by Ian Williams
Not like us.
You’re white. Hendrix poked Army’s leg.
He’s not white. His mom’s black.
So, he can still be white.
Focus, Oliver said. But he was privately amused by hearing his children talk, working out their own lives so earnestly. Their busy conversations. Their little debates. He wanted to apologize to them. To embrace them when they talked like that, especially after he had been a big bad wolf.
Heather wiped the back of her neck and Oliver glimpsed bare skin underneath. Under her hair, the back and sides were shaved.
Looks dope, right?
Heather reddened. Oliver lifted her hair to the top of her head to better examine the damage.
It’s getting stubbly, Army said. I could touch that up today if you want.
Army tried to finger Heather’s scalp. Oliver slapped his hand away.
You better find the rest of your hair and put it back or I’m going to shave you bald.
I can find it, Hendrix said.
No phone privileges tonight, Oliver said.
It’s just hair, Dad. It’ll grow back.
Or tomorrow. You want to keep going?
They worked in silence after that.
Now it occurred to Oliver what he had been looking for. The guitar he played when he was a teenager. He found two other guitars, strings broken, scratched. But his first one, the one he had saved up for, worked weekends with his father, and had made the case himself out of wood, put on the hinges and lined the inside with crushed velvet. The outside had stickers from all the places he and a friend and his friend’s girlfriend had been to when they drove the girlfriend home from Vancouver to Toronto during university. His ex was supposed to come but her parents wouldn’t let her. He was a third wheel.
Near the other two guitars, he found the songs he had written, tucked in a half-ripped envelope. Maybe six—he hadn’t remembered that detail about himself in at least two years—songs. His longhaired self had written songs for his high school girlfriend, but they became songs for every girl he dated up to the dragon he married.
Oliver felt like he had recovered something of his life, from the time before his ex-wife. He was going to live in poverty and play music in shops, smoke cigarettes and wake up late next to topless blondes in squalor. He was going to have fans write him letters, a small, dedicated base of fans, and failing that he was going to teach music. What did he end up teaching until the debacle? Math. Y = mx+b year after year, parabolas, plotting. That was a failure too, as his father predicted while he was in university. He had wasted three earning years, singing fado and drawing on paper (his father was illiterate in English and barely literate in Portuguese), when he should have been sweating, married and with a two-year-old.
Oliver thought the guitar would be close to the others. I could have sworn, Oliver began.
I sold it, Army said. On the weekend. The guy wanted the Kramer originally but he didn’t have enough cash, so I sold him the old one.
You sold my guitar? Oliver said.
Wait, which guitar are we talking about?
The Conn, the Japanese one in the case with the stickers.
Yeah, the crappy one, Army said. It needed new strings. I thought you said—
I didn’t say anything about selling my guitar.
Some kids dribbling a basketball were approaching down the driveway.
Closed! Oliver shouted at them.
Hold up, Army shouted in correction. Then to Oliver: You can’t be turning away my business like that, Mr. O.
Army went inside and came back with an envelope. I sold a bunch of stuff yesterday. Here’s half.
He pressed the money into Oliver’s hand and went chasing after the boys.
You better be going for my guitar, Oliver shouted after Army. I want my guitar back in this house before your mother comes home tonight or you— Oliver couldn’t think of a threat quickly enough. You hear me?
* * *
+
Oliver and Heather were waiting for Felicia when her car pulled up. The divorce rubble was still spread over the entire garage so she would have to park in the driveway overnight.
Oliver presented Heather. I want an explanation as to why your son feels he has the right to shave my daughter’s head?
What?
She’s bald.
No reaction from Felicia.
Show her, he ordered Heather.
Heather tilted her head and flipped her hair over her face. The back was shaved. Oliver lifted up the sides as well.
This, Oliver said. This is what I’m talking about. He squished Heather’s cheeks in one hand and turned her head.
Army do that to you? Felicia asked Heather directly.
She looks like a punk.
You don’t even notice it if I wear my hair down, Heather said.
I noticed, Oliver said.
Well, you didn’t. It’s been, like, a week.
I see a lot of girls with the sides like this, Felicia said. And boys too. Is the style.
Heather combed her hair with her fingers.
I don’t like it but it look good on her, Felicia continued. She young.
Heather smiled. And because Felicia made Heather smile by her simultaneous disapproval and admiration, Oliver couldn’t protest. He couldn’t bring up the guitar heist. Heather said she was going to the mall.
I started cleaning up, he said to Felicia, wanting one of Felicia’s mixed blessings for himself.
I see that, she said and went inside.
Felicia
Expectation
Tuesday after work, instead of attending her first night class of the summer, Accounting Procedures, Felicia found herself for the first time on a vertiginous floor of a building at King and Bay in Toronto. It was after six but employees milled about, holding mugs of coffee and manila folders.
Felicia licked a finger and turned a page of The Economist. She’d prefer to read the book in her bag, The Silence of the Lambs, but felt she might appear lowbrow.
He’ll be right with you, Polly said. Her title was Administrative Assistant. It’s so good to finally put a face to the name.
Felicia nodded. She crossed and slanted her legs so tightly she had to raise one hip off the seat. With one hand, she felt around her bag for a mint.
She quickly popped the mint into her mouth when she heard Edgar approaching. But she did not stand up. After fifteen years, she wanted him to find her poised in the centre of his reception couch, looking dangerous, as Army liked to say, in her black French heels, polka dot skirt, chiffon blouse, her arms braceletted in gold, her face powdered, her hair pulled back like Sade.
Edgar rolled down his sleeves when he saw her. Someone had bought him a new shirt. She knew better but his shirt seemed like a detail deliberately offered to anger her, an explosion of questions. She accepted his hand to stand up but when he tried to kiss her cheek—the gall of that man—she twisted away and dropped The Economist on the couch behind her.
He opened one arm toward his office. The other, she felt hovering just behind her back, daring to touch her. In an office. She recalled the exposé. Was he groping women in the office? She couldn’t quite see it.
He had gained weight in the face so now he looked like three rectangles stacked on each other: head, neck, the rest. His hair was between the colour of pennies and loonies, but streaked throughout with dimes.
Thanks for coming. He closed the door but it hardly mattered: one side of his office was a window wall to the city and the opposite, interior wall was entirely transparent, looking out into a hallway with the company’s name and logo on the wall in silver metal. Can I offer you something to drink?
Felicia held up a hand in refusal. Yes, let him roll out the pleasantries now that he needed whatever he needed.
Tea? Coffee? Anything?
No, thank you.
Water? Edgar refilled his coffee then added a splash of rum. He took a gulp and frowned. Have you been well, Felicia? You look well.
I’m doing fine, thank you.
Yes, yes, I’m sure. Someone walked along the hallway outside the glass wall. Edgar nodded at him and smiled a grimace. Poor design. He was condemned to acknowledge everyone who walked along that wall while they looked into his zoo cage. We renovated, he said. Now everyone shares my view.
There was a silence. She was not going to rush him. She could luxuriate until he got to his purpose. His desk had nothing on it except a name plate, a phone, and his business cards. Not a file, not a pen, not a sheet of copy paper.
It looks like you never moved out of Brampton.
That’s correct, she said.
It must be really developed now, he said. I haven’t moved either. Same house in good ol’ Toronto the good. Sometimes I kick around out back and have a cigarette, pay my respects to Mutter. He paused here, Felicia thought, to remind her of a debt. And your mother. Geraldine.
Her mother’s name in his mouth was obscene. She turned back to small talk. Still travelling?
You remember. Edgar sparkled. Still, yes. I just came back from—
Calgary, she said.
New York, he said. We acquired Zoomin in America, so now we have stores and concessions throughout all the airline hubs, JFK, Atlanta, O’Hare, and some of the second-tier airports. I wasn’t travelling as much for a while, but these days, it’s probably best if I—
This time she didn’t finish his sentence.
If I, well, he said with finality. Did Polly offer you something to drink?
I’m fine, thank you.
Edgar swigged from his mug. Are you sure? Because we have this machine, it hasn’t even hit market yet.
He was shaking a little bit. Maybe even sweating. He needed to dye his temples. He got up and went to the bookshelf and poured himself another splash. Bit weak, he said. Was it a problem that I called you at work? You’re at Brownstone College?
Yes, she said to both questions.
Is De Rosa still there? He used to be dean of Business?
He’s provost now.
Provost? We used to play tennis together at High Park.
You don’t play tennis.
I took it up for a while. Public courts. Nothing schmancy. This was years ago, years ago. Edgar leaned back in his chair. How determined he seemed to waste her time. And your sisters, he continued, how are they?
You remember. It was her turn now.
Of course, he said. You used to write them every week.
Darlene took early retirement. And last year Glenda’s first boy got married. Lavish thing.
You went back. Alone?
No, Felicia said. She allowed her back to touch the back of the chair. Let him say it.
He didn’t. He said: I think about your mother from time to time.
Sixteen years this fall, Felicia said. Sixteen for you as well.
You remember when—
Edgar, Felicia said. Did you call me here to reminisce?
He exhaled. He never showed signs of inebriation, no matter how much he drank.
Finally he asked, Have you been paying attention to the news?
She knew exactly what he meant, but she said, I was listening in the car. The man who beat his stepchild to death then threw her off the balcony to make it seem like the child fall down on her own—
Edgar tried to interrupt.
but the autopsy say that the child had all kind of internal bleeding from before the fall.
Felicia, he said. He dipped his head, lowered his brow to look at her.
People real wicked, she concluded.
Another man walked by the window and Edgar grimaced out a smile. You know what I’m referring to.
Oh, you mean—
Yes, I mean that.
The scandal, she said unable to hide her delight.
Cut the charade, he said.
Multiple scandals.
There are no scandals. Sip. Sip. It’s all blown out of proportion.
Then they were back fifteen years and the conversation went underground into a lair where they knew each other, always would. She had seen him on the toilet. She knew every last one of his shirts.
You make your bed, Felicia said.
Don’t pick sides
I am a side.
until you have the facts. You don’t know everything there is to know. And I’d like to let you know that none of these women were from the time when we were together.
Felicia perceived that this shred of moral conscience was meant to endear him to her, to separate their relationship from the others.
All of these allegations stem from before you—
Felicia was shaking her head. What a dog he was.
Or after you. Never at the same time.
Except your wife.
That’s a slightly different matter. I’m talking about the allegations.
But now Felicia wanted to talk about Sophie Fortin. She asked plainly, If she didn’t file for divorce, Edgar, would you have filed?
I don’t know. Let sleeping dogs lie. But the allegations. I’m concerned that—
This is what I don’t understand, she said. On the one hand, you are the most passive, laissez-faire man. Married for what, twenty to twenty-five years without making any effort to line up your real life with your on-paper commitments until all this public pressure. But on the other hand, you’re aggressively preying after young girls. Girls young enough to be your daughter. What did that one say?—all sorts of sick things, you used to rough she up.
Now, wait a minute, wait a minute, he raised his voice. He was walking back to the bookcase. When he returned, his voice was controlled again. I am not a violent man. Was I ever, ever, Felicia, violent with you?
More than one girl saying that.
Because it’s a conspiracy. That’s how these things work. Women make all sorts of egregious accusations because they’re angry.
About what? Tell me what we so angry about.
Not you. Other women are angry about— He stumbled. About not winning.
Felicia had to laugh. You mad. But even as she was ridiculing his arrogance, she hated herself for finding it plausible. His rejection had made her nearly crazy. No, Edgar was not violent with her. He was insistent. She did things she didn’t want to do. She remembered him pushing her head down in the kitchen. But it was no crime. She heard girls did that in empty classrooms at Brownstone. Felicia said, They all can’t be lying.
They’re exaggerating, making a caricature of me. Edgar was sweating.
Felicia took a handkerchief from her purse and tossed it on the table. He wiped his face. His eyes.
I am not, he said slowly, by any stretch of the imagination, what you would call a good man. But I am not the kind of man that these women are making me out to be. Or maybe that you think I am. I admit that maybe there are things I would have done differently in hindsight.
Felicia wanted to know what things. Edgar held up a hand and ducked his head to prevent her from interrupting.
As I was saying, I am concerned that the media or prosecution may try to contact you. It’s not a legal case so much as it is a public case. I am asking that you watch out for folks trying to lure a story from you and if there’s anything I can do to convince you to cooperate with me and my team then I would oblige.
By cooperate, you mean keep quiet?
The media will come out to seduce you and to spin a story. You understand, they’re not interested in the truth. They’re interested in selling papers. And it’s not just damage to my reputation I’m concerned about, but yours as well. A scandal is a scandal for everybody.
I thought you say there was no scandal. Felicia was delighted.
There is no scandal. I am preventing a scandal.
He never named Army, Felicia noticed. Your lawyers making you say all this?
I am asking you, Felicia,
[to be my lawfully wedded wife, in his tone]
not to approach the media with your story.
Don’t call my h
ouse, Felicia said. She took up her bag and walked out, smiling politely at Polly on the way out. Polly’s eyes followed her right to the elevator. She knew everything.
* * *
+
Oliver wasn’t home when she returned. Yet his presence hovered. Even when he wasn’t visible, she sensed that he could burst into physical form at any point with a sound like a confetti party popper. She liked him best when he was washing his truck (as opposed to flagging down her car, watering the lawn, or interminably pacing the streets) because it was the only time he seemed uninterested in talking to her. And this evening she couldn’t bear a conversation where the word ex was said. She did not want to be compelled into taking the other side, that is, the side of a man, as he smushed the face of his ex into topsoil with his foot.
He wasn’t home. His truck was gone. Army was surely out playing basketball behind the rec centre. She didn’t even want to see her guysmiley son.
And so why did she feel as if she were carrying a boulder in her uterus, so much so that she had to cup both of her hands over the area, after she unlocked the door and deposited her bags near the couch?
* * *
+
Edgar didn’t call her house.
At work on Thursday, while she was trying to sneak in some reading/scanning for her night course on Payroll Fundamentals, she answered the phone: Brownstone College, English Department. How may I help you?
I need to see you promptly, Edgar said.
For what?
About a matter.
I’m not available. Felicia was in no rush to see Edgar again.
I’m going to Halifax in the morning.
Maybe when you get back then, she said.
This evening works for me, Edgar said.
I have class.
A student entered, holding a pink add-drop form for the summer session.
I have to go. I’m not driving back to Toronto, Felicia said.
Is your class at Brownstone?
Don’t come here. She enunciated. I am not available.
I get back at two on Sunday. It’s either going to be your house or my house. I’ll be at one of those two places.
She hung up and snatched the form from the student.