When I arrived in Canada, a fresh face from a sister company in London, people made an effort to befriend me, take me out for lunches and drinks and weekend activities, but I would rather have had a root canal because at least you get drugs for that.
Thank you, but I’m sight-seeing, I repeated politely, and it was on one of my solo excursions that I spotted Shayne. He was standing next to his painter’s van, swigging a Coke like there was no tomorrow, his neck sculpted and beautiful. He was shirtless and tanned, framed by the clearest of blue skies, and his skin was smooth and brown. I noticed the thin line of hair that trailed like the brush of a fingertip down into his trousers, and I wanted to follow that line with my tongue.
Hi, I said, sidling up to him and startling him. I just bought a house. Will you paint it?
I wanted him from the moment I saw him. I wanted him to be mine. He looked so safe, so reliable.
He misunderstood me. He confused my pursuit of him for guileless English charm, and he felt a need to protect what he perceived as my innocence. He also thought he could truly be himself with me — a self that was a lost, confused boy forced into adulthood before his time.
Shayne’s sense of time was like dog years in reverse; when he was twenty-one, he was really seven. He had struggled, particularly when faced with the ambitious expectations of his surgeon father, his vicious barracuda of a mother, and his equally driven younger sister Caroline. Nevertheless, Shayne affably did what was expected of him for a while, ambling through life cloaked in a cloud of marijuana, like a wizard of old, seemingly wise and unperturbed.
He even made it to med school, but he escaped graduation by looking after a house painting business for a buddy one summer, and he never looked back. He made it appear as if it had all happened despite his intentions to the contrary, like his plan really had been to finish school but he was haplessly derailed. Look, who knew? However, he knew that he could never graduate and be sentenced to a life imprisoned in a white lab coat, having to listen to people talk endlessly about themselves. He preferred to paint houses instead, and he smoked up a storm, and avoided most everything he could, and he was doing exceptionally well at all of it until one day a tallish girl with long dark hair wandered by.
Hi, I said, startling him. I bought a house. Will you paint it?
You’re such a sweetheart, I told him later. Right from the top of your brainiac head down to the valentine heart on your big swinging dick.
In response to which Shayne blushed. Because while I was enamoured by the large, red, heart-shaped birthmark on his private member, he was less so. But when I ran my tongue gently over that area, Shayne would shudder and suck in his breath.
Generally speaking, Shayne wasn’t too crazy about sex (meaning he needed it a lot less than I did) but he loved me or at least I thought he did, and he wanted to keep me happy. He concentrated hard and made a point of pleasing me, and I, aware of his calculated efforts, felt fondness and gratitude. I loved climbing onto his slightly soft belly and licking that fingertip trail of hair down to his groin.
More than Shayne’s considerate dedication to the passionate aspects of our relationship, I appreciated that he overlooked my key characteristics, the ones I knew were destructive to my relationship with the world but that I was powerless or disinclined to change. These included, but were not limited to my doggedly self-contained point of view, my impatience with the commonalities of life — the stuff that other people did not question and just got on with.
Also, I was not given to levity.
I am sorry, I would say to Shayne when he, stoned and laughing at some cartoon on television, would turn to find me watching him, just not getting the joke. Shayne loved stand-up comedy, while to me, it was no more than an expression of human banality and pointlessness.
But Shayne did not seem to care one way or the other whether I laughed or not. Nor did my lack of enthusiasm dampen his. And, in spite of our differences, we appeared to be a well-matched pair: two fundamentally good-natured isolationists who could view the world from a distance together.
I, as far as I could gather, had no family in Canada. Before I left London, I asked Mum one last time exactly where in Canada Dad was, and she said she thought he had said something that sounded like Niagara, but she couldn’t be sure. Back in England, Dad’s family had been limited to one older brother who lived in Scotland, and when I got hold of him, he said he stopped hearing from Dad a couple of years after I was born.
I looked up the name “Davis” in Niagara, but there were too many to contact, so I gave up.
Shayne had even fewer friends than I did, but he had family in abundance. He escaped holiday gatherings and reunions by herding me into his splattered truck and whisking me away into the countryside where we mapped a trail of ghost places of Ontario past. We explored broken and abandoned houses, asylums, motels, and schools — anything we could find. Documenting the derelict houses of Ontario was Shayne’s most passionate hobby (second to pot), and he loved wandering through the quiet ruined destruction, looking for clues as to who might have lived there.
During our two years and nine months together, we visited dozens of abandoned places, and I still remember the first time he introduced me to his palace of broken delights.
You want to see something? he asked, a couple of weeks into our relationship. You want to go for a drive?
We hit the highway early and drove east for four hours.
This is one of my favourites, he said. I haven’t been here since last summer and I’d like to see how it’s developed or rather, how it’s fallen apart.
He would give me no further details. He was like a kid guarding a surprise.
We nearly reached Penetanguishene when we pulled off onto the gravel under a motel sign that stood high against the blue sky.
Midway Motel, I read. Is this where we are going to stay?
Shayne laughed. Nope. ’Course, we could give staying here a go if you like, but have a look first.
He led me across a field of tall wild grass to the building and I, not too quick off the mark, took a moment to realize that the place was abandoned, broken, and derelict.
It’s like a ghost town. I was delighted. Nice.
I ran ahead, but Shayne caught up with me and grabbed my hand.
Wait, he said, I’ve always done this by myself and I can’t have you hurting yourself, so here are some rules.
I laughed, but he shook his head. I’m not joking Joss. Seriously, some of these places are dangerous. Promise me you’ll listen.
Okay, I said in mock seriousness, I’m listening. Go on, my captain. I promise to be a good lieutenant.
He explained to watch for precarious floors that could break under one’s weight and vagrant people who might be living there, to be aware of animals that might rush at one in fright, to keep an ear out for strange noises, and finally, to be careful of the abundance of broken glass.
Okay, I get it. Don’t worry, Daddy dear. I’ll be fine. Can we go in now?
A few more things. Firstly, you never break in; you get in if you can, but you never break in. Secondly, you don’t break stuff when you are inside. And thirdly, all you leave are footprints, but you can take photographs.
Is this like some manifesto? I asked. Are you part of some cult or something?
He laughed. No, but there are groups online I follow, and we share info on new places and stuff, and this code is agreed. No point in destroying it for others, but I’ll tell you, bored kids do that for us. They’ve got nothing better to do than break things and write their names on the walls. Some of them have pretend Satanic rituals…
How do you know they are pretend?
He shrugged. They just look so pathetic, like they are playing stupid games. I think if they were real, you’d get a really ominous feeling.
I was getting hot and impatient under the relentless sun. I should have worn
sunscreen, I said. Rule book session over? He nodded, and I rushed inside the first room to find blood spatter raining down the cream and pink striped wallpaper, the tangled bedsheet a rumpled red-stained mess. Bloodied handprints dragged down the wall, flagging danger. Frightened, I crashed backwards into Shayne who laughed.
I forgot about this room, he said. Don’t worry, it’s fake. I think someone made a movie in here or something.
How can you be sure it’s not real?
Red blood would have turned brown by now, and the stuff in this room has been the same ruby blend for years.
Your painterly eye, I said. Then I clutched him again; something had moved in the back of the room.
Someone’s in here, I whispered. He laughed.
Mirror, JJ. It’s only a mirror.
Once I relaxed into the realization that we were not in any real danger, I settled into having fun.
Do you think you’d ever sleep on a bed like this? I asked Shayne, pointing at the double bed. Even as a dare?
Shayne shook his head. Too filthy. This place is rotting.
Yeah. Look at these little mice skeletons: they’re perfect.
Someone must have put down poison. Be careful what you touch.
Lovely artwork on the walls, I said, and he glanced over my way.
This? He pointed at a framed picture of a red barn under an oil-black stormy sky.
No, look. Under the wallpaper. It’s beautiful.
Shayne came over. You’re right, well spotted. Someone must have painted on the walls years ago. Nice.
It’s so quiet, I said. Only the sound of a passing car now and then. And it’s cool in here. Peaceful.
Shayne nodded and led me through to another room. There was no blood in this one, faux or otherwise, just an old gold wiry carpet and a double bed neatly made up with a mustard-coloured comforter. The wallpaper was intact, and the only evidence of disarray was the door’s lace curtain which had long since fluttered gracefully to the floor. With the sunshine pouring in, the abandoned scene was beautiful.
And this one’s washroom is okay too, I said. Not like the other one that was so trashed. How come there’s such a difference?
Shayne shook his head. No rhyme or reason to the things you find. That’s what I like, the mystery of it all. Come on, I’ll show you where I figure the owners lived.
He led me around the back of the motel, and I was tempted to veer into the other rooms that we passed, but he guided me up the rickety stairs, onto a tiny rooftop porch. I wanted to run along the asphalt top, do jumping jacks, yell out with happiness, but Shayne was trying to find a way in and I joined him.
The guy’s nailed the door shut, he said. We’ll have to try the window.
The large window was open, and it looked fairly easy to get inside, although we had to clamber over an old desk littered with office trays, and half-covered by a fallen bookcase. The floor was strewn with paper, so we navigated carefully down the hallway.
I think this one was the living room. Shayne guided me, and I shivered and rubbed my arms.
Something wrong? he asked.
I pointed. Looks like someone’s playing house. It’s so neat, like a perfect living room, but the windows are broken and the blinds are twisted. It feels surreal.
I walked over to the record player and picked up the warped vinyl disk.
“The Best of Times,” by Dennis De Young.
I wish we could take it home and play it, I said, but Shayne shook his head.
We leave it all as is, he said. Anyway, the record is way too warped.
The best of times, I echoed, and I put the record back on the steel spike of the turntable, and I lifted the arm and put the needle on the start of the song.
The bedroom is neat and tidy too, Shayne called, and I followed the sound of his voice into a blue room where curtains billowed over a lumpy made-up bed.
A pair of broken, paint-stained shoes rested on the floor next to the bed, like waiting slippers, and there was a broken kettle on the top of a stained dressing table, the yellowing cracked surface of which was covered in incomprehensible tiny writing. And then, of all things, there was a briefcase, the old-fashioned boxy kind, and it was neatly placed next to a boom box that would never be good for anything except ornamentation.
Did you ever find any treasure? I asked. Like money or jewels or anything?
Shayne laughed. Not a thing. My kind of treasure is to be here.
We left the room and climbed out the window, and I did jumping jacks on the black tar roof and waved to the cars speeding past though it was unlikely they could see me.
We went back down the stairs and took our time exploring all the rooms, and we found more original artwork underneath the peeling wallpaper but no more blood, fake or otherwise.
I like the owner’s house the best, I said. Let’s go back up there.
When we were back in what used to be the living room, with the twisted blinds, the faceless television set, and a view of Shayne and me in a full-length broken mirror on the wall, I turned to Shayne.
You ever have sex in one of these places?
No, I told you, I’ve only ever done these trips by myself.
I undid the button of my shorts. You want to?
I moved over to him, drawing him close to me and caressing his strong painter’s back and feeling the arousal of his response.
Here, I said. Against this table.
Afterwards, Shayne picked me up and swung me around. Beautiful girl, what have I done to deserve you? Let’s stay here forever. Who needs the real world?
I buried my face in his neck and thought that I was finally happy.
Not given to religion, I even offered a prayer to the universe: Let this be my guy, let this present be my future, to be with him, to be happy after all this time of being so alone.
And for a time, it seemed that my prayers had been answered.
I loved the summer moments of exploration best, when the scented breeze danced a tango with a torn curtain, or flimsy lace latched onto the teeth of broken glass while outside the sky was painted Caribbean blue, and I heard the far off hum of passing cars echoed by the dark buzzing of a wasp and there was me and Shayne, imagining long-lost families, and nearly being one ourselves.
Look Joss, he would say, and holding up a broken plate or twisted spoon, he would spin a yarn of a family who left, seemingly never for better things.
He picked up overturned Bibles that lay sprawled in the dirt, and placed them carefully on the best shelves or a chair or bed. I always found this funny since he was a self-proclaimed agnostic.
He examined wallpaper patterns, the remnants of curtain fabrics and sofa cushions, doing his utmost to imagine the scene as it was in its heyday, with family chatter and dinners and the back and forth of daily life.
I teased him, but mostly I had just watched him while he frowned in concentration. I had thought that maybe all the broken stuff was symbolic to him of his own life and that made me love him even more.
I worked hard to make a life for us together. He had moved in with me and we had seemed compatible in all the areas that counted. But we ended up as broken as any smashed Bible, or any shattered plate.
8. THE ROCKY TRACT
I LAY IN BED THE MORNING AFTER I sold my house, thinking about the past and trying to figure out where to go and what to do.
I was homeless. And it occurred to me that, as the saying goes, in for a penny, in for a pound — I might as well be truly homeless. I thought it would be fitting that I should go back to one of those abandoned places and live there for a while. I could lay low and plan a way to get my act together again.
It was not like there was a plethora of jobs out there and I needed time to regroup. I knew I could apply for EI, but I couldn’t seem to find the energy to organize that. Luckily, I had that bit of nest e
gg tucked away, thanks to Gran. That, and the small amount of cash leftover from the sale of the house would be enough to see me through the summer.
I tried to recall which place would serve me the best. I ran through the list in my mind, trying my best to erase Shayne from the memories, and simply calculate which ruin was the best candidate, but it was not easy to colour him invisible, and I shook my head from side to side as if I could make the thoughts of him literally fall away. I catalogued the buildings we had visited, and it was soon clear to me that the derelict old school, the one under the giant and ancient trees, at the far east end of the city, close to the lakeshore, would be the best bet. There were dozens of buildings and rooms from which to choose. Most certainly, something there would fit the bill.
It was mid-June, and I calculated I would be good to last until the end of September. Just over three months.
I followed the realtor’s advice and hired a storage locker for my gifts from Mr. Alright, my winter clothes, and all my smart interview outfits. At first, I hadn’t planned on doing anything except leaving the whole mess behind for someone else to clean up, but that would only be cutting off my nose to spite my face.
Whatever my future held, I wanted it to include staying in Canada; I liked this country, and it liked me. I liked the snow, the seasons, the hot summers. I liked the lakes, the rocks, the trees. I didn’t want to go back to England, so I packed my possessions neatly, preparing for my re-emergence into society before I had even left it.
Sorry Gran, I said out loud. I didn’t mean for this to happen, I am sorry I lost the house. One day I’ll try to get it back.
I thought about Gran, now ten years dead. She had been my first caretaker, more of a mother to me than Mum had been. Gran had lived in a small, dark, narrow house in Blackheath, and it was still vivid in my mind. I could see Gran cleaning and cooking her specialities: Welsh Rarebit, French toast, Shepherd’s Pie, and fish and chips.
Me and Gran could talk about anything — anything except my dad. When it came to that subject, Gran pursed her already thin lips tighter and shook her head.
Between the Cracks She Fell Page 4