“But Clive may well not have even been here,” Stan said, “when Mrs. Frobisher saw the old lady.”
“Yeah. I just don’t know, I mean, when he’s here and when he isn’t. He just sort of pops up and then disappears again.”
“Literally pops up,” Stan said, and took a long swallow of his Fort Garry Pale Ale.
“Yeah.”
“Your willow tree doesn’t look so good.” Stan batted at the mosquitoes.
“I know,” Beryl said. “I’m just sick about it. What if it dies?” She handed him her mosquito repellent.
“It won’t.” Stan slathered the lotion on his neck and arms.
“Anyway,” he said, “that Twilight Zone episode I was telling you about?”
“Yeah?”
“The guy’s glasses didn’t survive the nuclear disaster and he was blind as a bat without them, so it ended up being a very sad story.”
Stan left after one beer and Beryl went inside to shower and change. From her kitchen window she watched Candy leave in a taxi.
After a supper of yellow beans, new potatoes, and chocolate chip cookies she went outside again to fool around in the yard.
There was Clive carrying his recyclables out to the lane.
“Hi, Clive.”
“Hey, Beryl. How’s it goin’?” He was sweating profusely in spite of the cool evening and his face was grey. But he smiled; Clive always smiled.
Beryl noticed that his newspapers were thrown in with his cans and bottles. Plus, his recyclables stunk. He didn’t rinse anything out very well, if at all.
“Do the recycling guys not complain to you about the state of your blue box?” Beryl asked.
“So far, not,” Clive said. “Why, what’s the matter with it?”
“It stinks.”
“Garbage is supposed to stink.”
“Recyclables aren’t garbage.”
Maybe he doesn’t understand the principle of recycling, Beryl thought.
“Clive?”
“Yes?”
“Does anyone ever housesit for you?”
“Whaddya mean?”
Clive set his blue box down by the curb and wiped his hands on his jeans.
“I mean, does anybody ever stay in your home when you’re out of town?”
She gestured toward his house.
Clive looked at it. “God, what a mess it is,” he said.
Beryl followed his gaze.
“I guess it could use a little work here and there.”
You could see an actual hole in one corner of the house if you looked closely and that’s what Clive was doing now. And there was absolutely no paint left on the trim around the windows and doors.
“I have squirrels in the attic, or something, anyway. I can hear them scrambling around.”
“Oh, boy.”
“And Beryl?”
“Yes?”
“I saw a mouse in the basement when I was doing the laundry. At least, I hope it was a mouse.”
“Good heavens, Clive. Be sure not to mention any of this to the Kruck-Boulbrias.”
“Who?”
“The Kruck-Boulbrias. My next-door neighbours on the other side. They’ll have you arrested or quarantined or something. You’re going to have to do something about some of these things, Clive. Start with the mouse, with the live things. They shouldn’t be in your house.”
Beryl didn’t want mice or rats or whatever they were getting tired of Clive’s place and setting their sights on hers. She pictured herself asking Mort Kruck-Boulbria if she could borrow his rodent trap. After her nasty comments to him about squirrels.
“Phone somebody,” she said to Clive. “Phone Poulin’s. And get someone to patch up the holes there in your foundation and wherever.”
“But I’m never here. For instance, I’m going out of town again tomorrow.”
“Then give me a key, Clive, and I’ll do it.”
“Really, Beryl? I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s no trouble, honestly,” Beryl said. “At least not compared to the trouble an infestation of giant killer rodents would be.”
“Just a sec,” Clive said and went into the house.
He came back with a key. It looked like the key that Beryl had worn around her neck when she was a kid. To unlock the big front door of the empty house on Ferndale Avenue.
“This key looks like it was cut to fit the original lock on the original door of this house seventy years ago,” she said.
“I guess it probably was.”
“Wow. Most people would have new doors by now, Clive, or at least new locks, new keys.”
“This one still works, I think.” He stuck the key in the old-fashioned lock on the door.
“So, you don’t usually lock your doors?”
Beryl was reminded of the reason she had started this conversation in the first place.
“It fits!” he shouted. “Sometimes I do. I mean, I have locked them, at times. There’s not a heck of a lot in there to steal. I keep my drums somewhere else. My stereo equipment and stuff isn’t exactly state of the art. I’m not sure anyone would want it.”
Beryl had thought that a musician would have a really great sound system.
“Don’t you listen to music?”
“Not very often.”
“That’s odd, Clive.”
“I don’t like anything anymore. The last thing I liked was probably recorded in 1972.”
“Well, why don’t you listen to that?”
“I’m never here,” he said, impatience beginning to creep into his voice.
Beryl could see that she was starting to irritate Clive, so she brought the conversation back to the subject she was really interested in before she lost him again.
“Clive, does anyone ever stay here while you’re away?”
“No. Not that I know of. Why?”
“You mean you don’t know for sure?”
“Well, it’s just that one or two things have seemed out of whack to me on occasion when I’ve come home…this time, for instance.”
“What?” Beryl opened Clive’s milk shute and a pile of junk mail fell to the ground. “What was out of whack?”
“My bed smelled funny. Like dirt. And…” Clive stopped.
“And what?” She knelt to tidy up the mess.
“Well, there was this funny little newspaper under my bed.”
“Funny little newspaper? What do you mean a funny little newspaper?”
“It’s a Pilot Mound Sentinel.”
Beryl stood up and tried to hand Clive the pile of flyers.
Clive kept his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want that shit. What do I want with all that shit?”
“Clive, if you don’t want junk mail, you should put up a sign that says so. Your mailman would be glad not to deliver it. A pilot mound sentinel. Is that what you said?”
“Yeah. It’s a weekly newspaper from Pilot Mound, Manitoba. That’s a town. I’ve actually been there, believe it or not. Or by it, anyway. I had a gig in Crystal City when I was in another band for a while, way back, in 1966 or something. Crystal City is, like, the next town over. I remember nothing about Pilot Mound other than that it was there.”
Beryl dragged a dusty nylon weave lawn chair over and sat down on top of the flyers to keep them from blowing away.
“May I see it, Clive, the newspaper?”
“Sure. Do you want to come in or should I go get it?”
“What the heck. Why don’t I come in? Do you realize I’ve never been in your house?”
“Well, you’re not missing much. Come on, then. But excuse the mess. I’m not much of a housekeeper.”
Clive grinned sheepishly, but nothing prepared Beryl for what hit her when he opened the door.
Hot rank air enveloped her as she stepped tentatively forwards. She had felt this before. Sometimes, when she knocked on the door of a downtown apartment with a registered letter or priority post the thick foul air knocked her backwards just as it did now. S
ome people live and breathe inside that air. She hadn’t known that Clive was one of them.
How would he even know if his bed smelled like dirt? Clive looked okay outside the house. A little shabby, maybe, and his hair could use a wash. But nothing to warn her of how he lived on the inside.
Beryl didn’t want to go in. And she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to make him feel bad. They were in the kitchen now and Clive pulled out a chair from the chrome kitchen set.
“Here, sit down and I’ll go find the newspaper. Would you like a drink?”
The chair was sticky and Beryl perched on the very edge. The counter was a mess of filthy glasses and liquor bottles, some empty, some with dregs. At least it was a surface where she could put down the flyers. Beryl noticed a cigarette butt floating in the bottom of a vodka bottle. It had turned the booze a russet colour. She shuddered, remembering a long-ago party, when she had taken a swig from a beer bottle she had thought was hers, and had gotten a mouth full of tobacco and cigarette paper.
“I don’t think so, thanks.” She wanted a drink rather badly but not out of any of these bottles.
When Clive left the room she opened the fridge, which was surprisingly clean inside and filled with beer.
“Maybe I’ll have a beer!” she called after him. She twisted off the top and drank from the bottle.
Clive returned with a thin faded newspaper and handed it to Beryl: The Pilot Mound Sentinel. It was a summer date and the year was 1981.
“Did you notice the year on this, Clive?”
He peered over her shoulder. “Well, I’ll be fucked!”
“Yeah. This is really old. Did you read it?” Beryl asked as she gently turned a yellow page. There weren’t many pages to turn.
“No.” Clive opened the fridge and opened a beer for himself.
“Have you thought about phoning the police, Clive, about this newspaper and your bed and everything?”
Clive chuckled. “No way, man. The last thing I need is cops inside my house.” His eyes darted about. “Jesus, Beryl. I can’t be havin’ cops inside my house.”
Beryl looked around her, took in the pipes and papers and bags of dope.
“No, I suppose not,” she said. “And anyway, the crime is a little vague.” Just like my crimes, she thought, picturing her lobelia and the bright pink cat collar. She almost mentioned them to Clive, but decided against it.
“May I borrow this?” she asked, folding up the worn pages.
She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she knew there was something in this little newspaper printed so long ago.
“Sure. You can keep it if you like. I don’t have a lot of use for a Pilot Mound newspaper from 1981.” Clive drained his beer bottle. “Do you?”
“Well it’s a clue, isn’t it? Clive, aren’t you even a little bit interested in who left this, who may have been sleeping in your bed?”
“I don’t know. I guess not. So many people are in and out of here, Beryl. It’s probably somebody I actually know or have at least met. They probably knew I was out of town and crashed here, figuring it would be okay. Why are you so interested in this?”
Beryl couldn’t imagine living the way Clive did. At least not these days. Maybe back in the early eighties around the time when this little newspaper was published, but not now, when doors were double dead-bolted, alarms were set, and window bars were a matter of course. Except at Clive’s house.
She decided not to answer his question and he didn’t pursue it.
“Do you wanna share a little blow?” Clive was lining up two tidy rows of white powder on the crusty surface of the kitchen table.
“No thanks, Clive. I should be going.”
Beryl took a last drink from her beer bottle and set it down amongst the clutter. “I’m going to read this thing cover to cover and see what it tells me.”
She didn’t want to inhale anything more of Clive’s right now, least of all little pieces of grunge from his filthy table mixed in with some questionable cocaine.
“Take care, Clive,” she said and left him there, hunched over, with a five dollar bill stuck up his nose.
He gave her the thumbs-up sign but she was out the door before he looked up again.
Chapter 29
“Fuck!” Boyo pounds the wall with his fist.
His newspaper is gone. He shouldn’t have been so careless. Imagine being that careless! It was the only copy he had of Auntie Cunt’s obituary.
He remembers the night soon after her death when he sat down to write it. Someone had to, he supposed, and he was the only one. She died in Winnipeg, but he composed a death notice for Pilot Mound too, where she had lived the first thirty-four years of her life. He sent it to the newspaper there, the Pilot Mound Sentinel. That way, anyone in that small southwestern town who remembered her could breathe their own sigh of relief.
Hortense croaked, he wrote, and laughed out loud.
Old Hort finally kicked the bucket. He opened a bottle of champagne and changed what he had written.
Finally he decided on: Hortense Frouten died.
He didn’t mention himself as her survivor or anything to indicate there had been a person there, where there was no more. She was just a name on paper, before and after.
He much preferred the after.
That night, after he’d finished with Hort’s obituary, he headed down to the Low Track for the first time. He came to find that hookers were much easier to deal with than the few girls he’d had a go at. They didn’t question him as much or seem to judge him. And if they wouldn’t do what he wanted them to, they could line him up with someone who would. They joked sometimes, about his ladies’ scarves and other items, and he didn’t like that much. But they also knew when to stop. They took him seriously; they understood that it would be very easy for him to pull just a little tighter.
Also, whores expected a little pain, to be on both the receiving and the giving ends of some discomfort. They weren’t as likely to get into a lather about it if they were squeezed too hard or if he wanted them to buckle him up a little more tightly than usual. He much preferred them to regular women.
So sometimes he made the trip to the Low Track, but more often he phoned a service that would deliver someone to his house in a taxi. It was slicker that way, less noticeable, except maybe to his neighbours. Also, he could use more of his equipment. He set up a special room for his needs.
In early August of 1981, someone from the Pilot Mound Sentinel sent Boyo a copy of the paper that ran Hortense’s obituary.
He has carried it with him ever since. Not all the time; but often. And when it isn’t travelling with him, it’s in a plastic folder on the mantle where he can see it from his chair.
And that’s where it isn’t right now.
Losing it bothers him very much. He needs it back, or at least another original copy. He can’t live without one.
Chapter 30
Beryl watched Dhani sleep. It was the morning after the first night he had slept over and she wasn’t sure yet whether it had been a good idea to let him stay. It would depend a lot on how he behaved when he woke up. She didn’t want to fight with him first thing in the morning. It would colour her whole day.
He looked so clean and smooth. He looked healthy — indestructible. She loved the look of him.
She knew the indestructible part was an illusion and that even the healthy part could be. She’d had another friend like that — not like Dhani, no one was like Dhani — but a friend who had shone with life and good health. A pre-Georges boyfriend, named Brian. He had up and died on her. One day he had been laughing his head off on the corner of Portage and Main and the next day he was dead: a blood clot in the brain.
Dhani’s eyelids fluttered open and he smiled. Beryl kissed him on the temple and he closed his eyes again.
“I’m going to make us some pancakes this morning,” Dhani said and Beryl kissed him gently at the edge of his mouth.
“Mmm,” she said. “That’s my
favourite breakfast.”
“I know.”
He put his arm around her and she rested her head on his chest. Her feet were touching his feet. They felt fine to her. She had been a little worried about seeing and feeling his feet minus their toes, but it hadn’t been scary at all. They both drifted off for a few more minutes. Beryl continue to doze while he got up and prepared the pancakes.
He had kissed the smooth skin on her back last night, softly and all over. It was almost her favourite place to be kissed.
They ate breakfast in bed with the late July sunshine streaming in the south window. Dhani made very good pancakes and he made them from scratch.
“It’s a recipe my dad used to make, apparently,” he said. “It’s better than a mix. At least, I think so.”
“I do too,” Beryl said. “Every bite was delicious. Did your dad not make them for you, then?”
“If he did, I don’t remember. He died when I was just four.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Beryl wanted to know more, but didn’t want to ask too much at once.
They sipped their coffee, which was also delicious, albeit a little weaker than what Beryl was used to. It reminded her of their many differences.
“If only we didn’t fight all the time,” she said.
Dhani sighed in a very contented manner and smiled at her.
“I think it’s okay that we fight as much as we do,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Jude and her brother, Dusty, had settled in at the end of the bed and were staring at Dhani. This was something new for them.
“Some of our differences are rather great, don’t you think?” Beryl said.
“Oh? Like what?”
“Well, like the invisible connections you’re always rambling on about…”
“Wait!” Dhani said and set his coffee down on the bedside table. “I get the feeling when you say invisible you mean something totally different from what I would mean by that same word. You mean non-existent, don’t you?”
Alison Preston - Norwood Flats 02 - The Geranium Girls Page 12