‘Fuck those little snot-nosed primary schoolers – at least have one drink. Lotta the old crowd’ll be around. Just like old times.’
Old times. Sun coming up, booze still flowing like Onaping Falls, bodies piled like some trench in World War Whatever.
‘Don’t think I could survive a night of old times.’
‘One drink, s’all I’m sayin. So where’s that fucker Lepine and the rest of your goons?’
‘Home with the families.’
‘Sellouts, eh?’
‘Where you should be, with your daughter.’
‘What daughter?’ And he laughs like being a bad parent is funny.
They stop at an old red-brick place – sagging fence, curling shingles. Moony looks at the dark windows. ‘You sure Fitzroy’s still doin it?’
‘Lights were never on. C’mon.’
They walk down the gravel laneway and push through the overgrown hedge into the backyard. Lorenzo bangs on the tin door off the back of the house and they wait in the cold. Green, black and yellow of the Jamaican flag on the porch roof waving in the night air.
‘Lo, maybe we should – ’
The tin door shrieks open and Moony slips in the slush and falls back on his ass. Some large woman peers down at them, deep voice booming out, ‘Who’s comin for dinner?’
‘Natty dreadlocks.’ Lorenzo pulling Moony up. ‘Fuck’s sake, Nora, scared the shit outta us.’
Nora holds the door open for them and then wanders off into the dark of the house, muttering. The only light is leaking up the basement steps and Moony can feel the rumble of bass beat through his feet.
A small crowd is gathered in the basement, dancing, sitting on sofas, yelling over the music coming out of the eight-foot speakers. Moony recognizes a few faces – the bartender from the Frood, couple of guys from other bands, that drunk McGowan who is always in on every party.
Lorenzo drags him up to the makeshift bar – planks of wood laid across some old barrels. Fitzroy, six feet of skinny black muscle, rag over one shoulder, flashes them a gold tooth. Moony leans in. ‘Ginger beer.’
A cup of green liquid slides across. ‘T’ree dolla.’
Moony digs a handful of change out of his pocket, the last of his cash. ‘Good to see some things don’t change.’
He leaves Lorenzo yakking at Fitzroy and wanders off sipping his ginger beer. First the heat of spice, then the acid burn of overproof rum. Over by the furnace, a cafeteria table is laid out with an assortment of bowls and hot plates brimming with colours and smells. Moony pats his stiff round gut and grabs a plate, starts loading up.
‘You gotta try the okra,’ says someone scooping a blob of green vegetables onto his plate. He turns to see the brunette from the bar. Younger this close. Her eyes. ‘And the fried plantain – so good.’ Her lips. ‘Here – coco bread’s my favourite.’ Her hands.
He opens his mouth to say something but the best he can do is ‘Thanks.’
‘Enjoy,’ she says, swirling off into some other part of the party.
He takes a bite of the soft bread, the bit where her fingers let go. Lorenzo wanders up, drinking from a Red Stripe in either hand. ‘You’re old enough to be her ancestor.’
Out on the back step, passing the bottle of rum between them, the only sound Lorenzo sighing periodically and shaking his head. At the end of the lawn, the creek rushes on, dark and silent. A few dozen sighs in, Lorenzo stands, drains the bottle and throws it on the ground.
‘Well, this party’s done.’ Saying it like a royal decree, and then another sigh. ‘Let’s go – I got a coupla malts back at my place. We can grab a quick one before I work.’
‘You’re gonna work like this?’
‘Yeah. I should be there already. But I’ll just sneak in the back. Let’s have that drink first.’
‘Naw, I should be gettin back.’
‘C’mon, man.’ The guilt trip in full force. ‘One for the road.’
‘Go home, Lo.’
‘Aw, you asshole – what’m I gonna do?’ Standing there feeling sorry for himself and it just makes Moony want to smack him.
‘What’re you doin, lad?’ The other man shrugging. ‘You got a good kid there – y’know that?’
‘Yeah.’ But he’s not thinking about Emilia at all. ‘Her mother left me.’
‘I know.’
‘Left me with fuckin shit.’
‘She left both of you, Lo.’
‘Yeah.’ But he doesn’t get it. ‘I’m just fucked up, y’know. I was at the station cleaning when they brought that body in today – y’know, the one on the news. That kinda shit fucks you up, y’know?’
Moony nods because that’s all Lorenzo wants, another free pass, another chance to share his masterpiece of pain.
‘I miss her.’ A sigh. ‘That bitch.’
Another sigh, like all the breath leaving him, and Lorenzo staggers off, crashing through the hedge and gone, singing off-key and fading down the street.
It’s enough to make you sick, because people are what they are, no matter how many chances you give them. Nobody really changes. Nobody really knows who they are to begin with.
Maybe he’ll talk to her tomorrow after class. Take her aside. Talk to the principal too. Those things can get messy, though. Lots of paperwork. Lots. Messy to get involved.
Moony picks up the bottle and puts it in the trash bin off the steps, then sits back down to watch the creek. Keeping his eyes on it like he’s waiting for something that’ll just never get there.
Then she’s sitting there. He didn’t hear her, the door, anything. One second she wasn’t there beside him and then, pop, she just was. She’s got a cigarette wedged in her lips (her lips) and she’s searching the pockets of her jacket, hands (her hands) working the buttons, and finally turning to him with this pouty look in her eyes (her eyes). He pulls a pack of matches from his own pocket, picked up at some old gig.
‘Thanks,’ she says, taking them, and he wonders if matches can go bad like milk or human potential, but the first one goes up in a puff of flame and he catches a whiff of mint. She squints as she takes a long drag, throwing back her head for the exhale, passes him the cigarette. Him smoking for the first time in a decade.
‘It true you gotta suffer to play the blues?’ Her voice almost a whisper, but the words feel so loud out here.
‘It helps.’ He passes the cigarette back.
She holds the cigarette up to her face, staring down the mouth of the ember. ‘If I could sing I’d sing the blues for weeks and weeks and forever.’ She laughs but it’s a flat dead sound. ‘I got so much blue in me I’m an ocean.’
‘Which one?’
‘What?’
‘Which ocean?’
‘I dunno.’ She laughs again, but this time it’s not the most depressing sound in the world. ‘Which one’s the bluest?’
He shrugs. Her next to him, her leg touching his leg. She’s not smoking anymore, and he’s watching the cigarette in her hand burning down like some kind of fuse. He can smell the menthol and he can smell her hair and he’s suddenly drunk, more drunk than he’s ever been.
All it takes is for him to turn his head to the left, to lean, and his mouth is on her mouth. His lips on her lips. A burning inside him. A burning on him.
He pulls back, slapping the hole the cigarette made through his shirt, the burn on his skin. One look from her and he knows it was an accident. She didn’t mean it, didn’t mean any of it.
‘Francie?’
They both turn at the sound of the new voice. Some boy standing just inside the hedge. In a T-shirt, shaking with cold or anger. Something – a camera on a strap around his neck. The girl doesn’t move away from Moony, doesn’t say anything, just looks at the boy. She flicks the cigarette away, only the white bone of filter left. Moony watches it bounce across the snow – a starter’s pistol and then everyone’s moving.
The girl taking off the denim jacket, rolling it carefully into a ball. Crunch of crust on the snow, the boy
walking toward them. Moony swaying to his feet.
Bang – First of July flashbulb rocketship boy’s fist in his mouth and Moony’s suddenly looking at the stars and wondering how standing up can feel so much like lying down.
When he sits up, she’s gone. The boy is looking down at Moony, holding the balled-up denim jacket.
‘You creep.’ Twisting the jacket in his hands, trying to squeeze some kind of warmth out of it. ‘You sleazebag. You perv. The fuck’s your problem?’ This kid spitting in his face, Moony thinking, He’s going to hit me again. But he doesn’t. Not with his fists. Talking to him like he’s the snot-nosed kid, the one who should know better. ‘The fuck you think you are?’ And he doesn’t know what he thinks. ‘Answer me.’ But his mouth’s full of everything but words. ‘Fuckin nothin, that’s what.’ That’s what. Then, like another fist in his mouth, ‘Used to be her fuckin music teacher.’ Then the boy’s back through the hedge and Moony’s alone.
Her taste in his mouth, her warmth, the warmth of blood in his mouth. Crawling down to the creek on hands and knees, sucking water, spitting, trying to get the taste from inside him. Le thrill est gone, bébé, it’s gone pour de bon.
Then around the creek bend, something comes.
A black shape.
A log.
Not a log.
A body.
Floating toward him. Floating by him. Pirouetting in the middle of the creek, the head swinging back toward him before it floats on and on out of sight. On and on and on, the current sweeping it away. The face – that blank expression, like death had come slinking in.
He lets go. Rum and menthol and okra. He’s puking his guts out, everything he’s ever eaten. He’s puking out his knees and toes, the soles of his feet, every part of his body coming up in a rush, puking himself inside out, retching the last bits of colour from his body, spilling out like a wet rainbow, leaving only blue, blue blue blue, the blue of the creek, the blue of the sky, the blue of Moony. Il est disparu for good.
A light goes on. A light on his face. A voice asking him if he’s all right, sir. A voice asking him what his name is, sir.
Moony opens his mouth and the words are there, so many words. ‘I’m a teacher. I teach music.’
15
Heck Gilchrist watches Slim walk away, watches him go with his shoulders all hunched up in that T-shirt like he’s immune to the cold, thinks, I’ll go when I can’t see him anymore. Slim reaching the top of the park and heading off down the alley, Heck straining his neck until he’s out of sight.
He watches the yellow car across the street, thinking, I’ll just keep a lookout until Slim makes it to the Bin. I’ll go when he makes the corner on Grey. Back to the warm house on Baker, Mom’s blueberry pie in the fridge, Dad maybe up watching late-night TV in the rec room. The sheets, the pillows, the bed. I’ll go when he makes the corner.
He hears a rustling in the bushes and wonders if all hobos are cannibals or just some.
There he is – a speck rounding the corner right across from him. He waves, but Slim doesn’t look up, just pulls the door of the Bin, a belch of smoke coming out, and then he’s gone.
He watches the door, thinking, I’ll just wait a bit, make sure it’s all going okay with Francie. Just in case he needs me.
But Slim never needs anything. He’s been getting himself into shit as long as Heck has known him. Always with that cocky little smirk and a shrug, like the shit could never be deep enough. So you go along because he makes it look so cool.
He waits, watches, but Slim doesn’t come out. He might be in there fighting with Francie, or what if Milly’s in there, or what if he’s waiting in his car for Slim to come out? What if he needs him – Slim never needing anything – anybody – but what if he does, just this once?
Well, what can he do anyway? Milly is a cold-blooded psycho, for sure. Heck knows somebody that seen him kick a baby carriage once. And if you buy weed from him, even if it’s through Dunc, he wants names and addresses, so he can climb through your bedroom window if you ever rat on him. Milly won’t think twice about slitting his throat if he gets in the way. Maybe even stop to lick the blood off his cold dead corpse.
This was Slim’s shit to deal with, he dug the hole. Last summer, he let Slim talk him into having a party at his place when his parents were out of town, and when somebody tossed the couch through the picture window he said, Last time, Slim, I let you drag me into your shit.
And anyway, Slim told him to stay out of it.
So he should just go home. The door to the Bin’s not opening. The Beetle’s not moving. He’s just sitting here, his ass going numb, watching with a busted watch in his hand, so he should just go. That watch – his best friend’s most prized possession in the world, and that kind of trust’s gotta be worth something. Worth something more than watching. More than watching being what Slim would do for him – no matter what anybody told him to do otherwise. Slim the first one diving headfirst into the shit right after him.
So he’s not going home. Not anywhere close.
‘Okay, thanks, Irene – I’m headin out.’ Wrapping her scarf around her head like she’s Grace Kelly and doing up her jacket. She shuts down the rest of the lights in the dining room and blows a kiss to Velma, still cleaning up in the kitchen.
She pushes out onto the empty street, a wet chill creeping into the air. She turns her key in the lock.
‘Mrs. Novak?’
Martha jumps at the sound and turns to see that chubby boy – Slim’s friend, the one who likes her cooking – running across the road. ‘Hello, Hector. What’re you doin out so late?’
‘It’s not.’ He’s out of breath when he gets to her, babbling between gasps. ‘It’s not my – my fault, Mrs. Novak, I told him but you know – know him, never listens and I wanted to go with him, but he told me to stay put, but he’s in trouble – big trouble – like really big trouble and I didn’t know what else to do so I come over here hoping – ’
‘What trouble – is it Slim?’
‘Yeah – he – he – ’ Hector doubles over and pukes on the sidewalk. She pulls a tissue out of her purse and gives it to him, letting him wipe his mouth and steady himself. She takes a deep breath.
‘Was it Gordon?’ The goon. She’d call the cops on him.
‘Who?’
‘Did Gordon hurt him?’ She’d kill him.
‘What? No, he stole some body and then he dumped it in the crick and then we gone in there looking for it and we been shot at and we almost got in a car wreck and now he’s gone lookin for Francie and Milly’s lookin for him and I almost got eaten by cannibal hobos in the park – ’
‘Shut up.’ She shakes him hard by the shoulders. ‘Someone’s tryin to hurt him?’
‘Yeah.’ Hector looking at her with tears in his eyes. ‘Someone real bad.’
Her mind sliding back to that afternoon at Nibblers – that stringy fuck in the red plaid with the rubber boots. Asking about Slim. And when she told him where to go, that cold look in his eyes. This is her fault. She should’ve done something then.
‘Where is he now?’
‘The Nickel Bin.’ Hector gets his hands on her shoulders too, almost like they’re holding each other. ‘And we can’t go to the cops.’
‘Okay.’ Her mind spilling out all over the place, running through all the faces she could count on. A short list, none of them downtown except Lucy, who’d only get her more hysterical than she feels right now. Coming back to where it all started. ‘Okay.’
She grabs Hector’s arm and they start off down the street, him blubbering beside her.
‘Where’re we goin?’
‘To get some help.’
He looks at her, salty stains on his cheeks. ‘Jeepers, you look old with your scarf like that.’
‘Shut up and wipe your face.’
They’re up Larch to the brick face of the Coulson, Martha scanning the building and then yanking open a side door and holding it for Hector. Her head’s splitting because she’s
out of cigarettes and she doesn’t feel like dealing with any bullshit. ‘You can come up, but you gotta keep quiet.’
He nods. They climb to the top floor, Hector panting, and then down the hall, holes in the plaster and the carpet stained with puke and maybe blood. She doesn’t know what number it is, and then she recognizes the cowboy boots placed carefully next to the door at the very end. So, he got them back. She knocks and gives Hector a quick remember-what-I-told-you look.
The door swings open and he’s standing there, shirt off – filling the doorway. When he sees her, he doesn’t look embarrassed or try to cover up. He’s not showing off either. That’s just the way he is.
‘Hey, Gordon.’
He nods at her, like her knocking at two o’clock in the morning isn’t out of the ordinary. Standing there, his pale skin stippled with old scars. Some she remembers, some new ones too. He looks at Hector, taking him in – the kid’s eyes bugging at the size of him.
‘This’s Hector – a friend … of my son’s.’ Hector shuffles his feet and mouths Hey, Gordon’s dark eyes shifting back to her. His nose going black with the bruising. ‘Look, I don’t know how you got those boots back, and I don’t care right now. I need your help.’
And he doesn’t ask questions, just turns and heads into the apartment, leaving the door hanging open. Almost empty, but what is there – a few books, a knick-knack or two, the glass terrarium – is placed carefully. Painfully.
‘Wowsers!’ Hector has snuck into the apartment and is staring at something tacked to the wall. The only thing on any of the walls. A hockey card. The pin right through the player’s heart.
‘Wowsers!’ he shouts again and turns to look at Gordon. ‘Number thirteen, Gordon ‘The Python’ Uranium, defence, you had forty-three goals and sixty-one assists and 111 penalty minutes in ’67–’68, your last season. That’s like a team record. You were gonna get drafted, like maybe number three overall – overall! Wowsers, my dad would never believe it – he said you were the best. Why didn’t you play in the NHL? Didn’t you want to? My dad loves the Jets. You coulda played with Hawerchuk on the Jets – that woulda been rad. I mean, you’re old, but you coulda played with him when he was a rookie. Why didn’t you?’
The City Still Breathing Page 13