by Betsy Burke
He lit up his Sobranie, looked at his watch and said, “You still have some time left to your lunch hour, don’t you, luv? Come sit over here. Without your clothes, mind. I’d like to do a few more sketches.”
I did what he asked, mostly some simple poses on the shrink’s couch. I figured as long as a girl was being immortalized, a lot of shortcomings could be excused.
I had to take three buses to get to Riverview. The psychiatric hospital was set in rolling hills and green fields. Everywhere, things were beginning to take on color with the first negligible warmth of spring. Trees were in blossom. Black-and-white cows grazed and gazed around them with beautiful stupid eyes. It was surreal and it was all wrong. When you knew what was waiting for you, it made the landscape seem like a lie, like a cosmetic used to hide a raging black plague.
When the bus dropped me off at the institution, I sat on a bench and watched a woman wandering around in front of the building. She was across the road, wearing pajamas and a dressing gown, batting imaginary parasites off her body, and giving God a good talking to. She shook her fist at the sky whenever her hands weren’t employed in hitting herself.
At the designated pickup point, a small group of people waited for visiting hours to start at the Forensic. They too were going to visit their nearest and dearest—their beloved arsonists, rapists and axe murderers. We all sat in tense silence and watched the sun go down, golden rays striking the fields and trees, making it all seem like a fabled place. My stomach was in knots. I’d been through this before with Dirk. It would be too early to reason with him. He would be obnoxious and irrational before any treatment could take effect and that could take months.
Nobody looked anybody else in the eye. Nobody wanted to ask, “What did your loved one do?” We snuck furtive peeks at each other then quickly looked away. A dark green minibus finally pulled up and a driver got out and told us he would take us to the Forensic. We all got in and he drove us down a tree-lined avenue before stopping in front of an unimpressive cement block building. Numerous keys were turned in locks. We were told what we could and couldn’t bring with us.
The visiting area had a few long tables, matching wooden chairs, and smoke permeating the air. I pulled out a couple of packs of Rothman’s I’d brought for Dirk. I knew from past experience that, in these places, cigarettes were negotiable currency. Even if you weren’t a smoker when you went in, you’d be a chain smoker by the time you were out.
The male patients trickled in and sat across from their visitors. A current of whispers and laments began to flow: the excuses, the promises, the apologies and rationales.
I waited for five minutes but there was no sign of Dirk.
One of the locked doors opened up and a very tall, thin, beautiful redheaded woman with a briefcase appeared. She had the kind of looks I would have had if God hadn’t been such a joker. She spoke to one of the guards, glanced at me, then came over.
“You’re here to see Dirk Madison?”
“Yes. And you are…?”
“Are you a friend or relative?”
“Relative. And you are…?”
“What relation are you exactly?”
“Sister. Who are you?”
“I’m Dirk’s caseworker.”
I got panicky. “What about Sam? Where’s Sam Trelawny? He was supposed to be here.”
She smirked and said, “Sam Trelawny,” drawing out his name, tasting each syllable.
“Yes. I thought he was supposed to be Dirk’s caseworker.”
“Normally he would be. I’m replacing him.” She saw my expression and added, “Not permanently. Just when he can’t make it. My name is Francesca St. Claire de la Roche.”
“I’m Lucy Madison.” I presented my business card. Intentionally pretentious and misleading. Nothing on it but my name and Rogues’ Gallery with the address and phone number.
She looked down her nose at me, took the card and read it, extended a long thin hand and gave me a limp nonhandshake.
I gave her fingers a good hard squeeze. “Is there something wrong? Is Sam okay? We had agreed to meet here today.”
She laughed, a fluttery, twittery feminine laugh and said, “He had unavoidable personal business to attend to.” It sounded like she wanted to be his unavoidable personal business.
“What’s happened to Dirk? I’ve been waiting here—”
“There’s been a bit of a problem,” she snapped.
My heart skipped a beat. I pictured Dirk strapped down to a bed, a doctor hovering over him with electrodes in his hands and saying, “Oops, perhaps we overdid the voltage a bit. Musta fried the bastard.”
“Oh yes? What kind of a problem? Where is he?” My voice was getting louder and edgier.
Francesca St. Claire de la La-Di-Da opened her briefcase, took out a file folder and consulted something inside it. “He was brought in on Monday evening and subdued…”
“Subdued?” I yelled. “How was he subdued?”
“Tranquilizers.”
“Probably enough for an elephant,” I grumbled.
“Your brother is not a small person.” Her tone implied, “And neither are you.”
“Okay, so where is he now that you people have got him completely zonked out, brainless and drooling?”
“It couldn’t be avoided. He had to be neutralized.” Francesca St. Claire de la Hoity Toity’s voice was getting very harsh.
I made my fist into a pistol and pointed it at her. “Good one. Neutralized. I like that. Where the hell is he?”
“He escaped this morning.”
“Escaped? ESCAPED!” My tiny nervous giggle erupted into hysterical laughter that went on until my ribs ached and everybody in the visiting area was staring. A guard touched his holster and started to move toward me. I calmed down and said, “Just how did he do that?”
“He walked off the premises.”
“Just like that?”
“So I gather. There were some witnesses, although not terribly coherent ones. He was wearing clinic clothing, pajamas…”
“Terrific.”
Several hours and another three bus rides later I arrived back at my apartment. Anna was on her way out. She looked stunning in blue leggings and a slinky blue silk shirt.
“Have a date?” I asked.
She squirmed a little, and flicked back her long blond hair.
“None of my business?” I said.
“Ya.” Her voice was icy. She put on her coat and left.
I went straight to the fridge. There were some Viking delicacies and some hard-boiled eggs. I put everything on a plate and plopped myself in front of the TV to watch the late movie.
An old pop song was playing in my mind but the words were a little scrambled—something about if you couldn’t be with the one you loved, to love the food you were with.
My mother’s voice was breathy and calm. “Yes, dear, I’ve been keeping up to date on Dirk. If he pops by, I’ll have him come in and sit down for a nice nourishing meal.”
I groaned inwardly and asked, “What about Dad?”
“I’m sure your father will be just fine.”
“Motheeeer. What do you mean ‘will be’?”
“Your father just has to sort it out for himself.”
I could hear loud schmaltzy music in the background. “Mother. Aren’t you even a little worried?”
“Of course I am, dear. But everything in its just proportion. Worrying isn’t going to make him come home sooner.”
“Come home sooner? You mean he hasn’t come home yet?” I could hear ice cubes clinking in a glass and women’s voices in the background.
“Well. He’s been showing up at school to take care of paperwork, and that’s something positive. And apparently your father’s now a huge hit with all the students, what with all the leather and the scruffy hair. It must be his new costume. He came back to shower and change his underclothes, but frankly, after one quick look, I told him to take all the time he needed, and to come back when he was decent.”
“Mommmm.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Lucille.”
“Don’t you care about him just a bit?”
“Of course I do. But after thirty-six years of marriage, I’m entitled to a little holiday from him, don’t you think?”
“But he’s…but you’re…”
“Your father’s not the easiest man in the world to live with, you know. Or have you forgotten?”
I hadn’t forgotten. After a long silence, I sighed, “Whatever you say, Mom. Talk to you later.”
“Lucy, dear. Don’t forget Cherry and Michael’s anniversary dinner Saturday night. You will bring that lovely boy Jacques, won’t you?”
Arrrghhh.
I said goodbye and hung up. I could picture her without my father. My mother was already an exaggerated type; big and buxom with brassy country singer hair and a country singer’s fashion sense. She also had a tendency to pee herself whenever she laughed hard. She would be flouncing around the house in all her favorite fashion items, namely the clothes my father wouldn’t let her wear in public. She’d be like an exotic, oversized, slightly incontinent bird. I could picture her, inviting all her friends over to drink gin, eat bonbons, watch the soaps and choose upholstery fabrics. Her idea of paradise.
It was red alert. An invitation to Cherry and Michael’s thirteenth anniversary dinner party was to be heeded at all costs. Not showing up would mean lectures from my mother about my lack of altruism, my crummy sense of family feeling, and not recognizing a possible ally, maybe not necessarily now, but when, for example, boxes and boxes of baby clothes and gewgaws might be required. Cherry’s kept everything, my mother would add, in case the happy day should ever arrive for me. Gag. But it did get me thinking.
Jacques, still minus Madeline, was nowhere to be found. I had seventy-two hours to become attached again.
11
Parker’s Funeral Home was a sedate white imitation Spanish hacienda.
I rang the buzzer and waited for a very long time. The door was finally opened by an unshaven balding man in a ripped sweatshirt and faded blue jeans with holes torn in strategic places. His face lit up when he saw me. “Miss Piggy!”
“Leo. Let me in. I’ve been standing out here forever.”
“Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there looking porky.” Leo ushered the way and let me pass in front of him. “I’ve got to say, Lucy, you used to be such a buffalo butt, but from behind you’re not nearly so porky as you used to be. What is this? Are we living on anorexic avenue or what?”
“It’s the life I’ve been leading, Leo. There hasn’t been a lot of time for eating. More to the point, how’s your life?”
“Oh you know. We’re such nitpickers. We’re never satisfied.”
“You mean, you’re never satisfied.”
Leo held his hand to his brow melodramatically. “It’s hard being a Matzah-Mafia hoe-moe-secks-yu-al boy wonder.”
“Did I interrupt you?” I asked.
“Concertus interruptus. Just as well. I was working on the Rach Two again.”
“Not the Rach Two?” I made the appropriate sign of the cross for warding off vampires. It was also helpful in the case of pianists who were about to play Rachmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto.
“It’s a bitch, that piece. I don’t know what made me accept. I guess I’m just a slut for glory and tendonitis. Gotta concert in a couple of weeks out in Mission.”
I followed Leo through the casket-viewing rooms. He said, “You should have seen the ruckus in here yesterday. There was a big-time Catholic corpse. Open coffin job. All these people wailing and keening and trying to throw themselves on top of the stiff.” He rolled his eyes. “And oh, Lucy, they’ve just got some gorgeous new caskets in. They’re ebony wood with red satin lining. Red. Very decadent. If you ever plan to off yourself young, let me know and I’ll get you a special deal. You’d look very striking in red satin.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, Leo.”
“I know, but young, mind you. A fat, wrinkled old bag lying in red satin just wouldn’t have the same effect. Mind you, they do have some fantastic embalming techniques these days. There’s almost nothing you can’t do with a stiff to make it more glamorous than it was in life. You get famous first, sell a few paintings, then end it all and we’ll do you up like Evita, okay?”
“Sure. It’s the sell-a-few-paintings part that I’m having trouble with. But I’ll let you know.”
Leo worked for the Parker family. It was his job to answer the night calls, open the door, and play the Wurlitzer at the odd funeral if he happened to be available. In exchange, he got to live in the funeral home’s little apartment that came furnished with a grand piano. He could wake the dead if he wanted. The Parker family took care of all other aspects of the business.
We’d known each other in high school but become better friends when we both showed up in Vancouver at all the same clubs and university parties. One of our favorite sources of entertainment back in those days had been to sign up for viewing luxury apartments under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Spockwittle. As Mr. Spockwittle, the prospective buyer of a condo, Leo was merciless. He would kick walls, bang doors, rattle windows, open cupboards and shriek, “I’ve had Christmas turkeys that were wrapped in more durable materials.”
When we were in his living room, he poured us a couple of double scotches on the rocks.
I didn’t hesitate. I put it right to him. “Leo, I need you.”
“That’s what they all say. But then, when they have me, it’s a different story.”
“I need Mr. Archibald Spockwittle’s straight cousin. Just for a night? I need a partner and I need him pronto. For Saturday night. You’ve got to be my macho hunk man-of-the-moment. My cousin Cherry is staging a big anniversary dinner.”
“Saturday night? Saturday night? That’s the big night. The gopher bashing night. The big schtuping night. Are you crazy? Are you completely out of your tiny mind? Do you think I have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than hang around with some old fag hag from my lurid, checkered past?” Leo was leaping over the threadbare furniture with his glass in hand, screaming this at the walls.
“Why, Leo? You have something better to do? Or someone better to do?” I knew Leo. Next to playing music, his favorite thing in the world was pretending to be straight.
He collapsed into an armchair and smiled a Leo smile. “No. Saturday will be just fine. Casual or black tie?”
Alone again on a Friday night.
I decided to give FOBIA a try. I had e-mailed Paul with the thinly disguised excuse of gallery business but he hadn’t answered.
I had also tried reaching Sam Trelawny at two different numbers. I wanted to be sure he knew the latest on Dirk. All I reached were answering machines.
The address given for the FOBIA meeting was an old school building no longer being used as a school. There were several notices on the door announcing different meetings: Alcoholics Anonymous, Ceramic Garden Statuary (something for my mother?), Male Drumming Chorus (something for my father?), Beginner’s Acupuncture (ouch!), Tai Chi and FOBIA.
I went into the building and walked along the corridor, looking for the right room number. When I finally found it, I realized the FOBIA meeting wasn’t being held in a classroom at all, but in the auditorium. Too many friends of the depressed and neurotic to be contained in one small classroom? As I opened the auditorium door, there was the squeal of a microphone, the scraping sounds of a bow on a fiddle, and loud yahoos. The lights were flashing and a dance ball in the center of the room shot glittery mirrored reflections onto the walls, ceiling and floor.
Up on the stage, two guitarists and a fiddler played while a short man in a cowboy hat and horn-rimmed glasses crowed into a mike;
“Pick yer partner, do-si-do— Hook to your right and away you go— Shimmy to yer left, and shine on through— Twirl yer girl and skip to ma lou.”
The auditorium was packed. There were a couple of hundred moms and
dads and quite a few younger people, too. Some were dressed in spangly cowboy and cowgirl outfits, others in less fancy blue jeans and work shirts. But everybody, and I mean EVERYBODY, except for me, was square-dancing.
When the number was over, a buxom, gray-haired woman in frilly gingham stood panting against the wall. I grabbed the opportunity and touched her arm. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the FOBIA meeting.”
She lowered her rhinestone-rimmed cat’s-eye glasses and grinned at me. “You got it, honey.”
“But everybody’s square-dancing.”
“Heh, heh, heh. Confusing, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
“Are you the friend of a bi-polar individual, dear?”
“I’m the sister of one.”
“Regular or rapid cycler, dear?”
“Rapid cycler.”
“You have my sympathy. It’s rough going, honey, I know. My husband’s one of them, too. Got a couple of manic cousins as well on my side. Miracle my kids are okay. Welcome to the meeting. I’m Mavis.” She shook my hand firmly.
“I’m Lucy. So you’re saying this is the meeting?”
“It’s the FOBIA social, dear. We do it once every so often. See, we were holding the regular meetings here, down the hall in one of the classrooms, and one night, oh, about two years ago, the square-dancing class knocked on our door and said they were short of people to make up a decent quadrille. Since then we been doing this every couple of months. Helps keep our spirits up. C’mon, they’re starting a butterfly waltz. No wallflowers allowed here.” She was pulling me toward the center.
“But I can’t… I don’t…”
“Nothing to it. Just follow the music.”
After quite a bit of stepping on other people’s feet and getting stepped on, I actually started getting the hang of it, and, I hate to confess, enjoying it. I happened to be wearing blue jeans and my denim shirt, so I didn’t feel too out of place clotheswise.