The Dead Celebrities Club

by Susan Swan

  After the rehearsal ends, we pass Mr. Jack in the line of people leaving the visitors’ area.

  Dale Paul, you’re the man. He fist-bumps me. This is my daughter, Tannie. Tannie, say hello to our friends here.

  She looks Bailey and me up and down, her expression masking something I can’t identify. Apprehension? Caution?

  Yo, she says softly.

  I try not to show surprise; Mr. Jack doesn’t seem like the sort of man who ventures outside his gene pool. Yet, I underestimated him.

  8

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, the pool is full of swimmers plowing through the water with their dripping, hairy arms. Fine. All right. It’s time to get out. As I clamber up the ladder, Aldo arrives, pushing Mr. Jack in his fancy-pants wheelchair. According to Martino, the sleek, low-slung wheelchair has been sent over from France.

  How’s the water today, guy? As warm as the Caribbean? Mr. Jack gives me a charming smile, his eyes glittering with mischief.

  You could say that. A tad heavy on the chlorine, though.

  It’s bad for the skin. Well, we’re tough, right-right? The gangster taps his chest, which swells out of his swim trunks like the torso of the genie in Arabian Nights. One of these days, you’ll take a dip in my saltwater pool and bring along your wife. I’ll treat you both to margaritas.

  Sounds civilized, good sir.

  Good sir? Mr. Jack bangs the arms of his wheelchair. Hey, I think I like you, guy. Call me John, okay? Well, time for my bath. He points at the swim chair with his muscled arm. The impressively thick limb moves in a heavy, singular motion, as if it, too, is a mechanical prop. How about meeting me tomorrow after our jobs are done? In Cat Alley. More private. Will that work, guy?

  Yes. The word tumbles out before I can stop it.

  9

  CAT ALLEY TURNS out to be a little-used lobby at the back of the admin building. The lobby offers a pleasant view of the stand of white pine by the prison, and this afternoon, cats are everywhere at once in the narrow hallway, padding up and down, sitting on the heating pipes, or curling up in headless balls on the green prison blankets that have been placed on the cement floor for their benefit.

  A bitter smell evokes the feral cats Davie used to tend in our back garden. If only my boy could see the good-looking, real-life gangster eagerly feeding tins of mackerel to the ragged-looking animals. Several scofflaws open tins and hand them to Mr. Jack when he runs out of food.

  I never thought I’d see such a scene at Essex, although I’m told it isn’t the only jail where prisoners are allowed to look after strays. Davie would approve!

  Mr. Jack must have misread my expression because he exclaims: Do you have something against our feline pals, Dale Paul? He unwraps one of the chocolate cake pops sold in the commissary, along with non-dairy creamer and bottles of squeeze cheddar.

  Good sir, I didn’t realize you ran an animal shelter! I try not to stare at the wedge of plastic ankle visible below the hem of his trousers.

  Are you saying I’m a fuckin’ loser? he snarls unexpectedly. What’s up with Mr. Jack? The gangster’s voice evokes the menace of Shere Khan, the tiger in Davie’s favourite Disney movie.

  The other men laugh, and then it hits me. Tony Soprano talking to his shrink, Lorraine Bracco? I venture.

  Right on. What’s her character’s name?

  Dr. Jennifer Melfi. First appearance: episode one, season one of The Sopranos.

  So, okay. He says in his normal, more gentlemanly voice. Last appearance, guy?

  Episode six, season two.

  You got a photographic memory or something? The gangster lofts his eyebrows disbelievingly, and his sidekicks cackle. How about this one? There were the goody-goody people who worked at shitty jobs and took the subway, he says, employing his coarse tone. They were suckers. They had no balls.

  Ray Liotta in Goodfellas.

  He grabs my arm, his grip as strong and solid as his swimming. Holy shit, Dale Paul, you know about the wise guys?

  Naturally, I don’t tell him any fool could answer his quiz. The Sopranos and Goodfellas are so well known as to be gangland clichés. Point being, I was brought up in a world where men in bespoke suits worried about blotting their copybooks, so I feel an affection for movie-land gangsters; their aggressive personas represent the sort of heedless male braggadocio that Mother and Pater deplored.

  Here’s one for you! I say, using a slurred, sluggish tone. I’m gonna get the papers, get the papers.

  Jimmy Two Times in Goodfellas! He frowns. I went to school with that guy and now he doesn’t talk to me.

  In the dingy lobby, several tabby cats drift up to the gangster, their tails quivering like antennas. Mr. Jack scoops up an orange tom and begins to stroke its back in the languorous manner of Blofeld in a James Bond movie, stopping every so often to coo a babyish endearment. The poor beaten-up creature crouches uneasily in his arms, blinking its green eyes.

  You went to school with Tony Powers? I ask.

  Hey boys, Dale Paul knows Jimmy Two Two’s real name! the gangster cries.

  Mr. Jack’s men look my way in surprise.

  He smiles. Look, Dale Paul. If anybody gives you trouble, send him to me. Am I right, Aldo? Aldo appears skeptical, and Mr. Jack barks: Answer me, you a-hole!

  The harsh sound startles the tabby; it leaps off his lap and comes run-ning over, pressing its thick body against the legs of my track pants.

  Watch out! Riley’s feral! a man calls.

  Hello, Riley, good sir. I fumble in my pocket for some shrimps I’d been saving as an afternoon snack. Bailey smuggled the plump little creatures out of the warden’s private kitchen. Needless to say, shrimps at Essex are highly prized. I remove them from a plastic baggie and give them to Riley, who sniffs the shrimp suspiciously; then he begins to chew, glancing up at me with an expression of deep satisfaction.

  Possibly, Riley is only feral when there’s no food around.

  Mr. Jack chuckles appreciatively. Yeah, maybe you’re right. Okay, what character does Joe Pesci play in Goodfellas?

  Tommy DeVito.

  You got it, guy. And call me John, right-right?

  Thank you … John. I clear my throat self-consciously. What is it you wanted to talk about?

  Yeah, boss, Aldo remarks. You’re interested in his betting scam, right?

  Shut it, Aldo. The gangster shoots him a look, and Aldo turns pale.

  As you were saying? I prompt.

  Mr. Jack unpeels another cake pop and offers it up, but I shake my head. Martino told me your idea for a dead pool bingo. Death gives each celebrity a sporting chance, right-right?

  I’m afraid it was a passing whim. Dead pool bingo. The gangster has a way with words.

  I’d like to hear about it. And hey, Aldo, get us a coffee? He smiles a slow, lazy, gentlemanly smile. Double sugar for me. Dale Paul?

  I like mine black.

  He sighs. I wish I had your discipline. He turns toward the men feeding the cats. And the rest of you guys, get lost, okay? Dale Paul and I need to talk.

  After the men leave, I tell him about the warden turning down my idea about betting on celebrities, and the gangster rolls his eyes and shakes his head in all the right places.

  You have any experience with gambling? he asks when I finish.

  I used to play the stock market.

  He laughs uproariously, and for a moment I consider telling him about the school lottery I ran at Munson Hall with Earl Lindquist. Then I rescind my notion.

  10

  Tim Nugent

  TIM STANDS UP and stretches. A few blocks away the lights of the Metropolitan Life Tower are still glowing brightly so it can’t be very late. Good. He still has work to do. Rolling the kinks out of his shoulders, he walks over to the window and looks out. He is fond of his jumbled view of New York City: the various office towers blinking in the
distance like friendly UFOs, the bulky stone apartment complexes with roofs that spout surprisingly old-fashioned wooden towers where the residents’ drinking water is stored.

  He lives in a one-bedroom at the Carteret, the sand-coloured pre-war edifice near the Hotel Chelsea. He likes its high Victorian ceilings and the wooden dado work framing the windows, but he would never entertain Dale Paul here, not with Charlie the cockroach enjoying the run of the ancient kitchen. He’d made that mistake a few years before, and Dale Paul had left after fifteen minutes. A day later, Dale Paul had phoned with the name of an interior decorator on the Upper East Side, and Tim pretended to write it down. He smiles at the memory of Dale Paul sitting perched on Tim’s mission oak armchair with the faded chintz cushion. Tim had bought the chair and the matching desk the year he went to McGill. At least Dale Paul hadn’t visited Tim’s washroom to see the sink with the hot water stains bleached into the porcelain.

  Anything that lacks a view of Central Park would be anathema to his friend. No, he’s got that wrong. Anything not on the Gold Coast would be anathema to Dale Paul, who, without knowing the literary history of the place, bought a mansion in the same Long Island village as Daisy, the heroine in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel The Great Gatsby. Gatsby had been on the west shore (known as West Egg), looking back across the water at the green light on her dock. His old friend lived in Sands Point, which was called East Egg in the book.

  This morning, Dale Paul has sent him an account of their old game of chance at boarding school. It’s strange the things Dale Paul wants to put in the memoir, childhood memories that Tim has forgotten about or, to be honest, wants to forget.

  Tim prints out the attachment that Dale Paul sent on the prison computer and begins to read.

  11

  Dale Paul

  EARL LINDQUIST ARRIVED at Munson Hall after Christmas, like an out-of-season hurricane. The other boys had formed their friendships by then, but of course he barged in. One afternoon, during games, he trudged around the school rink flapping his arms and shouting, I’m a U.S. icebreaker, so I’m going to crush you, okay?

  That evening, as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed Earl sitting on the floor of the hall outside our dorm. He was wearing the communal wastebasket on his head while Thompson and a few other boys stood in a circle around him, bashing the metal container with their hockey sticks. They made so much noise I couldn’t hear Earl yelling, although he must have been shouting at them to stop.

  You’re next, Thompson said, and one of Thompson’s lackeys advanced my way with a raised hockey stick. Luckily for both Earl and myself, I stood near the fire alarm and with the flick of my hand I pulled the switch. It set off a terrifying racket of bells and whistling sounds. Boys who had been getting into their pyjamas ran out of their rooms. In the confusion, I was able to lift the wastebasket off Earl’s head. He stumbled to his feet, his cheeks shiny with tears. Mumbling his thanks, he slunk off.

  When the master arrived, I made up some cock-and-bull story about leaning accidentally against the alarm. I was given five detentions for carelessness and not allowed to go home for the weekend, but Earl, who never went home because he lived too far away, snuck out of bounds with me and we spent the afternoon at a bowling alley smoking Camel cigarettes. Not long after, the two of us came up with the game of chance we called About to Die.

  To begin: Many strange and memorable things had been done at school in the name of boyish high spirits. There was the boarder who drove the large, black chrome bsa 650 motorcycle off the diving board and into the school pool. There was also the crew of junior arsonists who burned down the hockey shed. The boys covered the shed roof with a blanket doused in kerosene. They lit the blanket with a Zippo, and the flames leapt almost as high as the clock face on the tower. Watching from the dorm window, my heart thundered with excitement. (My young, good heart.)

  Their animal rage amazed me, although physical violence wasn’t my style. My rebellion started with Mother giving Pater a popular novel at the time, The Tontine. It told the story of a group of English people who bet on which one of them would be the last to die. The characters in the novel had purchased a form of “last man standing insurance” and the most unlikeable player was the winner. On the frontispiece of the novel, Mother had scrawled her dedication to Pater, “For Joe, who likes to beat the odds.”

  I had read The Tontine under the bedcovers, and my mind had taken me, as my mind has a habit of doing, to applying a novel idea to my own life, but we were only thirteen-year-old schoolboys, and there would be a long wait to get our money. I thought of our teachers.

  My school chums were overjoyed when Earl and I circulated the names of the candidates in our dead pool: Mrs. B., the headmaster’s wife, who had been diagnosed with breast cancer; and the geography teacher, old Cootes, who was wasting away with Parkinson’s disease. Sixty-year-old Cootes was the odds-on favourite.

  Point being, I was a creative, open-minded young man. But until I invented About to Die, the force of my imaginative powers hadn’t been appreciated at Munson Hall. Just the thought of what I provoked still makes me laugh.

  12

  I WAITED ANXIOUSLY in one classroom and Earl waited in another. We had been separated to instill fear. Out in the hall, the shoes of my persecutors were tapping the freshly waxed parquet floor: the headmaster, Rolly Bellwoods, and old Cootes, the scourge of the boarding school, were walking slowly so they wouldn’t slip.

  In the hall, the footsteps stopped. A door opened, and a moment later, I heard a boyish scream. I counted two more, or was it three? Then: no more bone-chilling cries. Once again footsteps sounded in the hall. They were coming for me. The door to my classroom banged against a wall, flung open angrily, I couldn’t help surmising. There was a moment of silence while I waited, shuddering. My cheeks felt hot. Would I keel over in a faint or piss myself?

  A voice hissed, Drop your trousers, son.

  I had been through this before. Clumsily, I unfastened my belt, my fingers shaking as I found the brass metal clasp. My zipper was next. It seemed to take forever to pull it down, as if I were unzipping the back of Mother’s dress when she couldn’t do it for herself. I felt the heavy fabric slide down my thighs and fold about my ankles.

  Your underwear, a second voice whined. I pulled down my boxer shorts. Now I couldn’t move. My ankles were shackled by the cloth of my undergarments.

  Bend over, the voice said.

  I gripped the backrest of the chair placed in the room for this purpose. Outside the window I noticed the mourners at Mrs. B.’s funeral milling about on the lawn. They were dressed in black suits and hats, and the women’s faces under their veils looked sombre.

  I bent farther over the chair. I didn’t mean for her to die, I cried.

  Well, it feels as if you did! the voice replied.

  There was a whistling sound, and when the blow came, my head and back jerked upright in an involuntary spasm. The cane stung the childish flab of my buttocks, the back of my thighs, my scrotum.

  Hold your balls, my persecutor said.

  I wanted to scream and weep and beat my chest, but instead I cupped the vulnerable flesh between my legs and said nothing.

  13

  AS I DO the breaststroke in the prison pool, I wonder why I didn’t tell John Giaccone the story of About to Die and how we campaigned in secret to promote pervy old Cootes so the boys wouldn’t vote for Mrs. B. I can see her in a faded floral dress, standing by my bed waiting to inspect the boys’ hands before dinner. She positioned herself there to avoid the steaming hot water radiators. Just the same, the sight of her standing near my cot made me feel good.

  Let’s see what interesting things you have to show me, she would say teasingly as she turned over my filthy paws. She wasn’t like Nurse Easto, who sniffed disapprovingly while the school doctor lifted up your balls, checking for bumps and Jeezus knows what other signs of embarrassing sexual diseases.r />
  In fact, it was Mrs. B. who told on Thompson and the other boys for placing a wastebasket over the heads of the new boys, a torture they referred to euphemistically as hockey practice. The headmaster made Thompson and his posse run ten miles around the quad. So that’s why I thought of Mrs. B. as our protector. I never meant her any harm.

  My campaign against Cootes started during the Easter holidays, when Mother and Pater were in the Bahamas. I had been quarantined in the infirmary with measles, and I could have died alone and unloved in those vast, anodyne rooms. One night, I overheard Mrs. B. talking to Nurse Easto outside my door. At first, I thought they were talking about me, but it was something more serious.

  Dr. Wilkes says I have six months left, Mrs. B. whispered. Six months, Clara. I’m still a young woman.

  Sometimes doctors get it wrong, Nurse Easto replied.

  Well, he says I have the virulent kind of cancer, and the statistics are not good.

  You poor thing, Nurse Easto murmured. I couldn’t hear the rest of their conversation. After it stopped, I lay staring for hours at the ceiling. What would it be like to know I would never again be heard or seen on the earth? That never again would I buy and sell the preferred shares in General Electric that I received on my birthday? Never again to tramp through the Muskoka marshes, looking for frogs to sell to the fishermen at the government dock near our cottage?

  Poor doomed Mrs. B. grew increasingly frail. One morning during prayers, Nurse Easto sat down beside Mrs. B. in the front row of our chapel. The two women exchanged sad looks as our headmaster rolled into one of his boorish pep talks.

  The sight of Nurse Easto reminded me of the medical forms she pre-pared for Dr. Wilkes. Later that day, I stole into the infirmary and scanned the forms that Nurse Easto kept in a drawer in the hall table.