“Look, Shel, go to bed. You’re acting like an idiot. I’ll see you when I can …”
Eric was late arriving the next morning, and to make matters worse, on Mom’s insistence he came in for coffee. I was livid. It was gone ten before we left Revelstoke. The roads were atrocious from the outset. Just outside of Salmon Arm, Eric’s convertible roof top blew off backwards and crashed against the back end of the car—a problem remedied on the highway shoulder with duct tape and a couple of guitar strings as eighteen-wheelers squealed by, compounding an already mortifying wind chill factor.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” I cried, clutching my wrist and stepping back into the car.
“I could fix anything, man. MacGyver don’t know shit.”
“My lip. My hip. Frostbite. Lucy’s going to think I’ve just returned from war.”
“Christmas with the family,” Eric said, “same thing.”
We laughed. There was a pause. “Between you and me, Eric, I feel an incredible urge to nest.”
Eric glanced at me queerly. “What?”
“To nest.”
“What do you mean nest?”
“Nest. Build a common dwelling. Create progeny. Surely you and Nina have discussed it?”
“The word nest has never come up.”
“You two don’t get along well enough?”
“We get along great—well … the pill.”
“What pill?”
“Birth control. They were making her sprout the ol’ third eye. So she stopped poppin’ ’em and started using a cervical cap instead.”
“So she’s better now?”
“Depends on how you look at it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ever seen a cervical cap?”
“No.”
“Let me tell you, man. It looks like a rubber flower pot only it’s the size of a contact lens and it’s all that floats between havin’ sex and havin’ Junior.”
“That wouldn’t bother me,” I said.
“Are you nuts?”
“Eric, I yearn to commit. With Lucy. With life. With a call to call my own.”
Eric glanced over and shrugged. “It’s got nothin’ to do with committment, man. I don’t want kids, that’s all.”
“Ever?”
“It’s big-time bazooey out there, man. If the environmentalists are right, we’re toast. If the religious nuts are right, we’re toast. If nobody’s right, then we’ve really had it.”
“Would you marry Nina?”
“Why?”
“Just picture it! The big gown, her dark skin against the white—she’d look beautiful.”
“Marriage don’t mean shit.”
“It can lead us back to the garden.”
Eric laughed. “A society so out-there, man, that it can’t stop a woman from feelin’ she has to walk around at night with a rocket launcher hidden in her pants to feel at ease ain’t gonna be asked to sanctify my love.”
“Good Lord! It seems even you have been duped into believing that walking on the flip-side of corporate America is a sign of rebellion.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you see? The prodigal son always returns! What matters, then, is to what? To not understand what marriage is truly about is to fall victim to society’s lack of spirit. See the light, friend, I implore you!”
“Why don’t you get into Lou Reed or something?” Eric cracked his hand on the steering wheel. “Hang on … I get it now.”
“You do?”
“Lucy wants a rock on her hand, doesn’t she?”
“Pardon?”
“I thought she was frigid?”
“Celibate!—and I refuse to be coerced into discussing her sexual idiosyncrasies. Suffice to say, Eric, three nights ago we were one flesh and she craved me as no woman ever has.”
Eric bellowed out a laugh. “She craved you?”
“I bet you don’t even know what tantric sex is.”
“And she wants to marry you?”
“I never said that!”
“But does she?”
“I don’t know.”
“What the hell’s goin’ on with you two?”
“I … I don’t know. But we’re compatible on many levels. My next few moves could prove crucial.”
“Meaning?”
“I love her completely, Eric … and I feel she may be on the verge of absolute surrender.”
“Really?”
“My instincts have been wrong before.”
“What if they’re not?”
“To tell you the truth … I see no limits.”
It was dark and just before five P.M. when Eric dropped me at Lucy’s apartment. From the sidewalk I could see a light was on in her front room window. It was raining and the curtains were closed and although she had told me she would most likely not be home when I arrived back, I hoped she would be. I knocked on the door twice. There was no response. I left a note in her mailbox telling her to call me whenever she arrived. That done, I took the key from under my car seat, drove home and waited. No call came.
Unable to sleep I started doing push-ups to tire myself, but wound up reinjuring an old shoulder wound on two-and-a-half. All physiological complications aside, the reason for my insomnia was indisputable: My head screamed to expose myself to Lucy to the point of disintegrating all preconceived notions of who and what I was. For what was I? I didn’t know, and therefore not what I thought I was. One thing was evident, I had transcended material needs to where my requirements were barely more than sustenance, lodging, collaborating bowels, several books and Lucy within striking distance.
Awakened by a 7 A.M. phone call from the personnel department at the Vancouver Public Library, I was asked to work at circulation from 9:30 to 6:00 for the next three days. In a fatigue-riddled, eye-burning stupor, I agreed, fell back into deep slumber, and woke up in a panic at ten to nine.
Lucy wasn’t home when I called on my coffee break at ten. A quick calculation told me she’d been gone the entire eighteen hours since I’d returned from Revelstoke. Coupling that with both her having danced her last dance and an admittance of affection for me, I could understand why she might need time to herself. Nonetheless, shouldn’t she have called just to say so? Surely I warranted such courtesy. And how far could she walk?
With no success getting hold of Lucy on either my lunch or afternoon coffee break, I was truly concerned. I called Eric to inform him of the situation and to tell him I’d in all likelihood be late for rehearsal—if there at all. After work I called again, to no reply. Our time without verbal contact was approaching twenty-four hours. Visions of foul play, smelly dumpsters and back-alleys ravaged my mind. I telephoned 911 to report a missing person and hung up at the last second, instead dashing to my car and heading to Lucy’s apartment for clues.
A traffic accident and heavy rain on the bridge increased my trip time sevenfold from the usual six minutes. Finally arriving, I immediately noticed that, like the previous day, the front room light was on. Whether or not that was a positive sign remained unclear. Stepping out of the car, my feet were drenched from the flooded floor panel, my heart was pounding and my armpits were pungent. All that and my hip notwithstanding, I triple-stepped it up the stairs and clanged the door with closed fist. There was no answer. Resisting the urge to break in, I hoisted myself up on the porch railing, reached out to the window, lost my footing and tumbled into a soaked juniper bush. Clambering back up to the railing I tried to yank myself over, tearing my shirt in the process. Hanging there, I recalled the note I’d left in her mailbox when I’d first arrived back. If the note was gone, she was still alive. I let go of the railing, fell to the ground and hobbled back up around the stairs—hip reagitated—one at a time. I lifted up the lid. The box was empty. She’d been home.
“Listen up, ass-picker,” I heard Bryan yell from a few feet outside the rehearsal space, “you told me you’d give me forty bucks for the gig—twenty now and twenty tomorrow. Now
you’re tellin’ me you ain’t got it.” I peeked around the door. Bryan and Eric were in opposite corners of the room, Eric nervously tuning his bass.
“Come on, man,” Eric said, “you know I’m good for it.”
“I don’t know dick. All I know is if you don’t pay, I don’t play.”
“Hi, guys,” I said. They turned to me.
“Well, if it isn’t Shitby,” Bryan said, before turning back to Eric. “I guess you already paid your scrawny little bum-hole-buddy his forty, eh?” he said.
“Shut up, you fat fuck!” Eric blurted.
“That’s it, I ain’t playin’!”
Eric rolled his eyes. “Actually, Bryan, Shelby’s offered to do the gig for a split of the gate.”
“Well that’s him and this is me,” Bryan said as he lifted his huge leg and farted. “A cut o’ the gate? A cut o’ dick-all, that’s what that’ll be. Cough up or I’m AWOL.”
Eric shook his head in frustration and turned to me. “Did you find Lucy?”
“No, but I have reason to believe she’s all right.”
“Did you hear what I said?” Bryan yelled. “AWOL!”
“Look, man, I said I’d pay you, didn’t I? I just don’t have the funds right now.” Bryan reached down, hoisted up his bass drum and walked towards the door.
Eric glanced at me. I shrugged. “Hang on,” Eric said. Bryan turned around. Eric looked at me again. “Can you lend me a twenty spot, man?”
I put my guitar down. “I’ve only got …” I removed my wallet from my breast pocket and flicked through it.”… eight dollars, I’ve got eight dollars.”
Eric looked at Bryan and raised his eyebrows. “That’s a start, eh? Eight bucks should at least get us talking.”
“This is bullshit,” Bryan said, “but because we’re friends, I’ll play for ten today if you pay me the thirty tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Make it thirty-five. And I want the ten right now.”
Eric reached into his black canvas bag and sifted through it. “Look,” he said, “I got a buck and a quarter … wait, a buck forty-one, two … a buck forty-three. Plus the eight bucks from Shel. Nine forty-three and I’ll pay you the rest tomorrow. How ’bout it, man?”
“All right,” Bryan said. I transferred the eight dollars to Eric.
“You’re a saint,” he said, funnelling that and his change into Bryan’s stubby hands.
Bryan shoved it into his front pocket and picked up his bass drum. “It’s business,” he said.
“What is,” Eric asked, “bein’ a dick-face?” Bryan turned round and glared at Eric, towering over him by probably three inches and a hundred pounds. Eric didn’t flinch. No words were spoken. The stare broke. We set up.
By midnight we had flushed out four of the ten songs. Eric was hoarse, Bryan’s flatulence knew no bounds and I was desperate to see Lucy.
From a pay phone I called Lucy and got a busy signal. It was the closest we’d come to contact since my return. Relieved, I drove home. As it turned out, Lucy had left a message on Eric’s answering machine. It was as follows:
“Hi, Shel … This is Lucy. I really have to talk to you … Come by when you can. Anytime. Don’t bother calling, I’m not answering. Thanks.” I phoned. There was no answer. I drove right over.
Seeing Lucy when she opened the door split my heart as would a radial arm saw; her hair was in disarray, her eyes were weary and hollow and her skin pallid. We stood gazing at each other like confused war children.
“Hi, Shel,” she said, voice quivering.
“Oh Lucy,” I said, “I’ve been dying to see you—to talk to you.”
“I quit,” she said.
I smiled. “I know you did. You told me.”
“I quit,” she said again.
“I know.”
“I told you I would.”
“I know you did.” I reached out to bring her into my arms. She flinched and pulled away.
“What … what are you doing?”
“I … I’ve got some news.”
I reached out a second time.
“No!” she cried.
“What?”
She crossed her arms around herself. “I’m going away,” she said.
“On the road?”
“No.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, Shel. Forever. And the last couple of days I—since Christmas Eve … I … I’m going to Seattle tomorrow and I’ll see Marj and then … then I’m going to go to Bingen and after that I-”
“Bingen? What are you talking about.”
“I’m going away.”
“For how long?”
“Forever.”
“What?”
“I’m going away.”
“What … forever … Bingen?”
“It’s … uh … a town in Germany—on the Rhine … where all the mystics came from. I’m going to walk where the mystics have walked, Shel. Eckhart. Mechtild. Hildegard … she’s the one from Bingen. People that lived by their conscience doing whatever they had to do no matter what the consequences. Brave, brave people, Shel. That’s what I’m going to do …”
“I … I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m going away.”
“But Lucy I … look …” I pulled a piece of paper from my breast pocket. ‘“If ever any beauty I did see, ’twas but a dream of thee’! Thee, Lucy. That’s you!”
“I’m sorry, Shel.”
“But we … I … why?”
“I’m sorry, Shel. I … I know it must seem kind of sudden—”
“Sudden?”
“You’re right,” she said, “it is sudden. But I can’t tell you how freeing it feels. Fuck off job! Fuck off pain! Fuck everything that ever stopped me from feeling good!”
“Lucy … you’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m going.”
“You’re staying!” I cried out.
“I can’t, Shel.”
“You have to.”
“I have to go.”
“But our love, Lucy … it’s … it’s … Dammit, I can’t think. I had so much to … what was I going to say?”
“This is what I have to do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve put too much pressure on you, haven’t I?”
“Shel, you’ve been wonderful—”
“Okay, no marriage—but a committed relationship …”
“Shel—”
“Okay, no relationship, nothing … just—”
“I can’t stay, Shel.”
“Please …”
Lucy stepped forward and put her arms around me. “Come on,” she said softly, leading me. I froze in mid-step.
“There’s … where’s …” We both stared into the empty front room.
“Packed,” she said.
“When did … why didn’t you … oh God.”
“It just happened, Shel. When I phoned and told you I quit … well, afterwards I couldn’t sleep. I just lay on the floor hyperventilating. I thought I was going to die—that’s just like you, isn’t it?” She smiled. “I went out walking … it was about five in the morning and I walked and walked and walked and at eight o’clock I was standing outside a travel agent office, standing there … By nine-thirty I had a one way ticket to Frankfurt and by ten I was home packing.”
My eyes skirted around the room; no books, no candles, no old green chair, no couch, one box in the centre.
“I saved some things for you,” she said pointing at the box, “the rest went into storage. I told my agent that if I don’t get in touch with her in the next six months, she can sell it all and keep a cut—fifty percent.” Lucy smiled. “I gave her your number for the other fifty.”
Staggering into the bedroom together, dazed, dumbfounded, Lucy clicked the light. Her telephone and quilt were all th
at remained, save her suitcase. “There’s nothing here, either.”
“I know,” she said.
“No bed.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She unzipped her suitcase and took out two sweaters, laying them side by side on the floor. “Pillows,” she said softly, almost to herself. She stood up and looked at me as though too fatigued to smile or cry. She turned out the light. Our hands touched and together we crumpled to the floor and into each others arms. Pulling the quilt over us, she buried herself into me, her face resting on my upper chest like a captured wild animal finally giving in to undeniable exhaustion; her legs and arms like adjustable clamps around my body, holding on like a parachuter fearful of jumping. I was in shock.
I woke up in the night to the hum of life and Lucy’s breathing. I was sweaty and my left arm and leg were numb, crushed between Lucy and the hardwood floor. An attempt to stretch was met with resistance; Lucy gripping on like a child afraid of darkness, afraid of dying, afraid of disappearing—or maybe that was me. Outside was darkness. Gently I pulled away, flexing until circulation recurred. I caressed the side of her face with my hand, then her hair, and pictured this madwoman, my lover, strolling along the Rhine river, draped in rags, flowers in matted hair, chanting Gregorian hymns from the Middle Ages. Suddenly she started to breathe very rapidly. I lowered my lips like rose petals upon her cheek, slowing down her panic without waking her up. That was all I knew. I closed my eyes, dreaming of love—for me, for Lucy—coasting over us like the night.
We woke up simultaneously, before us the soft, hopeful glow of morning. Neither of us moved. We just looked. Lucy put her hand on the back of my head and pulled me in close until our noses touched. She kissed me and smiled, her breath warm. I leaned my cheek on hers and closed my eyes.
“Hello,” I whispered.
She placed her hand softly on my cheek and left it there, saying nothing.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” I asked.
I felt her nod. We lay awhile longer. I opened my eyes.
“How are you getting to Seattle?”
“I’m flying,” she said softly.
“What time?”
“Three-thirty.”
I phoned the library and left a message on the personnel answering machine saying I wouldn’t be in because of a family emergency.
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