Knucklehead & Other Stories

by W. Mark Giles

  “You don’t pay attention,” Joy said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You smile and nod, but you’re somewhere else.”

  “That’s a fine thing to say about your mother.”

  “I’m just not sure,” Vi says to the waitress. She pulls her little phone book from her bag. She’s not wearing her trifocals, so she raises her glasses off the bridge of her nose and peers under the rims. She checks under the J’s for Joy, even though she knows she has never bothered to write down her daughter’s cellular phone number.

  She looks up and asks, “Do you have another location in the city somewhere?”

  “Another location?” the waitress repeats. She doesn’t look at Vi, her eyes are scanning the room, checking the hot line for any orders up.

  “I thought perhaps this might be part of a chain,” Vi offers. “Perhaps my daughter has gone to a different one.” Years ago, before George left her for that other woman—they’re both dead now, bon débarras as Grandma Mich used to say—she and George were to go to a Christmas party. A very classy affair, George in his dinner jacket, Vi in the dress that she had purchased for her sister’s second wedding. From Chez LeMarchand, hundreds of dollars, a Parisian designer gown, two fittings. At the last moment, George phoned to say he was tied up in a conference with a client. “Meet me there,” he said, “You’ll know lots of people.” She’d sent his evening clothes to the office by taxi. She didn’t write down the address, she thought she knew the house, an old sandstone mansion in Mount Royal. Who knew there would be so many? They all looked the same in the dark as she drove up and down the streets. A limousine pulled into a long drive and a liveried footman stepped forward to open its rear door.

  She parked—there was no street parking for nearly a full block. Wishing she had worn winter boots and carried her dress shoes in a bag, she picked her way up the drive, over the ice and ruts, thankful for the sand spread on the slope. As she neared the door, the footman came to meet her, umbrella held high to ward off nonexistent snow. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said. “Welcome.” He ushered her into a foyer that was open to the second floor, as big as the lobby of a grand old hotel. He helped her out of her coat and hung it in a cloakroom off to the side. She was greatly fond of that coat, a simple long cut made from good grey wool, but she saw it looked drab next to the furs on the rolling racks. A woman in a dress identical to hers, but accessorized with pearls and diamonds and platinum jewellery, broke off from a group and came to meet her. “I’m so glad you could come,” the woman said. Their eyes swept each other, searching for recognition.

  “Your dress,” Vi said, and she laughed, a nervous giggle that never failed to mortify her. It rang so hollow. “Oops.”

  The other woman beamed a smile and took Vi’s arm. “We have exquisite taste, you and I. Just wait until I talk to Georges.”

  “Pardon me?” Vi said. “Is he here?”

  The woman lifted her eyebrow, what was left of it. “I’m sorry? Is who here?”

  “George. Did you say George?”

  The woman’s smile slipped ever so slightly, then she went on: “Georges. Georges LeMarchand? Is he here? Heavens no. But you must have got your dress from his shop, n’est-ce pas?”

  Vi giggled again, covering her mouth with her hand. She was aware that her only jewellery was a simple gold wedding band. She wondered if she should have worn gloves. “I thought you said George. My husband’s name is George. Is he here yet? He was stuck at the office.” The woman was looking over Vi’s shoulder now. “Oh, I’m sure if he’s not here, he will be soon.” She disengaged from Vi to greet two couples coming through the door. “Clarisse, Joan. Hello. Andrew, Zachary.” As she moved away she gave Vi a squeeze on her arm—a gentle caress just above the elbow, for which Vi was thankful.

  Vi drifted from room to room, group to group, standing at the fringes of conversation, admiring the paintings on the walls, the books on the shelves, the statues in corners. The house was the biggest she had ever been in that wasn’t preserved as a museum. People actually lived here. Vi wasn’t even sure what to call the half-dozen rooms, plus hallways and foyers, where the ten-dozen or more guests circulated. The big one was the living room, she supposed, though its scale suggested a ballroom. And a library. A dining room, with the table pushed to one side and piled high with smoked salmon canapés and dishes of caviar flanked by rounds of rye toast and rows of tiny ivory spoons. Two more rooms she couldn’t put names to. Dens? Parlours? Everywhere Persian carpets over polished dark hardwood. Mahogany? Ceilings at least twelve feet high, old-fashioned baseboards nearly up to her knee, flocked wallpaper, immaculate antique furniture. She tried to remember whose house it was — one of the new partners at George’s firm? A client? A half-hour later, after sampling the caviar (surprisingly salty but clearly habit-forming) and dashing off two flutes of champagne proffered by silent waiters in long-tailed jackets, she found herself hovering near the front door, hoping for George. It was after nine o’clock.

  Then the hostess was at her side again, still smiling warmly. “So. Still waiting for the mysterious George?” As she spoke, she spun a bracelet on her wrist.

  “Oh. He’s not mysterious,” Vi said. “Just late. I was hoping to find a phone to see if he’s still at the office. I’m afraid I don’t recognize anyone here.”

  The woman guided Vi to a small room, hardly bigger than a closet, just off the entrance. A Princess telephone stood on a compact polished desk, along with a pad of linen notepaper and a pen in a marble holder. Vi pulled her little phone book from her clutch and looked under G. Though she called him at least once a day, she was no good at remembering numbers. She dialled his phone and, as expected, got the answering service. She tried the switchboard—again nothing. She called the security desk in the lobby of George’s building and was relieved when Neil answered. He was one of the regular security officers, not some pimply-faced recruit filling a shift. “Neil,” Vi said, “It’s Mrs. Spenser. I was wondering if you knew whether George—Mr. Spenser—was still in the building.” But no, he’d signed out an hour ago or more, dressed for dinner. She waited while Neil confirmed his exit in the log. “Thank you, Neil. Merry Christmas.” She put the phone down. The hostess lingered nearby, rearranging a floral display beneath a mirror the size of the picture window in Vi’s house. “No luck, dear?” she said to Vi.

  “No,” Vi said. “He left ages ago.”

  “Did I hear you say his name was ‘Spenser?’” The hostess looked at Vi in the mirror. “I’m afraid I just didn’t recognize it at all.” Vi felt the blood rush to her face, quelled the laugh that rose in her throat like an unwanted thistle in the garden. “Oh my. I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m sorry to have put you out,” Vi said. She had a sudden impulse to strike the other woman. She’d never told Joy that story. Never would either.

  The waitress is saying, “No. We’re not a chain. We’re one of a kind.”

  Vi pushes her glass away. “I wonder if you can bring me fresh water, without ice this time,” she says. The waitress grabs it quickly, spilling a few drops on the tablecloth. Viola wants to order the fish. Not with the sauce or reduction or whatever nonsense they call it. Just fish, and rice. And a small green salad, lettuce and things, without any dressing, certainly nothing with vodka. That sounds like a very nice meal. Joy will be sorry if she misses it.

  But Viola doesn’t order. She dabs the corner of her napkin where the water is beading on the linen. She looks up, catching the waitress’s eye. “What do you think I should do?” Vi asks.

  Ledge

  Twelve storeys down, traffic has stopped. An ever-growing crowd of a few dozen spills into the street. I can see their faces as they turn their heads to look up. There’s Bob Logan from Accounts Receivable—he’s easy to spot with his green checked sports coat and his chrome-dome head. That’s Manny from the mailroom beside him, his long greying ponytail bobbing with excitement. No doubt they’re both coming back from lunch—picking their Sports Select nu
mbers, a poker game maybe. They might’ve even dashed to the casino and back. They’re probably making book right now, taking bets from the crowd. I can imagine Bob yelling, “Jump!” or “Don’t Jump!” depending on which side of the action he’s holding.

  My window unit, like all the units in this office tower, is sealed, so I am unable to hear his or the others’ voices. Nor can I lean out to see how the crowd is developing directly below on the sidewalk in front of this building. I do have a good view across the street, to the building with the crumbling sandstone façade. Facing me, a man is standing on a ledge at the same level as my office, three or four metres below the top of his building. He’s wearing a dark-blue double-breasted pinstriped suit. The well-tailored jacket is still buttoned. He’s got a ridiculous polka-dotted bowtie coming apart at his high collar. One trouser leg breaks perfectly over his shoe. Shoes as absurd as his tie: pointed black boots with elastic inserts on the side. They do have a nice shine. The other neat cuff has ridden up and lodged in the high top at his ankle. With those shoes, I am amazed he has managed to climb onto the ledge.

  I am certain that Bob and Manny have a bet going—if not with the crowd, at least with each other. They have edged their way around to the far side, where they are talking to a cop. Maybe the cop wants in on some of the action, figures he’s got an edge with inside information. None of the three—Bob, Manny, the cop—pay attention to the man. I look across again. He seems handsome enough, he’s probably very attractive in spite of the tie and shoes. Maybe I think so because he’s so vulnerable. His hair is blowing a bit in the breeze, across his forehead, catching highlights from the summer sun. He could be in a shampoo ad. He’s hanging on now above his head, both hands clutching the jaw of a gargoyle that adorns the parapet.

  I have difficulty making out his expression as he looks down between his upraised arms. He is standing duck-footed, trying to maintain as much purchase as he can on the narrow ledge. He recoils as if startled, letting a foot slip, and I flinch too. A woman has appeared on the roof above him. I think she’s called out to him. I see her lips moving. As he regains his footing and twists to look up at her, I finally see his face well. Sad-eyed with a furrowed brow, he has a lively mouth and chin. I would guess his age at mid-thirties.

  The woman on the roof is talking. Even though she’s in civilian clothes—a smart black blazer over a silky-looking green blouse with a big collar—I assume she’s a cop. At least she’s in the company of police who stand back out of the man’s line of sight. I can just see the tops of their bodies above the edge of the roofline. Dressed in tight-fitting fatigues, they hold their leather-gloved hands cupped to earpieces. Coiled wires disappear into tight shirt collars. They talk into their sleeves and beckon to others I cannot see. The man on the ledge shakes his head.

  When he puts his head down, I can see he’s thinning on top. Not exactly male-pattern baldness, he hasn’t resorted to combing long hanks over the top. But there’s the shine of scalp. Then he looks up to see the woman on the roof. He crooks his right arm—still raised to the gargoyle’s mouth—to make a port through which he peers at her as best he can. He exposes the whiteness of his throat as he tilts his head and raises his eyes skyward.

  Two more observers have appeared at a window below him and a little to his left. One is a stout middle-aged woman in a brown outfit with epaulets. The other is a cop in regular uniform. The building on which the man is perched is turn-of-the-century vintage, so they can open the window and lean out. By the expression on the woman’s face, I assume that she is the man’s boss, or lover, or both. Or she wants to be his lover. I look over to try to make out whether or not he’s got a wedding band on his left ring finger. She is calling to him, making beseeching gestures with hands and face. As the woman in brown leans forward, the cop looks at her cleavage.

  The police helicopter beats the air overhead. Down in the street, the crowd numbers in the hundreds now. I can hear the low rumble of their white noise, muffled but steady through the triple glazing. The fire department is trying to set up an airbag, but a portico and a parked chocolate-brown delivery truck obstruct the impact zone. A fight has broken out on the edge of the crowd. I watch as the jostle of combatants and police and spectators eddy and swirl in the wash of the mob. I’ve lost track of Bob and Manny.

  The man has managed to turn around so that he is hugging the building, still hanging on to the gargoyle above. His pants are smudged with dust, his shirt is untucked at the back and sticks out below his jacket. I think I can see a tear at the seam under his arm. Two cops on the roof are rigged like climbers with ropes and carabiners, ready to leap over the edge. The woman is leaning far over the parapet, held secure by fatigue-clad officers who have girded her with a safety belt. Her blouse is straining at the buttons, pulled taut over her slim bosom. She’s wearing a matching green camisole. If the man released his left hand from the gargoyle, he might be able to grasp hers. The woman in brown below has her head buried in her arms on the windowsill. The cop beside her listens to his radio. The man looks back and forth between the proffered hand, the street below, and the woman in the window.

  I wonder about taking a thick felt marker from my top drawer and writing a sign on a piece of my letterhead to hold to the window. What to say?

  Don’t Jump.

  Choose Life.

  Please.

  It Can’t Be That Bad.

  Reconsider.

  Jump.

  My telephone rings. It’s Bob Logan. “Wave to him,” he says. His voice is digitally compressed. He’s calling on his cellular. “What?” I ask. I scan the street below, and sure enough there’s Bob among the throng, phone pressed to his ear. Both he and Manny are looking up towards me, but at the wrong window. “I’m over here,” I say.

  “Wave. Now. Just do it,” he says and hangs up. I look across to the man, and for the first time he glances over his shoulder and sees me. Our eyes lock for an instant. He wriggles to turn himself half-around to see me better. The woman on the roof looks over, and the woman in brown lifts her head. One of the tactical team police officers across the way trains his binoculars on me.

  I lift my hand as if I’ll wave.

  The Day the

  Buffalo Came

  I

  There was no shoulder on the road, just ditch, which is why I didn’t pull over to take the picture. I really can’t say why I wanted to take a picture of a dead horse in the first place. Startling image, I guess. Perhaps it was the sun and the heat—I’d been driving all afternoon with the sunroof open and it was hot, 34 or 35 degrees. That’s maybe what killed the horse, heat prostration.

  The corpse: charcoal-grey with Appaloosa spots on its rump and a black tail and mane, collapsed awkwardly, upside down, splayed feet pointing up to the crest of the knoll. Two more horses standing over the dead one: one looking like its twin, pawing the ground near its head, the other a skittish strawberry roan nickering near the tail. On top of the knoll, somewhat apart from the others, a black-and-white paint pony cantering back and forth against the backdrop of the Porcupine Hills and clear blue skies.

  I down-shifted quickly from fifth gear to fourth. I glanced in the rearview—still plenty of separation between me and the farm truck I had passed a couple of minutes before. I have a bad habit, as dangerous as talking on a cell phone or eating a Big Mac while driving. Flipping through my catalogue of photos taken over the years, I can pick out dozens of pictures I’ve snapped from moving vehicles. Buildings, landscapes. People, cars, sunsets through the windshield. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I worked my camera free of the bag on the seat beside me and raised it quickly at arm’s length, thumbing the autozoom and trying to frame a shot through the passenger window as I drove by. It’s a move I’ve done a hundred times before.

  I was listening to Jimi Hendrix on the stereo, god knows why, and it was loud. I think the horses could hear it too—the one on the hilltop reared up. Beautiful. Just as I snapped, I hit a pothole and some washboard in the road and fumbled
the camera. I muttered a curse, grabbed it and lifted it again. I was more or less even with the horses now, maybe a bit ahead, so I leaned way over until the camera was almost out the other window.

  Maybe I cranked the steering wheel to the left as I was pushing off it. I don’t know. As I clicked the shutter and the Pentax’s autowind whirred and Jimi’s guitar wailed, I heard the horn and looked up.

  I was on the wrong side of the road, veering for the nose of a motorhome with Michigan plates. It is peculiar, I know it is almost a cliché, but somehow I had the time to think, Wow, he’s a long way from home. I yanked the wheel to the right and jammed the accelerator. I had slowed down so much that the engine lugged, and hesitated. The other driver was so close I thought I could touch him. He was sitting behind his windshield like it was the plate glass window at the Four Seasons in Manhattan. Fifty-five, maybe sixty years old, trim and tanned with neatly cropped white hair and a pale yellow golf shirt. I could see the alligator crest on it. I’ll never forget the look on his face—not frightened, nor alarmed, nor excited, but determined. A set to his jaw, a slight furrow to his brow, steady blue eyes. He had the look of a man who had faced down those hard inevitable moments in life—laying off a shift of factory workers, locking a son or daughter out of the house in a fit of ToughLove, shaking the hand of the executive vice-president after signing his forced retirement. And now this inevitable moment: he was about to drive his 33-foot Pace Arrow head-on into a vintage Mercedes sport coupe. I have an idea how I looked: sun-burnt architect with flip-up sunglasses flipped down, covering saucer-eyed panic—seemingly cool as death loomed.