Featherless Bipeds

by Richard Scarsbrook

  “It would only be for a year,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says, “but statistics show that most students who plan on putting off school for a year never go back. And, since you’ve already lost a year because of your injury, well . . . ”

  “I guess the responsible thing to do is to go back to university next year,” I say.

  We stop in front of the entrance to her apartment building.

  “On the other hand, though,” she says, with a sparkle in her eyes, “You do look kind of sexy up there on stage behind those drums.”

  “I do?”

  I lean towards her to kiss her. She hovers in front of me for a moment, and her eyes close slightly. Then she takes a step away from me, toward the building.

  “See you later, Dak,” she says, “Thanks for dinner.”

  “Call me if you come to Faireville over the summer, okay?” I say, trying to sound as cool and unaffected as possible.

  “I will,” she says, “if I come back to Faireville.” She disappears inside the building.

  A streetlight buzzes and crackles to life above my head. I stand under its flickering glow for a moment, then turn and begin to walk away. Behind me, there is the sound of a window sliding open. I spin around.

  “Hey, Dak, listen,” Zoe calls down to me through the open second-floor window. “All any of us can do is to follow our hearts. If we do that, I think we’ll eventually end up where we belong.”

  One by one, up and down the sidewalk, other streetlights begin humming with light.

  “Goodnight, Zoe,” I say.

  “Goodnight, Dak.” She recedes into her apartment, leaving the window open.

  I spend the rest of the night wandering the city alone, passing under streetlight after streetlight, trying to imagine how I will navigate myself to the right future from here.

  Wander

  Lyrics — D. Sifter, Music — A. Ganges, T. Low, D. Sifter

  (From the album Socrates Kicks Ass! recorded by The Featherless Bipeds)

  I have this dream of snaking roads

  And freeway metaphors

  Kind of like those TV ads

  For cars I can’t afford

  It draws me out into the dusk

  In search of substitutes

  Into the shadows of opaque towers

  Past fountains of other mens’ youths

  I walk downtown and have myself

  A drink from a frosted glass

  Park myself by a windowsill

  And watch the statues pass

  Listened to a street band play

  You really should come see ’em

  Toss a quarter in their jar

  It’s all I have to give ’em

  Watch the spirits hurling fire

  Hear wind in wires ring

  Taillights streak across the bridge

  Missing everything

  SET TWO

  LOST AND FOUND

  I love this beach. I love the tentative trickling sound of the current against the shore on still nights such as this one, and the way the smoky light of the lighthouse swings overhead like a blade through the haze of humid air. I love the cool feel of the sand as it half-absorbs each footstep I take, and the hollow, gurgling sound of distant boat motors, and the way I can stop in my tracks here and be aware, for what seems like the first time ever, of the sound of my own breathing and the rising rhythm of my heartbeat. I love the crackle of smooth marble-coloured pebbles and the clip-clip-clip-pluck sound of a thrown stone skipping across the water. But none of these loves are the reason I have come to this place.

  I am here because Zoe is here.

  Of course the other guy is here as well. The companion of the moment. The one who would also have her if he could.

  This morning, Zoe left a message for me on my parents’ answering machine. There are only three weeks left of summer, and I’ve hardly heard from her since the term ended at university. My heart thumped wildly as soon as I heard her voice, and it hasn’t stopped yet.

  “Hey, Dak, it’s me,” her voice played back from the tape. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m coming home to Faireville for the weekend. Kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing. I thought you might like to get together for a coffee or something. You won’t have to meet me at the train station — I’m, uh, getting a ride with someone — a friend I met at one of my summer-school courses. I think you’ll really like this person. You two have a lot in common. Anyway, I’ll give you a call when we get into town. ‘Bye!”

  Hmmm. She will be “getting a ride with someone.” “A friend.” “This person.” I am worried.

  My worst fears are confirmed a few hours later, when Zoe calls me from the pay phone and tells me to meet her at the Faireville Times Café in fifteen minutes. I run the whole way there, then stop, catch my breath, and stroll coolly into the musty coffee house.

  She hasn’t arrived yet. I sit down by myself at the booth by the window that Zoe and I always used to share.

  Jo, the perpetual waitress at the Faireville Times, wanders up to the table. Jo was the waitress at the diner back when my parents were dating. In a moment of nostalgia, my dad mentioned that Jo was the best-looking woman in Faireville back then, quickly adding, “next to your mother, of course.”

  “Hi there, Dak,” Jo says. “How ya doing? Heard you had a pretty adventurous first year away at school.”

  “You could say that,” I say. The scar on my abdomen hummed with dull pain, as if it knew that Jo was talking about it.

  “So, where’s your girlfriend?” she asks.

  “Oh. I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment.”

  “What about Zoe Perry? You two are still dating, aren’t you?”

  “Well, not exactly. We’re sort of taking a break, I guess.”

  Jo shakes her head.

  “Too bad. You made a nice looking couple, always laughing and having fun. I loved serving you two.” She straightens. “So, what’ll you have?”

  “Not sure yet,” I say.

  The bells above the entrance jingle. It’s Zoe, and, sure enough, the “person” with her is a guy. Wearing a friggin’ blazer.

  “Oh. I’ll give you a minute, then,” Jo says, and she scurries away behind the counter.

  Zoe runs over and hugs me, then she and the “person” sit down beside each other, across the booth from me. I can’t see because of the table between us, but I’m pretty sure his hand is resting on Zoe’s thigh. The blood throbs in my temples.

  “Dak,” she says, glowing, “I’d like you to meet Jerry. He’s a grad student, and he’s helping to teach one of the summer courses I’m taking.”

  “Hello, Jerry.” I say ‘Jerry’ with the same tone of voice I might use to after stepping barefoot in fresh dog droppings. “Did Zoe mention that she and I used to come here all the time when we were dating?”

  “She may have mentioned it in passing,” he says, peering at me over his artsy-fartsy little glasses. “But that was back in high school, right?”

  “We still go out for brunch every once in a while at university as well,” I say. “Have you heard of Jafo’s?”

  “Ah, yes,” he sniffs, “an undergraduate hang-out, isn’t it?”

  “As well as other members of the Proletariat,” I say.

  “Hey, Dak,” Zoe interjects, too brightly, “did you know that Jerry is a musician, too? He plays the violin.”

  I show some post-secondary maturity and refrain from pointing out that Jerry rhymes with fairy. Zoe turns to The Fairy and says, “Dak plays the drums, Jerry.

  He plays in a rock band. They’re really good.”

  “Ah,” Jerry says. “I’ve mostly played with string quartets. I had my training at the Royal Conservatory of Music. How about you?”

  “Oh, I had my training in my parents’ garage, mostly. Maybe we can go over there later, and you can play your fiddle for us, and we’ll have us a little hoe-down. Hoo-doggy, that’d be a hoot, eh?”

  I think I just saw Zoe grin, only for
a second.

  “Well,” Jerry says, playing the easy-going guy, “I don’t play much music any more. Working on my Art History thesis takes up most of my time these days.”

  “Did Zoe mention that she and I used to work together as tour guides at The Faireville Gallery of Reproduction Masterpiece Art?” I ask Jerry.

  “I was aware that Zoe had more than a passing knowledge of visual art, but . . . ”

  “Maybe we could all head over to the gallery for the afternoon,” I interrupt. “Wouldn’t that be fun, Zoe?”

  “Well, actually, Dak . . . ”

  Jerry interrupts Zoe. “Thanks anyway, but with my gallery connections, I can arrange for Zoe to have private viewings of original artistic masterpieces.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t talking about the paintings,” I say, grinning, “I thought Zoe might want to show you the coatroom at the Faireville gallery, relive some old memories.”

  Zoe blushes, and flashes an angry look at me. Oops — shouldn’t have crossed that line, I guess.

  “Well,” Jerry wheezes, “it’s been wonderful meeting you, Dick, but . . . ”

  “That’s Dak,” I say.

  “But we really should get along. Zoe has promised me a tour of her hometown.”

  “Our hometown,” I add.

  “The day is slipping away from us,” he says sharply, “and Zoe claims that the local beach is stunning at sunset.” His voice drops a little, and he looks at Zoe. “And quite romantic.”

  “Oh, it is,” I tell him. “Zoe and I used to go there all the time. When we were dating.”

  “Awfully sad that you aren’t dating anymore,” he says.

  He puts his elbows on the table and folds his fingers together into a tight ball in front of his face, one huge gold ring glinting in the dusty afternoon sun. I noticed that the letters BA are embossed on the ring.

  “Say, Jerry,” I ask, “what do the letters on your ring stand for?”

  “Beta Alpha,” he sighs, “my fraternity.”

  “Ohhhhhhhhhh,” I say, “So you’re a frat boy.”

  He closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head.

  “No, I am a member of a fraternity. A brotherhood. Saying the word ‘frat’ is almost as offensive to one of us as saying the word ‘fuck’.”

  “Oh. Well, frat you, then!” I say. “Ha ha, sorry, just kidding, Jerry. I thought BA maybe stood for something else.”

  “Couldn’t expect you to know any better,” he says, rising from the table and sidling toward the counter. “I’ll go settle our bill, and we can get going, Zoe.”

  “Dak,” Zoe hisses at me from across the table when Jerry finally turns his back, “what do you think you’re doing?”

  “BA stands for Big Asshole,” I whisper back.

  “I like him. He’s introduced me to a lot of interesting people, and he takes me to cool places. And if you really care about me, you won’t ruin this for me. You promised me you would give me some space.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that. Zoe slides from her seat and stands up. Jerry joins her, his manicured fingers gripping at her waist.

  “Well,” he says, tugging Zoe towards the door, “nice making your acquaintance, Dick”

  “It’s Dak, actually.”

  “See you soon, Dak,” Zoe sighs.

  I say to myself: Probably sooner than you think.

  Now it’s a half-hour before sunset, and I’ve begun casually strolling up and down the beach, along the stretch of sand that both Zoe and I know is the best place to watch the sky fade into night.

  “Hey!” I call out to Zoe and The Fairy when they appear from the direction of the parking area, “What a coincidence! I was just out for my nightly walk.”

  “Indeed,” The Fairy sighs.

  “Hi, Dak,” Zoe says. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me.

  “Enjoy your tour of the town?” I ask The Fairy.

  “Very quaint,” he says, rocking back and forth on his heels. I detect from Zoe’s expression that she is disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm for her favourite old places. Alas, The Fairy suddenly realizes this also, and, plays the sensitive guy to the hilt. “But I especially loved the company,” he says.

  “I know what you mean,” I say. I’m not looking at him when I say it.

  “Well, nice seeing you again,” The Fairy says, “but we’ve got a sunset to watch.”

  “Hey, me too!” I cheer, “Why don’t we watch it together?”

  “We were planning on going for a swim afterward,” The Fairy says. “I notice you haven’t got a swimsuit with you.”

  “Just want to watch the sun go down,” I say, “then I’ll leave you two acquaintances alone.”

  “Hey,” Zoe says to the Fairy, “we don’t mind sharing the sky with a friend, do we, Jerry?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  As the three of us walk towards the sunset-watching spot, Zoe tries to make light, breezy conversation with The Fairy, who is now in a distinctly sulky mood. But despite her best efforts, little things remind him that Zoe was once mine, that there are certain things about this place we share. Laughing, we duck the lighthouse beam as if it is a ghostly sabre, like we did when it was just the two of us. Jerry does not join the fun. I mention how the beach stones that clink and clatter beneath our feet would look great in the bottom of a fish tank containing two goldfish named Buster and Charlie — he hates it that I know the names of her fish, without even knowing that it was me who suggested the names. But his jealously is irrelevant. I love our surroundings about a thousand times more because of these small bonds Zoe and I share.

  We sit on the sand, and the sky ignites. I hold my breath, like I do every time.

  “Nothing like the sunset in Faireville,” Zoe says.

  “I’ll take you to Tuscany some time,” the Fairy says. “Now that’s a sunset.”

  Do I hear Zoe sigh?

  “Well,” the Fairy says, standing, stretching, casting off his shirt and kicking away his shoes, “that water certainly looks inviting.”

  Then they are in the lake. Zoe splashes, swims, plays with the Fairy, and I lie wordlessly near her cast-off clothing, feeling a shiver inside my chest when his laughter clashes with hers.

  When Zoe emerges from the water, she is cold. Her glistening copper-coloured skin is specked with goosebumps, and her dark nipples strain against her bikini top. I want nothing more than to hold her, to share my warmth, to absorb the cool wetness from her slender body the way starving lungs absorb cool, clean air. But Jerry is beside her, the one who would casually claim her as his own, so the best I can do is offer her my shirt to dry off with.

  “How was the water?” I ask. “Quaint?”

  She smiles at me in that tight-lipped way of hers, and rubs the wetness from her body in a few long, vertical strokes. I put the shirt back on again, and relish the second-hand contact of water that once clung to her and now clings to me. I hold on to her clothes, help her pull her skirt back over her head and down around her waist, and we walk back to the parking lot just slightly behind the Fairy, who is not impressed. She scampers to catch up with him, but then abruptly stops.

  “Oh, no!” she cries out, “I left my rings and necklace on the beach!”

  Hiding amidst perhaps a billion fragments of stone and bone and earth are those few shiny items she wears on her slender fingers, around her smooth brown wrists, draped around her long slim neck, those few favoured charms that hang against her, which rest against her collarbone, which absorb the rise and fall of her breathing, tokens of family, and friendship, and maybe even love.

  Jerry looks at his watch.

  “We had better find them right away,” he says, “it will be dark soon. And we really should be going.”

  “Don’t worry,” I tell Zoe, “we’ll find them.”

  I will stay here until I have found her things for her. I will stay here and find these objects that have become accustomed to touching her. I will rescue them from becoming one with the stones and sand, a
nd I will reunite them with her neck and wrists and fingers. I will stay here until the sun rises if I have to, because I somehow imagine that not even a necklace can stand to be out of contact with her for very long. He can take her home, but I will give her back what she has lost.

  Jerry wanders along the beach in one direction, and Zoe walks beside me, in the other direction, as I sweep the darkened beach with my eyes. What another might overlook here, I will not. When Zoe is in the picture, my vision becomes sharp, my senses supercharged, drawing in every detail for my memory to hold on to.

  I had been lying on the beach there beside Zoe’s cast-off clothing, and I will recognize the place again, the spot where she stood gently-lit by the diffused moonlight, where I handed her my shirt to dry herself, where I gave her clothing piece-by-piece as she dressed again, where I watched her cover her beautiful brown skin, where my mind took photographs of the delicate material as it clung like a lover’s embrace to her slender form. I will recognize the spot.

  And, yes! As soon as the first photon of light bounces back from a silvery glint in the sand, I know I have found Zoe’s jewelry. The shifty sand has tried to absorb a couple of her rings, but I pluck them from it, and I put them and her necklace in the palm of her hand. When she has put everything back on, I hold out the last bit of metal, the silver ring I bought for her when we were dating each other in high school. Then I remember what she told me, not so long ago: “Don’t read too much into it, okay?”

  I take her hand, and slide the ring onto her little finger.

  As we walk back to the car, Jerry right beside us, Zoe and I exchange quick glances. I wish I could pick her up and swing her around and hear my laughter mingle in the heavy air with hers, relish the contact, breathe in the bittersweet scent of her wet hair.

  But no. The other is watching.

  And I still love the beach, and the sound of the current, and the light of the lighthouse, and the feel of sand under foot; and I still love the sound of distant boats, and hearing heartbeats and breathing as easily as wind; and I still love the pebbles and shells and flat, round skipping stones.