“Maybe I don’t want my life to be the same. Maybe I’m bored.”
Bored? How could she say that? They had one adventure after the next! Flew off on last-minute flights on a whim. They had a new circle of friends and lots of laughs. How could she possibly be bored? Did she actually know what was boring? Being kept awake all night because the baby had colic was boring. Driving to piano lessons and sitting outside the room, where the next arriving parents would strike up conversations about how well their kids were doing with the lessons, was boring. Cheering them on at sports events. Boring. Birthday parties where inevitably one kid threw up or another started crying. Boring, boring, boring. My God, she didn’t know boring! How about playing Barbies with a daughter and after she calls you boring, you add a little conflict between the dolls and she ends up crying and telling her mom on you. Now that is boring. Boring is not afternoon sex. Boring is not going to the movies whenever you like. Boring is not being spontaneous.
“I know, let’s go to the Caribbean this spring break and try scuba diving.”
“John …”
And there it was. That sentence left dangling. The name said in that teacher’s way, implying that he should know better. And he did know better. He had made a mistake. She was so yummy, so fit and sexy, and so very forbidden. Twelve years younger and full of life. But a younger woman just meant that she would eventually want those things other women had. The problem was that he didn’t really want another wife — he wanted a lover. A lover who could be legitimized in the community but still his private little tiger in bed. In the home she could be his alone. Now she was angling to destroy that. She wanted to introduce someone else into the mix. Someone she would be able to love more than anyone else in the world. A little dream-killer.
If he had only held on another year with Hilda. The kids would all be gone, Jack being the last off to college. In just two short months she would have that beautiful old house all to herself. There, she could start to become the woman she was before the kids. She would be free, unencumbered. But no, he went for young and, in doing so, he had to take on her ticking biological clock. Damn, damn, damn.
Perhaps he could go back. Say it was all a midlife crisis and that he had just made a terrible mistake. Tell Jean that she needed a younger man and that he shouldn’t be the one to rob her of her maternal dreams. Then he and Hilda could have the life they deserved. The kids, home at Christmas in the big house, with a feast that only Hilda could cook. And then they could be a united pair when the girls got married or when Jack graduated university. But when they weren’t there they could talk to each other, rediscover what they once had. If it was a new start he so badly wanted, why didn’t he just wait for a little bit and have a new start with her? Because having a family with Jean wasn’t a new start, it was a rerun. A rerun of a hackneyed sitcom.
Of course, Hilda would have to forgive him first. But that could be fun. They could have months of angry sex in the process. Her fucking him with a rage that could only come from a female betrayed. But what about Jean? She would hate him, of course, but she would move on in time, find someone else. Would that bother him? Would he be jealous thinking about her with another man? Probably, but he would keep that a secret, that jealousy, and bring it home with him. Use it to fire his passions with Hilda.
Hilda. He missed her. Even her blunt, almost crude remarks, he missed. Go fuck a bowling ball! Ha! It was funny now! After all the earnestness and all the words of enthusiastic encouragement, after all the kind reinforcement he had to endure with Jean, he really missed Hilda’s tactless honesty. There was nothing coy about her. Jean was a study in coy and, because of that, she was a master of flirtation. Not Hilda, though! Hilda was more likely to say, “We should have sex now, yes?” than to mince about suggestively, talking sweetly, or — God forbid — pouting. Suddenly, all this talk of having another baby and all he could think of was a straightforward fuck with his ex-wife!
Jack! Yes, Jack would know his mother’s emotional state. He could tell him if he had a chance with her. A spontaneous lunch with Jack was just the thing. Perhaps at the golf club? Yes, golf ! Jack should learn that sport next. That required aim, a steady hand, and a strong follow-through. Jack would be good at golf. He could make something out of his one-eyed son yet!
Jack held the loupe in front of his good eye as he skimmed through the contact sheet. Here, this one. And this one, maybe. He circled his favourites with a waxy red pencil and then, after re-examining his initial picks, he put a dot on the corners of the favourites from those. He eliminated, chose, and discarded with great care until he was down to the final dozen. Half in black and white and half in colour. Two headshots each and the rest with both girls together, in a variety of looks and poses, from quiet and reserved to fresh and saucy. But in every picture, they looked as though they held some ancient secret.
He was on a mission. He would create the most extraordinary portfolio for both of them and then one for himself. His plan was to approach the modelling agencies, as a rookie photographer, offering free sessions for their best models. He would show them samples of his work, mostly pictures of Clara and Blanca. Anyone with an eye for the beautiful but different would snap them up in a nanosecond. But he would always be the one who discovered them. He would be their maker. Yes, he knew that they wanted a music career, but surely some high-end modelling couldn’t help but raise their profile and put them smack dab in the middle of the public eye.
His father wanted him to concentrate a little less on photography and a bit more on his future career options. He wanted him to get his B.A. and from there go on to teachers’ college. He encouraged him to play it safe with a career that had a strong union to protect him, the benefit of a good medical plan, and a future retirement package that was solid. But Jack felt that he had played it safe for too long already. Careful, Jack, you’ll put your eye out! was all he ever heard. Careful, careful, careful, Jack. Be safe. Well, he was sick of it. He wanted to take chances now. To jump like a dreamer believing he could fly. He liked that image and repeated it to both Tristan and Gareth. Gareth said nothing but Tristan replied, “I think we have already ascertained that you cannot fly, and you have the glass eye to prove it!”
“It’s a metaphor, asshole.”
Jack had no intention of attending teachers’ college. He would, instead, as a compromise, attend university, study the arts with a focus on photography, and, while he was doing that, try to get a foot in the door of fashion photography.
Jack looked over the contacts again. They were the perfect models. Slightly bored and unaware of the camera due, in part, to their extreme nearsightedness. They only really read things in extreme close-up, in their faces, and so when Jack used a long lens it was as if he wasn’t there at all and the pictures seemed to tell an intimate story.
He loved them. Both of them. But Blanca just a bit more. He had touched her bare arm, to guide her two steps over, before he took a shot. His skin was already taking on a sun-kissed look, so easily and quickly he tanned. But his flesh touching hers was extraordinary. A golden olive, rich and dark, in contrast to the pure white of her skin. He imagined a summer of swimming or lying on the beach so that his tan was deep all over his body and then, just lying naked with her, their contrasting skin intertwined. But even as he thought it, even as he imagined their bodies wrapped together, he could not help but think what a wonderful picture that would be.
“Jack!”
It was his mother’s voice, calling from outside the darkroom.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Come out now, I need to talk to you.”
Jack put the contact sheet and the loupe safely onto the work table. They could wait a few more minutes.
“What, Mom?”
Hilda stood before him, holding the pages of her letter in her hand.
“Sorry, Mom. I know it was wrong, I just thought …”
But before he could finish, Hilda threw her arms around her son and hugged him tightly.
&n
bsp; “It’s all about the fall. Don’t you get it?”
Tristan was looking at his brother’s epic painting, not quite understanding it. Why the fire and wings and torment?
“It’s Icarus with melting wings, falling because he’s a bit too confident,” Gareth continued to explain.
“Or, it could be Lucifer with scorched wings. Hard to tell, really. Is it, perhaps, a bit too pretentious?”
“By whose standards? My teacher’s?”
“I’m not saying it isn’t good, but who really cares about Greek mythology?”
“But it’s not just Greek mythology. It’s Jack, falling from the tree. Don’t you get it?”
Tristan took a step back, away from the painting, and tried to see its value outside of his brother’s narrative, but all he could see was Gareth’s guilt, painted, once again, onto canvas.
“Jack doesn’t have wings, you know. He isn’t an angel and he sure isn’t a god. At some point you have to let it go. I think he has.”
“Well, it’s easier for him, isn’t it? It wasn’t his fault.” Gareth crossed his arms.
“Really, Gareth? Really? Easier for him? You are such an asshole sometimes.”
Tristan walked away, leaving Gareth in front of the giant painting. Was it really Jack’s face he had painted? It wasn’t the face of a child, that was for sure. It was a man’s face. But the expression was that of surprise. As if falling had been the last thing on his mind. It was all wrong. Gareth took out his toolbox filled with oil paints. He grabbed a rag, dampened it with a mixture of linseed oil and admiral spirits, and then he rubbed out all of the features of the face. He placed a mirror beside the canvas. Peered at his reflection and then, stroke by stroke, he repeated his image, from his face to the mirror to the canvas. He was Icarus, not Jack. He was the one who dared to fly too close to the sun. The one who made every mistake with two eyes open.
* * *
It seemed that the sherry and curry powder were no longer working. Their grandfather lay on the single bed, barely moving. Blanca took one of the cigarettes she had rolled that morning, put it in her mouth, then lit the end. After a long inhalation and a slow exhalation, she sat on the edge of the crusty bed and put the cigarette into her grandfather’s mouth.
“What are you doing, Blanca? He’s got cancer, are you crazy?”
“He’s not going to make it, Clara. And smoking’s one of his few joys.”
Clara couldn’t believe her ears! How many times did it look like Death was knocking and then, somehow, the old man tricked him. Told Death he wasn’t home, to call back later. Then it would be all the sherry in the house and three tablespoons of the curry powder for a week and, sure enough, he would be up and at ’em again. Wheeling through town on his man-sized trike, offering things to get you up or take you down.
“Go down to Esther’s. There’s no rush, take your time. Tell her that I said it might be close. She will know what to do.”
When Clara left, Blanca took her grandfather’s hand, gave it a squeeze, then put the cigarette to his mouth again. He opened his eyes and smiled at her.
“You’re such a good girl. Always a better-behaved girl than your sister. Your uncle always said that. Always preferred you. Said you were the smarter one.”
“Yeah. Look, Grandpa, you have things you haven’t told us. You know who our father is and you need to tell me before you die.”
“It was that boy …”
He shook his head. Mum’s the word. Let her think what he chose to think all those years before the doubts started to creep in. The twins didn’t need to know what he had begun to suspect. The whispered secrets would have to go to the grave with him.
“Because if you don’t tell me now, Clara and I will get onto our knees, every day, without the comfort of a cushion under them, and we will pray that your soul spends an eternity in Hell. Understand?”
The old man chuckled one of those weak, silent, raspy laughs. The air caught in his lungs so that the exhale came out with a high keening sound. For a moment his face turned quite red and Blanca jumped up away from him, thinking he might die right then and there. It was a good thing that she had told Clara to go downstairs. They all thought Clara was the naughty one, but she was just the one who was too often caught. She was the sensitive one who felt bad when they misbehaved. She made mistakes. Didn’t lie very well. And all the time they thought Blanca was the better-behaved, but she knew that she was always the one with more power. The stronger twin.
“Not all angels are beautiful, Grandpa. Did you know that? Not all angels are sweet. You are going to die, and I bet you’re afraid. Afraid to meet your maker. Guess what? I’m the angel who stands between you and your maker. I’m the last face you’ll see before you see God. So, you had better tell me the truth, you nasty old man.”
He was no longer laughing. This was a side of Blanca he hadn’t seen. So in control. She lifted the cigarette and he thought she would give him a drag on it, but, instead, she took a puff herself and blew rings into the attic room.
Perhaps they were not human, after all. Perhaps they were angels from God. Fierce, unforgiving angels. Angels of retribution, and he had mistreated them. How could he denigrate an angel of God by telling them those terrible rumors? By repeating all the crazy talk of his devil-tongued daughter?
Blanca viewed her grandpa with little empathy and a lot of impatience. It seemed unreal to her, like a movie, where she was on the outside of the drama and yet still witness to it. Yes, he was a man suffering, struggling to breathe, holding on to life by those last, dubious, dangling threads, but it was hard for her to see him beyond his condition. She brought the cigarette to his mouth and told him to go ahead, have a nice long drag on it. Then she picked up the lumpy pillow from under his head. There was little point in fluffing it for him, the foam wouldn’t allow it.
“The secret cannot go to the grave with you. You have an obligation to tell us. Everyone deserves to know their past.”
Her grandpa shook his head again, refusing. Blanca brought the pillow toward his face.
“It would be an act of kindness. Put you out of your misery. No more struggling to get up and down the stairs. No more struggling to breathe. It could be so simple. Now, tell me, who is our father?”
There was something that always creeped him out when he looked into their eyes. He understood, from the appointments with eye doctors, that the darker pupils were quite normal in albinos, but still, up close, they seemed to be preternatural. Like the eyes of a demon or a succubus. Yes, that is what they were and they were sucking the life out of him. Her and her sister.
“If you do not tell me I will assume, all the rest of my life, that it was you. It has to be someone carrying the recessive albino gene. I am guessing it was family because albinism is quite rare in North America.”
He couldn’t believe that she suspected him! Okay, yes, he did live somewhat outside the law. He sold acid and pot, he cheated on his income tax, he even stole extra cream from the diner, but that was so far removed from anything she might be thinking! How could she believe for a minute that he would hurt his daughter that way? That would make him a monster, an absolute monster, and he wasn’t that. Didn’t he care for the two of them, love them to bits even though they were ugly little things? Didn’t he protect them from harm and teasing and the sun’s harmful rays?
“You are dying. The cancer is growing, Grandpa. It will swallow you up soon. Only the truth will set you free.”
She gently put the lumpy foam pillow back under his head. She knew she was making some progress and so she began to quote from the Gospel of John.
“You are from below; I am from above. You are of this world; I am not of this world. You will die in your sins; you will indeed die in your sins.”
She took his hand one more time.
“It could be so easy. I could make the pain go away,” she reassured him.
He tried to sit up higher but didn’t have the strength, so Blanca leaned in close, so close she was
breathing in his fetid breath, smelling of curry, cigarettes, and death.
“I cannot be sure, but there was some talk. And your mother made some horrible accusations.”
“Yes,” she encouraged, bringing the cigarette close enough that he could smell it.
“There was talk. But that’s all it was. Gossip and talk. All lies!”
“Fine. Burn in Hell. You were never a good father and an even worse grandfather. I will pray and curse you to an eternity in Hell. And one day you will be thirsty and I, and Clara and my mom, will walk by you and give you not so much as a drop of water!”
He felt the world closing in on him. His breathing became almost impossible, every inhale was a stab in his chest. He reached for his chest, gasping. This was it. Hers really would be the last face he would see before meeting his maker. He tried for air, popping his mouth open and closed like a freshly caught perch. Suddenly he remembered the first time he brought the girls fishing. Bob and his boys were there, too, all with lines in the water, but there wasn’t much in the way of nibbles. Two sunfish and a nice chubby perch. He cast out again, telling the girls to keep an eye on their catch. They’d have a great fry-up that night if they could just catch one or two more! Clara sat silently by the bucket, water barely covering the day’s catch. She was staring at them, their mouths opening and closing over and over again. Blanca put her little line back into the water. Suddenly the bucket was empty and there was little Clara, crying, with the empty bucket in her hands. Then it happened. Bob yelled at her, full of unbridled rage. Right there, at the side of the road, he pulled down her pants and started to spank her, her white bare bottom changing to a crimson red while his boys covered their laughing faces. Clara was screaming, kicking and struggling, but he went on, thrashing her bum, over and over and over again until her body went limp and he dropped her in the gravel.
“Bob. It was your uncle Bob.”
It was all too much for him. He lay back down and closed his eyes, believing that death would now take him. Hoping to escape the room, the pain, and the spoken truth. But it didn’t. The air rushed into his lungs and he could feel his life force returning. Suddenly he was as relieved as those fish must have been, at the hands of his granddaughter Clara.
Two White Queens and the One-Eyed Jack Page 19