Reproduction

by Ian Williams

  There were many commercials for Phantom of the Opera in those days.

  * * *

  +

  Every time they were alone, Heather kept showing Army things. She was a veritable how-to manual of a softcore Kama Sutra. Of everything but.

  Heather opened the screen door, saw him, closed it, and wordlessly, they met at the black door.

  Hendrix? Army asked.

  They’re gone to Canadian Tire, she said, meaning that they’d probably drop by one of her tias’ or tios’ houses on the way back. Power to them. There was only so much fado a girl could listen to, even in the background.

  She and Army went to his room. They knelt on his bed. They approached each other on their knees.

  Army broke away suddenly. But seriously, Heather, I need you to believe that my dad’s not a truck driver.

  This again. She said, I thought we settled that. Your dad’s not a truck driver.

  Don’t just say it. I need you to believe it.

  I believe it.

  You don’t.

  You want to talk about your dad or you want to make out?

  Army nodded desperately, which Heather noted was not a choice, but a hormonal pupil dilation, the ascendancy of his limbic system.

  The kissing, the groping, the push-ups, the orifices, the hair, the sweat were all innocent to Heather. Fizz in water. A little bubbly. An alternative to TV or talking on the phone or going to the mall. She knew it was more to Army. He kept pushing for some kind of status. Official. He asked her if she wanted to go out with him, like officially, and her answer was simply, I’m sixteen.

  At the number, Army said, I’m super horny right now.

  I’ve got two years on you, she said. And, kisssmack, why, smack, buy the cow, kisssmack, if you can get the milk for free.

  He turned businessy. If there was a way to bottle—

  Army! Heather was exasperated. Shut. Up.

  He did for a while. He held her by the back of the head and rolled on her then she rolled on him and they rolled on the blanket rolled through their limbs rolled.

  Moments later, Army’s mouth was making speech sounds. I’m sorry, he said with his hands deep between her legs.

  No, no, don’t be sorry.

  But I don’t get why Mr. O’s so mad at me?

  It’s not just you, she said, while her fingertips were just stretching the elastic of his underwear.

  About the guitar. He had months to handle his business. He told me I could take anything I wanted.

  Use, Heather said. Not take.

  Take anything I wanted to use, Army compromised.

  Just let it go, she said, while tightening her grip around the long neck in his pants.

  His breath caught.

  No one wants to think about a parent while getting busy but Army had opened her memory. Damage had been done. While she was pulling down his pants and he was trying to lift his hips to help her, she was thinking that her father had wanted to be a rockstar, that he had made tapes, that he used to do shows but he fell out with the band, then tried solo. There’s a family video of Heather and Hendrix swiping their hands down the guitar as Oliver was playing then scurrying away. She didn’t miss that time. Her father might. She rarely considered her father from within his head, say, as he must see himself when he remembered that video, his skinny self in a long Jimi Hendrix headband.

  Army was fluttering his hand mechanically between her legs. You’re right, he finally said. It’s not just me he’s mad at. He’s got some toxic anger issues. Against your moms and stuff. Like every day he’s ragging on her.

  What was with these distracted Canadian guys, multi-tasking when she was trying to get off?

  Is Conn even a Japanese name? Army said. If he had said, Don’t sell the Conn—

  You’re killing my boner, Heather said.

  Army smiled. Shortlived. You think I should get braces?

  Heather slid his hand along the side of her hip, into the band of her panties.

  Go out with me, Army said. Come on.

  I’m—

  Sixteen. I know, I know. You probably already have a man? Army asked. I mean, don’t you?

  Heather was below him at that point. She reached up to kiss his face but he backed away.

  An American?

  I don’t have a boyfriend. She held her expression neutral.

  Do you call him?

  Heather pushed him off and sat up. No, she didn’t call him. She wrote him one letter when she first arrived for the summer and he never wrote back. After months walking around with his dick in her mouth, he couldn’t write her a damn letter.

  She began, I— then changed course and began, You—

  Then they heard the truck doors thud and Hendrix’s high voice outside and left each other conversatio interruptus.

  Oliver

  Excuse

  Oliver felt worried, no, afraid, no, annoyed, no, he felt mild apprehension about the legal cast to Felicia’s tone lately. He had had tenants before. He knew that tone. So over the past week, he pre-emptively upgraded a number of items in her unit. She wanted a peephole. He gave her a peephole. He installed new mirrored sliding doors in Army’s room and Army promptly claimed the old ones for his garage/barbershop/BBQ stand/gym. When she saw the sparkle in Army’s room, she wondered if she could have mirrored sliders in hers so she wouldn’t have to go into Army’s room all the time to see herself. Oliver obliged. He promised to sort through the divorce rubble by the end of the summer at the latest. It would not encroach on her forever. Felicia made suggestions. He made suggestions. They made suggestions jointly.

  Yesterday, he began fixing the wobbly doorknob to Felicia’s bedroom, something he was aware of before she moved in. She had gone with him to Canadian Tire to choose a crystal doorknob. In his truck with Hendrix leaning his head between the two seats. He might have talked a bit too much about himself, he realized now, yet he was falling into the same current while Felicia sat on her bed, doing a poor job of supervising because of the tabloid newspaper spread on her lap. Oliver was telling her about the time his ex-wife suggested that he was responsible for the deaths of his parents because he was living off their fat, even as a grown man, that he had worked his parents to death. Felicia always seemed so interested in his past, even though he was trying to move forward.

  Back then, I was working two jobs, Oliver said. Two. During the day, I was supplying at a Catholic school if they had work for me, and then I’d drive the evening or night shift for Brampton Transit so those guys could be at home with their families. Plus, if I didn’t have a route on the weekends or couldn’t get shifts in the summer, I’d work as a mover or do landscaping with my uncle. That’s four jobs. Sweating to put food on the table and she was at home.

  Mm, Felicia said.

  I mean, Heather and Hendrix were already in school. She wasn’t working. I’m talking three years ago. She hasn’t worked a day since we got married. And now she already has tentacles around her next victim, Hendrix was saying.

  He said tentacles?

  Hooks, I think, is what he said, Oliver lied.

  You married people—

  I’m divorced.

  Same thing. You’re always condemning your spouse. If she was so terrible, why’d you marry her?

  I ask myself that every day, Oliver said. But it was just the next step, the next line in a math problem. You know, like when you have to show your work step-by-step.

  Can’t you find one good thing about the woman?

  Oliver made a display of considering the question. Honestly, I can’t.

  Make something up.

  He pursed his lips, resisting for a while, then finally said, She was punctual.

  Punctual? That’s the best you can do?

  And she used to be good at planning family stuff with my sister. They used to talk long on the phone. Maybe still. We all went to Disney together one year.

  Disney.

  Don’t get me wrong, Felicia. Everybody liked her at fi
rst, even though she wasn’t Portuguese.

  Portuguese, Felicia said to her paper. She had opened a gate in him to a kind of hell.

  She could talk to anybody, Oliver went on. Came from a blue-collar family. Her father worked in a paper mill in one of those New England towns. When we were dating she took a bus from Boston to see me. I don’t know if she told her parents or if she ran off.

  Did she now? Felicia said.

  She used to sing harmony to the Carpenters with me. Carole King. Oliver sang, It’s too late, baby. Now it’s too late.

  Though we really did try to make it, Felicia finished. She licked a finger and turned a page.

  You know it?

  Of course.

  Oliver inhaled and his chest swelled. I’m not a bad man, Felicia. If I’m providing and you’re—she’s—complaining about the spark, the magic, then someone has their priorities wrong. The spark. What’s the spark? You need to rub something, get some friction going, if you want a spark. How romantic do you expect me to be when the children have chicken pox or my mother’s in the hospital? I was working twelve, fourteen hours, those days. And she’s saying she doesn’t feel loved? I don’t feel loved but am I complaining?

  Maybe she was depressed.

  About what? She had nothing to worry about.

  Mm, Felicia said.

  Oliver snorted a small laugh. She and my sister planned a birthday party for Heather when she was six or seven.

  That so?

  He snorted again at the memory of Heather in a princess costume, leaning over a cake. His smile faded slowly.

  Felicia was fingering her clavicle. The ex used to stroke hers unconsciously when she was feeling amorous. Was Felicia aroused? When was the last time she had a capable man like him in her bedroom? But he couldn’t—right now? In so long. He hadn’t been with— He should at least lose a few more pounds first. She was probably used to a. Different sort. Of size. And energy. Stamina. Attack in the initiation.

  He blurted out, I’m not looking for anyone right now.

  She looked up from her paper. Good, she said, after a slight pause.

  Maybe I’ll get married again, Oliver explained. Down the road. You know she had the nerve to tell me, to tell me, that I had—I can’t even repeat some of the things she said to me in front of the children—that their father had the musical talent of bad brakes, and then Oliver found himself babbling about the ex-wife while thinking of Felicia’s pubic hair and the grey in his.

  He was suddenly thirsty, needing a drink the way smokers needed a cigarette. Felicia was not saying anything. He felt the need to speak louder and faster—the voices of the children outside, Hendrix watching Beetlejuice upstairs. And the lock stile could be planed down. Maybe he should plane down the entire side of the door. He dropped his awl abruptly and said he’d have to finish tomorrow.

  Why can’t you finish now? Felicia asked.

  Her face was hard to read but he took a deep breath and accepted what he believed was an invitation to stay (she didn’t want to be alone) and tell her about how Heather, when she was little, came home three times in a month without pants. Where are your pants? I asked her. And Heather, she said, How am I supposed to know? The ex thought that was cute. Then he followed up with the time the ex dragged him to the taping of a talk show on women who complain about how men look at them, where he was one of the only men in the audience, and he said, Don’t wear short skirts if you don’t want to get looked at or raped and the audience booed him. Followed by the time the ex told Hendrix that he was more of a man than his father would ever be, etc. etc.

  * * *

  +

  That was yesterday. Today he knocked on Felicia’s door, ready to finish installing the crystal doorknob.

  Army answered. Look, Mr. O. I’ll get it tomorrow. I tried. The kid was talking about a trade. How you feel about that?

  Who is it? Felicia said in the background.

  I feel no, Oliver said. He held up his all-purpose screwdriver. Doorknob.

  Oliver’s cologne rose to his nose. His eyes skidded ever so slightly from Army’s. He had sprayed a little to mask the scent of his unwashed T-shirt. That was all.

  Army smiled. You’ll have to come back in a bit. Mom’s getting ready.

  So?

  Mr. O, seriously? I need to teach you about women.

  Who is it, Army? Felicia called out.

  Mr. O. He wants to finish the doorknob.

  Tell him tomorrow.

  Felicia, Oliver called out, but Army took him outside. He was as tall as Oliver already.

  Listen, man, he said quietly with his hand on the doorknob still. I know you’re trying to get with my mom and everything, but you got to run better game than Mr. Fixit.

  Oliver opened and closed his mouth like a fish.

  And I know Hendrix wants a big brother. Trust me, I was like that too. Army put his hand on Oliver’s shoulder and walked him to the front exterior stairs. But, mano a mano, I think you’re overexposed. Absence makes the heart, right?

  Oliver shook his head out, shook the words into sense.

  Think about that trade, Army finished.

  Army slipped inside and closed the garage door.

  * * *

  +

  A few moments later, while Felicia was reversing from the garage, dressed nicely (a date? a late church service? a date?) Oliver motioned for her to stop and wind down her window. He wasn’t going to stop her. He felt compelled to. Then he felt compelled to tell her something.

  There’s something you need to know, Oliver said sententiously. (With a man? Who?)

  Felicia kept her foot on the brake.

  Some time ago, your son took some property of mine without my consent.

  I’m running late, Felicia said.

  She had a way of making him feel ridiculous, a grown man tattling on a child.

  Oliver pressed. I could go to the police with this, Felicia. My brother-in-law’s brother’s a cop. I could have Army charged. For theft.

  I’ll get Army to give you back your—

  Guitar.

  Guitar? Army doesn’t have any guitar.

  Oliver reached into the car and blew the horn to summon Army. They would get this straightened out there and then.

  It’s not just a guitar. This was my first guitar. 1978. I got it in a shop in east Vancouver. How are you going to return that experience to me?

  Army poked his head out of the house door.

  Give him back his guitar, Felicia shouted.

  I’ve spoken to Army already.

  Then why you involving me in your affairs? Felicia looked what people call visibly upset.

  Army started walking toward the car.

  The word affairs unsettled Oliver.

  He sold my guitar. Are you getting the picture now?

  You want me to ground him?

  Oliver wanted the boy punished in a meaningful way. With conviction. She had grounded Army before, for the barbecue incident, for example, but Oliver had seen him dribbling a basketball from the mouth of the garage while Felicia was at work.

  Army ducked his head through the passenger window. Oliver was on the driver’s side. Felicia between.

  You’re grounded for the evening, Felicia said to Army.

  You can’t ground me for something I’ve fixed. Mr. O and I— Army reached into the car and twirled a coil near Felicia’s hairline. You’re sweating.

  I can’t, uh? But Felicia was distracted. She lowered the sun visor and inspected her makeup in the mirror.

  Oliver folded his arms on the roof, as if he were trying to press the car in place. Army spoke to Oliver above the car roof.

  Mr. O, I was trying to spare you the details. I’ve spoken with the kid and explained the situation, that you had a sentimental attachment to the guitar, and the kid—I shouldn’t call him a kid, he’s like done high school—the kid proposed an exchange of that guitar for another guitar.

  Absolutely not.

  Exactly, I told him t
hat all guitars were off the table and I couldn’t interest him in anything else and he said that he already put strings on his guitar.

  My guitar.

  Right. Your guitar. So I said I’d refund him. Fair, right? Full refund. And he said to me, get this, he wanted me to pay him double because he was now selling it back to me.

  Do it.

  Wait, Mr. O, you gotta understand that this kid’s trying to outhustle me. I ain’t paying double. I can’t just be turning over money to people.

  Get my guitar back.

  I offered him a full refund and a free haircut in exchange, final offer. And he said he’d think about it.

  Inside the car, the visor snapped up. Listen, Felicia said. Work it out. Both of you, work it out.

  Army stepped back and looked inside the car. I’ll get it back, he said as Felicia took her foot off the brake.

  The car moved backward under Oliver’s forearms.

  Today, Oliver said.

  I can’t leave the house, Army said. You heard the woman.

  I said, work it out, Felicia called.

  Oliver was confused. She was supposed to unite in a front with him against the wildness of youth. His ex would have set herself behind his shoulder and folded her arms mercilessly. She liked him to handle Big Discipline.

  Oliver stepped back from the vehicle. Enjoy your—

  Felicia put up her window.

  How you gon’ play me like that? Not cool, Mr. Fixit, Army said, shaking his head. Not cool.

  * * *

  +

  Oliver got in his truck and drove, not following Felicia, but driving in the direction he thought her car had gone. He ended up at The Mansion. That’s where he found himself whenever he had a fit of akathisia.

  The club was lit by wall sconces and very dim stage lights. The bar also emitted a dull blue light. Apart from that, darkness. The stage was half an octagon with a low gold restraint around the bottom both to prevent the girls from falling and to keep the men from reaching. The girls would come close and crouch for their dollars. The men respected that. They drank and looked. Hooted and clapped, almost more for the music than the girl. They were middle-aged, beaten down somewhat, bleary-eyed, wore baseball caps, shuffled, trucker mesh hats, went outside to smoke, coughed, spat, came back and hunched forward from their barstools looking from their beers to the girls and back again, shyly. They had wives, most likely, and kids, and spent more nights watching TV than having sex.