by Stephen Law
Was this how it happened? If marijuana led to crack, shellac led to swarming? Could one act lead to a life of crime? People were hurt by what Desmond did. Frank was hurt in ways that might never heal. A drug addiction was one thing, but this was something else entirely — holding onto evidence, collecting the names of his victims as though he were keeping track of baseball stars and their stats, their things his trophies.
Shaz was still waiting to be thrown to the ground as she stepped towards the studio, but nothing happened. She kept walking, right on past.
She was a collector. It was something she understood. But her collections were made up of items that had been discarded, extras that had lost their usefulness, unusual objects no one wanted.
She’d pulled a gilded chandelier with eight roman candles and dangling cut glass from the trash, just down the street from where she was now. It had sparkled in the light. Despite two broken sockets and some missing bulbs, to Shaz’s mind it was too elegant to live a life in the shadows of a landfill, so she’d retrieved it from the trash.
The shellac slapped against her thigh as she was drawn towards the place where she’d hung the chandelier: on a magnificent maple tree on Elm Street. Shaz had envisioned it sparkling in the sunlight, resplendent in the sky, re-born after spending its life in darkened dining rooms lit only on special occasions.
The tree itself was a behemoth. An elder of the community, its limbs extended like an invitation over the road. Shaz had felt its branches clamour for the weight of a climber. The chandelier had been heavier than it looked, but Shaz had managed to haul it up the street, glass baubles dangling and clanging against her leg as the shellac was doing now. At the foot of the tree she’d glanced up, wondering if the idea was crazy or cool. Shrugging off the thought, she’d hoisted herself to the first branch, pulling the chandelier with her.
Edging out on a limb, her legs gripping the bark, she’d shimmied forward. The street was below and she’d moved past the height of neighbouring roofs. With the tree holding her weight she’d slowly inched along a branch till the bough began to bend. Careful not to let it drop and smash on the street below, she’d braced herself with her foot and tied the old thing to the branch, its electrical cord dangling. It had been summer, and the leaf cover kept the works hidden.
Looking up now, she spotted a sparkle through the leaves — light reflecting off the baubles and sending their mysterious code out into the world. She heard the soft jangle of thick glass. She hoped kids would hear the sound and be curious. Maybe they’d make up stories involving fairies or, like in It’s a Wonderful Life, angels receiving their wings.
She felt in her pocket for Frank’s card. She was no angel. The licence wasn’t hers to hide or re-purpose. She had to return it to Frank, and when she did, he would know where it had come from. All of the signals would then be clear. Any lingering doubt swept aside. The ID was like a deafening alarm in her pocket, calling out for someone to hear it.
Shellac in her bag, ID in her pocket, and brother on her mind, she headed back to the Canadian Tire to return what had been stolen.
7
LOWER BACK
nautical star
“I’M A FRIEND OF your father’s.”
Shaz gave the man a once-over, up and down. He was scrawny, with the look of someone dehydrated by liquor. The smell of cigarettes oozed off his skin.
“How do you know him?” She surprised herself by not slamming the door.
“We sailed together, on the Iroquois.”
Sixteen years on the destroyer and the only thing he’d destroyed was his family.
Her dad had never sent anyone to see her on his behalf. Hell, he never even sent birthday cards, let alone couriers.
“All right, come in.” Leading the man to the living room, she scooted housemate Brian out with a cock of the head.
“I’m Dean.” The guy fidgeted. It was tempting to watch him grow uncomfortable, but she didn’t have the energy.
“Wait right here.” She scooted into the kitchen and procured a cigarette from a pack hidden in the tea towel drawer. From the cupboard, she drew down two glasses and a bottle, and poured a shot of whisky into each. Lighting the cigarette, she inhaled a few puffs then went back to the living room. The whisky she placed on the table in front of them, grabbing one for herself. Nodding cheers, she shot it in a gulp. Taking another puff, she handed over the cigarette.
He managed a weak smile before draining the shot with his eyes closed. He held the cigarette between his yellowed fingers and drew a long drag.
Shaz waited.
The drink and smoke seemed to steady him. A glance up at her, and then his eyes posted back to the floor. “Your Dad, he loves you, you know.”
Shaz laughed. “Dear God, that can’t be all you’ve got?”
Something was shaking inside of him. “Do you remember me?”
Looking past the ill-fitting Frenchie’s suit, she drew away some of the lines, hydrated the hollows, to find there was something familiar about him.
She’d been seven, maybe eight. Her dad came six weeks late to her birthday and made a production of taking her out. Inside the old Buick was Dean, waiting for them, smoking out the car window. Shaz squished herself between them in the front seat, pushing an empty bottle out of the way to make room.
She’d been thrilled. It was an adventure, and she was with her father. She forgave his absence, erasing the memory of waiting for her dad up on the porch till it had grown dark. She’d insisted he would come, and now here he was, he’d come.
They went to the mall.
“Ice cream baby, let’s go get ice cream.” Balm for the bruises.
“She’ll have chocolate and vanilla. One of each she is.”
Dean laughed, though she wasn’t sure why.
Orange tiger was what she wanted, but she kept that to herself, not wanting to do anything that might send him away again. The last time it was months since she’d seen him.
He was showing her off, affectionate, giving her a hug, messing up her hair, joking and teasing like this was their every day. And she let him.
Strolling past Suzy Shier and the Gap her dad was expansive and generous. “Get whatever you want, sweetie.” Shaz grabbed his hand, pulling him towards her. There wasn’t anything in the mall she wanted.
“Shit. Your hand is all sticky.” He pulled away. “You’ve got to wash your hands.” Looking over at Dean, he shook his head. “What can you do, kids eh?”
She didn’t want to have to share her father. She pointed to a doll stroller on display in a store. “I want that one.”
Her dad laughed. “Sure, baby. The next time we’re here, we’ll get you that one.”
“I want it now.”
“Next time.”
“Now!” She was crying and shouting, and her dad was yelling back. She was returned to her nan’s, like an unwanted birthday present.
The old man who sat on her couch was thin and small, less of a man than she remembered.
“What is it you want? Or Dad wants?”
Dean coughed an emphysema cough.
She waited for him to recover.
“He needs you,” Dean said in a thin voice.
“You should go.”
Dean hesitated and looked towards Shaz through the smoke. He rose to his feet and said, “Thanks for the drink and cigarette.”
She kept her distance.
“It was nice to see you again, Shaz.” He shuffled out the door.
She watched him walk halfway down the street and climb into the passenger side of a car. A car her chickenshit dad no doubt was in.
***
COMFY CLOTHES, A CLASSIC movie, something junky to eat, a cuddle. When needed, Frank was always there. Sometimes for the night, sometimes just for a while. Since it had all gone to shit, she’d only seen him the once.
&n
bsp; It seemed easier to do nothing, but nothing wasn’t working. She ate mechanically and wasn’t sleeping at all.
Thumb text.
I need Audrey.
She hesitated, took a deep breath, hit send.
The phone sat silent, no return chime to end the wait. Frank lived through his smartphone. She touched the screen to make sure it was still on. Time passed and her head spun with thoughts: her brother, her dad, Dean’s visit. She felt herself sliding into that place that was dark and hard to get out of, where the mind holds all the insecurities and disappointments, where all the doubts, taunts, and slights congregate and linger.
Throwing the phone and then herself onto the bed, she curled herself into a ball of loathing. She had lost a best friend. Her brother was a thug, and her mom and nan were going to shit when it got revealed. And her father? He still found a way to get to her, get in her head, and make her feel like a disgrace. It’s how people viewed her anyway, not quite worthy, disgusting, tainted, impure, like trash. And women with tattoos? It’s not like the taunts were something she hadn’t heard before. When feeling strong, it could be sloughed off, taken as a badge of honour. But weakened, it soaked into her, all that hate compressed into something rotten that clung to her innards. Trying to fight it off, she felt herself slipping into darkness.
Frank didn’t text. Nor did he call. She lost all track of time until, from her crunched-up pile of discarded clothes, she looked up to see him standing over her. Pushing aside a bra, he eased himself down. His arm was out of the cast.
“Frank.” She rose to sitting. “I am so sorry.” Tears flowed down her face.
He was here, that meant something. But could they get back to where they once were? Move on from this point and rebuild what they once had? Not if she showed him what she’d found. If he ever discovered what she knew.
They leaned together against the wall. Shaz shifted and removed a sneaker from under the clothes and threw it aside. “He took something out of both of us. Doing this to you, to me.”
“I know.”
Sizing him up, Shaz wondered if this was going to be their last good memory. She wiped the tears with her arm then stood and went to her desk and pulled the driver’s license from the drawer. “I found it in Desmond’s room.” She held onto it, scared.
He was up awkwardly, but fast, faster than she thought he could move. He seized it from her hand, flipping it back and forth, to be sure it was really his. He looked toward the door, fighting the compulsion, she thought, to bolt out of the house. There would be nothing she could do to stop him.
Breath held, she waited.
So much between them, so many years. She could see it draining away.
Twirling the card in his hand, Frank was alive under the surface. Tectonic plates shifted, fissures preparing to split into gulfs.
There was nothing to do but stay upright, keep herself from collapsing.
A smile. Weak, but a smile. “I cancelled all the cards. Never liked this picture anyway.” Dropping to the floor, he shimmied up against the bed frame.
Eyes closed, she exhaled and breathed in a fresh, new breath.
Testing the ground, she eased herself down next to him. Close, but not touching. He was not gone. They were not broken. Maybe it was going to be okay.
He didn’t ask how she’d acquired it. He didn’t ask if she was going to the police, if she would try and get her brother charged, or even if she was still speaking to him.
“What are you up for?” she asked. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Roman Holiday?” There was so much more she wanted to ask and say, than this. She could feel the heat from Frank’s body beside her — she thought about inching closer.
Frank examined his licence once more, then tapped it twice and put it away into his wallet. “I think it’s a Two for the Road kind of day.”
They always went for the classics. They differed on Joan Crawford, but on Audrey Hepburn they could agree: she was crush-worthy. They’d been burning through the Hepburn collection. The problem was, in Two for the Road Audrey and Albert Finney travel across the south of France while reminiscing about their unravelling relationship.
Shaz remained still.
“I met someone,” he said then. Reaching for the laptop on the bed with his good arm, he kept his back to her as he set it up to stream the movie. She couldn’t see his face.
Touchstone. Lydian stones. They were used in ancient times to assess the quality of gold. It was something she’d discovered in geography class when they were researching gems. She’d used it with Frank, described it as their litmus to assess the seriousness of hookups they might have with others. The prospects would be assessed, accepted, or discarded as to how they measured up to what they already had between them. If someone came along, met the standard and their worth would shine through, then it would be okay to move on. And whatever it was they had between them, the connection, the intimacy, the relationship, the touchstone between Frank and Shaz would come to an end.
“I’m glad.” She swallowed.
Frank was fiddling with the computer. “His name is William. He’s a nurse.” He started the movie, set the volume, and sat back. “Okay? You ready to watch this?”
What choice did she have? “Sure.” She wanted to sidle up, but neither of them made a move. They sat together, but apart. Peering over at his face, his eyes were intent on the screen. This was as close as she was going to get. She turned her attention to the credits. The Mancini soundtrack enveloped them as she sat beside Frank and they watched the dotted road markings appear in the opening sequence of the film. He didn’t scream at her over Desmond, didn’t flee from her room. He didn’t leave her over Desmond and the licence, not entirely. At least there was that.
8
BELOW RIGHT BREAST
nuclear atoms and butterflies
WHEN FRANK LEFT, THEY shared a short hug. He didn’t hang around after the movie, like he normally would have, so they could critique the film, Frank lavishing praise on the cinematography, Shaz snapping about women doing more than just looking good. But things weren’t going to be normal any more.
She packed her laptop up into its case, ready to take back to the studio. Watching Audrey and Albert flashback through their love affair hadn’t been as painful as Shaz thought. One affair, and then another, but as they broke apart, they came together again too.
The shoulder strap for the bag was frayed, she’d have to replace it soon rather than risk her computer smashing to the ground.
Suddenly she was seventeen years old, showcasing an art show at the school. The flash came at her quickly and she had to sit herself onto the bed. An invitation extended to her dad was as much a test of him as it was an experiment for herself. Would he show? And when he didn’t, would she still care?
Was she thinking about abandonment? Was that what brought this on?
Her mind took her to the pictures of her tattoos scrolled on a screen as the people she’d worked on circulated through the space in tank tops, shorts, and crop tops, displaying her art on the canvas of their bodies. Spearhead’s Stay Human played in the background. Even the principal complimented her abilities. The show was a success, but without her father, it wasn’t one she fully shared.
Afterwards, at home, with her mom hanging her coat by the door, Shaz remembered fixing herself some cocoa then collapsing onto a chair in the kitchen.
“Why did you keep going back to him?” she asked.
Her mom twisted away from the counter. Shaz recalled the only emotions she seemed able to produce at the time were anger and annoyance. They had developed defence postures towards one another, and she had likely been goading her mom into a fight.
But this time, instead, she recalled interjecting before it escalated, “I mean, I just want to know, why we are drawn to him?”
Finished with his service to the navy, Donald lived in the city, b
ut didn’t bother to come to the school to see her work or support her efforts. She knew he wouldn’t show, and yet she was still angry at herself for being disappointed. What did her mom see in him that brought them together and what was it in herself that kept vying for his attention? What was the attraction?
Her mom had moved to the fridge mumbling something about making a sandwich, but then, changing her mind, she closed the door and pulled up a chair at the table, “He was different than me in almost every way, and I liked the contrast.” It was hard not to notice their hands, as they lay side by side on the table, how different they were from each other. “And as you know, your grandfather was a harsh man, which didn’t help.”
There’d been no pictures of her grandfather in their home growing up — the only time she’d seen a photo of him was at her aunt’s house. He posed ramrod stiff in his best church clothes, like it was the 1800s, a grimace on his face as he looked out beside the other members of the family. Shaz had searched that face for a resemblance, seeing Desmond, if anyone.
And it was upon her brother that Nan and her mom ascribed Grandfather’s traits.
“Your grandfather used to do that,” Nan remarked when Desmond drank from the jug. “Just like Dad,” her mom would say when Desmond ran hot with a temper before she’d had a chance to explain.
These occasional quips were all that remained of him. Upon his death, pretty much all of her grandfather’s belongings were thrown out. Her mom described how the boxes were left at the curb right after the funeral. Nan never marked their anniversary, but smoked a cigarette every year on the day of his death. Hard to imagine her like that now, a woman who so easily spoke her mind, a woman as comfortable in her own skin as anyone Shaz had ever encountered.
Her mom, on the other hand, twitched when she slept, like a dog shaking off a bad dream. In biology and science classes when Shaz had learned about cells and neurons, she imagined her mom’s body a mass of cells swollen with discontent, sadness and anger, able only from the comfort of the couch to release their carriage after a shift at work. Shaz twitched too.