Cluck

by Lenore Rowntree

  He puts on the new black T-shirt and blue jeans he bought from the Mark’s Work Wearhouse on Fourth Avenue. Kitty wears a lot of black and he thinks she’ll approve. He plans to ask if she has time to go for a spin and catch a coffee away from the mall. He’s cleaned out his mother’s car, throwing out stacks of old mail and remnants of takeout food. He shaves extra carefully and puts a bit of water on his thick blond hair to hold down the cowlick at the back. He notices his hair is darkening a little, wonders about the genetics of having a dark-haired mother. His father must have been fair. When he’s ready he tries to slip quietly out the front door, but Alice hears him.

  Why are you wearing that awful black shirt? she calls.

  I like it.

  Makes you look like a workie.

  I am a workie.

  Where are you going?

  To do the shopping.

  I’ll come.

  It’s okay. I can handle it.

  No, I want to come.

  It’s too far for you to walk.

  I thought you said you were taking the car. You don’t even have the shopping cart with you.

  No, I’m walking. I’m just getting the cart now.

  He disappears into the front hall cupboard and makes a lot of noise looking for the cart. After he finds it, he stands in the dark closet for a time until he’s pretty sure his mother has distracted herself and is no longer waiting to go with him.

  But as he emerges, she’s standing right there. I need the exercise, she says. Give me the cart, I’ll walk with you.

  Maybe I will take the car after all, he says. The load might be too big for walking.

  Okay, I’ll drive with you then.

  Henry shrugs. All right.

  I just wish you’d take that awful shirt off, put on something with a little colour.

  Quiet, Mom.

  They load the cart into the back of the car and Henry drives as fast as he can to the Arbutus Mall so that they can get in and out of the Food Floors before Kitty goes on break. He lets his mother load the cart with cookies, pastas, two tubs of ice cream, sausages, all the things he knows are not good for them, because in the end it’s quicker to do this than to argue. He’s walking stooped, he’s so tense in the neck. It isn’t until they’ve paid and are leaving the Food Floors that he lets his shoulders drop from around his ears. They’re almost out the mall door when his mother spins on her heel and says, I want to check out the dry cleaners.

  No. You can’t, Henry says. The ice cream will melt.

  But she’s already off and he has to drag the too-full shopping cart behind him. He’s keeping up with her until a bottle of apple juice hooks on one of the benches by the playjungle and smashes on the tile floor. He stops to pick up the big pieces so nobody will get hurt, and by the time he catches up, she is already talking to Kitty. From the doorway he hears her say, Why would you turn a perfectly good name like Catherine into something so slutty as Kitty?

  Mom, Henry wails, I can’t believe you said that.

  Kitty says, This is your mom?

  He feels his ears begin to burn hot and a snort of anguished embarrassment move up his throat. He tries to suppress it, but a sound like the stifled choke of a dying hyena comes out his mouth.

  Chaaanggh-Chaaanggh-Chaaanggh-de-topukh, please.

  Only the last word comes out at any sort of normal level and volume, and he has to wipe his eyes when he’s finished speaking. He’d been trying to say, Change the topic, please.

  Kitty and his mother look at him with alarm, but he sees behind the expression on Kitty’s face — he’s just another weirdo guy at the mall, with a crazy mother. Any chance he had with her is over.

  Pull yourself together, Mom, and come with me. Now! he barks.

  Alice looks at him with a mixture of confusion and hurt, but says nothing. He can’t tell whether she’s being disingenuous or is simply so socially inept she really doesn’t know what she’s done. Either way, he needs to get out of the mall. He doesn’t want the dying hyena routine to be just the warm-up.

  After they get home, he takes the container of Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond to his bedroom and eats the entire thing. He wolfs it fast. When Alice calls to ask where the ice cream went, he doesn’t answer. The skin from one of the almonds sticks between his incisor and front tooth where it starts to annoy the shit out of him. When he hears her opening the cellophane on the lemon cookie pack, he stalks into the kitchen, snatches it from her, and throws it on the floor.

  Well, I never. What has gotten into you, Henry?

  I think you know.

  I don’t know.

  He feels like weeping. His gut tells him he should move away from this house, but he can’t bring himself to abandon his mother or the cocoon of his bedroom lined with his albums, the one place where she mostly leaves him in peace. He goes back to his room, pulls a pad out from his desk and tears out all the sheets and tapes them onto the windows of his door. Then he rips off the black T-shirt and blue jeans — they’re too sophisticated for him anyway — draws the front drapes and thumbs through the records until he finds Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs. He jams the rocket chair under his doorknob and turns the volume way up. He drops the needle on “Wooly Bully” and dances alone in his underpants.

  FIVE

  New Occupants

  I’M GOING TO START WITH Beginners’ Basics and work my way up to the Jane Fonda Burn Class, Alice says as she lays the Kitsilano Community Centre fitness schedule on the table.

  Henry is not sure this will ever happen, and in time he’s proven right, but his mother does start a routine of walking to the Centre a few times every week where she relaxes in the hot tub and even gets on the stationary bicycle for a couple of spins. This is good because the drugs have increased her appetite and she’s put on more weight. The Centre also has group music lessons, and she tells him about sitting in a circle singing with a bunch of other people and playing the ukulele. Her favourite tune is “Think of Me”.

  Remember that one? she says. Skeeter Davis sang it. It’s got only three chord changes, but it sounds so good.

  She sings, Think of me when you’re lonely.

  Henry remembers Skeeter, but he doesn’t remember her ever singing the song. Or maybe it’s just the way Alice sings it, but it doesn’t matter. She’s been getting out of the house and she’s met some people who will listen to her for more than three seconds. And that is what’s important.

  She often mentions two brothers, Jim and Chas, whom she first encountered in the hot tub. She tells Henry about them over supper, tidbits about their lives, along with new recipes for rhubarb cobbler, ideas for spring colours. One night, after six months of talk, she waggles her fingers in front of Henry’s face. Her nails are meticulously painted in a showy silver polish — a colour Chas has apparently recommended.

  Don’t they look beautiful and, oh, I’ve got an income stream again, she says.

  This too is a new thing for her, running two completely different thoughts together in one sentence and both of them rooted in the real world. He has to admit it’s a relief to hear she might have work again. Although she’s refused over the years to give any details about her savings — Don’t want Little Ducky troubling himself — he knows, even with his job at Agriculture, money is becoming a concern. All the previous winter they were having to turn the heat off during the day. Then in the spring she broke down and applied for a mortgage on the house, something she’d apparently promised her own mother she would never do.

  You have a new job? he asks.

  Yes, I’m a landlady.

  Where?

  Here, she points downstairs. I’ve had Hydro turn the power back on down there.

  Years before, a couple lived in the basement suite, but no one had been down there since he was five or six. As a teenager, he tried to convince her to let him sleep there or at least use it as a study, but she claimed the key was lost and it wasn’t safe to inhabit. He knew better than to argue back then.

  Afte
r supper, they push the suite’s door open. It creaks like an old person startled by a visitor. The place smells musty, but appears livable enough. Alice goes directly into the kitchen where she turns on the stove. While the elements heat up, she removes the dishcloths jammed into the freezer and fridge doors to keep them ajar. She sticks her nose inside the fridge and sniffs.

  Whew. We’ll need baking soda to get the smell out.

  He watches while she flits, keeping his eye on the now fiery-red elements. It’s an age-old concern he’ll probably never lose. Whenever she’s near a big pane of glass, a burning candle, a hot stove, some part of him will always watch for the quick flash of the hand. He wants to be there to stop it.

  You could help, you know, she says.

  He reaches over and flicks off the stove elements.

  Two days later, Jim and Chas show up ready to move in. Mrs. Krumpskey, the nosy neighbour from across the street, watches from her porch and even ventures once to the edge of her lawn where she looks poised to say something, but doesn’t. Possibly she’s intimidated by Jim’s impressive size. In no way do these two men look like brothers. Chas is delicate, maybe a year older than Henry, mid- to late-twenties, with a well-shaven face and impeccable clothing — creased khakis, a fresh white dress shirt, and stylish loafers. He seems excited to meet Henry and moves gracefully in and out of the door carrying his matching leather bags.

  Jim is a tall, sprawling man with a bushy beard and a thick thatch of greying chest hair popping from the neck of his flannel shirt. If they are brothers, Jim is the elder by at least ten years. He stands imposing as a horse in the frame of the door and has to stoop to walk through. He grunts something when Henry sticks his hand out, but he doesn’t take the hand, simply walks past and throws his duffle bag into the bedroom. It seems to be all he has brought with him. He lies down in the middle of the bed, his feet extending over the end of it.

  Not much room for me in that bed, Chas giggles.

  For sure these men are not brothers, but Henry’s not certain his mother has caught the gist of it.

  Could you help me with something at the car? Chas asks Henry.

  Henry walks with him toward a beautiful Mustang convertible.

  Nice car, he says. Is it new?

  Only to me. It’s a couple of years old already, an ’82. The last year Ford made the blue glow.

  Chas reaches in the back and pulls out a strange piece of rosewood furniture with a pair of pants hanging on it. He sets it on the sidewalk.

  What’s that? Henry asks.

  A trouser press, Chas says and hands him a wine-coloured silk robe still in its dry-cleaner’s bag. He watches Chas put the roof up and lock the doors. The plastic on the bag flaps in the breeze like a kite waiting to take off. He walks down the sidewalk behind Chas, who reaches over to take the robe from him at the door and kisses the air.

  Thank you so much. You’re a dear.

  Before Henry and his mother leave them to unpack Chas asks, Can we set up a barbeque in the little patio area at the back?

  Henry is expecting this to be a problem, but Alice answers with a breezy, Sure.

  Super, Chas says. We’ll have you down for a cookout the first weekend there’s good weather.

  Three weeks later, on a sunny Saturday evening, Chas and Jim invite Henry and his mother for dinner. Chas has cleaned the moss off the old paving stones that for years have been stacked at the back, and he’s laid them out with a border of pots filled with purple and pink petunias. Four new webbed folding chairs lean against the kitchen table that someone has dragged out from inside the suite. Chas snaps open a chair and gives it a pat. Have a seat, Alice. Make yourself comfortable. What can I get you two to drink?

  Do you have any soda? Alice asks.

  Cherry Coke and orange, Chas answers.

  I’ll have a cherry Coke.

  Me too, Henry adds.

  Chas ducks inside and returns wearing an apron and carrying a tray with drinks and an assortment of canapés: asparagus rolled in salmon, smoked oysters nestled on cheese puffs, and skewers of shrimp interspersed with tiny-tom tomatoes. Alice piles her plate high and proceeds to remove all the fishy bits. When she becomes aware everyone is watching her, she looks up and says, What?

  Save room for dinner, Chas says. Jim has some delicious steak he’s barbequing for us.

  I will, don’t worry, she says. I could eat a cow. It’s the drugs.

  Jim looks at her with interest for the first time since they’ve arrived. Henry feels as if he and his mother are the kids sipping on their cherry drinks while smiling Chas and glaring Jim, who is maybe a little drunk, are the parents. He’s grateful no one is making a fuss over Alice wasting the expensive seafood that’s now piled in an inglorious heap by her plate.

  Once they’re all sitting around the wobbling table sawing at their steaks — the meat overcooked — Alice breaks the silence with a question Henry is surprised she doesn’t know the answer to, given all the crowing she’s done about what friends they’ve become.

  What do you fellows do for a living?

  Jim answers by lifting his fork toward Chas, He’s a hairdresser.

  Stylist, Jim. I’m a hair stylist, Chas corrects.

  Whatever, Jim says.

  Oh, maybe I can come in for a trim sometime, Alice says. Which salon?

  Derrick’s of Liverpool, Chas says.

  I’ve heard of Darryl’s of London but not Derrick’s of Liverpool.

  Jim snorts, Not surprised. What a stupid name for a hair shop.

  Jim, just because you don’t like where you work doesn’t mean you can make fun of where I do.

  Where do you work, Jim? Alice asks.

  Jim doesn’t answer. Finally Chas does.

  He’s a longshoreman at the grain elevators in North Van. It’s not really his scene.

  The conversation suddenly has become awkward, and it’s clear the subject of jobs is a touchy one. Henry is glad nobody asks where he works as he has just that week — after years of fretting about whether or not to lobby Chief — been given a chance to train as an apprentice poultry technician. He’s waiting for the right moment to tell his mother, and this moment is clearly not it. In the silence, Chas begins to clear plates and offers coffee. Jim gets up and pours himself a shot of something topaz-coloured from a bottle he has stashed beside the barbeque. Chas asks him teasingly, What about our guests?

  Jim ignores him and Henry says, Neither mom nor I drink anyway. But thanks.

  On the way back to his chair after serving everyone sponge cake, Chas stops behind Jim and gives him a head massage.

  New shiatsu technique I learned, he says.

  Jim swats his hand away, and Chas looks a little hurt, but undaunted he moves on to Henry.

  Fine head of hair you have here, he says. He begins to massage Henry’s scalp, but Henry is concerned that Jim, who is now glowering, does not like it. Neither does he, particularly; he’s not used to having people so close to him and he’s kind of surprised how easily Chas is able to do this. Chas is making a short tapping motion along Henry’s shoulders, cooing about how strong he feels under his shirt, when Jim snaps.

  Cut it out, he hollers. He gets up and leaves the table with his cake untouched.

  Well, says Alice. I guess we better get going.

  Thanks for coming, Chas says. Sorry about the scene. Jim’ll get over it. He’s had a hard day. He really is a good provider. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

  Same as my Henry, Alice says.

  That night, lying in bed above Jim and Chas’ bedroom, Henry tries very hard not to think about what might be going on down below him. He’s sad for Chas who seems to be trying hard to be a good guy, and maybe he’s a little sad for Jim, too, because he seems stuck. He thinks he understands a little about that part of being Jim at least.

  Around one in the morning he hears the suite door slam shut. When he looks through the crack in his curtains, he can see Jim walking alone across the lawn toward the street. He
goes back to bed and lies quietly for another hour wondering what must have happened as the night progressed and where Jim might be going. Eventually he leaves thoughts of Jim and Chas and finds his hands on his tackle, his thoughts focused on, of all people, the new receptionist at work.

  Janine, he thinks her name is. She’s not really his type, that is if he can even say he has a type, but there is something about the way her front teeth overlap that makes her look like a bunny rabbit. He sort of likes that about her. And also, strange to think, her bad breath that fills the lunchroom when she talks — he doesn’t mind that either. It’s at once human and horse-like, the same odour he smelled when his grade six class visited the stables in Southlands. The horses’ breath came out in snorts of steam that smelled of fermented hay.

  He debates whether he will do anything with his semi-erection. Things were so discouraging after Kitty he vowed to forget about women, and then after that when he did try to arouse himself, thinking first about black-eyeliner girl from school and then, despite his vow, Kitty again, nothing happened, which made him feel inadequate all over again. But right at this moment, drumming on the head of his big fella, it feels okay. And if it works it might actually help him to go to sleep.

  He jigs and he jags with his right hand and eventually when he does come, he is thinking about Janine’s breath and horse balls at the same time. Lying there afterwards, he isn’t even sure whether it was balls or horseshit he’d been thinking about, but whatever it was he’s pretty sure he won’t ever be able to look properly at Janine again.

  In a jabbering dream, he sees himself, Chas, and a woman that could be Janine, with a horse that he is sure is Jim, walking down a forested path in a place like Southlands. When they stop at a crystal pool, stones slip from their glittering eyes and one falls from the horse’s nose. Two green, two orange, two yellow, and one large white stone — quite a nice collection. That’s it, or all of it he can remember when he wakes in the morning. He doesn’t usually pay attention to dreams, but he wonders what this one means.