by Dian Day
“So,” she said.
It’s a small porch attached to small, conjoined houses, so we were pretty close together, with just a small railing in between. She didn’t have a jacket on over her pyjamas, and I could see her shivering. I stopped sweeping and leaned on my broom.
“Uh,” she said. She was waving her hand in the air, like she was trying to help the words out. “About the other morning.…”
I was just leaning on the broom watching her hand. She was doing exactly what I do when I’m trying to get choristers to articulate more clearly: a kind of decisive swing of the wrist, fingers open.
“Well, don’t mind me, okay?” Finally, she successfully conducted her own sentence. “I’m just a little rough around the edges.”
There’s this idea about Twin Worlds. Philosophers have discussed it, quantum physicists have created formulas for it, writers of science fiction have used it as a foundation for plot lines. The concept is that there are really many earths, many Fredericks, not just this one: here, now, me. In fact, there are an infinity of Fredericks. Every time something happens, when something else could have happened, a whole world branches off in which that thing does happen. If you can imagine it, this means that every time a person acts, every single human being, over six billion of us, many new worlds are created, since it is also possible not to act, or to choose to act differently. There is always more than one possibility. In some of those other worlds I may have my twin, Filander, or a successful concert career, or a mother who didn’t have a stroke. It’s comforting, sometimes, to think that this is not our only reality. Another me in another world knows what to say to woo the circulation supervisor when I walk into the library. Another me never hears from any of my brothers ever again, and silences the refrain of my unwelcome past. Another me straightens my back, looks my wacko neighbour in the eye, and says, “Fink off, Maya.”
In this world, this is what I said: “Don’t mention it.”
And then Maya, satisfied, went back into her house to get herself more coffee.
THE PHONE RANG AND I PICKED IT UP, though I never answer the phone on practise nights.
In my living room, Varrick, Geoff, and Jiro were poised over their respective instruments, tuning up quietly, with as much reverence as they would before a performance. My inexplicable answering of the phone wasn’t rational. It was a split-second impulse. Afterwards, I thought a long time about what had made me reach out and grab the receiver, but I couldn’t come up with any explanation.
At the other end of the line, a man’s voice was saying “Hello? Hello? Hello?” It seemed like that went on forever.
“Hello,” I said finally, sforzando. Jiro’s violin squawked an eight v.a. A-sharp, and we all winced.
“Fred?” said one of my brothers. I didn’t know which one. I hadn’t heard any of their voices in many years.
“Frederick,” I said, more from habit than anything.
“It’s Sal.” I didn’t know if he’d heard me or not. I didn’t know if it mattered. In my left hand, sinistra, I held my lute out from my body, as if it was in danger of desecration.
“Hey buddy,” he continued. “How’s it going? Long time, eh?” Geoff stood up, leaned over, and took the lute from my hand. They were all trying not to look at me in an obvious kind of way. Varrick and Jiro suddenly felt the need to search for phantom sheet music on the shelf over the piano, and Geoff fell to tuning my lute with devout concentration. Singers and musicians are often really keyed to the intonation and emotion in another’s voice. It’s a blessing during a piece and a hazard during an overheard conversation.
“Yes,” I said. “Long time.” I pulled the phone towards the dining room as far as it would go, and turned to face the wall. I knew the guys would still be able to hear every word, but it gave all of us the illusion of privacy. I don’t know why I don’t go buy a cordless phone.
“I guess you’ve been doing okay.” I’m not sure if it was a question. It seemed more like a statement, but I wondered how he would know. Or why he would care.
“Pretty well, yes.” It didn’t occur to me at the time to ask him how he was in return, the way you are supposed to.
“I guess Mom is doing okay, too.”
“Oh, as well as can be expected,” I said slowly, still holding back warily. I knew he was the lead singer in this strange opera seria. I just had to wait for the lines, and then follow with the harmony. We did that for five minutes or so, point and counterpoint, all about how he calls and gets monthly reports from the nursing home, and how business was going and what the AA or the Ns were up to—though none of it really registered. I just went “huh, um, yeah, oh,” and he finally wound down to a remark about the rainy fall we were having. Then there was a small silence, and he cleared his throat decisively.
“So, look, I know this is a bit nuts, me calling out of the blue. I won’t beat around the bush any more. I called to ask you something. A favour, I guess. A big favour.”
“A favour,” I repeated. Duh, as my young choristers would say. Behind me someone knocked over a music stand and cursed. Everybody was getting nervous. Disquiet had infected the air.
“I want you to sing at my wedding,” he said. “Well, both of us do. Johanna and I both do.”
What struck me most in that moment was not that my brother Salvador had called after an eight-year silence to ask me for something. It was not that he dared to speak to me, let alone ask me a favour. It was not that he was getting married, or that he was getting married at—quick calculation—forty-two years old. It was not even that he had asked me to sing, for God’s sake, of all the less confounding things he might have asked. What I couldn’t fathom, in that moment, was that when he said “both of us” he referred, not to himself and Samuel, his twin. “Both” meant himself and this woman Johanna, of whose existence, until that moment, I was completely unaware.
“Uh, Salvador,” I said finally, with exaggerated timing, “I don’t sing in public.”
“Hey, this is not public, Fred. This is family—with just a few friends, you know.” He spoke like he had completely missed my point. He did not see this fact as particularly significant, and certainly, in his mind, it had nothing to do with him.
“Johanna thinks—we think—the whole family should be there, and you singing, well, it’s a kind of a reconciliation thing, isn’t it?”
I got the details of the wedding down, somehow. I don’t know why I did. A failure of my momentary bravado. Reconciliation, my ass. I simply didn’t have the courage to say No, Fink Fank and Funk Right Off, and hang up. Or maybe it was merely that suddenly I had a pencil in my hand, and a pencil calls for one to write. Given the way the conversation was going—a conversation they were all pretending not to listen to—Geoff had thought that a piece of paper and a writing implement would come in handy, and these things had appeared in front of me in the form of a staffed exercise book and his notation pencil. I wrote the date and the place in the margins of the instrumental piece we were in the middle of composing together, at the end of a bar of rising eighth notes scrawled in his almost illegible hand.
My brother Salvador was marrying Johanna in a church, of all places.
THE BATHROOM WAS UPSTAIRS at the very back of the house. It was a long way to go, every single day, through enemy territory.
My mother was out. I was getting ready for bed, and my brothers were all still home. I held my wet toothbrush in my left hand, and my whole arm shook.
“He’s a dickhead,” said Salvador from the hall. His voice came clear and deep through the thin door.
“Yeah,” said Samuel, “a gownie dick-head.”
“Too big for his own boots,” Salvador continued. “Always carting around all those fucking books, as if he could fucking read. Like he’s fucking better than we are.”
“And all that fucking pansy singing,” said Samuel.
“That faggot s
inging,” amended Salvador. “Like some fucking superstar.”
“What are we going to do to him, the piss-pot song-boy?” asked Samuel. It was part of their routine, this patter, whenever my mother was out. Never exactly the same, but always designed to terrify me before they ever laid a hand on me.
I thought my knees were going to buckle, and I struggled to hold myself up. The edge of the sink dug in to my rib cage. I spat into the sink, quietly. Saliva hung from my lower lip.
“Make him eat shit?” suggested Salvador.
The bathroom door didn’t lock. I kept my eyes on the handle, waiting for the inevitable.
“Whose?” asked Samuel. It seemed like it was an important question, and there was a brief silence. Maybe they were thinking about the answer. But then I heard multiple feet going downstairs and Nicholas shouting up from the bottom:
“Are you guys fucking coming, or what?”
“We just have to take care of dickhead first,” explained Salvador.
“Just leave the little shit for once,” called Nathaniel. “We’re gonna be late.”
“We’ll be quick!” said Salvador, and he turned the handle and pushed open the bathroom door. He and Samuel tumbled into the room like bulls bursting out of a rodeo pen. They went for my ankles, one on each side. The legs of my pyjama pants were pushed up to my knees so they could get a good grip. I didn’t fight them. It was easier to submit; I didn’t get hurt as much. Their four hands were on my ankles, and then two hands moved to my wrists, their grip strong and solid.
The bottom of my pyjama shirt was against my chin and over my face, so I couldn’t see. I was lifted and turned, and I could feel the hair on my head fall, pulled by gravity, and my arms were straight out from my sides, held there by my bullying brothers. They were having a good time; great round laughs escaped their flashing teeth.
Upside-down, I was lowered into the toilet bowl. Slowly, slowly, slowly. There was an extra pull of weight on my head; each hair felt heavier. I could see white porcelain beyond the folds of flannel. I could smell—
“Come on!” cried Nathaniel’s voice, far away and hollow. “Brent is here!” And the front door opened and there was an exodus and the door was slammed shut.
And I was on the bathroom floor, my pyjamas bunched and twisted in odd directions.
I didn’t move until I heard four more feet thunder down the stairs and out the door. A car pulled away, squealing faintly. I let all the sounds echo and fade. The toilet ran, and I lay there for a while and listened to the burble.
When I finally got up, a little water ran down my neck and underneath my collar. The top of my head was wet—the ends of my hair—but there were no towels. I pulled my shirt right way round.
I spat into the toilet. In our house, the seat was always up. I spat again, and saw a line of blood in the bowl. I’d bitten my tongue.
ST. MARY OF THE ASSUMPTION CHOIR SCHOOL heard my audition of the Allegri treble solo in April of that year. In addition to my regular choir practice, I sang twice a week with Arthur Grey, occasionally assisted by Father Gregory, learning a fair number of the treble and soprano parts that are common for both Anglican and Catholic choirboys to know, all in the space of two and a half months. The “Miserere” was the focus, but they did not want me to get bored.
The scout heard me sing in the chancel of St. Mary’s. He offered me a scholarship on the spot. Or rather, he offered my scholarship to Arthur Grey, and I thought that meant they were going to pay my choirmaster so I would sing.
Father Gregory sent someone right away to go and fetch my mother in his car, and in the meantime, one of the Ladies Brigade brought us coffee. She handed the tray around to me as well as to the men, so I took a steaming cup and drank the bitter liquid black, as they did. It was my first cup of coffee, an invitation into the world of men. Those roasted beans are the jazz music of the taste buds. I was instantly hooked.
My mother, apparently, was doing her hair when the car came for her. For some reason, when she saw the brother’s black robes at her door she thought I was in trouble with the law, or perhaps dead, and came weeping, with a paisley kerchief tied around her head. They gave her lukewarm coffee to calm her down, and then told her about the scholarship. She sat on a metal stacking chair directly across from me and looked at me like I was a stranger. They explained again about the scholarship. She drank more coffee, now cold. The dye in her hair seeped through the bandana. I sat on my hands on my metal chair and swung my feet back and forth, and she watched my knees as if she were transfixed.
“Where is this St. Mary’s Choir School?” she finally asked.
“Why, Toronto,” said the scout, as if it would be impossible not to know such a thing.
My mother put her hands up to her mouth and gasped her loss.
It was only then that I understood that my prayers had been answered: I was going Somewhere Else. All I felt was a surge of pure joy.
IN THE LIBRARY, it always feels like there’s an audience at the check-out desk; all the other library clerks pausing to listen, book jackets open, scanning pens arrested in mid-air. One day last week when I went in, she was standing right there, behind the desk directly in front of me, doing something at the computer. I was breathing okay. She smiled when she saw me, dolcissimo. Our interaction went like this:
“Oh, hello,” she said. I never know if she is just happy to see everybody in the library, happy to see all those people reading, even if it was only an internet screen. I handed over my books.
“Hello,” I said. She ran the books one by one through the scanner. There were only three of them. Then we were just standing there.
“It finally stopped raining,” she said, maybe because I wasn’t moving.
“Yeah, that’s good. Finally. Wow, that was a lot of rain.”
“I suppose we shouldn’t complain—it’ll be winter soon enough.” Was she trying to help me out, or did she talk about the weather to all library patrons? The trouble is, it’s impossible to tell. I had this almost overwhelming urge to fall at her feet.
“Well, I’d rather have the snow really; the envelopes don’t get so wet.” I usually went in at the end of my mail route, so she was used to seeing me in my uniform. It was probably one of two things she knew about me. One, that I was a postie. Two, that I was an inarticulate idiot.
“Your books are overdue,” she said. “Seventy-five cents.” She smiled at me again.
You have a lot of opportunity to look at someone’s hands when those hands are checking your books in or out. They are small olive-white hands, with perfectly proportioned fingers. They look soft, strong, warm, gentle. Friendly. The nails are short, unpainted, pink ovals. She wears a thumb ring on each hand, but her fingers are all bare. That’s a good sign, I guess, but not as clear a one as it used to be.
My fingertips touched her palm when I handed over the quarters.
Then, a couple of days later, I got an automated phone message: Bolton’s History of Jazz was finally in at the library for me; I’d started at number 36 on the wait list. When I went right over to pick it up I passed by the music section and piled a whole bunch more books onto that one without really looking at them, just so it would take longer. Once I’m actually inside the building it doesn’t seem quite so bad. This time I can do it, I think to myself.
“Sure took a long time to get this book,” I said to her. After the first sentence comes out of my mouth, I always know it isn’t going to be any different.
So when I went on a Friday a few weeks later with my returns—everything I took out with the Bolton that I wasn’t really ever going to read—I got as far as the third step before my knees locked. Luckily, Luke was pan-handling outside. He was watching me, wondering what the hell was going on, I’m sure. There was this skeptical expression on his face, like I might need therapy. He didn’t say anything though; he likes people to mind their own business, so he d
oes the same.
“Take my books in for me and I’ll buy you some lunch,” I said to him. He’s always up for some lunch. He didn’t ask any questions then either, just picked up his cap and his recycled pens and pencils, and came down the steps to take the books out of my arms. He was only gone a minute. He sure didn’t waste any time trying to chat anybody up in there. I could probably learn some things from Luke.
We went to the Sea Biscuit, where the service is pretty much instantaneous, since Luke gets to feeling awkward quickly if there’s nothing to do with the cutlery besides twirl it around. I bought him clam chowder with an extra order of pumpernickel bread, which is his favourite. He says the bread stays in there well, making him feel full for a long time afterwards. His eyes were a bit runny, and his hands shook just a little holding the spoon: a harder day than usual, so I was glad I’d caught him.
I had the fish and chips, which is my favourite. I didn’t worry too much about the leftover pizza at home in the fridge that I’d been planning to eat for lunch. I just wouldn’t have to order in supper.
“Good morning for business?” I asked him as we chewed. Luke has a different occupation for every day of the week; on Fridays he usually sells used writing implements outside of the library. I don’t know where he gets them, but I guess it’s possible that lots of people leave pens and pencils around, especially in the library. Probably in some cases the same ones they bought from him on the way in.
“Not bad, not bad,” he said in between slurps.
We pretty much eat in silence. It’s hard to make small talk with someone you don’t know anything about, without asking questions. I haven’t asked him any really personal questions since we first went to lunch together almost three years ago. I was curious about his life, I have to admit. How did this smart guy end up on the street? Where did he come from? He’d just appeared downtown one day without any history. I’d asked him a few things, I don’t even remember what, and he’d answered “yes” or “no” to everything, without elaborating. Then I’d asked him if he had any family.