by Tim Wynveen
It was one of those voices some women get, like they’ve smoked a million cigarettes and had too many belts of harsh whiskey. She had a mahogany tan, a roly-poly figure and looked to be in her fifties, her hair silver grey and cropped close to her head. She had hoop earrings and jangly bracelets. She wore a Bugs Bunny T-shirt and denim cut-offs that showed an awful lot of varicose vein. Her name, he would find out later, was Peg.
He turned to look at the Impala and then back at her. “My brother is out in the car there. He’s a friend of Gordie Spinks.”
She ran her tongue along the crowns of her teeth, her face full of amusement. “Gordie doesn’t have any friends,” she said. “Not that I know of. But why don’t you come in anyway?”
“Ah, well,” he stammered, “I’m really just here for my brother.”
“Come in, come in. I hate talking on the porch.” She grabbed him by the arm and led him into a small parlour where she indicated he should sit. She crossed the room to a phony fireplace, took a pack of menthol cigarettes from the mantel and lit one up. “So,” she said, after she had blown a column of smoke toward the ceiling, “you were saying your brother’s a friend of Gordie’s. He’s come here for some hospitality?”
“That’s the idea, yeah. But it’d have to be a special deal …”
“Oh, we do special, all right. Special’s our middle name.”
Cyrus couldn’t look at her. She was old enough to be a grandmother. “What I mean is, he’s crippled. I might need some help with him.”
“Oh, this is sounding like more fun all the time.”
“What I’m trying to get at is, it’s probably not your regular thing, and he has this idea of spending the night. What’ll that cost?”
“Well, punkin’, that entirely depends on what your brother wants, but we normally charge a hundred an hour plus extras. I imagine we could give you a special deal, seeing he’s a cripple and all. Three-fifty should take care of it. I don’t imagine he’ll be too demanding. That is, of course, unless you’d like to hear about some of our two-for-one specials.”
Cyrus spent the next few hours slumped inside the Chevy. By four o’clock, he’d seen three taxis pull up and each deposit a different woman, who promptly entered the tidy bungalow. At four-thirty, one of them came out and tapped on the window of his car. “I’m Taffy,” she said in a nasal twang. “Whyncha come in? Peg’s making tea. We don’t bite, you know.”
He was so physically uncomfortable that he accepted the invitation. “That’d be nice,” he said. “Tea would be good.”
He followed her into the house, admiring the garden once again, the wrought iron railing of the porch, the brass mailbox and the Muskoka chairs—anything to avoid looking at her. Inside, he could hear the Supremes, and above that, a woman’s high giddy laughter and Hank’s tuneless tenor.
Taffy led him into a cheery kitchen with a yellow countertop and delicate floral wallpaper. Peg sat at an oak table, working on a crossword puzzle. When she spotted Cyrus, she patted the chair beside her and nodded at Taffy to bring the tea. “This is nicer than sitting outside in your car,” she said. “Look, we even got out the good china.”
Cyrus admired the cup. Royal Albert. He held it out for Taffy to fill.
“Not often we get visitors,” Peg said. “It’s mostly takeout these days.”
“I kinda noticed that,” he said, his eyes focused on his steaming cup.
“And you know, I miss the visitors, the different faces.”
“Oh, me too,” Taffy said, taking the opportunity to sit in the other chair. “It’s like a morgue in here sometimes.”
Hank bellowed along with Junior Walker, and Peg smiled. “Doesn’t seem to me that brother of yours is slowing down any. Sure you don’t want to waste some time yourself?”
“No,” he said, grabbing his cup with both hands. “Really, I’m not interested. Tell you the truth, I’m a little uncomfortable.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I never would have guessed.” To look him in the eyes, she had to lean forward, her chin nearly touching the table. “We’re not monsters, you know.”
He sat up straighter, still unable to meet her gaze. A place like this felt a whole lot different when he wasn’t drunk. At last he said, “I guess I wonder how you can do what you do.”
Peg nodded as if to say that was a fair question. In a matter-of-fact tone, she said, “We do what we have to do to get by, same as everyone. The worst thing is I almost never screw for fun anymore, which is a shame. It kind of loses something when money’s involved. But it’s not so bad. Beats working in a coal mine, you ask me.”
“That’s not what you hear …”
She skated a finger along the rim of her cup. “No question, most working girls got a lousy situation. Pimps, they should all be strung up by their thumbs, as far as I’m concerned. Scum of the earth. But a little business like we got here, just me and the girls, it’s all right.”
“What about Gordie Spinks? I heard he was in charge here.”
She laughed at that, a raspy hack. “Gordie? He’s too busy fiddling with that damn chopper of his to run a respectable business like this. Where’d you ever hear a story like that?”
“My brother heard Gordie talking like he owned the place.”
The two women exchanged a knowing look. Peg said, “This is my place. I run it, I own it, and I treat my girls like family—the one they deserve, not the shitty ones they were born to. Gordie may have his good points, but between you and me, he’s completely useless. And I can afford to say that because I’m his mother.”
That news made him flinch. She touched his arm and said, “I know what happened to your brother. The police were here asking questions. Showed me his picture. That boy of mine is a burden, let me tell you, and has been since the day he was born, but he’d never do something like that.”
They sat for a long while, sipping tea and listening to Motown—Stevie Wonder, The Four Tops, The Jackson 5, The Temptations. In the end Cyrus actually had to knock on the bedroom door and tell Hank it was time to go. While a part of him wanted to see how long it would take his brother to unwind, he also wanted to get back before Izzy was awake. He wasn’t ready for any explanations.
Unfortunately, they got lost on their way out of the city, kept circling the same crazy network of one-way streets. A little before six, Cyrus pulled into a gas station for directions and to drain off some tea. And maybe it wasn’t the same station as twenty-two years ago. Maybe it just looked that way to Hank—the same brand of gas, the same arrangement of the pumps, the same stark white light from overhead, the same greasy little office with the pop machine out front and the cans of oil in the window stacked in a pyramid, the same freckle-faced man without a thing on his mind. Maybe it was imagination or being with Cyrus, all the talking they’d done, maybe it was that, the gradual opening up, but Hank squeezed his eyes shut and would not open them. And when that didn’t work, he pushed his fists against his eyeballs until he saw fireworks.
When Cyrus got back behind the wheel, he smacked Hank on the shoulder. “You’re not getting sleepy, are you?”
“Go,” Hank groaned. “Drive.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Move it, I said. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.” And when Cyrus still didn’t put the Impala in gear, Hank pounded the dashboard and shouted, “Drive the fucking car!”
It wasn’t until they were halfway to Wilbury that Hank lifted his head. Cyrus eyed him carefully. “What was that about?”
“I don’t know. It was nothing.”
“Looked like something to me.”
“It was nothing. A little freaked out is all. It happens.”
Cyrus realized there was no point in saying any more, so he kept his eyes on the road and stepped on the gas. But Isabel was already awake and sitting at the kitchen table when they entered the house.
“I’m not happy about this,” she said, staring at Cyrus.
“We couldn’t sleep. We went for a drive.”
> “Drive, my foot. I know very well what you were up to.” She turned to Hank, arms folded across her chest. “I’m trying so hard, you know. I’m trying to make this all work out and it’s just not fair.” Then she bowed her head, as though she couldn’t stand the sight of them.
Cyrus moved forward and touched her shoulder. “Very innocent, Iz. We were driving, honest. We’ve got ground to cover, me and Hank.”
She lifted her head to look at him. “You’re a lying shit. You think I was born yesterday?” Then she got to her feet and ran to the bedroom. Half an hour later, she left for work without saying another word.
Hank kept a low profile throughout the day, watching TV, sitting outside for a while with a cup of coffee. Cyrus, who managed a quick snooze, was amazed that his brother could keep going this way. Sooner or later he’d have to sleep.
For dinner, Cyrus decided to make Eura’s goulash. Mid-afternoon he went out for groceries and spices, some wine and a few bottles of German beer. Then he phoned Ruby to make sure they were still coming.
He was glad that both his mother and aunt had forced him to do things in the kitchen when he was growing up. He hated it at the time, all that peeling and slicing, but it gave him a real thrill to watch Eura eat his shepherd’s pie and stewed chicken. Even his pasta sauce got a passing grade, which was no mean feat. She cared about food, and he had learned to care, too. In fact, their meals, both the preparation and eating of them, were the happiest part of their life together. He had come to regard cooking as not a whole lot different than music. Once you knew a few of the basics, it was largely a matter of what you put in and what you left out. And if you did it right, you could lift everyone’s spirit.
By five o’clock Izzy still wasn’t home, and Cyrus began to wonder if she would be. He helped Hank clean himself up and get into nice clothes. Then he had a shower, shaved, and dressed in the white collarless shirt and black dress pants Eura had bought for him. He had just finished tidying up and was setting the table in the dining room when Ruby and Clarence arrived, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. They weren’t the only ones who were nervous. Cyrus had hoped to have a few minutes alone with Izzy to break the news about their dinner guests. And when his aunt and uncle realized that Isabel wasn’t around, they got even more nervous. No one seemed capable of even the lamest small talk. Cyrus wondered what would be worse, if his sister came home or if she didn’t.
He got everyone drinks, checked the goulash which, small mercies, smelled delicious. Hank was making an effort to put Clarence and Ruby at ease, and that gesture seemed to be all that was required. Pretty soon the four of them were chatting pleasantly. It was then that the front door slammed, the big vase in the foyer smashed on the marble floor, and Isabel took the name of the Lord in vain.
Cyrus quietly excused himself from the others and attempted to intercept Izzy before she stumbled on the whole scene. The minute he saw her, he covered his mouth. She was drenched with rain, her clothes rumpled and muddy, and she had a huge and obviously heavy cardboard box in her arms, which she was certain to drop any moment.
“Give me that,” he said.
“Be careful,” she snapped. “It’s delicate.”
She handed him the box and hobbled to the closet to take off her coat, which was smeared with grass stains and muck. She dropped it on the floor and kicked it into the corner. Cyrus noticed that one of her spike-heeled shoes was now a sensible flat, causing her to move like someone with a peg leg.
“You wouldn’t believe,” she said. “Some moron is blocking my driveway, in the middle of a monsoon, and I had to park around the corner and carry that damn thing—” She stopped dead when she saw that one corner of the box had been smashed in. “Oh God, don’t do this to me.” And in an angry spasm, she ripped the shoes off her feet and flung them into the closet with all her might.
The whole picture solidified for Cyrus. She had wrestled the package out of the car—the box had to weigh sixty pounds—and somewhere along the way, her heel snapped off, she fell on her side in the mud and smashed the corner of her delicate gift.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he murmured.
“No,” she replied, “it’s broken. Everything’s broken. Everything will always be broken.” And with that she stormed into the bathroom.
Cyrus laid the box on the floor, ran quickly to the den—“She’s a little upset. I’ll talk to her.”—and then ran back to the bathroom. He opened the door a crack and said, “Are you decent?”
“Go away and let me calm down.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“It can wait, Cy. I’m a little stressed right now.”
He edged into the room with his hand over his eyes, then closed the door behind him. “It can’t wait, sis. It’s better, I think, if you do all your calming down at once.”
“Meaning …”
“I invited Ruby and Clarence for dinner. They’re in the den.”
She took a deep breath, let it out, then pulled his hand from his eyes. She was still fully dressed. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “Give me ten minutes. Really, I’m glad they’re here. It’s a nice gesture.” As he turned to leave, she touched his shoulder and said, “Carry that box to my room, will you? I want to surprise the bastard.”
He did what she asked and noticed that she’d bought Hank a synthesizer only slightly less sophisticated than the one Cyrus’s keyboard player used. It had to have cost her two grand at least. If she had asked him for advice he would have told her she was nuts to buy an instrument like that for someone who didn’t know how to play “Chopsticks.” But of course she never asked his opinion.
IT COULD BE IT HAD SOMETHING to do with the showbiz nature of her job, standing in front of people all day doing the same song and dance, but Cyrus was amazed Isabel could breeze into the den like she had never had a tantrum, like Clarence and Ruby were frequent guests at her house and she at theirs, like everything was the way it should be and not the way it was. There she was, all fresh and powdered and expensively dressed, her face beaming with pleasure because it was so good to see them. Really. And supper smelled so good. And wasn’t the table lovely? And look at Hank and Cy—why, they looked almost like gentlemen.
Ruby and Clarence’s act was equally surreal, like they were sitting with the queen, afraid to breathe lest they spoil everything.
After a few minutes of chit-chat, everyone moved to the table, where Cyrus served them goulash in bowls, with little side plates for rye bread and carrot-and-apple salad. And who would have thought such a thing could happen? Not Ruby or Clarence, not Hank or Isabel, not even Cyrus. Before long the combination of food and drink began to loosen tongues and inhibitions. Little by little they became more themselves, not always a good thing, but in this case, maybe.
Cyrus mentioned that he and Hank had driven around town and how disappointing it had been. Oil wells with their industrial stink and blight. Acres of housing where there’d once been open fields. Acres of greenhouse glass, too, as more and more farmers opted for greater control over the elements. A downtown area that was rundown and decrepit because most shoppers flocked to the new mall down by the lake or preferred to drive all the way to Hounslow.
He hadn’t meant to criticize Isabel, but to her ears it sounded that way. Many of his complaints were about deals she’d arranged—the mall, for example, and the Jenner subdivision—but she’d heard it all before. She dabbed at her lips and, in a condescending tone, said, “You can’t stop progress, brother dear. People want new homes. They want to shop where it’s convenient. It’s only human nature.”
Hank sucked at his teeth and said, “They can bulldoze the whole damn town, you ask me. Nothing but bad memories.”
Clarence, who had yet to utter a word at the table, cleared his throat and said, “Funny thing about memories, Hank, is how stubborn they are. Those oilmen already knocked down your house and your dad’s barns. They’ve covered the farm with more metal than a scrapyard so you wouldn’t half recognize it. And I don
’t imagine that’s helped your memories one iota. Or has it?”
Hank nodded at the old man’s wisdom. “You’re right, Clarence.” Tapping his forehead with his index finger, he added, “It’s up here I need to do some bulldozing.”
After dinner Cyrus made coffee and they sat in the den with cake he had bought at the bakery. Soon it was time for gifts.
Ruby and Clarence gave Hank a brown cardigan sweater that was total Perry Como. Hank was a good sport about it. He put it on without comment and did up all the buttons. Cyrus, who had already given Hank his present in Hounslow, had to offer him something at the party, so he handed him the cassette of his demo. “My own stuff,” he said with a shrug. “Hope you like it.” Then Izzy and Cyrus disappeared and came back carrying the synthesizer, which they laid across the arms of Hank’s wheelchair. While he poked stupidly at the buttons, everyone else looked from the keyboard to Isabel, their faces full of questions.
In response she said, “He’s up all night listening to music. I thought, you know, if he loves it that much …”
“Sure,” Clarence said, nodding soberly, “a person has to stay busy.”
Isabel looked at everyone and wanted to scream, because no one got it. It wasn’t about staying busy. And it wasn’t about buying affection or impressing everyone with her generosity. It was about hope—for Hank and, in a way, for all of them. She wouldn’t have been able to say much more than that. It was all pretty vague in her mind. But when she closed her eyes in bed sometimes and gave thanks for the way her life had changed, she often thought about the day Sheldon Demeter rubbed her nose in Gerry’s infidelity, the day she sat in her car and found her strength. And if she could wish one thing for Hank, it was that he would find his strength—the way she had found hers, the way Cyrus, the little prick, had always been strong—and that one day he would reach inside where he felt most empty and find what he most needed.
After everyone had oohed and ahhed over the keyboard, Izzy said, “We’ll let you practise a little before we expect a recital.” Then she and Cyrus carried the synthesizer into Hank’s room.