“Maybe I will have a little belt after all, Hector.”
He went next door and came back with the scotch, a heating pad, and a frozen gel icepack wrapped in a clean towel. He poured me just a sliver, left the bottle on the table. Passed me the towel and ice pack.
“Put the ice on your head. Ten minutes on, ten minutes off.”
“What’s the heating pad for?”
“Your feet. It feels good.”
“You’re not having a drink?”
“You probably need to just rest for a bit. I’ll come by later with some dinner. I’m in the middle of a chapter anyway. Can’t stop now. I’ll be back in two hours.”
I held the towel and ice pack up against my scalp, which felt crispy and hot. Turned the TV on with the remote. I watched about three and a half minutes of the news anchorman talking about an assault on Falujah, then crashed out, on top of the covers.
I woke up in the dark, sweating and heavy headed because I had cranked up the baseboard heater before getting into the tub and forgotten to turn it down. Hector was tapping at the door. I opened it, fanning it back and forth to let some cold air in.
“I don’t know if saunas are recommended for those with a head injury,” he said, offering me up a steaming plastic bag of take-out. “I hope you like lasagna.”
“Lasagna is great.” I held open the handles and looked inside. He had brought me a fork, and napkins, and little salt and pepper packets, too. “Thank you, Hector. Let me give you some cash to cover this.”
He waved his hand. “I won’t hear of it. How does the head feel?”
“I feel okay. Not even much of a headache.”
Hector was still standing in the doorway, smelling like aftershave. He had changed his shirt.
“Come on in, I’m sorry. Have you eaten?”
“I’m actually going out to meet a friend. I’ll call you later, though, and make sure you don’t need anything.”
I watched him through my fogged-up window, twirling his key ring around and catching it in his palm as he crossed the parking lot and climbed into his truck. Watched his tail lights turn onto the ramp that led to the highway. He looked kind of spiffed up. Like maybe the old guy had himself a date.
The phone rang. It was Ally. I gave her the same line as I gave Hector, and promised I’d call her in the morning.
I sat down on the straight back chair. My eyes caught the edge of the cello case in the mirror behind the TV. It had been leaned up against the closet door for two days, untouched. I took it out, pulled the stringed instrument manual out of my bag. The lowest string sounded odd when I plunked it, and I fiddled with the peg that tightened and untightened the string, experimenting with how it changed the sound. Dug around in my brain for what little I had absorbed about music in band class in grades nine and ten. Mostly I had just fucked around with Jimmy Baker, the other trumpet player, and Owen Price on trombone, emptying our spit valves on the girls who were trying to play the flute on the riser below us.
You can only play one note at a time on the trumpet, but you could play up to four at one time on the cello. I knew I had to tune the strings, but I needed something to tune them to. The manual suggested a piano, or a tuning fork, or a pitch pipe. I dug around in the bureau drawer for the phone book to look up music stores. So far I hadn’t accomplished any of the things I had come to Calgary for: no cello teacher, no cowboy’s wife. I was even still driving around with Ally’s stuff in the box of my truck. That wasn’t like me.
Again there was a knock on the door. It was Kelly, in jeans and white boots, a baby blue jean jacket. She was holding a clear glass bowl full of green Jell-o cut into squares, with a dab of half-melted whipped cream on top.
“Hey, you. Hector told me you bashed your own head in. I brought you some dessert, leftover from me and Raylene’s dinner. Hey, I didn’t know you could play anything.”
She pushed past me into the room, bringing with her a cloud of hairspray. She whipped the Saran Wrap off the bowl and pulled a teaspoon out of her back pocket. “Eat up. I need the bowl back for cereal tomorrow.”
Of course I couldn’t tell her I hated anything flavoured green: Life Savers, Kool-Aid, key lime pie. Always had. I sat down and dutifully spooned Jell-o cubes into my mouth, even though I hadn’t even touched the lasagna yet.
She watched me eat every last bit, then took the bowl and rinsed it in the sink. Put it on the bureau by the door, with the spoon in it. Then she leaned toward me.
“So let me see the wound.”
I bent down and let her have a look.
“Gross. It doesn’t even look real. Looks like a makeup job. Weird. Wanna play me something?”
“I really just got the thing. Just learning. All I can play is the first ten notes or so, from ‘I Found My Thrill on Blueberry Hill.’”
“My grandpa used to totally love that song.”
Maybe she wasn’t even twenty yet.
“How old are you, Kelly?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. Just making conversation.”
“Twenty-one. You?”
“Just turned forty in June.”
“You look a lot younger. You still have all your hair and stuff.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Anyways, I just thought I’d bring you over some dessert, and also, I kind of have a favour to ask you. You totally don’t have to say yes or anything, but I just thought I’d ask if you would mind watching Raylene for me tomorrow night. I have my dog grooming class on Fridays, and my friend from work who usually takes her has to go to Canmore because her dad got a hernia operation and can’t cook or anything. It’s only for three hours, and Raylene’ll probably sleep most of the time. She’s hardly any trouble at all, especially if she doesn’t know you. It would be a really big favour. I’ll cook you dinner on Sunday cuz that’s my day off, if you’re still gonna be here.”
“I’ll be happy to watch her for a bit, if that’s okay by her.”
“She’ll be fine, I promise. It’s my teacher who’s giving us the puppy, so Raylene is cool with me going to school. She’s into it. I told her she could come to work with me one day, when I’m working with all the animals. She loves animals. Tony was allergic to everything. Only ever let her have goldfish.”
“What time is your class?”
“Seven-thirty. Thanks so much, Joey. I knew you were a nice guy. Remember, I said I could always tell. I’d ask Hector, but Raylene says his eyebrows are creepy. Kids are harsh sometimes. She doesn’t know too many older men, and I think Hector reminds her of Tony’s dad. He was a drunk, and used to take out his false teeth and chase her around with them. Thought it was funny. Then he had a stroke and drooled when he talked. Freaked her out, I think. ”
“Bring her by. I’ll make sure I’m home by around seven then?”
“Can it be closer to six-thirty? I have to take the bus to my class.”
“I’ll be here.”
“You rock. Do you like pork chops with mushroom sauce? It’s me and Raylene’s favourite. I always make it on Sundays.”
“I love pork chops.”
“Cool. I’ll let you get back to your music then.”
“I was just going to put it away. It’s getting kind of late.”
“Nobody can hear you on this side, except maybe the old gin lady, and she’s probably passed right out by now. Hector’s not home. He had a big date.” She winked.
“I thought he looked dressed up. I’ll have to get the scoop from him tomorrow.”
Kelly looked at me. “I doubt he’d tell you much about that.”
“Why not? He’s a pretty talkative type. He’s a writer, they like to tell stories, don’t they?”
“Just about other people. That’s why he always asks so many questions. He’s going to put everyone in his book. He even told me so once. Anyhoo, I should get back. I’ll talk to you tomorrow? Thanks again, Joey.”
“Thanks for the Jell-o.”
She picked u
p the bowl and pulled the door shut behind her, clicking it softly. She left a waft of hairspray lingering, and something cinnamon, smelled like gum, or maybe it was lip gloss.
I fooled around on the cello some more after Kelly left, liking the way the strings whistled under the callouses that were beginning to bud on the tips of my fingers. I had the TV on real low in the background, one of those Bollywood-type movies was on, where the rich young bachelor wants to marry the beautiful maiden from a lower caste, but her father threatens to kill her if she marries him, and castrate him and all of his brothers and nephews, meanwhile every ten minutes or so everybody breaks out in a killer musical number. I sat with my butt cheeks right on the edge of the mattress and just scronked along with the music.
I still didn’t really know how to properly tune the thing, and I have no idea how it must have sounded from the other side of the wall, in Hector’s empty room next door, but I had a good time. I learned to cradle the cello with the inside of one leg, giving myself something to lean into as I drew the bow across the strings. I liked how it felt in my body when I managed to get a string to sound, resonant and clear. I could feel it humming in my tailbone, straight up through my back and arms. At eleven o’clock on the nose, I wiped the cello down with the soft rag, carefully laid her inside her case, and stowed her back in the closet.
I knew I should have felt tired after the day I had, but I couldn’t even make myself lay down yet. Every time I stopped moving, my brain started turning so fast it made the stitches in my head itch. I put a sweater and coat on, patted my pockets for my lighter and smokes, and headed out for a little walk.
Hector’s truck was back already, the cab dark behind the fogged-up windshield. I guessed his date hadn’t gone too well.
I found a little footpath on the other side of the ditch alongside the entrance ramp onto the highway, right next to the tree line. It felt good to stretch my legs, and the chill wind stung my nostrils and cooled the burn gathering in the hair follicles surrounding the gash in my scalp.
The path led me alongside the highway for a while, and then through a scruffy field tufted with Safeway bags caught in bare willow branches, broken beer bottles, and an upturned shopping cart missing two wheels. I could smell wood smoke, and underneath that, the tang of car exhaust. The far end of the field sloped down towards the Bow River, and I walked along through the frosted bull rushes and horsetails under an arching steel bridge painted red.
“Buddy, you wouldn’t spare a cigarette, would you?” The voice jolted me out of my thoughts, and I nearly jumped when I first heard it. It belonged to a small man whose face was almost buried in his beard, which was shot through with silvery whiskers stained bronze with nicotine.
This town was hard on a full pack of cigarettes. I opened my pack, pulled back the tin foil from the second half. Shook out two smokes into my other hand.
“Thanks, man.” He stood up from the spot of dry gravel he had been sitting on, way up under the eaves of the bridge. It was quieter under here than I would have thought, the cars wheels clicked and thrummed over our heads, but they sounded much further away than they actually were. He had a small fire burning, and there was a ratty grey wool blanket at his feet. When he reached his hand out to retrieve the smokes from mine, I could see there had been letters once, a word, tattooed on the backs of the first knuckle of each finger, but the ink had spread and blurred into fat blue stick figures.
“Like a swig of wine?”
I shook my head.
He shrugged, flipping one cigarette up between his teeth and stashing the other in his pocket. “Suit yourself.” He pulled out an ancient silver lighter and lit his cigarette, then leaned over to block the wind and light mine.
“Cold night,” I said.
“Cold, but dry. You can stay warm if you can stay dry.” I nodded, since this was true.
“You looking for a little action then?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Looking to hook up? There was a fella came through earlier, I see him around down here couple nights a week, wears a red down jacket.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. I’m not looking for drugs, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The guy laughed, which set off a volley of deep coughs, all the way up from his chest. “Buddy, you’re in the wrong part of town if drugs are what you’re after.”
“I’m just out for a walk.”
“Sure, out for a walk. Whatever you want to call it. I don’t care. I was just making conversation, my friend, I don’t care what you do with your spare time. Each to their own, is what I say.”
He shrugged and returned to his little campfire, arranging the blanket around himself before he sat down again.
I turned and headed back the way I came. It wasn’t until I was halfway back across the field, the neon sign in the Capri’s parking lot glowing on my horizon, that it dawned on me what the old guy was talking about.
I thought about guys, strangers, meeting each other under some bridge, out in the cold and the open, and I tried to line it up in my head with Ally and Kathleen, their artist’s loft and their stainless steel appliances.
Maybe it was that men were just men, no matter what side of the slice of bread they buttered, and that things were different all around for women when it came right down to the sex thing, gay or not.
Not like I would really know, though, since the only lesbian I knew very well was my ex-wife. There was that postie from Regina that we had for a while at the shop, but it’s not like we ever asked her about it or even knew for sure, it was mostly speculation on Franco’s part. Said it was about her footwear, and that you could usually tell if you knew what you were looking for, but then Franco says a lot of things.
I told Franco once that I only listened to him about half the time he was yammering on because only twenty percent of what he said was anywhere close to the truth. He thought a bit before answering me, his eyes twinkling, and said that even if only twenty percent of what he said was indeed true, and he maintained his percentage was a lot higher than that, but even at my estimated twenty percent, he was still right more than I was, because I hardly ever fucking said anything at all.
It was a little past midnight by the time I got back to the motel, and the temperature had dropped below zero, I could tell because the parking lot was shiny with frozen dew. I sat down on the little turquoise bench and lit my last smoke of the night. I felt like I could sleep now, after the fresh air.
The cold air made the smoke from my cigarette taste more bitter than usual in the back of my throat, making me feel like puking. As I leaned over and stubbed my smoke out on the frosty cement, the door to Hector’s room opened just a few inches.
I saw a cowboy boot first, then a long-bodied guy wearing jeans and a baseball cap slid out, closing the door behind him. He turned quickly, not seeing me sitting right behind him on the bench, and we almost ran into each other right in front of my door. He sucked in a breath and stood back, like I’d scared him.
“Sorry, dude, didn’t see you.” He quickly nodded, then hustled across the parking lot. A cab pulled up just as he got to the little bedding area full of bark mulch and bare shrubs next to the road. He leaped over the mulch, then the ditch, and opened the cab door. The interior light lit up his face for a minute, clean-shaven, with a thumb-push of a dimple in his chin. He slammed the door shut, then the cab’s tail lights disappeared into the dark of the highway on-ramp.
I went inside my room, threw my coat and sweater over the back of the chair, folded my pants and shirt over the arm, and crawled under the covers. I don’t remember if I had time to think one single thought before sleep took over.
The next morning the ache in my head was gone, and the only thing my stitches did was itch. My hair felt unwashed already, so to make up for it I had another really hot bath, and shaved meticulously while I soaked. I didn’t get out until the skin on the bottoms of my toes began to pucker.
I sat for a while in the chair in my underwe
ar, the phone on my lap, the pink note from the emergency room doctor in my hand.
Panic attacks. A phone number for a shrink. A motel room to keep my cello in. I didn’t recognize my own life. How could this be a day in the life of me?
I called my mom promptly on the stroke of ten, because it was a Friday, and I knew she’d be downtown at Cutters Hair Salon, in the chair closest to the window, getting her hair done by Louise Strickland. Louise didn’t have a female customer under the age of sixty, or a male one over the age of ten. She was a grandma and grandson specialist. She did flattops and brush cuts and permanents and sets, that was her established and firm repertoire. Louise was what my mom and the bingo set called a spinster, never had any children of her own. It was rumoured that she bore a lifelong disdain for little girls, having been the oldest of five sisters, and the only one to have never wed. My mom and pretty much all the old guard Drumheller gals had always got their hair done by Louise, for the last twenty years or so, anyways, after Louise’s dad passed and she found out there was three mortgages on the house they lived in together, all her sisters having married and moved out, and Louise had to go to Edmonton to hairdressing school to keep the roof over her head, and not lose the house her family had lived in since they first found coal in Alberta.
“You have reached the home of Ruth Cooper. Please do leave me a message and I will return your call as soon as possible. Have a lovely day.”
“Hi, Mom. Just calling to let you know I feel fine today, my head is fine, but I’m still going to the doctor, just to get everything checked out. Say hi to Buck Buck for me.” I replaced the receiver back on its cradle, balancing it on my knees. My mom still had an old answering machine, no voice mail. I could see Buck Buck circling and whining in the house, confused because he could hear my voice echoing in the empty kitchen.
I took a huge breath, picked up the phone again, and called the doctor.
“Dr Witherspoon’s office.” The voice was male, which for some reason I hadn’t been expecting.
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