by Kyp Harness
“Oh, break up a home,” Mona scoffs whimsically. “Sounds to me like there wasn’t much of a home to break up in the first place.”
“Well, whatever,” says Bess Armstrong, waving her hand. “All’s I know is ever since then ol’ Bob McMurphy’s been in O’Toole’s practically every night closin’ the place down, moanin’ to everyone who’ll listen about losing Flo and how much he loves her, and everything else.”
“A little too late for that now, I think,” Mona observes, looking abstractedly across the couch beside her to Martha Simmons, who sits quietly knitting, her white-haired head bowed intently to the task. Mona smiles at Martha’s absorbed face in profile. “What do you think, Martha?” she asks her sister-in-law after a moment.
Martha looks up suddenly, turning with some surprise. “What?” she asks, her tired eyes blinking behind her spectacles. “I’m sorry,” she says, chuckling along with Mona’s laughter and looking back to her handiwork. “I guess I wasn’t listening, I was so caught up in this.”
“Is Nia going to be coming tonight?” Mona asks, gazing at her fondly.
“Well yes, she’s supposed to be, but whether they’ve been held up on the highway or not, I’m not sure,” says Martha, her eyes narrowing as she stares down with some concern at her knitting. “That fellow Webb, her new beau, is supposed to be bringing her.”
“Oh yes, he came with her to Judy’s wedding, didn’t he?” Mona remarks.
“Mm-hm,” Martha murmurs, considering a problem in her knitting, then working at it anew, her fingers moving dexterously with the needles. “Er, yes,” she says, knitting, turning to Mona briefly. “She did.”
Come All Ye Young Lovers (II)
Webb and Nia drive down the darkened country road—Webb a young gentleman of thirty-four years of age, balding in the area of the forehead, spidery strands of his dark hair stretching forth in an ineffectual attempt to make up for it. For similar purposes, a wiry black beard covers his jawline, chin and mouth. His tiny eyes blink behind thick, silver-framed spectacles.
Nia, a slender petite young woman at his side, has short golden hair. She’s dressed in a sweater and blue jeans and sits staring silently at the road before her, elfin features as blank as an empty sheet of paper.
Webb looks over to this face with increasing frequency, stealing uneasy glances, his eyes darting from the road to her profile; he’s concerned that they haven’t exchanged words for the past fifteen minutes. With each successive moment of silence, his distress increases: he casts about in his mind for a phrase to unlock the stalemate, and biting his lip worriedly, he succumbs, reaching down to turn the radio on, calling forth its static and murmur to fill the car.
Nia sighs and after a moment, still considering the road, she asks, “Why’d you turn on the radio?”
He looks at her blankly then reaches down to adjust the tuner. “I just wanted to check the hockey scores,” he says quickly. “Last night’s game.”
“Hm,” she says. “I didn’t know you were so deeply into hockey.”
“I’m… not,” he stutters nervously, looking over at her quickly as he fiddles with the tuner knob. “It’s just that the guys at the office have a pool going, and I made a bet.”
“I see,” she says, turning and smiling at him, taking in his fretful expression, his frowning mouth half-hidden beneath his black muff of a beard. “I thought maybe you just turned on the radio because we haven’t had anything much to say to each other for the last forty-five minutes,” she observes.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “No!” he laughs. “I don’t know why you’d think that. I just wanted to get the score,” he says, finally getting the news on the radio. After several moments the sports comes on. Nia watches with amusement as Webb listens intently, his face a mask of studious absorption. “All right,” he says, nodding his head once quickly, reaching down to turn the radio off.
“Did you get the information you needed?” she asks him.
“Yes, I did,” he replies.
“Well?”
“Well what?” he asks, somewhat testily.
“Well, did you win or lose?” she asks, her eyes flashing with mischief.
“Oh—lost,” he says, shrugging, watching the road with grim stoicism.
“That’s the way it goes, I guess, eh?” she remarks, smiling.
“Yep,” he says and nods. And in an attempt at nonchalance, he begins to make a clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
She erupts in a sudden burst of laughter and reaches over to pull playfully at his beard. “When you gonna shave this thing off, huh?” she asks, giggling.
He begins to visibly redden all around the area of his cheeks and across his sizable forehead where his hairline recedes and gives way to the feeble sparseness of the thin hairs clinging for dear life. He purses his lips, then smiles in spite of himself. “Hey, look out, I’m trying to drive here, okay?” he says, his voice wavering.
She tugs on his beard again, then moves her tiny hand over to massage the back of his neck: he squirms beneath her cool fingers in a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. “Oh, is that right?” she asks. “Is Mr. Serious trying to drive right now?”
He coughs, furrowing his brow. “So… who’s gonna be at this thing, anyhow?”
She takes her hand off his neck, reclining her petite body and resting her foot on the dashboard, sighing, “All the usuals.” She looks listlessly out the side window. “A lot of the same ones that were at Judy’s wedding.”
“Hm,” he says. He cranes his neck and looks over his shoulder, turning from the paved road onto a bumpy gravel road. “Will Raymond be there?” he asks, glancing at her sideways with a touch of apprehension.
“Oh, probably,” Nia says then turns and looks at him cunningly. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“Who?”
“Raymond,” she laughs, rolling her eyes. “After what happened at the wedding.”
He squints at the road, compressing his mouth. “What happened at the wedding?” he asks.
“Oh, okay,” she says, staring out the window. “All right.”
Webb frowns, biting his lower lip. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel and exhales a long exasperated breath.
“I don’t know why you say I don’t like him,” he blurts out irritatedly. “He was just there at the wedding and I…”
“You’re going to miss the turnoff!” Nia announces, straightening up in her seat and pointing. “It’s this road here!”
The car is clumsily brought to a sudden halt, Webb twisting around in his seat to back it up. They turn off onto the road, the car bumping and jiggling up and down on its shocks over the rough gravel. “Jesus, what a rough road!” Webb exclaims. Nia giggles and indicates the farm a distance down the road, the house all lit up with golden light in every window and an assemblage of cars parked helter-skelter all over the front lawn.
“Sure a lot of people here,” Webb notes as they pull in the laneway.
“Yeah,” says Nia distractedly as they ease down the long drive, the dogs suddenly appearing out of the darkness to yelp and run around the car.
“What’s with these dogs?” Webb notes, squinting out the window at them in puzzlement.
“Why don’t you just drop me off at the door, here,” Nia suggests, “and park the car?”
He looks at her questioningly as he stops the car and she opens the door, jumping out. “Where should I park?” he calls after her.
“Anywhere!” she laughs back over her shoulder as she slips out into the cooling summer night. “Then come on in!”
Webb sits in the car and watches her slide across the lawn and onto the porch of the house, sees the screen door open and friendly arms reach out to greet her in. He grunts “Hmph!” as he motors the car slowly across the lawn to the side of the house and gets out. The dogs rush tum
bling and leaping up to him, barking and yelping, and he starts back, a bit panicked.
“Get out! Get away!” he shouts, waving his arms at them. The dogs content themselves with standing directly in front of him and barking happily up at his face in response. “Git!” he says angrily, stamping his foot and accompanying his command with a fluttering gesture of his fingers, when he suddenly turns and becomes aware of three small children standing in the shadows at the side of the house, staring at him.
“Hello,” he greets them, smiling, feeling his face and his forehead grow warm with embarrassment.
The three children stare up at him, three white faces in the night, with wide expressionless eyes.
“Out here playing, are you?” Webb asks, nodding and grinning, the lights from the windows of the house sparkling on the rims of his spectacles.
The children stare at him for a long moment, as if carefully taking his full measure, before turning in unison and mutely trudging off around the side of the house.
Webb grunts, his embarrassment changing swiftly to anger, and he stomps ahead, the dogs parting to each side of him, continuing in their intrepid barking and yelping, circling his shoes and looking merrily up at him.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, knocking on the screen door.
“Come on in!” a voice cries out. “Ya don’t hafta knock!”
He pulls open the door and stumbles into the front hall, then turns and peeks around the corner into the living room: an assemblage of middle-aged women sit about on the overstuffed chairs and on the couch, all staring at him in sudden silence, holding their drinks poised in mid-air—some of them blinking with searching curiosity.
“Well, there he is!” one of the women pipes up, and all the women laugh as Bess Armstrong leaps up, rushes to him, throws her arms around his neck, pulls his flinching, squinting face to hers and gives him a loud, smacking kiss full on the mouth.
“How ya doin’, honey?” she shouts as the other women guffaw heartily. Mona Hendricks calls out above them, “Hello, Webb!”
“Hello, Aunt Mona,” Webb says, nodding and blinking in confusion as Bess stands beside him with her arm reaching up and around his neck and grins broadly at the ladies.
“Tall one, ain’t he?”
“Is Nia around?” Webb asks, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the general laughter.
“She just went to the washroom,” Mona informs him, smiling from across the room.
“Like to keep tabs on her every minute, don’t ya?” Bess shouts, pulling him closer. “Well, ain’t that cute! Well, she’s otherwise indisposed in the POWDER room right now, sweetie!” Bess pulls his head down and brings her face close to his.
“Oh, Bess!” Maxine laughs, leaning back in her chair.
“Martha, Webb’s here,” Mona says softly to Martha Simmons, sitting beside her on the couch.
“Pardon?” Martha asks, looking up from her knitting.
“Webb,” Mona says, pointing to him.
“Oh, yes,” Martha says, smiling faintly. “Hello, Webb,” she says, nodding, then returns to her knitting.
“Hi, Martha,” Webb smiles nervously.
“Well, honey, as you can see,” Bess says in a loud whisper, “there ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of us old broads out here in the front room. Whyn’t you go out in the kitchen where all the menfolk are and get yourself a beer?” she says, patting him softly on the rump.
“Uh, yes,” he mutters with some embarrassment, hearing the chuckles of the women all around him, and turning toward the kitchen where he hears the loud, hoarse voices of the men talking and laughing. He steps toward the kitchen with some trepidation, his self-consciousness weighting his limbs until it seems a great effort to him to extricate himself from the room. Bess’s hand suddenly shoots forth, grabbing him tightly by the wrist and bringing him stumbling back to her.
“There’s gonna be a dance later in the garage,” she slurs in a deep whisper, her mouth warm and wet at his ear, “and you’re gonna be my partner. We’re gonna dance the first dance of the night—is that right?” she asks.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Webb answers nervously, attempting to pull his wrist from her grip.
“All right,” Bess murmurs conspiratorially, finally releasing him and patting him again on his buttocks as he stumbles through the doorway into the kitchen where all the men are in the midst of laughing at an unheard joke, leaning back in their chairs and hooting, some snickering and shaking their heads and looking down at the table. Buzz is at the centre of it all, looking around from face to face with eyes squinted tight with amusement.
Webb attempts to slide into the room as inconspicuously as possible, making his way against the wall and heading towards the counter, but as the laughter subsides all the men one by one turn to gaze at him with a questioning stare, their smiles disappearing from their faces.
“Hello,” Webb says shyly, standing awkwardly by the counter.
They all nod, once, grimly. “How y’doin’?” some say.
“Now, who’s that?” cries Uncle George as he comes stomping in the door, off the back of the kitchen, carrying three beers in each hand from the back-porch fridge. “Ah, it’s Nia’s new husband!” he grunts, placing the beers on the counter and reaching forth to grasp Webb’s hand. “Or soon to be, anyway!” he chuckles. “Well, do ya know everyone here?”
“Hi, George,” says Webb, clasping George’s hand with relief and looking about the room. “I think I remember some of them from Judy’s wedding…”
“Well let me give you a little tour of Mug’s Gallery here,” George says, drawing himself up and extending his hand to the men.
“Yeah, comin’ from the biggest mug of them all!” Buzz remarks, winking at Webb as Elmer at his side bends his head and closes his eyes, snickering.
“All right, all right,” says George, somewhat annoyed. “The smartass there is Buzz. You probably remember him from the wedding.”
“Yes,” says Webb, nodding. “Hello, Buzz.”
“Hiya, partner, how’re ya doin’?” Buzz grins, winking roguishly.
“And that guy there beside him is Elmer, Nia’s uncle. You more ’n likely to remember him too,” George explains.
“Oh yes, hello, Elmer!” Webb smiles with a half-wave.
Elmer pulls his beer from his lips with a smack, places it on the table and swallows his mouthful with a quiet gulping noise. “H’lo!” he says with a slight nod of his head.
“And this right here is Russ, Nia’s other uncle. You prob’ly remember him too,” says George.
“Yes. Hello, Uncle Russ!” Webb smiles, waving.
Russ grins brightly, his eyes sparkling as he shows his bright white teeth. “G’day!” he shouts.
“And that ol’ geezer over there is Ol’ Bob Harrison from down the road, an ol’ friend of the family, I don’t know if you ever met him before,” says George, indicating Harrison, who sits leaning back from the table with a sullen scowl on his face, his arms folded across his chest, surveying the room with disdain.
“Hello, Bob!” Webb says gamely, smiling, and Ol’ Harrison’s eyes squint as he looks up and slowly focuses them on Webb. His mouth tightens into an even more unforgiving sneer as he exhales a swift, even breath through his nostrils, piercing Webb through with a cold glare of hostility.
“And that guy over there is… oh, hell!” George exclaims. “I ain’t gonna introduce ’em all!” he says, throwing up his hands. “You’ll get to know ’em all soon enough anyhow. Anyway, what’ll you have, Webb? We ain’t got none of them fancy drinks here like you might get in the big city, but we got beer, and we got…”
“Oh, a beer will be fine,” Webb says quickly, finding a space along the counter to lean against.
“Okey-dokey, sir, comin’ right up!” George sings out, turning to grab the beer. As Webb stands still recovering from the f
ierce glare of Ol’ Harrison, he feels himself being sharply observed by a figure on his left. Slowly and with some trepidation, he turns and looks down and sees the mocking face of Harley staring at him from where he sits sprawled in a kitchen chair. Webb sees the stringy, long blond hair, cheeks besieged with glistening pimples and the hard, glittering eyes.
“Hello, Harley,” Webb says amiably, attempting a convivial smile as Harley surveys him from head to toe, his lips twitching with secret amusement, then looks him in the eyes scornfully for a moment before snorting, “Pah!” and turning away disgustedly.
“Now listen, listen to this one, Elmer,” Buzz is saying to Elmer, laying his hand on Elmer’s arm as George gives Webb his beer.
“Listen to me,” Buzz says seriously, leaning closer to Elmer as if to convey to him a message of the utmost importance. “Are ya listenin’? Now listen: there was this guy, see, who was cheap as the devil…”
The other men in the room turn and look at Buzz, half-smiling with expectation, hearing the stridency of his voice. “Damn cheap he was, the cheapest bastard in the whole wide world,” Buzz explains, shaking his head and grimacing. “And he had all this money, too, he was rich, he was a millionaire for Christ’s sake, and he wouldn’t buy his wife NOTHIN’. Nothin’! He was a no-good cheap sonofabitch!” Buzz pronounces emphatically, looking around the room, as if daring anyone to dispute what he’s saying.
“Now his wife, of course, she’s just like any woman, she wants to have some nice clothes, and a nice place to live, and flowers and all that shit, you know. But this guy is CHEAP! Goddamn it he’s cheap! He makes her live in a rundown dump that a dog wouldn’t shit in, he drives a car that’s thirty years old and is fallin’ apart, and he makes her wear old clothes that are fulla holes—fuckin’ rags is what she’s got to wear, practically, and she’s miserable as hell.”