Circle of Stones

by Suzanne Alyssa Andrew

  “I’m confused. Where is he staying?”

  Lhia leans forward. Her expression all hopeful and eager. “That’s the thing — he doesn’t have a place to stay and the shelters are terrible and I really, really want to help him. I want to make sure he’s going to be okay and can keep painting. It wouldn’t take much, you know. Of course he says he doesn’t want help, but he needs it. He just needs to catch a break.”

  She takes a shallow, hurried breath and continues. “Like maybe five hundred dollars to help him get back on his feet? Or a thousand? I can’t ask Mom because, well, you know how broke she always is. And she probably wouldn’t get it. But Uncle George, you’re always so kind and generous and I think you’ll get it. And want to help him. Because he’s so talented. He’s really not like anybody else. It’s like he lives on this whole other plane of existence — and art. Like if there was a God, he’d be way closer to God than everybody else. But there isn’t, or maybe God is a total bastard who’s not paying attention, so my friend needs us.”

  She looks at me, believing that super Uncle George will solve the world’s problems with a wave of his wallet. I’m disappointed. And not God, obviously, though I do have lots of experience. Three (nearly four) decades. A real wealth of worthy advice to dispense. I wish being a superhero didn’t involve cash payouts. I feel like an ATM machine. And something is bothering me about this story. I look at my niece and realize her face is glowy.

  “Are you two dating?” I must be developing tinnitus. Years of the club music. The ringing!

  “Oh, no,” Lhia says. “It’s not like that at all. This girl totally broke his heart. He’s just helping me with my drawing. I’ll have to show you my sketchbook later. And the picture he made for me. I’m going to keep it forever.”

  That’s what it is. Alarm bells. Never trust men who write songs for you. Or ask you to star in their movie. Or paint your portrait.

  “Oh, honey.” I pat Lhia’s arm. I give her my best this-is-serious-now look. “He’s not a wounded bird to fix. He’s a scam artist.”

  Lhia jolts. Startled face. Irritated face. She’s unprepared for a no. But I’m shocked, too. And reminded. This sounds like a familiar story — one I never want to hear again. Lhia will not be going through what her mother did.

  “Uncle George! But he needs us.” Lhia leans in, her voice hushed. “He’s, like, soooooo sad. And he’s so scared he told me he thought about trying to get arrested. Because at least if he gets arrested they’ll bring him home.”

  “Oh, Lhia. You have to — please stop.” I sputter, making waving motions with my hands. And then I raise my voice. It’s more mean dad than cool uncle. “This is the definition of unsavoury behavior. If he wants to get arrested, then let him. Maybe he should be.”

  Two grilled cheese plates slam down on the table. I hadn’t noticed the waitress standing there. Her thin lips are pursed together into a line of disapproval. She shakes her head and walks away. Wow. She hasn’t heard this one before.

  “See? Even the waitress is suspicious of the guy.” I look at my sandwich and sigh. There’s nothing complicated about grilled cheese. I pick it up and wave it in the air like a threat.

  “I can’t eat this cheesy, gooey goodness until you agree to let this go.” I think of my sister and set the sandwich down. “There are so many worthwhile causes, Lhia, and this isn’t one of them. The most important thing is to keep you safe, hon.”

  Lhia stares at her plate in confusion. She picks up the ketchup bottle and spurts a red lake of it onto her plate, like she always does.

  “I guess it sounds bad, but he’s a good person.” Lhia jams a full third of her sandwich into her mouth and starts talking with her mouth full. “I feel sorry for him.”

  “Well, I feel sorry for a lot of people, but I can’t give everyone a cash bonus like that.” I take a big bite of my sandwich, chew, and swallow the salty softness. It feels like we’re coming to an agreement. “And who’s to say that it would work in the long run? This guy needs real help. Social services. Professionals. Some things money can’t fix, right?”

  Lhia dances her fork around in her coleslaw. Her sad sigh wafts over the table. There’s more to this drama. She’s not telling me everything. I’m not sure I want to know. I take an enormous bite of sandwich. Cheddar is like a hug. It’s more familiar than the studiously poured cocktails and elaborate bistro meals I’ve grown accustomed to in Ottawa — food you have to think about to appreciate. It reminds me of fresh farm eggs, doughy perogies, overstuffed cabbage rolls, and massive pots of bland borscht bubbling on the big old family farm stove. I can’t remember the last time I ate mashed potatoes. My mom’s were terrible. I’m a spicy city boy now. As if to prove it, I reach for the condiment caddy at the end of the table. I pepper my coleslaw and spike my ketchup puddle with hot sauce while Lhia makes faces of feigned horror at me.

  “Ewww! That’s gross.” She says it with a mouth full of coleslaw and giggles. I’ve got her laughing now. Diner food is my superpower. I don’t even flinch when the bill arrives to burn another grill mark into my Visa. Still, something about this doesn’t quite feel like a win.

  We walk back to my Jeep. Lhia tells me about her semi-senile French teacher. The Eames chair catches my eye again. Then the scary kid I gave a toonie to stands up in his doorway. I grab Lhia’s arm and gently guide her across the street. But then Lhia turns, makes eye contact with him, shakes her head in a slow, sad “no.” I look back at the kid.

  “Stay here a sec.” I tug Lhia’s arm as I say it, as though I can anchor her in place.

  I bolt across the street, too angry to look for traffic. I grab the kid by the nape of his filthy hoodie and pull him hard and close so my face is right up in his. Now he can’t look away.

  “You stay away from my niece.”

  It’s rapid, visceral, and mean. I twist the flimsy fabric of the kid’s shirt tighter, then let go. He stumbles backward. Starts coughing. I don’t want to hear that. This boy is like Lhia’s asshole father. He needs to be dealt with. I wipe my hands off on my jeans then cross the street. I take Lhia by the arm and march her to my Jeep. There is a roar in my ears. I can’t hear. All I can see is my car. All I can think of is getting Lhia in it and speeding away.

  Neither of us say anything on the drive home. I’m more embarrassed about my excessive behaviour at every successive block. I’m sure the kid understood his “no” message when Lhia shook her head at him. Neither of them needed the added drama. I wish that kid hadn’t started coughing. I wish I hadn’t seen the fear in his eyes. That’s going to haunt me. Assholes don’t tear up like that. Lhia’s father’s emotional range was limited to rage and defiance. This kid is different.

  I drop Lhia off, then park Jeannie Jeep outside my apartment at O’Connor and MacLaren. Someone’s added a new blue metal orb to the bizarre handcrafted mobile dangling from my favourite gnarly old tree. Quaint. I listen to glass and metal clink together in the wind on the path to the door. I pause at the entrance to listen to the familiar chorus of wind chimes and try to calm down. My colleagues have all moved on to big suburban houses by now, but most of my neighbours are artists. Or lobbyists for lost causes. Lovely people. Hard-working downtown renters who’ve arrived once they can afford to move out of student and bug-infested dives. They pay their rent, live decent lives. I open the wood-and-metal front door. It still impresses. It’s the original from when the building was crafted with old-time care in 1935. They don’t build places like this anymore.

  Grandeur is temporary. There’s a fresh stack of bills in my mailbox. No paycheque. Damn. I slam my feet on polished steps. Three flights up. I stick the phone bill in my mouth and bite on it to stop from shouting in the library-silence of the hall. The envelope tastes like glue. The small stained-glass window in the living room glints when I flick on the light in my apartment. I stand for a moment and admire my collection of mid-century-modern furniture. Carefully curated paintings and prints line the walls. I breathe in the cool, dusty smell of the
place and tell myself this is what I’ve worked for. It’s mine. It’s cultured. My things are exquisite and expensive. This is nothing like the farm.

  My self-counselling works. I feel a bit of pep in my step. Then I trip on Randall’s black leather brogues in the hall, left where they’d been kicked off and where I’ve told him not to leave them about a hundred thousand times. I hear the rapid drill-tap of the keyboard. Randall is working late again. I want to tell him about my diner dinner with Lhia, and my confrontation with the spooky kid, but I know that if I knock on the door now and interrupt he’ll only half listen. Better to wait. I sigh and hang my jacket in the closet beside Randall’s nearly identical, but pricier, version. Randall looms in the doorway of the spare room, cutting a tall, slender, gym-built silhouette. He could be an underwear model. Oh, but then no one would admire his square chin, treasure the perfect isosceles triangle of his nose. I want. I need his geometry. He shuts the door.

  Fine. Let him spend the evening with his fat, ugly files and bloated emails. But a simple hello would have been nice. Decent. Reasonable. Oh, Scotch, my old friend. I haven’t seen you since — well, since last night. I lean over my vintage chrome sideboard and pour myself a tumbler.

  “To lawyers.” I raise my glass to the living-room lamp. “And sensible relationships with stable men.”

  Coming home used to mean exuberant hugs, stories, and gossip in the kitchen while Randall stirred tart cocktails and cooked three-course meals. Then he started getting bigger cases. Now he occupies my spare room, runs up my phone bill, and shushes me every time I turn up the volume on my TV or stereo. I know my apartment is closer to the office and courthouse than Randall’s house is. Randall is practical. And although I bitch about him constantly, he’s still princely. I smoulder for him, even after picking up his dry cleaning, ordering take-out, doing the laundry. I pay for my half of everything we need — and sometimes his share, too, when he’s too busy high-level thinking to remember such lowly details as toothpaste and tissues. I’m his boyfriend, wife, and personal assistant all rolled into one. Tell me that’s not superheroic.

  I glance at the stack of mail I left by the door. I must have missed something. There’s got to be a familiar beige government envelope in here. I flip through the envelopes again, desperate for a monetary hug. I’d kiss a cheque tonight. But I’m holding a fistful of bills and overdue notices. I grimace. I calculate the number of days my cheque is overdue and realize it’s two weeks later than it’s ever been. All I can do is sit down. On the uncomfortable leather sofa Randall insisted we buy. And when I say we, I mean I — the charge crash landed on my MasterCard.

  I’d better call Lucy. She’s an old friend from Winnipeg, but I don’t hold that against her. She’s sweet. And she never does anything. I’m not sure she likes it here in Ottawa, but she never complains. It’s so calming talking to someone so devoid of drama. Her voice is as dulcet over the phone as a late-night CBC Radio host’s. In person she smells of vanilla and peppermint. I dial but Lucy’s line rings and rings. That’s strange. Perhaps she’s working late. Or in the bathtub. I hang up without leaving a message and try to imagine how I might grovel for Randall’s attention without provoking a fight.

  Then I think about the spooky kid. He was a mess, but he did try to shake my hand. Told me his name. Nik. I wonder if his family knows where he is. I remember what that horrible, constant worry was like when Tina was far away and on the road with her asshole musician. I try to think of how I might get in touch with the kid’s parents. Whether or not that would help — to get him out of town and away from my niece. I can get Randall to call in a favour through his legal and police contacts and see if the kid is in the system. I’ll ask tomorrow. I just need to get the kid’s last name from Lhia. If it works, it might even bring me back up to somewhat cool uncle status. I take a sip of Scotch and then another, and sink into the sofa’s deep, leathery recessions. I feel sleepy and let myself drift. That way Randall will have to come wake me. I’ll get a hand up and a hug and then he’ll lead me to bed and we’ll have tidily avoided confrontation again.

  I wake up shivering. I shift to a sitting position on the sofa, shake my left foot awake. My jeans have left uncomfortable indentations in the skin below my waist. My shirt is twisted up under my armpit. I spit afghan fluff from my mouth. The brown blanket now lies in a heap on the floor, along with two red decorator pillows. The silk one I got at a fancy pillow boutique in Toronto (for almost two hundred dollars) is now marred with a jagged drool stain.

  I stand up and twist back and forth to loosen my tight, aching back. I march down the hall, stand in the doorway of my bedroom, and stare at the lump snoring warm and comfortable under my feather duvet. In the bathroom I have to yank dry contact lenses from sore eyes. Tomato-red eyes. Monster eyes. In the hot spray and steam of the shower I feel a rumble from deep within the recesses of my gut that emerges from my throat as a low growl. I wrap myself in my big dark-blue towel — the one that’s hung up — pluck Randall’s stinking, damp towel off the floor and shove it, along with my clothes, into the hall closet hamper. Then I stomp into my bedroom and flick the overhead light on.

  “Ow. Hey!” Randall covers his eyes. “Why did you turn on the light? What time is it?”

  I open the closet door, select a pair of black dress pants and a dark striped shirt, and place them on my dresser. Then I pull clean socks and boxers out of a drawer. New system. No hello from Randall last night means no good morning from me.

  “I’m getting ready for work. I thought at the very least you’d wake me so I could sleep in my own bed. This isn’t your own personal pied-à-terre you know.”

  “I worked really late last night, and at the end of it I just fell asleep.” Randall yawns, unaffected by my tirade. He sits up, peers in the mirror at himself, and tidies his minor bed-head with his hands. I am annoyed by his hair, the shine and symmetry of it. The consistent attention it receives. “Come here, hon.” He leans back on his elbows as he says it. “I still have lots of time before I have to be at the office.”

  I pull on my pants. I put on the shirt, do up the buttons, then reach for a tie.

  “Wear the navy one.” I turn to see Randall appraising me judiciously. “The green one makes you look — ”

  “Makes me look what?” I glare at Randall. “Fed up? Because that’s how I feel right now. Underpaid? Because I’m that, too.”

  “I was going to say nauseated.” Randall shrugs. “Green is not your colour.”

  Randall fluffs his pillow and lies back down, staring at the ceiling.

  I crumple the green tie into a ball and throw it at him. Then I stand in front of the mirror and knot the navy tie. I know Randall is watching me, monitoring my technique. I widen my stance and straighten my spine. I’m not going to back down. I’m not going to devolve. One more withering glance and I’ll be the skinny, nervous farm kid again hiding in the hayloft and the attic because I can’t deal with the reality of where chicken dinner and hot roast beef sandwiches come from. This is the part in our fights when I let my grumbling stomach lead me into the kitchen for hot coffee and a toasted multigrain waffle and Randall takes a shower and we forget about the whole thing. Or this is the part where I accept a hug and kiss from Randall and let everything stay the same. This is the part when I grant my chicken free range.

  But I don’t feel like myself today. My anger is unrelenting. I sit down on the edge of the bed and look at my chicken. Randall has smooth, lightly tanned skin, the unworried brow of someone with money. I look into his brown eyes, hoping to see a glimmer there. Reassurance. Empathy. Something human. Randall looks back at me, twitches his beak, and flaps his ruffled feathers.

  “Remember, we’re taking the Beauchamps to dinner tonight. I said we’d love to try that new bistro in the Market.” Randall turns to rest on his right elbow. His biceps bulges. “I looked at the menu online and it’s pretty reasonable. We’ll each put in a hundred and fifty, including tax and tip. I’ll put it on my card and you can p
ay me back later.”

  “Bill Beauchamp, the lawyer.” I stand up and stare down at my chicken. “Your buddy from private school in Rockcliffe Park.”

  “Of course.” Randall picks up his BlackBerry and starts thumbing through messages. “We’re networking, so make sure to wear your new dinner jacket. Pair it with your dark shirt and tie.”

  “Maybe you should pay to take your colleague and his wife out for dinner.” I poke my finger at Randall’s toned chest.

  “What? You’re not coming?” Randall looks up from his BlackBerry. “They like you, George. It looks good that I’m with an up-and-comer from Foreign Affairs.”

  “Are you even listening to me? It’s not that I don’t want to go, Randall, it’s that I can’t afford it right now.” I say it to challenge Randall to pay. Or offer a loan. Or take me in his arms, kiss me long and hard, and promise me I don’t have to worry, he’ll take care of everything.

  “I’ll tell them you’re sick.” Randall looks back down at his BlackBerry screen.

  “That’s romantic.” I grab the device out of Randall’s hand and toss it onto the pillow. “Look Randall, I don’t think you’re hearing me. I’m broke. B-R-O-K-E. You don’t seem to comprehend what that means, so let me explain. I don’t have any more money for expensive dinners, drinks, and nights out with your colleagues. I’m a civil servant. You’re a lawyer. I can’t keep up.”

  Randall stares at me and blinks. “Are you breaking up with me?”

  “No, I’m not breaking up with you.” I rub my forehead with the back of my palm. The words spew from my mouth and turn surreal when I say them out loud. “I’m saying we have to work a few things out. Things have to change.”

  For a moment neither of us moves. I already can’t believe I said that.