“What happened?”
“There was an incident …,” said the detective.
“Your gloves are melting,” said the officer, scribbling in his notepad.
Mason scraped at the toxic, bubbling mess on the grill. “Why’d you come here?”
“We saw your name on some papers in his apartment—figured we should talk to you.” The officer scribbled.
“Papers?”
“Some articles off the Internet.”
“Oh yeah.” Mason scraped. “Warren wanted to read some of what I wrote.”
“Why would he do that?” Scribble.
“I don’t know … we were friends.” Scrape, scrape.
“You said you didn’t know how you knew him.” Scribble. Scrape.
There was a gentle pop, then a sizzle, as water fell from Mason’s eyes onto the red-hot grill. “I sold him hotdogs.”
“Are you all right, Mason?”
Mason watched himself open a bottle of water and pour it onto the grill. “What about the funeral?” he said, the steam billowing upwards, a large impatient spirit.
When the cops were gone, Fishy came over. He’d been watching from across the street. “What was that about?” he said, looking off down the sidewalk.
Mason looked at Fishy’s profile—bulgy eyes and flappy lips, a flat, stubbly chin. He didn’t answer.
Fishy turned his head. “I asked you a question. What was the fuzz doing here?”
“You actually call them the fuzz?”
Fishy lowered his gaze, and Mason glimpsed some hatred there—back behind the stupidity. “It was nothing,” Mason said.
“What kind of nothing?”
“The kind that isn’t something.”
“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
Mason wanted to hit him. He wanted to yell, “My friend is dead, you fishy fuck!” What he didn’t want to do was help him out, or ease his worries. “They were looking for someone,” he said. “An ugly guy with bulgy eyes. I told them I didn’t know anyone who fit that description.”
“You better watch yourself,” said Fishy.
Mason shrugged. It was a bit too late for that.
14
On the day of Warren’s funeral, Mason decided not to open the hotdog stand. He drank a bottle of wine in his underwear, washed down two cheese sandwiches with a pot of coffee, then put on the black suit he’d bought in Kensington Market.
There were at most a dozen people in the pews, a closed casket on a platform below the dais. He hadn’t meant to reach the front, but walking down the aisle it was like he’d forgotten where he was going—and now the priest was standing right there.
Mason sat down, the only one in the first row. He barely even knew Warren, for God’s sake, and here he was: best man at the funeral.
It quickly became clear, however, that the priest knew Warren not at all.
“Take solace in God,” he said. “And have faith in his fairness. I cannot give you answers, only this: take stock of your tears, and know the Almighty sheds them with you.” Mason heard no one crying behind him—nor from above. As for him, there’d been that moment with the cops when his eyes had teared up, but mostly he was confused. He didn’t even know how Warren had died, and Father here wasn’t dropping any hints.
“Please welcome,” said the priest, “Ms. Amanda Shanter—Warren’s sister. She’s come all the way from Florida, folks.” He said it like she was singing at the casino or something, but to no applause. A woman was coming down the aisle. “Also,” said the priest, “following the ceremony there will be a wake at the Sheraton Plaza Hotel, in the Red Room, courtesy of Ms. Amanda Shanter.”
She was big like her brother but looked sensual and openly sad. The priest did an awkward two-step with her, until finally Ms. Shanter was alone on stage.
She unfolded some papers. Both her dress and hair were shiny black, mid-length, curving inward. Her lips were red. She cleared her throat, staring at the mike as if it were a large wasp buzzing at her mouth.
“They found this on my brother’s desk,” she said, then flattened the papers and began to read:
I’ve got a lot of fears.
I am scared of heights and tunnels. I am scared of crowds and being alone, of speed and paralysis, of dawn and dusk and so many lights between.
I am scared of spiders and Janet Jackson, of needles, bonfires and middle initials, of the earth speeding up so that gravity kills us and the birds explode in the trees.
I am scared of drought. I am scared of drowning—of tidal waves, heat waves, electromagnetic radio waves, the signal passing through our bodies; the static, the snow, the wind that blows through your sleep so it feels like you’ve fallen awake in your bed, the terror of hitting the waves.
I am scared of things mixing together. I am scared of them blowing apart: summer leaves off the limbs of trees, arms and legs strewn across a battlefield, the dispersion of words—how they fly from your mouth like swallows, then dust into the atmosphere, never to be heard from again. I am scared of Easter and Easter Cream Eggs, of chickens and omelets and the intifada. I am scared of gummy bears and grizzly bears, of nudity and hand grenades, of waking up faceless and famous, homeless and nameless. I am scared of being thoughtless.
I am scared of my own thoughts.
I am scared of worms and wormholes and black holes and vacuums; of lightning and thunder and bad theatre; of practical jokes and leprosy; of guavas, iguanas and coconut trees. I’m scared there’s nothing out there, not even darkness—beyond the skin of our universe, the sum of our days—not even the absence of something.
I am scared of caves and bridges; of hospital rooms and Gothic castles; of gallows, gambling and public speaking; of basketball and Armageddon; of Judgment Day and Jerry Lewis; of Huey Lewis and horses. I am scared of getting lost—of getting caught and tranquilized, stuffed in a cage and sent to Rikers Island. Or Mozambique. Or The Hague. I am scared of being found out.
I am scared of love and happiness. I am scared of the first kiss—but more than that, I am scared of the second. My body quakes, the earth’s tectonic plates coming together like granite wings.
I am scared of never asking, never knowing, never breathing—a full, knowing breath. I am scared of writing, of never writing this. I am scared of giving it to you.
But also I am brave as hell. I look and then I leap.
I hope to see you when I land.
Who wants to break the news about Uncle Joe?
You remember Uncle Joe,
He was the one afraid to cut the cake.
THE SECOND
INTRODUCING:
Tenner, the Warrior Monk,
and the Day of the Swallows
15
Maybe it all started then, on the day of the swallows.
That was five years ago now, not long after Mason’s twenty-fifth birthday. He’d been out of the country a few months, rambling and writing travel stories for various magazines. He’d come home for Tenner’s funeral.
Things had changed in his absence. His mom had sold the house in Vancouver and bought a ranch in the interior of British Columbia with her new husband. Also, Mason’s girlfriend of four years had started sleeping with a spoken word performer. On Mason’s return she tried harder to explain spoken word than why she’d broken his heart.
After they buried Tenner, Chaz split for Toronto. Mason said he’d be along soon. But before he could follow he was expected to make an appearance at Aunt Jo’s eightieth birthday party. He went up a few days early, to get a feel for the ranch—a sudden lonesome cowboy. He’d decided to write a novel.
By the day of the party, though, he was still on the first chapter and the relatives were arriving. This was as close as they’d come to a family reunion in over a decade. The ranch house was large—three levels, with seven bedrooms, and still there were going to be cousins sleeping on the floor. With each new arrival Mason sequestered himself further. By noon he was on the roof.
The house had
been built by a German couple. Or rather: by a German man while his wife hid beneath the blankets in a midsize Winnebago parked on the property. She hadn’t realized how large the house would be until the logs arrived. “Trees don’t even grow that big,” she said, in German, and took to her bed.
When her husband was done, there was a solarium, a greenhouse, a paddock, a barn, a games room, and a wine cellar with two hundred bottles of fine red. “It’s all for you,” he said to his wife. Then, three weeks later, he died of a heart attack. The German widow sat in her new log mansion, drinking the wine. By the time she was done, only seven bottles were left in the cellar. Their bodies were flown to the Rhineland.
Mason’s mother didn’t hear this story until after they’d bought the place.
“What happened to the seven bottles?” said Mason.
Up on the roof, he drank champagne. The house was on a steep hill overlooking 120 acres of grazing land, sparse forest and creek beds. The view was remarkable. In fact, he could hear a half-dozen of his brethren remarking on it from the veranda below.
He heard his name being called. A few more times, then he shuffled over to the edge. Rupert, his mom’s new husband, was looking up at him. “Swallows,” he said.
Mason swallowed. “What?”
“I need your help.”
Moments later they were standing on the large deck off the kitchen, looking up. There, clinging to the wall below the eves, were a dozen round nests.
“They’re swallows’ nests,” said Rupert.
“So?”
“They’re shitting all over the deck.”
“So?”
“So this is where we’re having dinner. Your Aunt Jo says she hasn’t lived eighty years just to watch four generations of her family get covered in shit.”
“Okay.”
“We should knock ’em down. You’ve got to do that anyway with swallows.”
“But they’ve got babies …”
“Nah. They’re just making the nests. Babies won’t come for another couple weeks. They’re just making the nests now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. I’m going to take everyone to the lake. You get it done, okay?”
Once they were gone, Mason popped open another bottle of champagne. In the greenhouse he found a ten-foot bamboo pole, and sported it like a javelin to the deck. But even on a chair he couldn’t reach the nests. Back in the kitchen, more champagne, down to the games room for a pool cue, then up two flights of stairs to the westernmost bedroom. He opened the window and stuck out his head.
The nests were only about five feet above him. It was an awkward angle, leaning out, scraping upwards with the cue. He couldn’t really see what he was doing, but it appeared to be working, bits of brittle nest falling onto his head. He swung the cue a bit more, scraping a wider arc. Then he flinched as something hit him—a flurry of wings—another and another. From the surrounding treetops the swallows were diving at the window. He ducked back into the room. Their talons scratched the glass. He caught his breath. There was debris in his hair and he shook it to the floor. Then, slowly, he leaned back out, looking up.
Half the nests were gone, others broken to various degrees. Something flickered in the corner of his eye, at the end of the line—something moving, emerging: a tiny pair of feet.
He stopped breathing. The nest was crumbling like an avalanche, feet flailing above him, legs like matchsticks. An infant bird slipped into the air. Then fell.
He saw feathers damp like hairs on a newborn’s head, beak like a nose, eyes pulsing beneath lids. His hands were out now, the body falling slow—a fetus with a parachute, a floating baby dinosaur. But still he couldn’t catch it, his fingers stiff and stupid. He looked down, and saw the body drop. Bouncing once, it landed hard, among the broken nests. And then he saw the rest of them—squirming on the deck below.
Too many moments later, Mason stood among them—a pool cue in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other, nestling birds dying at his feet.
Harder to take, though, was the aerial offensive—not because the swallows, diving from the birch trees, were trying to kill him, but because they couldn’t. No matter how they tried, their scratches, like unreturned kisses, made everything hopeless.
On the wall above him six nests remained, then a line of dark circles—too many ellipses, the shadows of a half-dozen heads. Mason looked down. Inches from his foot, a tiny body pulsed, a heart on cedar. He took a breath then stomped down with the heel of his cowboy boot. The sound was popping and wet.
As he moved across the deck, crushing birds beneath his feet, Mason wished for two things: that he’d start to cry, and that he’d finish before they came back from the lake.
If only the day had ended there.
16
It was hard to move, like he was asleep and panicked at the same time, trying to wake from an awful, truthful dream. He stepped out of the church, into the bright sunlight. The Sheraton Plaza Hotel wasn’t far and he decided to walk.
Cutting through the churchyard, he came upon a dead squirrel. He picked it up, put it in a garbage can, then crossed the street, went into a store and bought a pack of cigarettes. He walked on. Before he knew it he was there.
The Red Room was large, and seemed even larger with so few people in it. Mason shook hands with the priest who was standing just inside the door, then excused himself to wash the dead squirrel off. He did a long, thick line on the toilet tank, looked in the mirror, said, “Please let me offer my condolences. Con-do-lences.” Back in the Red Room he made his way to where Ms. Shanter was standing.
“Please let me offer my condolences,” he said. They shook hands. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“The beer and wine is free.”
“If you don’t mind me saying,” said Mason. “You seem like him … in a good way. I liked Warren a lot.”
“Oh,” she said. “How did you know him?”
“This is going to sound like nothing at all … but I sold him hotdogs.”
She started to laugh. “Oh jeez. I’m really sorry!” she said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “Are you serious?”
“I …”
“Really? The one person who talks to me at my brother’s funeral and he sold him hotdogs?”
“Um … Yes.”
“Well, okay then.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “You’re just trying to be nice.”
“I dunno.” They stood for a moment. “Can you tell me …” He looked at her until she met his eyes. “Can you tell me how he died?”
She picked up a plastic glass of wine. “Specifically? Far as I can tell, he drowned in that lake of yours.”
Not my lake.
“How?” said Mason.
“They say you can drown in six inches of soup.” She was looking at the ceiling.
Mason took a glass and drained it.
“That thing you read …?”
She looked at him. “It was beautiful,” she said. He didn’t know how they usually were, but her eyes seemed deep with confusion. “Don’t you think?”
Mason shrugged.
“I didn’t know he could write.” She put down her glass. “I guess it made me see him differently. But so did killing himself.”
Mason felt his guts drop; only his knees were holding them up.
Ms. Shanter turned to take in the rest of the room. “Do you know these people?” she said. Mason looked around for someone who might be Carolina. Then for the first time it occurred to him—maybe she didn’t exist. He turned, pushing through the doors, across the foyer, then outside past rows of Doric columns. Fast as you can, he thought, through the rotunda then into the back of a cab. He called up Chaz as he headed for home.
There are those who say you can’t play good poker with only two players. They’re either ignorant or scared—the same people who tell you duelling never solved anything, don’t pick up hitchhikers, everything in moderation … At least t
hat’s how Mason and Chaz saw it. For them, heads-up Texas hold ’em was a perfect one-on-one battle: Ali vs. Frazier, Borg vs. Becker. Man against Nature.
Chaz knew every backroom booze can in the whole damn town, and yet here the two of them sat, facing off across the table in Mason’s apartment, time and time again. It wasn’t about the money, and it was all about the money—a tactile moving entity, flowing between them like breath, inspiration and purpose.
Mason cut lines while Chaz shuffled. He snapped the cards down, lifting them in a riffling bow, then together like ice floes colliding—into one hand, three stacks splitting, over and under. Mason snorted a line.
They cut for deal. Mason took the cards. Shuffled twice, not fancy but so fluid and natural you barely noticed him do it. It was as simple as pressing his hands together. It often gave others at the table a vague feeling of unease, imperceptible and nagging. Chaz knew why. It was because everything else Mason did came off as unnecessarily elaborate, overly difficult. Only when shuffling did he seem in control.
“Stacking the deck?” said Chaz.
Mason used to let that get to him, Chaz using his own dead father to mess with Mason’s focus. But he’d have done the same—any way under the skin was fair game.
Chaz’s dad was known as Tenner because he’d bet on anything—stars in the sky, chicken wings in a pound, words in a newspaper headline or that he could get himself on the front page the very next day. “Let’s put a tenner on it,” he’d say.
To Chaz and Mason he was like the last of the old-time men—with scars, stories and secrets. He was born on Vancouver’s west side before the yacht clubs and coffee shops, even before paved roads. There was a photo of his father, Chaz’s grandfather, on a horse in the front lobby of City Hall. He’d ridden it there from his boondocks house, just for a drunken laugh.
Tenner, too, had spent his life doing things for a drunken laugh. He’d had a few steady jobs—helped build bridges, ran a crew of high-wire guys for the telephone companies. At work he wore a sabre in his belt, just for the hell of it, and nobody suggested he shouldn’t. At various times he was a biker, a gangster, a mercenary, a drinker, and always a player.
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