! No, I’m not here for that! The Muffin Man doesn’t go in for that kind of thing anymore.”
He pushes the door open gently with a tray of fragrant muffins.
“I don’t understand. There are no muffin men at the tubs,” Edmund says blankly.
“Would you like a muffin? I’ve got chocolate chip, blueberry, and cranberry. The cranberry are my favourite. They’re so zingy!”
“No, really, it’s okay. I don’t eat anymore. I don’t suppose you have any tina?”
“May I come in?”
“Sure, yeah. Take a load off. Just make sure the muffins are far away from me.”
The man places his tray at the foot of the bed and sits elegantly on the edge of the mattress. He wears little yellow shoes that appear, in the blue light, to be made out of wood.
“I drop by every now and then to see how everyone is doing. It’s outreach.”
“That’s great. Who are you with?”
“Who am I with? I’m with you!”
“No, I mean, are you with PWA, or ACT, or the 519 …”
The Muffin Man smiles uncomprehendingly. “Holy yumpins, it’s dark in here! Why not have a bathhouse that is bright and cheerful? What about yo
u? Do you like it dark, Edmund?”
Edmund squeaks. “How — What is this? Did Lila send you?”
The Muffin Man glances lovingly at his tray of muffins. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot, if Lila sent some little old man to come nab ya at the Cellar! No, no, Lila didn’t send me. She’s much too busy mourning the loss of her fetus and the end of her lesbian friendship.”
“I’m obviously having a PNP-related psychotic episode,” Edmund says. “But it will pass.”
“The Muffin Man is the conduit for all the spirit voices you’ve been straining to hear for so long. Can you hear the voices of the AIDS dead as they haunt the halls here? Hundreds and hundreds of them. Memorable men, all of them wanting another chance to look sexy or make something pretty or say something smart. They walk the halls, and hover around you — there’s one! And another! — and they resent your survival and your mediocrity, and try with all their spectral might to wreck your life at every turn.”
“That’s so mean.”
“Oh! Who is that I hear?” The Muffin Man asks the air with delight and curiosity. “Could it be — it is! It’s your precious Dean, come to visit in the form of a hand puppet.”
The Muffin man’s thumb and forefinger become a squawking yap. “Hi! I’m Dean!” says The Muffin Man’s hand. “I was really great, and hot, and talented, and I sure did love Edmund! But then I died of AIDS. For a long time it looked like Edmund was gonna join me in the afterlife, but in the end, he lived. And I’m pissed. I was the one with passion and vision, and he’s just a wastrel. It’s not fair. I’m not serene. I don’t wish Edmund well. I hate Edmund. I hate you, Edmund!”
He screams and swats at his head. He wants to run, but he forgets how to.
“Gosh,” says The Muffin Man, “there sure is a lot of hate aimed at you from the AIDS dead. But there is help available.”
“Fuck off, fuck off …”
The Muffin Man reaches for the muffin tray. “Have a muffin.”
“Keep those fucking muffins away from me!”
“They’re fresh from the oven. Try the cranberry one, it’s so zingy!”
Edmund swats at the tray.
“Mind the muffins,” says The Muffin Man sternly. “Either you eat a muffin or you face the wrath of the AIDS dead forever. And the wrath of Lila’s dead baby. And the wrath of Binny, who has just been chopped up and canned, like rhubarb. Only a mouthful of muffin can promise you peace.”
Some primitive shard of Edmund’s brain knows to eat the muffin. He reaches for the tray. The Muffin Man and his muffins start to dissolve. Muffin mist, then nothing at all.
Edmund falls into the hallway. The man is gone. Edmund stumbles through the maze of rooms and corners until he finds the front desk. The desk guy is gone. Gone! There is a little bell on the desk to ring for service. He pounds the bell until the guy comes.
“For Christ’s sake. Yeah?”
“I’m sorry. I just had an experience that was very distressing. I am really pretty sure of where I am coming from about this, but I would like — I just need to — Do you know The Muffin Man?”
The man slumps. “Come on, guy. I have been here for sixteen hours without a break, I don’t have time to sing fuckin’ children’s songs with you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I think I’m having a drug reaction.”
“What’s the drug?”
“Umm. Crixivan? And also maybe a little bit of crystal. And also I was forced against my will to smoke crack earlier.”
The man sighs a tired sigh. “Wait here,” he says, goes back where he came from. Is he calling the police? Should Edmund run away? Why can’t he remember how to run?
The man returns with a plastic cup. “Have some of my apple juice. Go sit on that bench. Just breathe; try to count your breaths. I’ll be relieved any minute, and I’ll come sit with you.”
Edmund sits on the bench. He tries to count his breaths. But there are so many of them.
The man sits beside him. “How you doing?”
“I — don’t know.”
“My friend, we are too old to be doing speed and getting crazy like this. I mean, no judgment — I been clean eleven years December 2nd. I been where you are, literally. I bet you stopped having fun a long time ago.”
“Yes. I don’t know. It’s — I’m in transition. The AIDS dead hate me.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Oh. I’m — retired.”
“Well, what did you do?”
“Oh. Nothing.”
He laughs. “Well, no wonder you’re climbing the walls! You’re bored! You’ve got to do something, if you can.”
“I have some major issues that are more pressing.”
“I bet you don’t. You get up, you make your bed, you go and mow the lawn for some old person. You’d be surprised how good you feel.”
Edmund looks about anxiously; he doesn’t want to hear about mowing old people’s lawns.
“I know you’re thinking ‘I don’t want to hear about that, I’m fucked up,’” the man says, terrifying Edmund.
“You know my thoughts? No, God, please no. Are you another incarnation of The Muffin Man?”
“My friend, I am not The Muffin Man, I promise you. I’ve just been where you are right now.”
“Oh. But what about the AIDS dead?”
“Which AIDS dead?”
Edmund looks up and sees a string of old, white Christmas tree lights, strung above the front desk. The little lights are dimmed by dust but still lit, all of them
“All of them.”
37
JOEL FINALLY TELLS HIS MOTHER, in the car, that her wig does, indeed, make her look like a dying clown. “Thank Christ!” she shrieks, whipping off the wig, opening her window and letting the wig get blown away. They both look back at the wig, in the middle of the road like a dead, red raccoon.
“Hey!” Hugh says, “that was a nice wig! Shary really liked that wig — you could’ve given it to her.”
“Shary doesn’t know what she likes, and anyway, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again.”
“Yeah, but I could’ve given it to her,” Hugh says.
“What young girl would want a dead woman’s cancer wig? Christ, Hughie, you have got some ass-backward ideas about what women want to wear on their head.”
“I’m sort of sad I didn’t get the chance to meet her and the baby.”
“She’s just a young girl with a baby, there’s nothing to meet, really. She’s nice, though. Hopefully she’ll give Dal a real hard going-over before she agrees to marry him.”
At home they eat Hugh’s mushy spaghetti and watery meat sauce. Whenever Joel looks up from his plate, he finds Teresa staring at him with fawning eyes. It’s too much, her undiluted love after a long day at the museum; their spats in the past were always resolved with a playful punch in the arm or, at the very most, a little note left at bedside: I’m sorry I called you a dumb fucking slut. See you in the morning, Joel; I’m sorry I said you were “possibly too gay.” You’re not. There’s no such thing as “too gay” except maybe for Liberace — do you remember Liberace? He’s been dead for years. Love Mom xo. Now she’s sick and gawping at him. He asks his father if he has any new handiwork projects on the go; Hugh looks at him like he’s never heard the word “handiwork” before.
“Nah. No time. I can’t concentrate that good these days anyway.”
“That was really nice, that button thing,” Teresa says.
“I’m kind of sick of it now,” Joel says.
Teresa moves herself on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position.
“And are you’re going to — stick with him, then? With Donald Tait?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. I thought I really liked him, but the more I get to know him, the less I like him.”
“Well, I�
�m sure he’s got his qualities and all, but I didn’t think he was very nice, and he’s certainly not much to look at. You’re such a good-looking kid, you should find someone cute your own age.”
“I like older guys, though.”
Teresa waves him off. “You don’t know what you like. You don’t want to get bogged down with some old-timer who’s gonna drain you of all your pep.”
“We’ll see. How are you?”
“How do I look?”
He gives a sad smile.
“My doctor, have you met her? No, you haven’t, I don’t think — who is a woman, by the way, and she drives a half-ton so we know how her bread is buttered — last couple times I saw her she really rode me to talk more about being terminal, but what’s there to talk about? I went a bit goofy over you and trying to — help you out. You’re here now, though, so what is there to talk about? I’m not in denial. I told her, I said, ‘I am not in denial, I think I’m doing damn good mentally, considering.’ You know what she said I should do, as though she didn’t even hear me? She said that when her aunt was dying she comforted herself by singing. Singing! Oh, yeah, next time I have breakthrough pain I’m gonna sing it away. Won’t that be cathartic. Oh, she loves that word, my doctor. Cathartic, cathartic. If it’s not cathartic, get the hell out of town. She’s a good doctor, though. She’s been good to me.”
She drums her fingers slowly on the couch. Joel cries, tries to disguise it with a badly rendered sneeze. Teresa sighs.
“Jolie, it could be worse. It really could be worse. Remember my friend Janis from years and years ago?”
“Oh, yeah. With the black poodles. What happened to her again?”
“Flesh-eating disease.”
A brown sedan zooms past on the right. Hugh pounds the horn. “Idiot! Oh, yeah, it’s gonna make all the difference if you can speed through that yellow light. Dummy.”