by Pasha Malla
At last Sherene spoke: ‘I wonder if, maybe, you could dig a little deeper into that?’
‘Oh?’ said Grant. Heads turned.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You’re obviously a talented writer’—Ash struggled not to laugh—‘and I love what you’ve done so far, I just think you might be able to really get at what this character sees. Like, who is he? What’s really going on for him?’
‘Good point,’ said Milosz, claiming it as his own. ‘Brijnath? You’ve been quiet.’
Ash looked up.
‘Brijnath is held captive by his own genius. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance!’
The class roared. He felt Sherene’s eyes on him: Brijnath!
‘Brijnath, please. In a workshop it’s imperative that everyone contribute. You wouldn’t want to read your work—this mysterious novel of yours we’ve heard so much about—and not have anyone respond. Could you imagine such a thing?’
‘I could not,’ said Ash.
‘And so? What are your thoughts on—what was it? “Looking in the Mirror,” Grant?’
‘ “Looking Back.” ’
‘Ah, yes.’ Milosz titled his head. His goatee and air of inquisition leant him the look of a conquistador. One chair over, Grant mimicked him exactly.
‘I agree with Sherene,’ said Ash.
‘That’s it?’ said Milosz.
‘Pretty much,’ said Ash. They stared at each other. The air in the room tightened.
‘Fine,’ said Milosz. ‘Who will provide our second reading of the day?’
Next up was a story co-written by Priscilla and Bertrand set, shockingly, amid the Cambodian death camps, followed by Donna’s piece about a paralegal a little too attached to her cats. (‘The bestial,’ lectured Milosz, ‘has fascinated artists since the cave-painters of Lascaux.’) Then they were down to Sherene and Ash.
Sherene read first. Her Matrigupta story went over well, and of course tantalized their classmates with its lack of ending. Suggestions followed: slay the king then and there and dress in his robes and rule the land; or what if Matrigupta took his show on the road and became a memoirist, telling tales of his pain? Sherene listened with a patient smile and thanked everyone for their thoughts.
Every face in the room turned upon Ash.
‘And now, at long last,’ said Milosz, rubbing his hands like a henchman, ‘our friend Brijnath will regale us with his masterpiece.’ He glanced at the clock: ten to four. ‘Perhaps just a quick excerpt, enough to sample its genius.’
The pages in Ash’s hands felt loose and inadequate. He read the first line over to himself. Looked around the room. He was reminded of the funeral, all those people he’d never seen before, invading his family’s space with their agendas and alien ideas of his dad. He couldn’t share the novel, no.
‘Pass,’ he said.
‘Pass?’ said Milosz. He threw his head back, roared. ‘Brijnath, please. There is no pass. Everyone else has shared their stories. For the workshop to function—’
‘Pass,’ he said again.
‘Pass,’ said Milosz. ‘But—’
‘Thanks,’ said Ash, and slipped the pages into his bag, and sat there with his arms folded across his chest, staring at the clock.
—
‘DHAR?’
Ash froze. He’d been outed; someone in the group had recognized him after all.
But, streaming out of the library, his classmates were busy singing the praises of their master (‘Milosz is such an inspiration,’ swooned Donna; ‘A genius,’ said Bertrand. ‘An absolute genius!’) and the voice came from the stacks. An Asian man emerged, tired and hunched and elusively familiar. Someone’s brother or husband, a former colleague? And then Ash noticed the wheelchair, and the boy upon it.
‘Chip. Shit.’
‘Hey!’ Ash’s old friend leapt at him, arms spread. As the two men embraced Sherene hovered nearby. Ash introduced her: ‘My producer. She’s off to England tomorrow.’
Chip shook her hand distractedly, eyes everywhere but her face. He seemed different from how he’d been at the funeral, more ragged at the edges. Even his habitual enthusiasm felt forced and fatigued. ‘So, wow, buddy! You’re home?’
‘At my ma’s place, yeah.’
‘Family Christmas, nice.’ Chip turned distant. Then that manic grin came splashing down again. ‘Come say hi to Ty, Dhar!’
‘Say goodbye to me first,’ commanded Sherene. ‘Dhar.’
They hugged.
‘Promise you’ll write?’ Ash joked.
‘Promise,’ she said—with such wide-eyed sincerity that Ash had to choke down the lump that rose in his throat.
He found Chip and the wheelchair docked amid the multimedia shelves.
Chip rolled his son forward. ‘You remember Ash, Ty?’
This inspired wailing, which inspired in Ash first fear, then guilt. He compensated with proportionate volume. ‘How you doing, Tyler?’ he boomed.
‘He likes to shake hands,’ instructed Chip. ‘A real man now.’
Ash’s hand was seized in a claw-like, clammy grip. The boy’s eyes were fierce. They made Ash feel a bit too acutely seen. He wrenched his hand loose, leaving Ty pinching air. And sensed Chip watching him with disappointment.
‘You guys checking out books?’ Ash said.
‘Videos,’ said Chip. He held up a copy of The Lost Weekend. ‘This one any good?’
‘Of course. A classic,’ said Ash, though he’d never seen it.
‘Cool. Now I need to find one for Ty. Any suggestions?’
‘How old is he?’
‘Ten! Can you believe it?’
A decade spent rolling that wordless life around. No. Ash could not.
‘Listen, if you’re in town,’ said Chip, ‘how about getting the gang together for beers?’
‘I haven’t seen any of those guys in—wow. I don’t know how long.’
‘Perfect, just like old times. It’ll have to be at my place, is all.’ Chip indicated his son. ‘So how about Matt, over there in your homeland? Sounds like he’s having a blast.’
‘Right.’
‘Sightseeing, partying.’ Chip leaned in, whispered: ‘Banging Russian supermodels.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, just the one…Did he tell you he might have a role in a Bollywood movie? I guess they’re always looking for white folks. And he’s an actual actor, even.’
‘I’d not heard this, no.’
‘Too bad that guy’s not around, especially if we’re getting everyone together.’ Again Chip’s vigour seemed to falter, and again he raged ahead: ‘Maybe short notice, but do you have plans tonight?’
Ash looked around, as if searching for an excuse on the bookshelves. Of course nothing presented itself, but it was Chip’s expression—a grin so eager it was almost pleading—that forced him to concede. The guy was an old friend, after all. “Sure, why not?’ Ash said, finally, with a shrug and a dry little laugh. ‘I’m free.’
—
CHIP’S PLACE WAS IN THE COUNTRY, past the last few townhouses at the city limits, onto rural roads, past cornfields and grain silos, and down into a valley where a new subdivision glittered like a space station amid the darkened farms all around.
There were gates, and then a half-dozen show homes enticing prospective homeowners. But beyond them wasn’t much. A trailer with a backhoe parked out front. A lot of empty lots, a few with frames looming skeletally over frosty dirt patches with lawn aspirations. The streetlights cast everything with a roseate glow. In his mother’s car Ash passed Poplar Grove, White Pine Crescent, Elm Drive, each lined with saplings turtlenecked in burlap. Even the few finished houses seemed not to be hosting or even anticipating life so much as forsaken by it: lightless, still.
At last he came to Maple Court, a cul-de-sac anchored by a single, squat bungalow with a string of lights tacked over the garage. The other lots were occupied only with sprigs of wire and a scattering of little orange flags. Ash parked behind a minivan (vanity pla
te: TY’S RIDE), climbed the ramp and rang the bell. The door flung open while the chimes were still sounding. Had Chip been waiting in ambush?
‘Dhar! You’re the first one here! Just heating up some appies! Come on in! Make yourself at home!’
Ash was swept inside. A boozy smell wafted off Chip, and a silvery splatter of what Ash hoped was Ty’s drool trailed down the sleeve of his hoodie. He wore plaid pyjama pants and moose slippers with velveteen antlers. Ash felt absurdly formal, and urban, in his slim jeans and cardigan.
He was led through the house into the kitchen. The walls were bare; the smells were antiseptic. The place had the generic, unpeopled feeling of a hotel, as though the living that happened within its walls was tentative, temporary. It reminded Ash, with a pang, of the house Brij had moved into after the divorce.
Chip deposited him at the kitchen island before a huge spread: olives and pickles, a cheese plate and pre-sliced baguette, chips and salsa, pepperettes, a shrimp ring. Plus whatever frozen snacks Chip was arranging on cookie sheets for the oven.
‘Just some appies,’ he said. ‘Beer?’
‘I’m driving,’ said Ash. ‘So maybe just one.’
Chip handed him a king can and a frosty mug. ‘Might as well make it a big one.’
Ash poured it out badly and had to dive down to slurp the foaming head as it surged over the glass. ‘When’d you move in?’
‘Six months ago! Probably feels a bit like we’re in the sticks but it’s going to be great out here once the area’s built up. There’s plans for a community centre, a mall, a library. London’s growing, man. And it’s an easy enough trip into town in the morning, just drop Ty off at seven thirty and then head back out on the 402 to work.’
‘Jesus. What time do you get up?’
‘Five fifteen. Ty’s not much of a morning person, takes a while to get going, needs his meds and breakfast and all that.’ Chip spoke rapidly and his eyes flicked in Ash’s direction, yet never settled on his face. ‘But we have fun, we do our thing. It’s all good.’
‘At five in the morning?’
‘You get used to it.’ Chip tipped whiskey into a plastic cup, splashed in a little soda. ‘To new beginnings,’ he proposed.
‘Cheers,’ said Ash, unclear what this was supposed to mean.
They drank.
‘Ty’s in the den watching the game if you want to join him. Still a hoops fan?’
‘Not really. Not like I used to be.’
‘Me neither! Who has the time? Between Ty and work? But it’s all good.’ Chip grinned, shook his head, drank.
‘Sorry I’m a little late,’ said Ash.
‘Not sure where everyone else is…I said seven on the Evite, right?’ Chip checked his phone. ‘I mean, it’s tough, obviously, at this age, at this time of year—and super last minute. People have families and that.’
‘You still hang out with those guys?’
‘Not really, you and Matt were the first folks from high school I’ve seen in ages. At your dad’s…thing.’ Chip took another big slug of his drink.
‘Thanks again for coming to that.’
‘No sweat, it was fun.’ Chip shook his head. ‘Sorry, dumb thing to say. I just mean it was good to see you—and Matt. I wish I could have stayed out and really tied one on like we used to. Ty’s mom was supposed to take him that weekend, but…’
The night out, the video: Ash pushed it away. ‘You guys don’t share custody?’
‘Nah. Ty and I are good. We’ve got our routine. We do our thing.’
‘Right.’
‘God, where is everyone?’ Chip opened the oven, poked the hors d’oeuvres around. ‘Got to eat these while they’re hot. Nothing worse than a cold cheese stick, right?’
‘Few things.’
‘Hey, did you see I got olives? Just for you, Mister Fancy-pants. The girl at Loblaw’s said that kind is good.’ Chip refilled his cup, drank, refilled. ‘Careful though, they’ve still got the stones in them. I got wine too, if you want some?’
‘Beer’s good.’ Ash ate an olive. He did not like olives.
‘And?’
He spat the pit into his hand. ‘Great.’
—
BY NINE O’CLOCK no one else had shown nor replied to Chip’s messages. So they withdrew from the food, most of it untouched, to the den. Ty sat in his wheelchair a foot from the TV, blocking the screen. Ash took the couch, dodging the bows of a massive Christmas tree that towered in the corner of the room, shaggy and unlit.
‘My kid loves hoops,’ said Chip, standing beside Ty with the bottle of whiskey in one hand, cup in the other. After every sip, he refilled. ‘Just like his dad.’
‘Superfan Junior,’ said Ash.
‘God, we had a fun team in high school, huh?’
‘Didn’t we even make you a top with your name on it?’
Chip laughed. ‘Hold on.’
He raced down the hall and reappeared wearing the jersey: bulging in rolls at the hips and tits with SUPERFAN 00 printed on the back—this had been the centrepiece of Chip’s get-up at Ash’s high school games, along with face paint and pom-poms. There’d been something worrisome about his enthusiasm, even then.
‘Score it!’ Chip hollered. ‘See my kid there, Ash? Loving that and-one?’
He high-fived one of Ty’s hands.
‘Bedtime soon though,’ said Chip. ‘The grownups’ve got some drinking to do.’
But then he seemed almost remorseful. He set his cup aside, knelt and stroked his son’s cheek with a knuckle. Ty kicked his feet. When Chip started kissing Ty, Ash looked away—out of respect, out of embarrassment.
‘Yeah, Ty-Ty,’ Chip murmured. ‘We’re buds, huh? Me and you? Best buds.’
Chip turned and stared hard at Ash. ‘I love this kid,’ he said. ‘Greatest kid ever.’
‘Totally,’ said Ash.
Chip nodded. He seemed satisfied. He joined Ash on the couch and set to his drink with renewed tenacity.
Ash was coerced into a second beer, the game ended, and as the postgame banalities wrapped and the credits rolled Chip swayed to his feet. ‘Say good night to our buddy, Ty.’ But Ty wouldn’t look at Ash, despite his father’s coaxing. ‘Can’t win ’em all,’ said Chip with a shrug, and rolled off down the hall, propping himself on the wheelchair.
The news came on. Ash got up to search for the remote. Piled by the TV were ’80s NBA bloopers on VHS, that library copy of The Lost Weekend, an anime box set, an unopened workout DVD, Home Alone. At the bottom of the stack was a disc with MATT’S SHOW-REEL written in black marker on the case. Ash slid it into the player and sat on the floor with his beer.
The disc opened with Matt’s first commercial: a background role in a thirty-second spot that featured an elderly white woman praising a fast food chain in an ad-man’s approximation of rap slang. At the end, as she zoomed off on a skateboard with a mouthful of fries, Matt dropped his jaw in wonder. God, thought Ash, he looked so young, slim and trim and luxuriantly coiffed, eyes nearly delirious with ambition and hope.
The next clip was from a pilot for a sci-fi show that had never been picked up. As the bespectacled spaceship doctor, Matt delivered his two lines with gravitas: ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got some bad news.’ Stare awkwardly as purple-skinned patient responds. Then: ‘You’ve contracted a virus from time travel that is reversing the growth of your cells. I’m afraid it’s terminal.’ And: pause for effect. And: scene. (‘I was going to become a major character,’ Matt had claimed.)
Up next was an ad campaign that featured Matt and a half-dozen other men playing loving dads. Dads cuddling babies, dads pushing swings, dads fake-shaving their toddler sons. The pitch, with an eye to selling soap, linked emotional sensitivity and skincare. Matt’s child was about kindergarten age. In the first clip they were watering sunflowers; in the next, baking muffins. In the final spot, Matt kissed his son’s tiny feet.
Chip swayed into the doorway. ‘I love those bits.’
‘Why do you have this?’<
br />
‘Same reason I’ve got ten copies of your book.’ His voice was slush.
‘Ten?’
‘I’m proud of my boys, what can I say.’
The reel ended; the screen went blue.
‘Here’s the thing,’ Ash said, ‘and I don’t mean this in any disrespectful way, because I know how dedicated you are to Ty—’
‘He’s everything to me. Everything.’
‘Totally. But that campaign? How come it’s just dads? There have to be other ways for men to be decent people than fatherhood. Shouldn’t that be a given, anyway? And why does being a dad have to be the only way to be a caring man? What about being good to your mom? Your sisters? Your friends?’
Chip shrugged and drank.
‘And Matt never really had a dad, so don’t you think it must have felt weird pretending to be one? That it might have even fucked him up a bit?’
‘No idea, man,’ said Chip, shaking his head. ‘But speaking of soap and kids, can I ask you a favour? I’ve maybe had a few too many. Can you help me get Ty in the tub?’
Ash froze. ‘Sorry—in the bathtub?’
‘There’s a harness I use but it’s broken. So you just gotta put him in. Come on.’
Ty was sprawled naked on his bed, gurgling happily. When he saw Chip and Ash he lifted his legs and kicked. Just above his belly button was the valve, capped with plastic, through which he took his meals. Ash took a step back.
‘Okay, hero,’ said Chip. ‘Pick him up.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Unless you know another way.’
Tentatively Ash stepped to the side of the bed. Ty froze—with dread, Ash felt certain. He knew whom not to trust.
‘Go on,’ said Chip. ‘Get in there. He won’t bite.’
One arm went under Ty’s neck, another under his knees. Ash anticipated a struggle, or seizure, but the boy eased into his arms, even clung to him a little. He was heavier than he looked and Ash staggered a little lifting him off the bed. Steadied himself. Awaited instructions.
‘There you go,’ said Chip. ‘Now down the hall. The bath’s already run.’
Ty began to slide, so Ash hitched him closer and firmed up his grip. The kid giggled and pressed his lips to Ash’s cheek.