by Anne Simpson
It had been so sheltered, that world of childhood, where a dancer pirouetted inside a painting. There had never been any worry about money, and there never would be. The land their parents had sold off had been turned into blocks of condominiums near Niagara-on-the-Lake. The Greenborough Estates, for God’s sake, had made their parents wealthy. But money hadn’t saved her father from the slow deterioration of his eyesight and then, later, having a heart attack as he came inside after gardening. It hadn’t saved her mother from getting melanoma.
It didn’t save Ingrid from going into Emergency, leaving the bright afternoon and walking into the dimness of the hospital. It didn’t save her from seeing the look on Damian’s face, from holding him and trying to comfort him. It didn’t save her from being taken, along with Damian, down to the hospital morgue. They could have been in a bank, with someone leading them to the safety deposit boxes, except that the smell of formaldehyde was all around them. A long metal drawer was pulled out of the wall, and there was her daughter, in a white zippered bag. Like a garment bag. They unzipped her.
Lisa, whispered Ingrid. Her whole body was trembling.
It was Lisa and it was not Lisa. The features were all the same features, but the skin wasn’t right. It had been a matter of hours; that was all. Only a matter of hours. That very morning this daughter of hers had woken up alive and now she was dead.
Lisa’s hair was still damp, though it had been quite a while since they’d brought her in. Her hair had dried in ropes, the way wet hair dries when it isn’t combed. There was sand on her neck. Oh, there was sand on her neck. Why should it have been sand on her neck that brought tears coursing down Ingrid’s face? Just a delicate tracing of sand, that was all. This was her daughter. Her daughter was dead. Ingrid kept thinking this, but it didn’t make it real.
She had stood beside her mother at her father’s wake. Roger on one side, Ingrid on the other. Her mother was like a bird, and it was only the two of them on either side that kept her from gliding away. It was like that with Lisa too. Her body was hard and closed, but Lisa herself was light and feathery. She would vanish, fly up out of that narrow, bright room, if only Ingrid would release her.
No, she couldn’t release her.
She closed her eyes. Strangely enough, in that moment, she thought of Roger, in the Bomb Barrel, going over Niagara Falls. She had the sensation of being at the brink and realizing there was nothing to hold her back. Terrifying. How had Roger gone over the Falls? Twice. Not counting that other time he’d tried, or the time he hung upside down at the brink of the Falls for a film. She didn’t know how he’d done it, hanging upside down like a fruit bat, with the water rushing away beneath him.
And here was Ingrid with the firm, waxed hospital floor beneath her, though everything had given way. Her life had given way.
WE’RE OKAY, THE TWO OF US, Roger said. We get by.
We get by, echoed Elvis.
They were eating a late dinner of tortellini and salad on the porch because Ingrid and Roger had spent the day in Niagara-on-the-Lake, tootling around, as Roger put it. Ingrid and Damian had been in town a week, and she’d shown him the Flower Clock, the Spanish Aero Car, Fort George. They could have gone to Crystal Beach that day, where Damian could use the kayak, but he offered to cut the lawn for his uncle just to spend time by himself.
Sometimes Damian couldn’t be around his mother and uncle, listening to them talk about how Nancy Ann Jakubowski had lost her leg to diabetes and whether Jerry Sparks had ever come home from the Buddhist monastery on an island off eastern Thailand. When they realized how they’d been leaving Damian out of the conversation, they’d tried to draw him into it. But the people they were talking about had all been born at least thirty years before Damian, and he didn’t want to know what a knockout Nancy Ann had been before she gained weight.
It had been a relief when they left Damian alone. He’d cut the grass absently in the heat of the day, and when he was finished he’d flung himself down on the lawn with a glass of lemonade, filled with ice, and watched a line of ants crawl over his arm. Now dusk had fallen and it was cooler. No one wanted to turn on the porch light as they sat there, though they could hardly see the food on their plates. Elvis was already in his pyjamas. He was sitting quietly, picking up the tortellini one by one and squishing them between his fingers before he ate them.
There’ll come a time when I’m just no good for you, Elvis, said Roger. We’ll need to go to a nursing home. Well, I’ll have to go to a nursing home, at least, because I won’t be able to take care of anyone, much less myself. I’m an old wreck as it is.
You do pretty well, said Ingrid.
Oh, something happens at least once a day. Last week Elvis was late getting to the workshop because he lost his Thermos, and you got panicky, didn’t you, Elvis?
Elvis was peering at a pocket of tortellini between his thumb and forefinger.
He got a bit panicky, said Roger.
Elvis put down the piece of tortellini and got up. He went down the steps.
Elvis? said Ingrid.
Friday, November 22, 1963, 1:10 p.m.
JFK, murmured Roger.
Friday, November 22, 1963, Elvis repeated. The date of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. Three months after the death of his son, Patrick Bouvier Kennedy, who lived thirty-nine hours –
Elvis, said Roger.
Both John F. Kennedy and Abraham Lincoln were shot in the head. They both had seven letters in their last names. Lincoln was shot at Ford’s Theatre, and Kennedy was shot in a Lincoln limousine, made by the Ford company.
Ingrid went down the steps and put her hand on Elvis’s arm.
Both of them were shot in the head, he said loudly.
Elvis, there’s ice cream for dessert, said Ingrid. Chocolate swirl.
Shot in the head on a Friday.
Elvis turned on his heel and left them.
He’s gone to the carriage house, said Roger.
I’ll go, said Damian.
It was dark in the carriage house, and when Damian went inside he bumped into a cabinet, making something crash inside it.
Who’s that? cried Elvis. Who’s that?
It’s okay, said Damian. It’s just me.
I’ve got a big gun, said Elvis. There was a shuffling sound, a banging. I’ve got a Winchester 30.30 here.
Elvis, it’s Damian.
I’ve got a big gun.
No, listen – it’s me. It’s Damian Benjamin MacKenzie. May 31, 1987.
Elvis turned on the light. He stood like a large shambling bear, holding a gun. His hand was on the trigger and he was pointing the gun at Damian.
Elvis – don’t. Is there a safety on that thing?
But Elvis was looking down the barrel of the gun. What’s a safety? he asked.
Christ, don’t do that.
Why?
It could go off and you could lose your head. And if you point it at me, I could lose my head.
There aren’t bullets, said Elvis, still looking down the barrel. Roger told me that there weren’t any bullets in it. Did you know that a Winchester 30.30 shoots bullets at two thousand feet per second?
Why does that make me feel even more nervous?
Elvis turned the gun over and stroked the polished wood of the handle. Roger said that it’s a Trapper Carbine. He said that it’s a Trapper Carbine and that it’s an antique and what did my mother need with a gun anyway. That’s what he said.
I’d really appreciate it if you put that Winchester Trapper Carbine down.
Elvis dropped his arms down, but he still held the gun loosely.
Thank you, said Damian, bending and putting his hands on his thighs. His heart was doing acrobatics. Maybe you could put it away. In a locked gun rack or something.
I wasn’t going to shoot you.
Elvis’s sandy hair had been brushed up like a crest on top of his head, and he had the sleepy look of a small boy. He had large eyes, with eyelashes and eyebrows that were so pal
e they could hardly be seen. There were entire galaxies of freckles all over his body; his face and neck, especially, were covered with ginger-coloured speckles.
His blue pyjamas had small sheep and ducks printed on them. They were a little too small and he’d left the top unbuttoned. For some reason, Elvis’s chest surprised Damian, just as it had the first time he’d met him. His chest was as pale and hairless as his face, except for a few sparse curls of sandy-coloured hair; nevertheless, it was a man’s chest.
I wasn’t going to shoot you, he said again.
Well, good, because it scared the bejesus out of me.
For the first time, Damian looked around. He’d never seen a place like this before, filled with things from top to bottom. The glassy yellow eyes of a snowy owl were fixed on him; the bird had been stuffed and put in a huge mahogany case, lined with black velvet, on top of a cabinet. There was a small brass plate in front: Nyctea scandiaca. The creature’s feet were downy with soft feathers, making it look as though it was wearing delicate boots, but its wings were outstretched in an ominous way. It wasn’t an owl – it was a dead thing – but Damian couldn’t help thinking it was real. Such yellow eyes.
Where did all of this come from? asked Damian.
It’s Roger’s stuff.
There was a three-legged table on top of a marble-topped sideboard, and on top of the spindly table was a birdcage, spray-painted with gold. Books were stacked in piles, with old, yellowed newspapers beneath them: there were Bibles and dictionaries, musty with age, and a full set of the Encyclopedia Britannica. A cabinet held treasures behind glass: a rock on which nested tiny ivory birds in ivory nests, and beside the birds, a miniature scene of Santa’s workshop made to look as though it was a cave of ice, where thimble-sized elves were busy swinging hammers and using saws, and a Santa Claus waved his arms as if he were conducting a symphony. Santa’s Animated Workshop – $78.00. Next to it was a pair of horns from a two-headed ram, according to the label, and a Ghanaian gold weight of a dancing woman. The gold weight held open the table of contents of a book written by Siamese twins (The Left Page Being the Work of Simon and the Right Page Being the Work of Albert, Dated This Year of Our Lord, 1789). Overlooking Simon and Albert was a pink music box, with the lid raised and a pink ballerina tilted precariously against a mirrored backing.
In an umbrella stand were five walking sticks, and Damian pulled one out, idly; it was an ebony and brass stick with a carved ivory handle that unscrewed and revealed a unicorn hidden inside. He put it back again, making a clatter. Lisa would have loved this place, he thought. She’d have felt at home.
An oil painting was half hidden behind a sewing machine, and though it was dusty, the colours glowed. Crimson bloomed out of darkness, soft and thick as algae on the surface of the canvas. Near the bottom of the painting was a soft, subtle strip of golden red that became, at the lower edge, the golden yellow of autumn trees. There were small black lines in the corner that resembled a signature. “Imgit,” it seemed to say. Damian bent down to look at the oil painting, pulling it out so he could see it.
Roger lets me stay here all summer if I want, said Elvis. He says I can be in charge of things. I have a bathroom too. I’ve got a shower curtain with a picture of Elvis Presley on it. And I’ve got this Winchester 30.30. It was my mother’s, but Roger said I could take care of it because my mother went to California. She took his motorcycle. He misses it because it was a vintage Harley-Davidson and you can’t buy them cheap. He misses that Harley-Davidson, even if he can’t ride it. But I have the Winchester 30.30. My mother went to California. She went all the way to the Baja Peninsula in Mexico, which is about as far away as you can get, Roger said. Now she lives in San Diego.
Elvis went around a bookshelf and Damian followed, watching as Elvis knelt down and shoved the gun under a futon on a frame. The duvet was covered with yellow happy faces, and imprinted on the pillow was Shania Twain, smiling broadly.
That Winchester Trapper Carbine, it can shoot two thousand feet per second, Elvis said, getting up. Bouuff. Like that. Bruce said he saw pictures of a bullet going through a pineapple. He said it looked like a head being blown apart. Bits going every which way.
Elvis stood with his head cocked thoughtfully to one side.
Who’s Bruce? asked Damian.
He’s at the workshop.
That’s where you work?
Bruce says he gets paid the big bucks so he can call himself the Big Cheese.
That must make you the mouse.
The mouse, laughed Elvis. The mouse.
He laughed until he grasped his crotch. I have to go, he said.
That’s okay – you go.
Elvis vanished into the bathroom, closed the door and locked it. When he came out, he stood looking at Damian, who had flopped down on the bed.
I don’t want to go to a nursing home with Roger, said Elvis.
I don’t think he really meant –
You never come out. I don’t want to go there.
You could come out.
You go in a nursing home and you never come out. That’s what happened to Bruce’s grandmother. She went in a nursing home and she never came out. She died in her bed, Bruce told me. Right in her bed.
Lisa shouldn’t have been in a coffin that looked like a bed, thought Damian. The casket that his parents had rented for the visitation and funeral service was made of poplar, and it opened like a Dutch door so they could only see the upper half of her body. The casket had a honey-coloured sheen. It had a crepe interior and a large white pillow, edged with lace. It didn’t matter that they were not putting it in the ground, it still cost a fortune, not to mention the cost of the urns that would hold ashes after the cremation, and a keepsake box.
People could kneel by the casket, if they wished, and offer up a prayer. Or they could stand in silence, thinking about how tragic it was –
How are you doing? Ingrid murmured to Damian.
All right.
The open casket bothered him; he couldn’t look at it.
The first group of people was clustered tentatively around the guest book at the threshold. Ingrid drew herself up. So did Greg. Damian, between them, tried to do the same. He knew his mother wanted them to do everything well for Lisa’s sake.
Ingrid put her hand gently against Damian’s back.
Then it began. Here was Mrs. Sullivan, who had arranged for Lisa’s summer job as a cashier at the grocery store. And girls from high school: Breanna, and someone whose name Damian forgot, though it ended with “issy” or “esca.” Fresca, thought Damian, but that wasn’t right. She’d had a crush on him, and he’d always tried to avoid her. Both girls had tears streaming down their faces and it had smudged their eyeliner. Some women hugged him, but the men just pressed his hand, which was usually better than being hugged by people he didn’t know.
Thank you for coming, said his mother or his father.
Damian was mostly silent.
His mother murmured to Greg that her own brother wasn’t there. Her own brother.
Then Trevor, dressed in a dark suit that was a little too big for him, so that the cuffs of the jacket came too far down his wrists. His tie was knotted neatly, but it was striped garishly in red, blue, and green.
I’m Trevor, he said, speaking to Ingrid. I’m – he paused, swallowing.
Trevor, Ingrid murmured, to give him time. Thank you for coming.
I’m – I was a friend of Lisa’s. I have something for you. I’ll – maybe I’ll come back later and –
Thank you for coming, Trevor, said Greg, taking over from Ingrid and passing Trevor along to Damian.
There were tears in Trevor’s eyes, but he wasn’t crying.
God, Damian, he said.
Yeah. Damian hated Trevor, hated him standing there.
I’m sorry, said Trevor.
Damian studied his shoes, polished by his father that morning, and when he looked up there was an old woman with a walker standing in Trevor’s place.
> Oh, she said faintly and gripped Damian’s hand in her claw.
And then it was over; it had gone on for two hours. His feet were tired. Greg had gone to speak to the bird-thin funeral director in the hall.
Damian stood with his mother, gazing at the young woman who was not Lisa, but a wax copy of Lisa, lying before them in her dark green dress with sprigs of cherries printed on it. It was true that everything had been done to make her look perfect. She was wearing coral-coloured lipstick and there was a rosy blush to her cheeks, though she’d never bothered with makeup. It wasn’t Lisa. Lisa was long gone.
Look at this, said Elvis. Roger says this is his pride and joy.
Queen of the Mist, read the black letters on the barrel lid. And in smaller, stamped letters: Property of Annie Edson Taylor. Elvis took out the large cork in the lid, inspected it, poked the cork back down snugly in its hole, and took the lid off the barrel. Inside was a mattress, stained and yellowed with age. Elvis put his head in the barrel.
Oooooo, he called into it. Then he climbed inside.
What are you doing? cried Damian.
Now Elvis was stuck, with his chest and head inside, legs outside. Pride and joy, he shouted, and the words reverberated.
Pride and joy.
He kicked his legs, and the barrel fell over with a crash.
Elvis, are you okay? Damian dragged him out of the barrel. Are you okay?
Yes.
You’re sure?
My head isn’t okay, but the rest of me is okay, said Elvis. Do you have brain damage?
Not that I know of, said Damian, supporting Elvis as he got up. But I could have had some brain damage if you’d shot me.
Brain damage, Elvis laughed. You’re right about that. You’re right about that.
There was a fine, powdery dust on his hair and eyebrows. He was laughing, and he put his large, pale hands over his mouth. When he looked sideways at Damian, his eyes were wide.
Let’s go to the casino, he said when he could breathe again.