Annie pushed her head into his neck, and wound her little arm around him. She wanted comfort from his pain that she was sharing. He squeezed her.
Annie loved to hear his pain, his fears, his losses. She liked the bass notes. You wanted to share tragedy and confusion, self-doubt and failure, she was there for you.
“We’ll heal each other,” she said.
“We’re the only family we have,” he’d say. “My brother’s not there, your sister and brother are nuts. All we really have is each other. We have friends but you and I are family.”
Her eyes would shine when he said that. She wanted to believe that she would not grow old alone, that there would be someone to hold her when she died.
“If something happened to you, I wouldn’t want to live,” she said. They held onto each other. Cars rumbling down Papineau St., maybe a voice or two coming from the alley, they were locked together under the glow of the small reading lamp they shared, in the big, sprawling, indifferent city. They had each other. In these moments he believed that’s what was life was about, a couple united against all the shit the world had thrown at them and would continue dumping on them. Was that not true love?
He had rarely been happier, his loneliness for a few hundred sacred seconds, dissolved. Yes, there was chaos and condemnation and abuse and control but this love in the middle of the city that he increasingly had little patience for, somehow made it all worthwhile. Other than the music and the theatre, what else did he have?
Annie’s father drank himself to death at 50, but she soldiered on with a backpack of personality disorders and an inability to just sit for a minute. He couldn’t remember seeing her without reading a screen or a paper or a magazine. She rarely left the house without a folded paper in her purse lest she be alone with thoughts for a minute.
Her manic energy did provide a laugh now and then, albeit sodden ones. Running out of things to do at the lake at a friend’s house they rented for a song, she dragged herself away from the computer now anchored to the kitchen table and decided they should canoe to the grocery store rather than walk the half a kilometre or take the car. The sky was dark and threatening.
“It’s going to pour,” he said.
“No, it won’t. It’ll be fun.”
“The sky’s black. It’s going to rain cats and alligators.”
“No, it won’t,” she said, and they headed out, her untying the canoe, her will a force of nature unto itself, able to control the elements. Not to go along would mean continual badgering escalating into a high-volume tantrum. Non-acquiescence was rarely a choice.
“See, it’s cool, right?” she said as they paddled toward town, the wind coming up.
“Really cool,” he said. In fact, he didn’t mind the adventure. This was preferable to walking around the house, avoiding landmines or hearing the blathering radio.
The rain hit as they came out of the grocery store and it started to teem as they climbed into the rocking canoe. In seconds they were sodden. He had to laugh. The lake was small and they were in no danger as they paddled as hard as they could. It was a memory.
The next day she needed to run. The morning swim around the lake, the six or so hours glued to the tube, had not burned off sufficient mania and she was going to run up the road.
“It’s going to pour again, Annie, look at the sky.”
“No, it won’t,” she said as she laced up her grey, beaten runners. Off she went.
Fifteen minutes later he was in the car, windshield wipers on high, driving down the highway, trying to find her through the deluge. She was running toward him, her hair plastered to her head, her shirt stuck to her skin, waving at him. She climbed in and thanked him, wiping the water from her eyes with her damp shirt.
He smiled. Wasn’t it typical? he thought. Annie thinking she could control everything, he coming to rescue her or clean up the mess.
On bad weeks, when she was locked in a cycle of anxiety, panic, abuse, Evan would sleep in the spare room or spend more time downstairs, in his office or the living room, on the sofa she resented, maybe sipping scotch, working or reading the news on the computer, or just staring at the ceiling, the cat on his belly, purring. And writing songs. Annie was a fount of misery that easily translated into lines or verses and choruses. The songs just kept coming. He didn’t know what to do with them but he kept writing them, often when she was listening to the babble of cable TV. In the songs was escape. He stopped going to motel rooms. He went into his office and closed the door and picked up the guitar and transported himself. The music not only shut her out, it killed his own misery. It was as addictive as any drug but there was no come down, no dealer, and it wasn’t cut with anything. The quality was never what he wanted but it didn’t seem to matter. It was its own kind of high. He would start out depressed as hell and after a tune or two, he was, well, singing. It was his own private pleasure and his way to turn hell into a wisp of heaven.
“If I ever get a little crazy,” she told him one afternoon in their first year together, “you just have to put your arms around me and hold me. I’ll be fine.”
Seemed like a plan. She got a little crazy. What was she ranting about? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter, did it? Evan smiled. It didn’t really matter what it was. He put his arms around her. “It’s okay, calm down,” he told her, trying to fold her up against his chest.
“Don’t touch me,” she screamed. “Don’t touch me!” Then she started punching him, her little bird-sized fists slamming against his chest.
“Hey, hey, stop it, Annie. Stop it! Get a grip.” He grabbed her fists, one in each hand. She started kicking him. He let go of her and turned away. She had lost it completely. She was screaming and lashing at him. He backed up.
Annie had left the tiny ravaged body that was chasing him, all bone and fury. She was gone. The furious creature in front of him was he knew not who. He did what was to become SOP. He grabbed his car keys.
“Go, go, get out!”
“You need a psychiatrist,” he said and opened the door.
“Where you going?” she asked, a new panic in her eyes.
“I’m getting the fuck out of here.”
“Don’t go,” she said, the demonic terror replaced by fear and pleading. “Please don’t go.”
“Go see a shrink,” Evan said and slammed the door behind him.
He drove and drove, across the Jacques Cartier and back again. He was nuts for staying. He knew why there had been no men in her life. They had run. The control. The constant judgement. The demand that you justify yourself. Verbal abuse. Perfunctory sex. Temper tantrums. The need to find fault. Hysterics. Threats. Punching. Kicking. And now lies had begun to emerge. The house was bought by an inheritance, not by her hard work, not a symbol of feminist accomplishment at all, just a sip of the silver spoon. The languages came not through world travel but via a nanny, another sip of the spoon. André, the boyfriend she nursed through cancer, well, it turned out she had spent an hour reading to him. In one of countless escapes to the mountains, he met Joanne in Saint Sauveur and had lunch. He asked about André, told her that Annie had said she had nursed him as he was dying. She looked at him as if he had spoke Urdu.
“She had told him he could stay at her house when he had chemo, ‘cause she lived just a few blocks from the hospital,” she said, speaking through pursed lips. “The day he was supposed to go to her place, the day before his first treatment, she called him to tell him she had her book club meeting that day and she didn’t think it would work, him staying, anyway. He was heartbroken. And of course, he had to drive home after chemo rather than stay at her house. It was hell. She came up once to read to him, just before he died. And to forgive him for dumping her.”
What other lies did he not know about?
All of the above or just a few had kept the men at bay or maybe for some lucky guys, just one was enough to beat a hasty retreat.
Or maybe he was being hasty, overly judgemental. No, he wasn’t. His life wa
s seriously fucked. She was seriously fucked up. What was he going to do? He was stuck on Papineau.
He turned left and headed for the cocaine store. Did a few lines in the can and headed for his flea bag sanctuary. He felt better in the car, better still once he locked the door behind him. His phone buzzed. It was Annie. He turned it off. He didn’t get to sleep until five. He had spent the evening and early morning basically numb, staring at the ceiling, listening to a woman and a couple of guys amuse each other.
He stumbled out into the parking lot at 10 a.m.
He was going to be the exception. Their love was too great, too unique, too end-of-the-line to let it go over a few personality disorders. He was special. Annie had told him that a dozen times. He would find a way. He would sit her down and have a heart-to-heart talk, make her see that she was killing them. She was smart. She would see it, she would try and change. He started the car, headed toward home, bleary-eyed, and, he realized, he was still a bit under the influence. Why else could he possibly think she would listen to him. He laughed, shaking his head. The cop idling next to him at the light looked over but Evan kept laughing.
“I can’t stand this anymore,” he told her. He stomped upstairs and pulled a bag out of the closet and started throwing stuff into it. He was in a barely controlled rage. Six pairs of socks, no eight. Underwear.
“What are you doing?” Annie was in the doorway, watching him.
“I’m packing,” he said, holding up a handful of boxers. “You won’t have to complain about my fucking underwear anymore.”
She had been in a full “you don’t know anything,” “you don’t know what you’re talking about” tirade, as a way to end discussion of cover art for the next book. He had no taste, knew nothing about publishing, writing or editing and she had segued to his using cocaine about three weeks ago as she sat tethered to her wine glass. The tirade was a familiar epilogue to any disagreement.
“Where you going?”
“Away from you,” he said, digging around for a pair of running shoes. “I can’t stand listening to you, I can’t stand working with you, I can’t stand living with you. I’m done.”
“Don’t go,” she said. “Please. Don’t. I’m sorry.”
She stood in the doorway. To get out of the room he’d have to move her. He would’ve gladly picked her up and thrown her out the window.
“Get out of the way,” Evan said, looking down at her, his duffel in hand. “Get out of the way.”
“Please, I won’t … I’m sorry. I won’t … You’re too sensitive. I didn’t mean anything.”
She looked at him with those big dewy eyes, floating in alcohol. She was drunk. She took his hands in hers, pressed them to her breast.
“I don’t want to live without you,” she said.
“You need help,” he said. His rage was softening. Was it love or was it the sight of this tiny, sagging woman with tears in her eyes? Sympathy. Jesus, she was a mess. The ardent feminist control freak had vaporized.
“Why don’t we go for an ice cream? You like that. I’ll buy. We’ll go to that place you really like. Ripples.”
“Annie, you need to see a therapist.”
“I will. I will. We’ll go together. I just need to finish this book.”
She took the bag out of his hand and placed it in the closet, sliding the door closed, putting it all away, the abuse, the insults, leaky vessel, now forgotten behind the closet door. It never happened.
He knew tomorrow he’d find a love letter in his inbox. She wanted it to work so badly. It kept them together. She didn’t want to fail. Again he caved. It would take a few days, maybe a week, but he’d turn the page. He’d turn it with burnt fingers, but he’d turn the page.
She was special. They were special. He needed to believe that, he thought, eating his moka almond fudge like a good boy. She wouldn’t eat an entire ice cream cone, would ask for licks of his. She did the same at breakfast and at lunch and often at dinner. Pleasure had to be rationed. She started talking about who was running in the federal by-election next week. And what the Tories were trying to do by fielding a candidate known to be tolerant of working people, if not sympathetic. A guy in a suit that looked like a car salesman that wasn’t an advocate of union busting, not entirely, anyway.
Evan listened, but only with half an ear. This was Annie’s SOP after one of her abusive rages. Everything was fine. Her hand was on his thigh and weren’t they the perfect media couple, dissecting the Tories on a summer evening? Not really. He watched the people go by but saw her peeking at her watch. It was already near 9 p.m. and he knew she was calculating how long it would take to get home, get to sleep and how many hours of sleep she would have before she hit the pavement for her run. Evan smiled to himself. He knew her mind was making calculations, computing when would she risk saying it was time to go home without putting a pin in the balloon of the pacification process she had initiated.
He saw that her face was falling, the muscles losing their grip as they did at this hour every night as age and fatigue won out. She had the same fragile hold on her smile as she had on her rationale. It was only a matter of time before they slipped away.
Evan decided to save her the trouble. She had problems just being, he knew that, and he decided to save her the internal struggle she was waging.
“Why don’t we go home?” he said. “I want to go to the gym tomorrow and I have a lot of work to do.”
She popped up. She was relieved. A frivolous excursion like ice cream on a summer night, people watching on St. Laurent, stressed her. Evan thought as they walked to the car, if he could bend and not break, it would work. He just needed to learn to understand and accept. No sweat.
Philippe was having a coffee with him. They were taking a break from the studio. Philippe played a hell of a bass, was a well-known producer and Evan’s neighbour. They had met on the sidewalk, each with an instrument in hand and became friends over an afternoon Scotch. The night before Annie had gone into full-blown alcohol-driven craziness and Evan was having trouble losing himself in the music. The session was not going well.
“What you doing with her, man?” Philippe asked. “My wife says the same thing: ‘Evan’s a cool guy, and Annie’s so uptight, like what’s her problem?’”
“She’s fucked up,” Evan said. “Just a fucking mess.”
“My first wife, man, crazy, too. Took a knife to me one night, to my throat, man. Always putting me down, always making scenes out of nothing. I told Laurence when we met, way before we had the kid, ‘no more craziness, no more drama. You go psycho on me, I split.’ She’s been cool. I can’t deal with that shit no more. Life’s too short, man. You need anything, let me know.”
“How about a little more bass on the track … a few more notes?”
“Sure man. For you extra notes at no extra charge.” He hugged him. Evan hugged him back. There was comfort in the music, seclusion in the studio, comfort in the company and solace of men. Males were getting the shit kicked out of them but they were there for him. He had always loved women, he thought, strapping on the guitar in the studio, waiting for Philippe to do the dials and switches and he knew not what, but love of women often left bruises and scars. But he could love guys — he watched Philippe give him a thumbs up on the other side of the glass — and he could survive that unscathed. Guys may come and go, too, but they usually didn’t take a piece of you with them.
He heard the track in his ear, first the bass run, then the drums, then the electric guitar intro, his cue. He started singing. Fuck Annie, one part of his brain said as the other part took his voice to some sad place that oddly made him feel all was right with the world. On the other side of the glass Philippe was smiling and nodding to the beat. Maybe, Evan thought, as he sang, he was a masochist, feeding off the pain. He blew a lyric. Philippe drew his finger across his throat. Cut. Maybe not.
Annie was making conciliatory noises about the book cover. Maybe he was right, maybe an artist would be better than a photograph,
she was saying, but he tuned out. Tomorrow or the next day, when she felt enough time had passed and the burns had somewhat healed, she would go back to her original position: he didn’t know anything. This was just a peace offering, like the palliative jaunt for ice cream.
He sat at a light at Duluth, watched couples walking, talking, laughing, playing. Girls in summer shorts and light skirts, looking lovely and sexy. Was their joy predicated on making their lovers feel like shit? Were they playing a game the way Annie and he were. Pretending all was fine. He doubted it. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
What choice did he have, really? All his money was wrapped up in their little home. Here was the woman late in life he had chosen to ride with. How could he turn back at this age? And where would he turn to? Some one-room dump? Well, that’s where he went when pushed to the wall. But one night was not a life of it. And hadn’t he always run?
Left every woman you’ve ever loved
They were never good enough
Poor you, what were you thinking of?
Live in a room you call home
Three flights up you’re all alone
And she’s fine, she’s living on her own
Now was the time to dig in. Every time they came to the precipice and he stepped back he told himself true love meant riding the waves of the bad times and not letting yourself drown.
“I’m wondering if a control freak can really love,” he told the therapist. She was sporting a new shorter, styled hairdo. Evan told her she was looking good, but she had no patience for his attempts at charm in the therapeutic relationship.
He was on the sofa fiddling with the box of tissues as if it held secrets he could access if only he could find the right door. He stared at her bookcase, avoiding her eyes. It was all so personal.
“Annie loves me but love by definition means giving up some control. I mean, loving is to let yourself go, to trust, to share, to partner. Annie loves me with all her heart. I know that. But I think or wonder if her need to control inevitably pushes her to diminish me, resent me, abuse me. I need to be controlled, in her eyes, for her to maintain control. If I balk, I’m then excoriated for being too sensitive, or sexist or full of unreasonable anger. I feel like a handball being smacked back and forth. ‘I love you so therefore I have to punish you.’ That make sense?”
The Alcoholic's Daughter Page 7
