by Gaston Bill
“But now you have to ask me nicely.”
They hung up eventually and Vera wasn’t angry with him. He well knew that Leonard was her unassailable all-time favourite, and that to insult him was to mock her. She saw where it came from: Mac was biologically compelled to attack Leonard because both men were seventy-four. Mac didn’t see a beautiful man, poet, singer, sufferer. He saw a rival. This didn’t make her think less of him. Boys would be boys. Vera supposed she was glad her ex still had some juice.
SHE KNEW SHE WOULDN’T SLEEP, and she didn’t. She moved from bed to recliner and back, and the night passed not too horribly. Other tests were pending. She could hear the calm voice of the young oncologist, who had even risked a joke. After describing for the second time a long list of possible options and outcomes, he paused, hefted her ever-thickening file, eyed it wickedly and said, “Or maybe we can bore it to death.”
The worst came around 3 a.m. Sitting in her chair watching figure skating, she suffered a bout of self-pity possibly triggered by the girls’ youth and bodies, and she cried for minutes. When she emerged, she had a clear understanding that she would tell no one anything until her news was certain.
Between trips into her bedroom to tempt unconsciousness, she distracted herself with cups of chamomile and her “meditation walk,” where she held a small crystal ball in cupped hands at belt level and walked slowly but aimlessly, with a purposefully open mind, trying to be a big version of the crystal. Despite these measures, not only fear but memories swelled. About Mac, and about his affair. For this she blamed the Leonard disc she’d put on, as songs of love naturally kindled thoughts of it. Mac, she loved. And hated. It still felt that simple. Her name was Trisha. Vera had met her. She was no beauty, beyond the kind automatically bestowed by two fewer decades of life lived. It had lasted just three months. But sex was love. Leonard knew this. Not many men did. Which made it tragic, which made it a poem. Mac didn’t know, he’d called it a lark, he’d called it a desperate flight from age. But it had been love, because he’d wanted it to be love. Men always wanted it to be love, even if they wouldn’t admit it to themselves.
Vera took the music off on her way to heat some milk, thinking about Mac mocking such poetry. Maybe the retired English teacher could be forgiven his arrogance. Mac had read so much and gave such thought to what he read so he could share those thoughts with his students. Under the surface glaze of irony, for over forty years he’d tried hard, nobly hard. All his efforts to slide what he called “the good stuff,” the iconoclasts— his beloved Beats, mostly—under the radar of the latest school board. He cared. She could so easily picture him standing tall up there at the front, gazing over their faces, cracking wise, having a worthy time. She was saddened by Mac’s bitterness when he joked, “I taught maybe two percent of the kids I taught.” She’d countered that he’d helped many more to consider the weight of words. To which he said, “Okay, sure. Three.”
Vera stood, cupping her warm milk. She blew ripples onto its steaming surface, blowing a crust to the edge, where it rose and buckled, a thinnest bone. Because he thought too much, Mac couldn’t hear Leonard’s words. They were fire that melted contradictions. His voice the crucible. He was an alchemist, turning pain into beauty. Leonard used his own pain, you could tell. Mac didn’t see the stick-thin boy, a human antenna who walked Montreal when it still hid pockets of the old country, a last bastion of fat mothers with flour down the vast slope of their chests, of men-only taverns for cigar-smokers with hats and huge egos. A Jewish boy from a Catholic city, living his mature years under a Zen priest. Who loved to guzzle Scotch! Contradictions. The biggest one, that of men and women, a gulf he’d learned to cross with ease. Perhaps he was so wise a man because he was half woman. He would be lazy and selfish in bed, but hearing one word from you his eyes would clear, and deepen, and they would become a mirror. He would know the clitoris and where it rooted in your brain. And then he turned you into a song.
In her living room chair, she found herself sadly smiling. If she had the guts to say any of this to Mac, if he wasn’t angered into silence he’d scoff up a storm. How could she tell him that, if Leonard seduced you, you could only be eager, because in sleeping with Leonard you were also, for the first time, sleeping with yourself? And that listening to him sing would be as close as she would ever get to that?
She padded to the kitchen to eat a banana, staring out the window with its decent view of the southern foot of Victoria, the strait, the Olympic Mountains beyond. At night, the city lights simply stopped at the pure blackness that meant water. That ancient night—how utterly lonely, and how much more powerful than the fragile lights, each of which could be killed with the flick of a finger. Or all of them with one storm. This city, all cities, would one day rejoin that powerful black. Full of spirit, or just black? What would Buddhist Leonard say to that one?
Finding an odd inscrutable comfort, she continued gazing out over the imagined water. Lately there’d been local resistance to the name change, from the Strait of Georgia to the Salish Sea. Victoria was so fucking British. Mac’s own mother— startlingly flat-chested, posture of a flagpole—would have been angry to know they were going to see a Jewish singer, one who had enjoyed a string of women. Vera could see her snort of disgust.
NEXT AFTERNOON, SHE jigged balsamic into the tabbouleh, laid a sprig of mint on top, snapped a lid on the bowl and slid it into the fridge to chill. Predictably, Vera’s sleeplessness now felt like she rode an iffy raft down an unknown river. Lots of energy but it all might topple and sink. Soon Lise would arrive with her father, whom she’d pick up on her way and drive him those eight hundred steps. Vera had decided not to tell them their dinner was Leonard-themed. It was silly guesswork anyway. The man’s favourite nosh might be pork roast for all she knew, or more likely he’d gone vegan, propped up with coffee and Scotch. She just based it on where he’d lived. The bagel chips and cream cheese and kosher dill appetizer plate was obvious. But then the tabbouleh and grilled lamb loin with lime juice and coarse salt. Some Ben & Jerry’s pistachio for dessert, and Turkish coffee. Good California merlot throughout, though Mac was down to a single glass at a time and Lise was driving.
The evening began well, despite a new and suspicious ache between her shoulder blades, one that seemed to grab when she swallowed. Hard to ignore, but the bustle of hosting helped. As did Greatest Hits, both 1 and 2. Lise presented her with the three tickets wrapped in red ribbon with an oversized bow. Sitting gangly and stooped in her best chair, like he always did, though maybe of late looking more vulture-like, Mac kept his sarcasm to a minimum. He asked in apparent seriousness if it was wise to listen to Cohen’s well-produced studio work just hours before “hearing him old and live and rough” in the bad acoustics of the Memorial Centre. Lise, sometimes very much her father’s daughter, said, “You’re old and live and rough, and you sound okay.”
Then, just when the timer buzzed to tell her the lamb needed to go under the broiler, Vera caught Mac smiling at her, mockery in his eyes. He held a dill in one hand and a bagel chip in the other, and he waggled both. He knew her that well.
She left for the kitchen without reaction. Basically, there was something she needed to know about Mac: How much was he on her side, really? How much had he ever been on her side?
She shook her head, almost a spasm, and concentrated on dinner, on tonight, her rushing raft making it almost hard to see. The lamb had bleached pale from the lime and looked so tender and superb it beckoned any good bohemian carnivore to eat it raw. With his lips—Vera mused—he will take it raw from your palm, in the dim hallway, under a crucifix, on your way to the bedroom.
She reset the timer and returned to the living room. It was like he’d been on his best behaviour until now. Maybe it was the two glasses of wine, Mac kicking out the stops before a rock concert.
“Did you hear,” he asked of the sunset-lit window between Vera and Lise, “how he got ripped off by his manager, lost his whole pile, and this tour is a scramble
to get some cash back? And resume the lifestyle to which he is tra-la-la?”
“I thought he was a Buddhist,” said Lise. “Living simply and all that.” Then she nodded for her father. “But I do remember reading something like that. Big embezzlement thing.”
“He’s quit the Buddhism,” Mac added. “Came down off that particular mountain.”
“No, he hasn’t,” Vera put in, too loudly. She settled back into the couch and cleared her throat before continuing. “Did you read what he said about religion in general? He was asked about his years on Mt. Baldy, his retreat there, and he said it’s all the same, religions are all the same, and that everyone should follow the religion of their ancestry. Their culture.”
“Their childhood,” offered Lise, her eyes oddly bright. She’d never gone to church of any kind.
“Exactly,” said Vera.
“That,” said Mac, actually pointing a finger at her, “is such a Zen thing to say. Go ask every Zen master on the block if you should study Zen, every one’ll say, ‘No!’ Actually, they’d say, ‘God no!’”
Vera eventually got them seated. They ate, her cooking was praised, and she managed to keep the subject on other things.
Then Mac shot Vera the briefest glance before announcing to Lise, “You know, I saw Lenny way back when.”
“Did you!” Lise looked genuinely excited by this.
Lenny. Belittling a great man through his name. He sometimes called Obama “The Story of O.”
“Actually, maybe twice. Once in Europe, for sure. Amsterdam.” He paused, looking at Lise. “I was paid to go.” He didn’t smile saying this, but his deadpan was like one big wink.
“Dad, we’re not making you go.”
“No, I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he chirped.
“Good”—Lise consulted her watch—“because we’re leaving in ten minutes. Gulp your wine. Finish your ice cream.”
Vera dutifully scraped up the several pistachios she’d left to soak in the melted ice cream in the bottom of her bowl.
“It’ll be this,” Mac announced. “The lights go down and he goes all deep and croony and these emotions big as big wet sponges all over us paid-to-go guys, it’ll be this huge grope fest. For old girls. Lenny’s geriatric arena grope.”
From the way he lurched forward to grab another bagel chip, Vera saw how proud he was of that one.
“I don’t want you to come.” Vera didn’t look at him. She didn’t want him even that close to her. “I mean it. I’m serious.” She closed her eyes, nodded.
When Lise saw that Vera wasn’t retracting, she said, “C’mon, Mom.”
Mac was predictably silent. One eyebrow up, he stared through the table.
“You try to fuck everything in sight.” She added, more quietly, “And you can’t quite do it.”
“Jesus, Mom,” Lise whispered, shaking her head almost invisibly.
“I’m serious, Mac. You’ll ruin it for me.” She glared at him and he met her eye. Lenny’s geriatric arena grope—he’d already ruined it. She would carry this with her into the concert and it would colour the whole event. His words still worked too well on her. She needed to be free of him. She should move from this city.
Mac gazed at the floor now, his eyebrow back up.
To Lise she said simply, “We’re dropping him off.”
MAC DIDN’T BEG, and they drove a severely quiet eight hundred steps back to his building. On the way downtown Lise spoke only when spoken to, angry but hiding it, pretending that driving took a certain concentration. Vera knew her daughter wouldn’t befoul tickets she’d spent so much on, nor would she ruin a birthday. In the silence (they’d decided against playing Leonard in the car) Vera considered revealing her news, which would mean instant forgiveness, but she didn’t like her new motivation, so she resisted. And Vera figured she already sucked her daughter like a vampire. In any case, she wanted to keep it inside awhile longer. To release it would feel like contagion, in the car, into the night. Held inside, it stayed smaller.
They parked with difficulty and it was almost late, so they had to hurry. Vera still rode the rushing river of no sleep and her raft was tipping. She could hardly wait for that voice. She hoped it didn’t put her to sleep, his voice also being the warmest bath; it would be embarrassing, and a shame to miss a minute. She had the badly startling notion that her new swallowing ache wouldn’t let her sleep, not in the concert and not later.
They approached the arena in a mist blown into their faces by a wind growing nastier. Downtown smelled like downtown, of exhaust and faint piss, like old Montreal, like the haunch of poetry, Victoria did have some charm. Vera clutched the three tickets in her coat pocket, still bound by the crimson ribbon and bow. The arena’s wide-open doors accepted mostly hustling stragglers now.
Vera heard the man’s voice just as she reached the door, a forlorn voice, almost a mumble, about tickets, did anyone maybe have a ticket to sell? She didn’t hesitate, but ripped one from the ribbon and marched it over to him. He was unshaven, skinny, maybe thirty, an impoverished gradstudent look. Fairly handsome behind the bulky glasses, which he seemed to wear as a foil to his good looks. She turned away saying, “A gift,” and she was already at the door when he called his thanks.
They hurried to find their tunnel, Vera warbling to herself, “Oooo, this’ll be great,” and “I can hardly wait,” Lise dutifully agreeing. They climbed to their row. They side-stepped past knees then sat and flung off scarves and flapped their arms out of coats just as the lights fell to an instant surprising roar. In that last light she had noticed the empty seat to her left. Legs passed clumsily in front of her, bumping her knees—only now did she understand that of course the young man with her ticket would be sitting here right beside her.
Stage spots came up, and there was his band and his girl backup singers. To another roar out came Leonard, wearing his fedora and looking decades out of place and wise for it. Here he was, somehow still elegant, a bit mantis-like but spry. His walk was disarming, it betrayed some shyness. He arrived at the mic and noise fell at this simple promise. Smiling, Leonard looked around to see all the loving faces, as though harsh light was no obstacle to this.
“Please,” Vera said into Lise’s ear as she took her daughter’s hand, “just for one song.” Vera turned to the young man at her left, got him to look at her and asked, smiling, horrified at herself, “Can I please hold your hand for just one song?” He smirked, but with a dog’s distrust in his eyes as Vera took his hand out of his lap. And so she sat, holding two hands— one mechanical, the other fearful. She raised them both and stretched her arms out to either side of her, which opened her breastbone, and she imagined her whole life blooming out of her. She closed her eyes and felt all the shadows, so many of them, some turning at her to knuckle her heart or bite it toothlessly. She released a long, an endlessly long breath, felt herself relax in a way that might be hazardous. The singing started.
She bucked with instant crying, her smile wide open and sloppy. It felt strange not to bring her hands to her face. Tears fell cold and fresh down her cheeks. Poor Mac. Who only tried, his best, to be free. He should be here. He should be here.
The voice took her from the front. Black like blood, it entered on elegance, and brought heat. Kneeling at every cell of her body, her soles and her scalp, it asked its one question. She was a responsive lover. Over the music, she felt but couldn’t hear herself wailing her answer.
To Mexico
The first night, Dale was standing by himself on the balcony, in the early dark. Somehow he relaxed enough to notice the sky. “Relaxed” wasn’t the word, it was more that he was worn down, not just by a day’s airport grind but by the months at home that came before. On the balcony, gently mouth breathing, Dale was tiredly alert, and here was the moon, the famous curled white sliver, but instead of vertical it lay flat. Like a tiny coy smile. A tiny smile in a black face the size of eons. The size of the face and the size of the smile could hardly be comprehended together. He sa
w more: one pale star up in a far left corner of sky, and then up in the right corner, another. Two tiny eyes for the tiny smile. He had to pivot his head to see the whole face, which gave off wall-eyed irony the size of the universe. He tried to relax and feel amused by it. He knew a nose would appear if he looked for one.
He heard Anna emerge from the bathroom. When she clunked a glass down, loud on purpose, Dale turned from the comical sky to his worst nightmare, who wasn’t looking at him from in there on the couch.
“Want some?” Anna waggled her empty glass in his direction.
“Sure,” he said. “You should see this sky.”
“It’s completely dark out there.”
“No, it’s not,” he said, regretting it right away, not wanting to show her the impossible face. She wouldn’t get it. That is, she’d get it but wouldn’t let herself enjoy it, the magical distortion, the brain stretch—because it was his idea. It had come to this. At one time she would have joined him and they’d have laughed together, excited by the size of space. She would have found the nose.
Anna brought Dale a tequila and sat in one of the balcony’s wrought-iron chairs. She had refilled her glass; he’d see how that went. Back when they were planning this trip, she’d asked him, straight-faced, “You think I’ll do a Lowry down there?” Though a binge could happen anywhere, her joke haunted him. Tequila was a favourite poison, and here it was almost free. Her hangovers were when they usually almost ended it.
The chairs were heavy and ornate and Anna was surprised how comfortable hers was. Normally he didn’t care for heights, and they were perched way up a hill, their balcony hanging cliff-like over Puerto Vallarta’s southern outskirts and the sea. Maybe because it was dark and he couldn’t properly see the danger, it couldn’t grab his gut. Or maybe he was too drained to be afraid. Of anything. Chances were—he mused as he touched tequila to his lips—if things got ugly between them tonight, if they started coming apart, he just wouldn’t care.