by David Bergen
The boy walked out of the water, past the girl’s bag and shorts and shirt, and on up the hill towards the stand of trees, where he retrieved his bicycle. He climbed on and he rode down towards town. The pavement was slippery from the rain and he rode carefully, aware that if he fell, he would hurt himself.
3.
For over a year the boy had slept in a small room at the rear of the post office where his uncle, who was not really his uncle, worked as a janitor. He was allowed to be in the room from midnight till 5 a.m., but sometimes his uncle forgot about him and when that happened he slept late and woke hungry. When he went back out onto the streets, he searched for food and money. The Europeans who frequented the restaurant on the harbour would sometimes hand him small amounts of money, but it was not much, and he rarely made enough to buy himself breakfast.
He had worked at a bicycle repair shop, but the pay was meagre and the work was hard and the owner was fond of hitting him with a vice grip, leaving a string of bruises along his thigh. After this, he helped his uncle’s wife, pouring petrol into whisky bottles for her to sell to passing motorcyclists. The fumes from the petrol were pleasant, and the wife gave him free cigarettes, but the allure of the tourists and the lives those tourists lived, these were the factors that pulled the boy away from steady work.
One evening, two months before he met Marcie, hungry and in need of money, he dressed up in dark pants and a clean white shirt, borrowed his uncle’s shoes that were much too big, oiled his hair, and he walked up to the Pacific Hotel where the German women were known to pick up Vietnamese boys. He stood alongside the brick wall that surrounded the hotel, hands out of his pockets, and by ten o’clock he was in the room of a dark-haired woman who told him, in poor English, that her name was Erika.
“Do you speak German?” she asked.
The boy shook his head.
The woman lit a cigarette and studied him. She waved a pudgy hand and said, “Your shoes.”
He was sitting in a chair. His feet did not reach the carpet. He bent forward and slipped out of his shoes. He wasn’t wearing socks; his feet were unwashed and showed the shadows of the straps from his flip-flops.
Erika told him to take off his pants and shirt. He did this slowly, his eyes on his own feet. Then he looked up and faced her, his hands covering his genitals.
“Come here,” she said and waggled a finger. She was wearing black shoes with high heels and tiny straps.
He stepped forward and turned his head to look at the wall as she took his penis and held it. She put out her cigarette and fondled his testicles until he had an erection.
“Good,” she said, and made him lie on his back on the bed.
She undressed and straddled him, took his erect penis and put it inside her. Then she held her big breasts, closed her eyes, and called out, “Bitte, bitte, bitte.” After, she handed him whisky in a glass and he pretended to drink while she stroked his chest. When he left, she gave him an equivalent of five dollars in Vietnamese money.
The next night he went back to Erika and they did exactly what they’d done the night before. After, she kissed him on the mouth and said, “Beautiful child. How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” he said.
She laughed, poked his chest, and said, “No, no.”
She was wearing black panties and her stomach hung over the elastic. Her nipples were almost the size of the small saucers that sat beneath the espresso cups in the café to which the boy went every morning in order to watch the European women with their beautiful shoes.
She took his head and held it between her large hands and pushed a breast against his mouth. “My child,” she said.
Then she asked him to walk across the room while she lay on the bed and watched. She told him to bend over and he did so while she inspected his little buttocks and pushed a finger against his asshole. He jumped and she laughed.
On the third and final night another woman was in the room with them. This woman was younger and skinnier. Erika sat on a chair and held herself while the skinny woman climbed onto the boy.
The boy thought that the skinny woman was perfect. She had many rings and bracelets and she wore a very expensive watch that scraped against his shoulder. He was getting used to the sound and smell of love and, after the woman was done, he said, “You are very beautiful.”
She laughed and patted his cheek and called him a tiny hairless pig. She said this in German and he did not understand everything, only the word Schweine. She then repeated this in English.
He told her the story of his father, who had become very rich raising pigs, but then had died. He said he had no mother. He said that he was hungry.
The beautiful woman laughed and offered him a cigarette and some gum. He took what she offered, and then he left.
4.
He had loved her shoes, which were made of soft leather. He liked the flat square toes and the smallness of her feet and he liked it when she wore long pants and the cuffs of the pants folded over the top of the shoes, almost touching the ground, but not quite. She walked long distances in shoes that were not made for walking. Her name was Marcie. She lived with five other foreigners, two Brits and three Americans, in a two-storey house close to the train station. On Sundays she sang songs with her friends and invited whoever was willing to join them. She met the boy on the street and asked him to come and he went once. Crackers and juice were served and cheese as well, but the boy didn’t like cheese. It was soft and tasted bitter and it left his mouth dry.
He saw her on the streets. She rode her bicycle around town, her bag in the basket, and when it rained she held her umbrella with one hand. Once, after she got off the ferry that took her across the river, she stopped and bent forward and removed her shoes and socks and continued barefoot towards the beach. At some point she dropped a sock. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.
Every other day she mailed a letter. She climbed the stairs to the post office and sat on a wooden bench along the wall and it was here that she addressed her envelopes, and then she went to the wicket and bought stamps. One afternoon, as she stepped out of the post office, he was there and she looked at him and then over her shoulder and then back at him again and she said she had not seen him for a long time. She said that he should come back to the house on Sunday. In the sunlight her hair was lighter, with streaks of copper. He was aware of her fragrance, and he saw her blue eyes and the roundness of her jaw.
She hugged her bag to her chest, breathed in the morning air, and said that in a month she would be going home. “So, you must come,” she said.
He agreed.
On that Sunday she sat beside him in the meeting room while an older man named Brian, who seemed to be the leader, stood and told a story about two brothers, one selfish, one kind. Brian spoke very quickly and the boy did not catch everything, but this was no problem, because the only thing the boy really wanted was to be sitting beside Marcie. After Brian had finished speaking, the group sang a song and the boy was amazed at how clear and strong Marcie’s voice was. She sat up straight and took deep breaths and he wanted to be the air that she breathed.
Later, she asked him if he was happy.
He said he was. Very.
She said that she didn’t know anything about him.
He said that his father was a physician and his mother a lawyer and he was an only child and in two years he would be ready for university and his parents would send him to Michigan, probably. Or California.
Marcie laughed and said that she had not heard anyone use the word physician in that way.
“What should I say?” the boy asked.
“We would say doctor.” Marcie waved a hand and said it didn’t matter. It was just odd. But okay. Then her face tightened and her voice lowered and she asked him if he knew Jesus.
The boy loved the softness of her voice and the hair that grew on her arms and the sh
ape of her knuckles. She was slightly overweight. Her chin was double. He said maybe.
She asked him if he wanted to talk about Jesus.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
She took his arm and led him into a small room, away from the larger group, and they sat side by side on the edge of a bed. There were posters of rock singers on the wall and there was a white towel on the back of a chair, and shoes lined up by the closet, and there was a pair of jeans crumpled on the floor.
Marcie crossed her legs and told him that Jesus loved him. “He loves you exactly as you are. With all your mistakes, your sins, your ugly thoughts. And he wants to make you whole.” She looked at the boy and asked if he wanted to become a Christian.
He said he did.
She went, “Oh,” and she squeezed her hands together and said, “That’s wonderful.” She asked him to close his eyes and repeat after her.
He closed his eyes and then immediately opened them again and he watched her as she spoke, and he said exactly what she said, “Jesus, I am a sinner but I want you to take away my sin and I want you to make me whole. I want to be loved. I want to be good. Please, Jesus.” And when she was done she lifted her head and opened her eyes and she reached out to take one of his hands and she held his hand between her own soft palms and she told him that he was saved.
Leo Fell
The day Marianne found out she took a swing at him. He was standing in the kitchen, holding his briefcase, confessing failure in the usual circuitous route, talking about possibilities, about a pot he had invented for mountain climbers, when her fist came at his head and he ducked. He felt shame. Here was his wife, beautiful in a small black dress, her hair done up with silver clips and her earrings dancing like insects, while he, Leo Fisher, ducked the blow he deserved.
“You son of a bitch,” she said.
For a time he’d sold real estate and then he invested in a land scheme that fell through and he had to take a loan and when his payments fell short he sold off the last of his savings bonds. That was the day that Marianne, beautiful in her rage, went after him. In the winter that followed he tried to sell homemade tomato juice that cured cancer and in the early spring he drove into Northwestern Ontario where he sold Gore-Tex jackets out of cardboard boxes that had been shipped in from China. In early April, when the ice was breaking up on the lakes, he called home and Marianne told him that she had fallen in love and she was telling him now so that her own life didn’t have to be a lie. She said that if they moved on with this, no matter what pain it caused—and she knew there would be pain—it was still better for the boys, especially Eric, who was only six and innocent and could be most damaged by anything resembling anger or rage.
She stopped talking and into that silence Leo fell.
“Is he rich?” he asked, stupidly.
“That’s not the point.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a doctor.”
“He’s rich.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Am I? Why don’t you lay it out for me?”
“You’re raising your voice.”
“Really? Okay, what’s the point?”
“I love him.”
Leo swallowed. Said, “What’s his name?”
“Ivan.”
“Oh, my. Does Ivan have a big Russian cock?”
“Stop it, Leo.”
“He makes you happy.”
“He does,” Marianne said, and she seemed apologetic and for this Leo was absurdly grateful. He said that he wouldn’t be coming home for a while and that she could tell the boys exactly why. Then he hung up. He was calling from the phone booth at Rushing River Campground. He was alone, the park was closed, and he could hear the rapids in the distance. A bird called overhead. A squirrel talked to him from beside an empty garbage can.
That same day he stopped for lunch in Kenora where he fell to talking to Don, a contractor who needed a carpenter. Leo said he had some experience, he’d roughed a few houses in his time, and so he was hired. He found a room at the Walleye Motel. He pinned photographs of his sons above the bureau mirror, laid out his few clothes in drawers, and placed the book he was reading, War and Peace, by his bedside. He made himself coffee and watched a baseball game on TV and thought about Marianne spreading her legs for another man. Later, he found himself drinking in a bar near his motel. He had four beers and ordered another. There was a live band and a group of young women danced, skirts flipping and bare legs flashing. He walked home after midnight and phoned Marianne. Her voice was thin and whispering. “I was sleeping, Leo. The boys are sleeping. Call back in the morning.”
“I’m a carpenter now, Marianne. A good chunk of cash in that.”
“You’re drunk, Leo.”
“That may be true, but at least I’m not hurting anyone.”
“Good night, Leo,” she said, and hung up.
In the evenings, after work, Leo ate at the restaurant down the street, the Clio, and he always sat at the same table and was served by Girlie, who gave him free refills and steered him away from the poorer dishes.
“Hamburger steak’s not great,” she said. “Pepper’s better.” She had dark hair cut short and she was skinny and at first from the back Leo thought she was a boy until she turned and approached him and spoke and he saw the shape of her jaw and her name tag.
One night, after he was more comfortable with her, he asked, “Who gave you a name like that?”
“My mother.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Leo said, “It’s a great name.”
“It’s a bold question,” Girlie said.
“You’ve never been asked it before?”
“I have. Too many times. I’ve considered changing my name to Kathy or Donna.”
He couldn’t have guessed her age. He asked Shaena, the other waitress, how old Girlie was and Shaena laughed and said, “Too young for you.” She walked away and came back later and said, “If you can guess her age you get a free meal.”
“On her?”
“That’s what she said.”
“And what if I’m wrong?”
“You take her bowling.”
“Bowling?”
“Yeah, that game where you knock pins down with balls.”
Leo took a pencil and wrote 25 on a napkin and handed it to Shaena. She looked at it. She was a big woman and her chest rolled as she laughed. She walked away and Leo waited half an hour. He was certain that he had insulted Girlie. Who came finally, holding a pot of coffee, and sat down across from him.
“Are you a hopeful man or just plain generous?”
“I’m an honest man.”
“Whoaa, Girlie,” she said, and she looked up at the ceiling and then back at Leo. He looked around the restaurant and thought that his life had suddenly changed and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
Girlie said, “Well, Leo Fisher, what night do you want to bowl?”
In the evenings Leo read in his room and when he tired of that he walked around the town and down to the wharf and stood and looked out across the water to the houses on the far side where the highway followed the shore and then slipped up through the rock and across the shield towards Winnipeg. He looked at the boats with their bright lights and he smoked and thought about home. He called the boys twice a week.
One time Eric answered. “Hello, Eric speaking,”
Leo said, “Hi, guy, it’s me,” and Eric took a breath, said, “Hi, Dad,” and then asked, “Where are you?”
“Kenora.”
“Where’s that?”
“Not far. By a lake. Are you being good?”
“Bob died.”
“Who’s Bob?”
“The fish, Dad. At school. He was orange and black. Ish.”
“What happened?”
“He was upside-
down this morning. Julie said he was old.”
“Julie?”
“Dad.” A quick rebuke, then, “My teacher.”
“I knew that.” Leo heard the boy laugh, a snort. “What’d you eat for supper?”
“Cornflakes.”
“Is Mommy there?”
“She’s cutting a customer. The hair.”
“She is?”
“Hmmm, hmmm.”
“Okay, do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“I love you too.”
“I know.” Very certain, his voice strong. “Ivan’s here for supper.”
“He is?” Leo laughed, as if this were natural and good. He said, “What you having? Sauerkraut?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s okay, son. I’m sorry. Could you tell your mother to come to the phone?”
Eric disappeared and there was nothing. The occasional cough, a door shutting, Eric talking to someone, a man’s low voice—this is what Leo heard. He finally hung up and looked around his room. He lay back on his bed and thought he should make plans to go home to see the boys on the weekend. Or, to bring them up to the lake.
He was to meet Girlie in front of the lanes on 3rd Street. Leo got there first. He stood on the sidewalk like a sentinel. When he saw Girlie coming he was both surprised and happy. He had arrived in a strange land and Girlie was it. She was wearing jeans and boots and a black tank top and carrying a black purse over one shoulder. When she saw Leo she lifted a hand as if she were showing him her palm and then she lowered it. She walked up to him and stopped and said, “Hiya, Leo.”
“Hello, Girlie. Are you ready?” He bent at his knees, threw one arm forward, one backward, and said, “The bowler.”
She led him up the stairs and into the dark of the bowling lanes where they sat and Leo, bending to tie his shoes beside Girlie, smelled a mixture of coconut and apple.
