Circle of Stones

by Suzanne Alyssa Andrew

  “I did find her,” he says, finally. His eyes are still closed. “I promised my grandmother I’d look after her. I thought she was in danger. I gave up everything. I did everything.”

  “So what happened to her?” I ask, looking up at the cloud-filled sky.

  “She didn’t need me. Or want me. Not even when she fell and broke.”

  I think of the girl from the club the other night. The creepy one with the injured leg. Jennifer. Is that her?

  Tall guy is immobile. I close my eyes, too. Then I feel a hand on my arm, clutching it.

  “She had someone else,” he says. “Like your Lyle.”

  I put my hand on top of his. We’re the same, then. He’s warning me.

  “He was a big man. Ugly. With lots of money.” He releases my arm and looks away. “A dangerous man. He brought flowers for her.”

  He stands up and walks over to the metal railing overlooking the canal. “She fell …” He looks out at the water. “He fell,” he mutters. He clutches at his heart and drapes himself over the railing, playacting. He goes limp on the railing, hanging his head. He looks like a thin, grubby rag doll.

  A tear escapes from my eye and I rub it away. I thought Lyle was going to be my boyfriend. A gentleman. Instead I’m skipping school with a crazy, talented homeless kid who doesn’t have anything other than passion. And now we both know that love doesn’t conquer all.

  We’re both unloved ones. Back-up plans. Invisibles. I can’t stop it anymore. I sit up, rest my head on my knees, and cry. After a few minutes I hear him rustling beside me. But he waits. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t try to fix me, pour on sympathy, joke about it, or make me feel worse. When I finally look up he’s standing, with his running shoes on and his duffel bag strung over his shoulder, like he’s ready to go somewhere.

  “My name is Nik.” He smiles and extends his grubby, paint-streaked hand to help me up. I wipe my eyes and take it.

  Jennifer and Nik

  It’s raining. Freezing, slippery, pellet-like rain. Jennifer stands at the door of the physiotherapy clinic. It’s late — she hears the click of the automatic door lock behind her. She opens her umbrella, steps onto the sidewalk, realizes the either/or of her situation. Slip slide to the bus stop on crutches and get wet, or stand still under her umbrella. She stands still, shivering, both crutches under her left arm, head down. She watches the patterns the rain makes on the sidewalk, dark puddles reflecting streetlights until the patterns blur.

  Jennifer’s umbrella lifts into the air. She lets go, watches it ascend, sees a paint-streaked hand, and leans back into the familiar crevices and warmth of Nik’s torso. And then he leans down and lifts her up, too, carries her into a doorway, sets her down again, and they look at each other. Jennifer remembers her vision of Nik walking. She reaches up to kiss him.

  He looks at her with fury in his eyes and takes a step back, so he’s in the rain again. And shadows. Obscured.

  “Nikky —” she says his name, hesitates, waits for him to wrap his arms around her, stroke her hair. She is uncomfortable with this wanting. She knows Nik has been following her for months. That somehow he found her, but then lost his nerve, hiding, lurking, watching. At first she thought she was imagining him. But then Nik’s presence became more and more comforting. She just hasn’t been able to find a way to admit that.

  “I’m sorry. I should have talked to you.” Jennifer leans against the doorway. “I thought it would be easier. I wanted to move forward.”

  Nik takes a sketchbook from his pocket and flips through the pages, ducks under the doorway out of the rain, but off to the side — not closer to her.

  “I’m glad you’re here now.” Jennifer holds on to the doorframe, posing. Are you going to sketch me?” This is something she’s used to. She feels the cold stone of the doorframe with her hands and a sudden stillness within herself. Her mind quiet, she looks at him. He’s wearing the same black leather jacket, but it’s now worn and shabby. He’s stitched awkward patches onto it where it was torn. His hoodie and combat pants are filthy and pockmarked with holes. And instead of his signature skull-painted boots, he’s wearing shredded black running shoes. He looks taller to her. His face is more angular, gaunt. His hair a filthy mess of tangles. And his sombre expression does not soften into a smile.

  “I missed this,” she says. “I missed —” And then she stops and shakes her head, as if to shake the emotions out. Reset. “You know.” She pauses, watching him, waiting for a reaction. “What I love is —” She looks at her feet. Sighs.

  Nik writes something in his sketchbook. Jennifer rises on tiptoe to try to look, but can’t quite see. It doesn’t look like a sketch, though, just a word at the end of a long list. It amuses her that he is writing for himself. She thinks he is writing her name. Or an idea for a new portrait of her. It doesn’t occur to her that Nik could be working on something else. Or writing his own story.

  Nik stuffs the sketchbook back into his pocket and leans in to Jennifer, kissing her on the forehead. Jennifer thinks it feels like feathers, closes her eyes. His cold hands brush against her cheek and she breathes him in — paint, alcohol, darkness, earth, dirt. Up close she feels him shaking. Up close he is thinner than a man should ever be. For the first time she wants to steady him.

  Nik stares out at the rain. Jennifer sits down in the doorway and puts her hand on top of one of Nik’s filthy shoes, hanging on, trying to think of what else to say. How to say it. Why he’s not saying anything. Finally he lifts his head, like he’s going to tell her something, but instead he puts his hand over his mouth and coughs hard. Jennifer listens to his lungs wheeze and rattle and holds on to his ankle.

  Nik reaches into his bag and pushes a small, paper-wrapped canvas into Jennifer’s hands. She looks up and sees a goodbye in his eyes before he says it. It startles her. He turns and walks away, head down, into the wind.

  Jennifer sits in the doorway, watching him lope down the street and around the corner. She stays there looking at the water-slicked street, feeling darkness, immobilized, long after it stops raining. Wonders where he went. If he’s coming back. Remembers all the times she thought she saw him — and all the times she knew for sure. All the chances she’s had and lost. She hadn’t wanted him to follow her. She wanted to focus only on dancing. And getting away from Vancouver. It seemed like freedom, for a while. But then she failed. Fell. And everything was blown apart.

  She stashes Nik’s picture in her dance bag and doesn’t look at it until later. When she finally does, she’s alone in the shared apartment she’s staying in, the door of her room locked. She lies down on the sagging mattress and rifles through her bag to find it. Tensor bandages and medical gauze fly out, T-shirts, tights.

  She unwraps the brown paper from the canvas. Feels the texture of canvas and layered paint in her hands. It’s a painting of an old sailing ship, with fierce waves crashing all around, the sky dark and menacing. In the prow of the ship is the tiny figure of a captain — Nik himself in his black jacket and a black pirate hat. The flag is at half-mast. Jennifer stares at the painting, looking for herself in the waves — are they cascades of her hair? — in the clouds — is there a ghost image of her there? A shape? A sign? An idea? She stares and stares, stuffing it back into her bag, and then compulsively analyzing it again. It takes her hours to process the image in her mind. To realize Nik is not painting her anymore.

  Nothing he could have said would have terrified her more.

  George

  I’m driving down Wellington Street on my way to meet Lhia for dinner. She called me and said it was about something important, but all I can think of are my bills. Bloodsucking vampire bills. If I pay my student loan and my Canadian Tire card with my Visa, pay Visa with MasterCard, MasterCard with my line of credit, then I’m covered. But then there won’t be enough cash left in my chequing account for rent. I’m already in overdraft. Damn. That can’t be right. Let’s do this again. Student loan with line of credit, Canadian Tire and MasterCard
with Visa, Visa with MasterCard, rent with a cash advance from MasterCard. That would raise my MasterCard minimum payment, though, which would mean higher bills next month, which means I better get a cheque soon — with all my back pay owing. Plus interest.

  The gas gauge is pointing to an eighth of a tank. Jeannie, my trustworthy Jeep, loves me enough to soldier on for two more days on empty and still look sexy. But even gas fumes run dry. If I park here I’ll save a quarter. Slam on the brakes. Bang the door shut. Remember my personal loan payment is also due. Slip on a patch of ice. I reach for the Jeep’s door handle. Save me, Jeannie! I’ll dream of you. This is my last really good pair of designer jeans. And Randall loves me in these jeans.

  I stand up straight and dust off my jacket. Now I’ve got to iron things out. I’m the family smoother, but it never soothes me. Where’s my pat on the back? Where’s my pep talk? I hate being the adult. And I’m going to be late if I don’t hustle. I tuck my hands into my pockets and seize on the quarters and loonies there. Five bucks. I thought I’d feel like a million at this age. I sniff the outside air again. It’s crisp. Even in the city, with its exhaust and toxic spume, I can smell the change of seasons. That’s my farm-boy trick.

  Who am I kidding? I’ve been gone for well over a decade now. Almost two. I don’t usually admit that because the real numbers make me feel old. And where I live still doesn’t feel like home. Ottawa is a soul-squelched city with a chilly bitch of a wind. Bashes you over the head with the first signs of winter and laughs maniacally. It’s only going to get worse. I’m already slouching, shoulders hunched under my coat to shield my neck from the cold. I think of Randall and straighten. Randall says good posture makes clothes look sharper, especially in winter. I want to look sharp. And expensive.

  I look around at the market regulars. An old man in an orange toque stands in his regular spot beside a fire hydrant shaking a paper cup half full of change. He swears at me as I pass by, but I keep walking. My dad would have an awful comeback. He says embarrassing racist things, too, if you let him go on too long. He’s a real compassionate guy, my dad. Except for when it comes to people.

  I stop to gawk at the svelte Eames chair in the window of a vintage furniture boutique. Something moves in my periphery. Nearby is a figure in black huddled in a doorway. Looking dejected. I’m not my dad. I have empathy. I palm a toonie from my pocket and drop it in the direction of the guy’s hand. It clangs on concrete before being snatched up by a black-and-blue limb. Now I’m a little scared. Is this guy a brawler? Beaten? Infected with something? Am I going to have to call an ambulance? I wait for my muffled “Thank you” so I know he’s all right. So I know I can go.

  “Hey wait a minute!” The figure crosses his long legs, yoga-lotus style, moves a fraction of an inch toward me, and I step back because I’m a jerk. And a coward. But now I’m looking at this guy instead of glancing at him, and I think the black and blue might actually be paint.

  “I’m not panning for change, sir.”

  Wait — there’s no cigarettes or gravelly, grumbly old weariness in that voice. And sir? Shouldn’t I be offended by that? How old is this guy? I look closer. Under the layers of dark, filthy clothes and street grime there’s a kid. Not much older than Lhia.

  “I’m just hanging out here.” The kid holds up the toonie, offering it back to me. “I’m waiting for my friend.”

  “Uhhh, sorry.” I have no idea what to say now. Or do. I back away. Thanks, Dad, you taught me well.

  “Fine. If you don’t want it, then I’ll keep it.” The shiny toonie disappears into his pants pocket. “Maybe I’ll get a coffee later. On you.”

  “Yeah, get yourself a coffee, kid.” I smile to myself. That sounded human! “It’ll warm you up.”

  “My name’s Nik, by the way.” The young man reaches out to shake my hand, but that’s too much for me. Or, rather for my knee-jerk legs, which hustle me away on their own accord, the conservative bastards. Apparently I’m only left-leaning from the crotch up. I’m already around the corner when I hear the kid talking to himself about being invisible. It makes me feel so much better to know he’s crazy. Up until then I was feeling uncomfortable about the idea of someone so normal and polite ending up alone in the gutter. Around the corner from Sussex Drive. In view of the nation’s glorious Parliament Buildings.

  I speedwalk past Byward Market Square to Zak’s Diner. Blast of warm air and noisy college rock. Everything inside perfectly, wonderfully predictable. A booth full of male students in jeans and T-shirts making ribald jokes about female body parts. A table of after-work, loosened-tie civil servants with papers spilling out of overstuffed briefcases. I spot an available booth. I slip off my black wool jacket, hang it on a hook, and straighten the collar of my blue-striped shirt before I sit down. Everything tidy. Everything smooth.

  I look around and make eye contact with a man in a suit. His wedding ring sparkles, but the disco lights are gone from his eyes. He looks away. He’s not talking to the woman he’s with, which means she’s his wife. She’s as dour as a storybook nun. These are people who do not have sex — at least not with each other. They’re married to their jobs, roles, secrets. I start playing “Civil Service,” my little game of matching office workers with their departments. The man must be with one of the technology sectors at Industry Canada — relatively exciting, largely ineffectual. I think that the woman is an underappreciated librarian at the National Archives until I catch a glimpse of the flashy designer label affixed to her coat. She’s mid-level management grinding away at Statistics Canada. I’m at Foreign Affairs and International Trade. On contract. Can you tell? Is my not-quite-employee status showing?

  A waitress darts past, keeping a tray of oversized milkshakes afloat. I strategize about whether to put this dinner on Visa or MasterCard, and distract myself by flipping through the songs on the tabletop jukebox. I drop in a couple of quarters and pick some old goth standards from the eighties and nineties for Lhia. The Smiths. The Cure. Depeche Mode. I used to like these bands in high school, too. I got the vibe, though I never dressed up. I’ve never been glam. Lhia seemed to enjoy my music picks the last time we had dinner, even though I was grilling her about school. Now she says she has something to ask me. I wonder what it’s about.

  I look up to see Lhia flounce in. Her hair is a little messier than usual, but other than that she looks more or less the same. Way too much makeup and at least four separate shades of black among layers of velvet and wool. It’s always like seeing a phantom of my sister at sixteen, they look so much alike. I get ready to play all my adult cards, but with a cool attitude, of course. I don’t want to lose all my awesome uncle cred. Last time Lhia tried to get away with ordering a beer. That’s something teenage Tina would have done. Now that I’m an uncle I want to be the superhero role model Tina and I never had. We only had our closed-minded parents to talk to back when we were growing up on the family farm near Winnipeg. And peers who were just as addled as we were. Oh, the confusion! I would never go back in time. You couldn’t pay me enough to.

  Lhia lands in the booth, exuding teenage drama. It swirls and wafts around her like drugstore perfume. She looks up at me with baleful, red-rimmed eyes. Today’s smudgy black eyeliner effect is spectacular. She could be in a music video.

  “Oh, honey, what happened?” I lean over and pat her on the shoulder. Give her the sympathetic smile. Try to think of something smart to say. Start prepping jokes for later. It appears I’ll be starring in the role of Cheery Uncle tonight.

  The waitress appears with menus, glances at us, takes her ordering pad out of her apron pocket, and starts writing. “Two grilled cheese again?”

  I love how bored the waitress sounds. Like every dinner show is in permanent syndication, and we’re predictable reruns. We order the same thing every time. It’s comfort food.

  “Yes, please.” I nod to the waitress. “And a coffee.”

  “Make that two coffees,” Lhia says.

  My girly whirly is serious today ind
eed. I remember when my sister Tina first started drinking coffee. It was right around the time she got really interested in bands …

  Uh-oh.

  I grab one of Lhia’s hands. It’s colder than a cocktail glass.

  “Uncle Georgie? I need your help.” Lhia looks at me again. Oversized manga-comic-book eyes. I sigh. It’s too soon for this. I’m too young for this. I think of toddler Lhia jumping into my lap for a big hug. Remember playing peekaboo and hide-and-go-seek around my apartment. It wasn’t too long ago I was still buying her toys at Christmas. A classic Fisher Price airport I found on eBay. A big pink plastic dollhouse. One year I gave her a charming stuffed monkey I nearly kept for myself. I refocus on the nearly adult version of Lhia in front of me. I pat her ice-cube-tray arm, make encouraging “Um-hm” sounds.

  “I have this friend?”

  Is that a “friend” euphemism, or friend, as in troublesome punk boy she doesn’t want me to meet? I hear a faint ringing sound. A momentary pause as our coffees arrive. We tear apart cream and sugar packets. Lhia takes a sip, makes a face, adds more sugar.

  “He’s this totally brilliant artist. A painter. You would DIE if you saw his work. I mean it literally pierces your soul. You can’t teach that, you know.”

  “Okay. So where did you meet this guy?” I rub at my ears. What is that annoying ringing sound?

  “Um. Around.” Lhia shrugs and blinks. Like a TV teen. Then she leans forward.

  “I’m totally worried about him,” she says. “It’s getting cold outside.”

  “And that’s a problem because …”

  Lhia takes a strand of hair and twists it. It’s a nervous gesture, which surprises me. “He’s super sweet — it’s quite a story. He travelled a long way to save his girlfriend’s life, but she liked this other guy, maybe, well, he thinks so. Or at the very least he doesn’t think she’s in love with him, even though she should be, because he’s amazing. And super nice. He has, like, the best manners ever. You wouldn’t even believe it.”