“Nothing’s … Okay, Shel, fair enough. Thanksgiving is the day my old lady took off.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Your mother?”
“One and only.”
“How old were you?”
“Five, maybe.”
“Five? That’s so sad.”
“Boo hoo.”
“Don’t make fun of it. Where the heck was your father?”
“All I can remember from that day is standing in a kitchen staring at this thawing turkey on a marbley yellow-white arborite counter—weird how those things stick out, eh?—and blood dripping down the counter. And every few minutes I’d take a peek around the corner at my old man passed out on the front room floor.” Lucy looked up at me and smiled.
“Why’d she leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened to you?”
“I’m sittin’ right in front o’ you, aren’t I?”
“I mean afterwards.”
“The usual shit. Kicked around a few foster homes.”
“Were they adequate?”
“They were … foster homes. Some good. Some bad. Some you get dinner. Some you get love. Some you get fucked.”
“Don’t tell me that.”
“Okay.”
“I want to know.”
“Okay. Comox, B.C. Franz Belchman and his lovely wife Glenys: pillars of the community. Idle hands and idle fingers. He’d crawl into my bed, sniff my body, rub himself against me, smell my not yet hairy areas and have me touch him—shit like that.”
“Oh God.”
“Shel, everybody gets it sometime.”
“Not like that.”
“One way or another, whatever shit you carry around, Shel, that’s your rapist.”
“Stop with your tricky words, Lucy. Some things are more wrong then others. That was wrong.”
“This world is wrong, Shel, even the good stuff. But hey, I’m here, you’re here, and we’re enjoying a damn fine muffin. She romps along, you know? Anyway, now the son of a bitch has got karma to deal with.”
“Lucy, if there—”
“I know. But it’s no biggie.”
“Oh God. Yes it is! What can I do?”
“You can pay for coffee,” she said, offering a blank expression. “I’m broke.”
The cheque she’d given me remained clasped in my hand. “But you …”
She smiled. “I’m kidding.”
Lucy had stunned me with her confession, and via my prodding and over two more cups of coffee and pumpkin pie she went on to divulge the horror of ritual abuse in more descriptive and less flippant terms. That this tragedy had taken place was nothing new. Nay, such travesties have occurred forever. But to hear it from the woman I loved, and to know about her experience with Frank and the streets and so forth, was deeply depressing. What is this evil world? Who lurks in that distant alley that we are so sure is well lit? Was it any wonder Lucy had temper tantrums that could come and go like a good sneeze? No doubt with my malleable disposition, such abuse would have left me a serial killer—or at the very least a sicko.
“Lucy,” I said before leaving, “I can’t alter your past. Nor can I control your future. If I could I would. I swear. But I’m here for the duration, and if Frank tries anything, he’ll pay.”
Lucy smiled. “Thank you, masked man,” she said, “now get on your horse and go.” She let out a laugh that seemed really forced.
“I mean it,” I said. “He’ll pay …”
Melancholy would be the word I would use to describe my spirit as I rattled onto the freeway, before me a sky so white it was as if God had forgotten to colour in the upper part of the drawing. Certainly I was no longer worried about what lay ahead, for expectations deserve to be shot down and life is far bigger than some rebel dropping out of university. I was saddened for Lucy, her being alone on Thanksgiving and having to live with her history. I was also thankful for the joy in my life, and the love offered so freely from Lucy, Gran and, yes, Peg and Ed. I was also ashamed at how, with all life’s misery around me, I had done so little for anyone.
Once into the valley I was awe-struck by the fog-covered, medieval looking flats and, higher up, thick clouds that hung like angry black berets above ominous mountains that deepened in colour as I travelled farther east. I passed the seventy-foot Fred Flintstone sign at Bedrock Village. Childhood, I thought. How could they do it to her? Then came the Hope overpass and signs to the Coquihalla Highway. I headed north, soothed by the curve of the road and the warm air from the heater blowing up my pant legs. The big time evergreens, draped in the moody shades of fall, stood proudly against the paved scar that crept slowly upwards to the highway’s summit. I was on my way home.
The rain was torrential and visibility nil by the time I reached the bottom of the highway. I turned on my high beams and moved my face closer to the windshield, all the while wiping away the excess condensation.
Driving into Kamloops around four-thirty and still a solid two hours from Revelstoke, I stopped for gasoline. The rain continued its barrage on what appeared to be a town already turned in for the evening; people gathering, I presumed, to celebrate the miracle of family. Outside the day was remarkably dark, the only light coming from a Safeway across the highway. I felt sad all over.
“Hello?” I said, pushing the door open. There was no response. I heard footsteps. Our eyes met.
“What are you doing here?”
“Flowers,” I said, handing her the bouquet.
“Is everything okay … is your family okay?”
“They’re upset.”
“What happened?”
“I phoned from a pay phone in Kamloops and told them the truth: that there was a friend that I just had to be with.” I smiled at Lucy. “Hi, friend. Oh, by the way, I brought goodies, too.” I faced the grocery bag in her direction. “Take a look … yams, potatoes, brussel sprouts, corn, sour cream, butter and chicken—they were all out of turkey.” I smiled. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Lucy took my hand and hauled me into the kitchen. She put the flowers in a vase and I unpacked the food; everything survived, the butter was of a usable consistency and the chicken, which I had placed by the wheel hub in my trunk, was thawing. Lucy lit two candles on the table, turned out the lights and began pirouetting around the room like a pixie.
“I dance the dance of thankfulness and joy,” she said. My eyes moistened. “Hey! Hang on a second, okay?”
“What for?”
Lucy streaked from the kitchen. Exhausted, I sat down and lay my head on the table, as content as I had been as a child hiking through the woods with Gran. Minutes later the kitchen door swung open and Lucy paraded through in a gorgeous black evening dress, her hair disheveled, her face without makeup, her eyes glistening like pristine dew.
“To Thanksgiving!” she said with a pretend glass in her right hand. “And the surprises it brings!” She let out a whoop, tossed off the glass and ran to me, our eyes as one in the candlelight. And then, as though destined, she pulled my head into her ample breast.
XII
To the sick the doctors wisely recommend a change of air and scenery.
—H. D. Thoreau
That Lucy and I reestablished a sexual relationship was a fact. The respective effects it had on us, however, were markedly different. Lucy was almost immediately dissatisfied—a condition verbally evident. Her most recent outburst took place when in mid-gyration she suddenly stopped moving.
“Get off me,” she said.
“What?”
“Get off me!”
“You’re on top.”
She rolled off. “Get out. I’m bored.”
“What?”
“Bored. This is boring.”
“What is?”
“Screw, boring, fuck, boring, boring! Boring!”
And so on.
I, on the other hand, was so thrilled with our sexual interactions that the hours of my existenc
e outside of lovemaking were as appetizing as a glazed donut breaking out in mold. Incessant phone calls from my parents (most of which I screened) only exacerbated the feeling. It seemed that my fear of telling them I had dropped out of school had been replaced with a fear of facing them since I told them the news. The result was a change in my psychology that left me impotent to any task (other than intercourse) that could result in my being judged. In other words, lying prostrate on the pull-out couch staring at the fig stain on the ceiling lacked any expectations and therefore caused no emotional dysfunction. Washing dishes, however, could paralyse me just by the realisation that I might leave spots. I was so catatonic, I feared a lifetime of failure in excess had shut down my adrenal gland.
As for life around me, or perhaps even despite me, Eric had toppled for a stunning black woman named Nina; full-time teacher, part-time photographer. The relationship, in fact, inspired the behaviour that led to his midnight arrest for tress-passing at the Stanley Park Zoo. Police caught him throwing two large coho salmons into the polar bear pit without permission.
“Why’d you do it?” I asked.
“The subconscious took over, man. Nina’s folks took off for Thanksgiving so Nina and I spent the weekend at their place and fucked like crazy on this polar bear skin rug they had in the rec room. It was unbelievable, man.”
“Wow.”
“Shel, I totally dig her. But every time we finished, I felt guilty as shit.”
“Premarital sex?”
“No, no. The rug. See, it just didn’t seem right screwing on the back of an endangered species—you know, with the Inuit and all that. I thought, ‘What can I do?’ Sort o’ like that thing about you always wantin’ to contribute.”
“Hm.”
“Then I thought of those two beat up old bears at the zoo. Could I free them? No. The arctic’s like three thousand miles north, I don’t have a truck—it’d be dangerous as hell. On the other hand, it’s Thanksgiving, maybe I can buy ’em a little treat … boom, off I go. What happens? Two fish and a pair o’ handcuffs later, I wind up in the joint …”
On a less philanthropic front, Eric’s song “Better Off Brain Dead (In a World Like This)” had at last report been receiving airplay on both a university radio station and an alternative station in the heart of the city. Although I hadn’t strummed on the recording, nor was I still a band member, Eric put together a three song demonstration cassette and asked me to be part of the cover art. So at the beach Nina photographed Eric’s face up close while Bryan and I perched ourselves on a rock and jumped around some fifty feet away. The resulting illusion was two guys dancing on Eric’s head. He entitled the cassette: Void of Paisley: WHEN THE FRIENDS IN YOUR HEAD NEED HELP. Driving back from the beach, I told Eric what had happened between Lucy and myself.
“Bored?” he said, obviously perplexed. “Making love?”
“I believe ‘not moved’ was her exact phrase.”
“Wow,” he said. “I don’t … I … I’ve never … wow …”
It must have been a day or so later, in the midst of pondering the connection between soap operas (which I was watching), masturbation (whose temptation I was fighting), social demise (if you’re not part of the solution …) and depression (my own), that I received a surprise call from the Vancouver Public Library (I had applied for a job there months earlier) offering me work as a part-time library assistant. My inability to decline was taken as acceptance.
My first day of training took place at the downtown branch. I spent eight hours sorting through and stacking a veritable sky-rise of books. The day’s highlight was an opportunity to stamp cards with a new due date. It was hardly medical school. Then again, there were no exams, they were paying me and I had pending bills. Returning home I found on the pull-out couch a note from Eric.
Shel-man: I’ve been thinking about what you told me about you and Lucy Ample. Here it is. Fucking has nothing to do with sex. Get it? Did you know hookers don’t kiss johns? Think about it. Check out the side roads. Check out the cacti. Check out the underground springs. Let me put it this way. You’re always saying that crap about heaven in a wildflower, right? Now think of her wildflower as heaven. If you had the chance, would you kiss heaven? See the world, Shel, or get a life.
Your pal, Eric.
P.S. Fuck you.
P.P.S. Party tonight—be there.
I believe I understood his intent. What was I doing? Had I ever kissed her below the neck? Had I ever rubbed her toes? Lucy Moon has wonderful toes! My god, it was as if I’d been to the Grand Canyon but never left the gift shop.
There was no answer when I knocked on Lucy’s door later that evening. I turned the knob, pushed it open and peeked in. “Hello?” I said to no response. “Lucy?” I said quietly. I popped my head into the front room to see an unkempt looking Lucy sucking on a cigarette. For the first time ever she was watching T.V.; Three’s Company, of all things. She didn’t look up. Smoke blew out her nose. I crept to the couch and kissed her on the cheek. She tapped her cigarette on the ashtray and then leaned back, lifting her bare feet onto the coffee table.
She coughed. “Okay,” she said without looking at me. “Let’s do it.”
I was taken aback. “Sorry?”
“Fuck you! Cut the National Anthem bullshit. Let’s get it on.” Lucy undid her jeans and pulled them and her panties down.
“What are you doing?”
“Okay, Oh Canada,” she said without melody.
“Lucy? What are you—”
“I’m prepped, let’s go!” Lucy put her hands on her knees and pulled her legs apart. Her eyes never left the television.
“What are you doing?”
“Are you an idiot?”
“Lucy, I don’t know what’s brought this on—”
“Look, asshole, just fuck me and go, okay?”
“Lucy—”
“What, are you still jackin’ off about men?”
“I never have.”
“Listen to you, you prissy little cunt.” She picked up her cigarette pack. It was empty. “Why do you talk like Prince Dickhead of Lithuania? Let’s just fuck and get it over with—or haven’t you got what it takes?”
I noticed I was trembling. “Granted,” I said, “I may lack charisma. I may even lack the endowment that suffices you. Nonetheless, I do not deserve this!”
“Admit it. You came here to fuck me.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“Admit it!”
“There’s nothing to admit.”
“If you had your way you’d have me tied to the fuckin’ bed all day long.”
“Hogwash!”
“I ain’t no concubine—can’t you say shit?”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“You want to screw me. Why don’t you be man enough to admit it!”
“Sometimes I do, yes, but not now! And not always. And never like this! For your information, I came here to explore other options.”
“Options?”
“Yes, other erogenous zones.”
“Oh you sexy bastard, I can’t stop coming. Fuck you! What am I? A self-help manual?”
“What is that supposed mean?”
“If you want to experiment, asshole, use your fuckin’ hand.”
“This is so immature.”
“You’re a pig. Just like all the rest.”
“I am about to storm out of this room!”
“Good. Go jack off!”
“Pull up your pants.”
“Fuck you.”
“You know nothing about romance!”
“You want to fuck me all day long! Tra la la.”
“You’re making me angry!”
“Oh no! He’s going to wet his pants!”
“That’s it,” I said. I turned around to leave and then stopped. “You know, Lucy, there’s a lot of unhappiness out in the world today. Crime. Disease. Hatred. We should rejoice in this opportunity we have to be together.”
“Oh god, that�
��s so beautiful. I’m coming again!” She fell back on the couch and moaned.
“Shut up!”
“Oh baby, baby.”
“That’s it. I’m leaving.”
“Good.”
“I mean it.” I left the room.
“You’ll be back,” I heard her yell. “Your dick’ll be back! Back beggin’…”
I drove home dazed, terrified of the years that lay ahead. Despite the hurt, Lucy’s insults had left me aware of my pathological need to be in the throngs of sexual liaisons. Truth was, on any given day at any time I was prepared to be taken. Intercourse, in fact, had occurred to me ten or twelve times driving across the Burrard Street Bridge to her apartment. But, then again, so had cunnilingus and various paths toward spiritual growth. Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop wondering what would happen if not for that mysterious je ne sais quoi that prevents me from acting on every urge. If it wasn’t for social normality and women’s rights, how far would I go? Who wouldn’t I have sex with? When does a rapist become a rapist? When does a murderer become a murderer? Why didn’t I kill Frank? I wanted to. Why didn’t I hire prostitutes? I wanted to. What was keeping it all in? The wrath of God? The fear of prison? Inherent morality? Insufficient funds?
Overwrought with my lack of answers, I opened the door to Eric’s apartment to see through the kitchen a half dozen people on my pull-out couch ingesting varied substances; food, cigarettes, alcohol and so forth. On the floor a few feet in front of me was Eric in the lotus position, wobbling his head. He glanced up.
“Ah … you are the temple,” he said in a Chinese accent. “Fair lady works at shuttles.”
“What?”
“Golden cock stands on one leg.”
“What are you doing?”
“Tai Chi fridge cleanin’. Step back, slowly … repulse monkey.” He handed me a beer, pushed himself up, bowed, staggered to his right and took from the oven what appeared to be brownies. “Kids! Dinner’s ready!” he said in a high cackle. He put the tray on the top of the stove, turned and spun out of the room, yelling to the crowd: “Darling, where the hell’s my squash racket?”
I grabbed his shoulder. “Eric.”
He looked around.
“Can I talk to you?”
Shelby Page 13