by Terri Favro
Behind him, the inside lock clicks firmly.
After his shift at the car wash, Benny uses Scott’s money to buy two pork chops at MEAT and shoplifts a Mickey Mouse Club night-light from a second-hand store. Stuck into a socket in the pressboard room where he and Claire sleep, the sickly yellow glow still doesn’t do much to keep the bugs from skittering around on the walls all night.
Something has got to be done. He must get rid of the roaches before the baby comes. Opening I, Robot, he fishes a dollar out of his stash. No choice.
Benny goes to the hardware store on Spadina, run by an old guy with numbers on his arm, the store a tight jumble of valves, nails, and dusty canisters with names like KIL-M-DEAD. The storekeeper has tremors. Benny imagines it’s from booze, but Marco who lives upstairs says the old guy has a disease that makes him shake like a leaf in the wind all the time. These days everybody has a disease, it seems to Benny. Anyway, Benny shoplifts a lock-pick set in a soft leather wallet while the old guy goes up a ladder and brings down a roach bomb. He tells Benny to set it off in the basement flat and leave the place for twelve hours, minimum.
When Benny gently explains this, Claire sighs and fusses but finally comes blinking into the sunshine. They spend the day on the front porch drinking Kool-Aid and rye with Vera and Marco, who share the second floor flat. Vera is Hungarian. Marco, a printer in his native Chile, is an expert forger.
“Visas, passports, drivers’ licences, you name it. But no money,” Marco explains. “Cops’ll turn a blind eye to fake documents, but they treat counterfeiters like murderers. That’s capitalism for you.”
Vera is the oldest-looking woman Benny has ever met who was not really old—“old” being someone Prima’s age, in Benny’s mind. Her face looks like one of the watercolour paint boxes he remembers from school art classes, blue shadow, bright pink cheeks, red lipstick, her pink-and- blonde hair teased and sprayed into the texture of cotton candy. She wears terry cloth shorts and snug little T-shirts with life lessons on them. Fuddle Duddle. Give Peace A Chance. Don’t Trust Anyone Over 30. Today she’s wearing one with a yellow smiling face and the words Have A Nice Day. A heavy syrupy smell clings to her, which she volunteers to Benny is a perfume called My Sin.
“Very French,” Vera explains. “I’m a European, you know.We don’t go for that light-hearted fruity shit the Canadian girls love so much. When you’re a European, you know that life is suffering.”
Vera used to be an exotic dancer, but now waits tables at the Horseshoe Tavern at Spadina and Queen. The change in careers had something to do with the effect of gravity on her boobs after her one-and-only pregnancy, the resulting daughter, Darlene, vaguely and variously referred to as living with her father, her grandparents, a friend’s family, a cousin in Etobicoke, an asshole of a prison guard boyfriend in Penatanguishene, and on her own in something called “city housing.” “Darl and I, we don’t get along so good,” says Vera with a sigh.
She explains all this to Benny and Claire on the front porch of the house at 62 Robert Street over the twelve hours that the roach bomb does its killing work in the cave of a cellar. Benny should be at the car wash, but something tells him to stay close to Claire, who has become not only larger and larger but also more and more distant, as if some part of her is drifting away while the baby grows. Sometimes, all she wants is to sleep away the day in the darkness of the cellar, but Benny hears stories about what roaches do to unmoving humans. And the sun will do her good but she won’t stay out here unless Benny watches her. He bums a cigarette off Vera and listens politely to her life story, which involves running away in the night with her family wearing all her clothes at once, crossing a border, then another border, getting on a train and jumping off a train. There are bribes and a brother shot dead by a border guard. Finally they hide out in a farmhouse before being smuggled into Italy (here she pats Benny’s arm and tells him she’s always liked what she calls “his people.” At first Benny thinks she means the Andolinis, then realizes she means Italians in general).
“All the DPs live in Parkdale, so we went to Parkdale,” she explains. “When I moved to this part of town, I advertised in the Sun for a roommate and Marco showed up. I was looking for a woman but oh well. So it’s a good thing Marco became my boyfriend.” She waggles her hand; she’s wearing a tarnished band on her ring finger. “I wear this, to keep the holy rollers off our ass.”
Marco joins them on the porch from time to time. He’s busy inside, forging documents for illegal immigrants on a second-hand printing press and crushing the roaches scrambling upstairs from Benny and Claire’s apartment due to the roach bomb.
“My young friend, you realize this is pointless, don’t you?” he says, pointing a flyswatter at Benny. “You send the bugs upstairs to us for a while, they come back down to you eventually. Our capitalist creep of a landlord needs to fumigate the whole place.”
Marco reminds Benny of Marcello. He seems to know something about everything. He’s a Communist, which makes it surprising he’s living with Vera, a DP. Marco sees the illogic in this, too, but as he says to Benny, “Communism. Socialism. Fascism. Catholicism. All the old gods are dying, don’t you see that, Benny? Everyone here just wants to drink and fuck and dance and forget.”
6. IMMIGRANT SONG
TORONTO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MALTON, OCTOBER 1975
IDA LOVES THE SENSATION of being suspended between heaven and earth. Walking the aisles after the dinner service, looking at the sleeping souls under blankets, the young mothers whispering stories to children, even the businessmen hunched over their paperback thrillers like monks at prayer, haloed by reading lights. She feels tenderness toward these strangers under her care in this little flying world where time not only stands still, but sometimes spins backwards.
She keeps trying to get Cello to fly with her. His immigration to Canada with his mother had been his last big trip. He still remembers the rolling of the ship, his mother’s seasickness, and a hobby horse up on deck that he rode back and forth, back and forth, across the ocean. He crossed a world while hardly moving at all.
Marcello is like some of the old men Ida remembers from the old country, hanging on to some familiar patch of land, some grafted vines that grew just-so on the side of a particular hill in a particular town. Cello wants his familiar things around him. He has never even stepped onto a plane, although he promises that as soon as the annulment is final, and they’re married, they’ll fly somewhere for a proper honeymoon.
Coming off the red-eye from Vancouver with Georgia, Ida looks forward to a quick cab ride home, a bite to eat, then bed. But when the two women walk out of ARRIVALS, Ida is surprised to see Ed Ceci, his suit and hair covered with dust, his face bloodied as though he’s been in a fight. Even his car, idling at the curb, is coated with dirt.
“Please Ida, just get in the car. I’ll explain as we drive. There’s been an accident.”
Looking at Georgia, Ed asks, “Are you a friend?”
Georgia nods, slipping her arm through Ida’s.
Earlier that day…
Ed and Marcello are together in the rectory of St. Lucy’s Church. The priest’s office smells like Scotch, cigar smoke, and a lemon-scented air freshener that fails to cover both.
Ida’s dossier is spread-eagled on the oak veneer desk, the facts as shamelessly exposed as a blonde in the porno magazines Marcello’s father used to sell at the candy store. Father Dave Como fingers the pages, chin in hand, forehead furrowed, looking over the unsigned affidavit.
He glances at Ed, who thought this meeting important enough for a business suit. Ed used to play hockey with Father Dave at St. Mike’s. Maybe the suit and tie is his way of indicating what team he’s on now.
Marcello wears overalls and work boots. Father Dave is in his black cassock. Each man dressed according to his proper role. The problem is that Father Dave can’t quite figure out what Marcello’s “proper role” is.
“Let me get this straight,” the priest says, slowly. “You’re not the Marcello who was supposed to sign the affidavit?”
“No, Father. I’m his son.”
“Which makes Mrs. Umbriaco … your stepmother?”
“Technically,” admits Marcello. He glances at Ed, not liking where this discussion is headed. They had hoped to soft-pedal this little detail.
Dave is a red-haired, dark-eyed Italian-Irish priest. (“One of the worst combinations,” Ed warned before the meeting. “Bad tempered, likes a drink, and half the female parishioners are secretly in love with him.”) He looks up with a frown, dark eyes flicking back and forth between Marcello and Ed like a linesman who knows something fishy is going on against the boards. “Boys, what the hell is up here?”
Ed shoots Marcello his Let-me-handle-this look. Smooths his tie. Crosses his legs. “How do you mean, Dave?”
“For starters, neither of the parties being annulled is in the room. Why isn’t Mrs. Umbriaco here?”
“She’s working, Father,” says Marcello, uncomfortable calling the priest “Dave,” the way Ed does. “She’s a flight attendant for Air Canada. Ed and I are here as her….” Marcello looked at Ed to supply the correct words.
“Spokesmen?” suggests the priest, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
“Advocates,” says Ed decisively.
Father Dave leans back in the chair. Taps the dossier. Stares at Marcello in silence.
“And what is Ida to you, Marcello?” asks Dave, staring at him steadily.
Ed stickhandles his way back into the conversation. “Oh come on, Dave! Let the guy make an honest woman of her. Ten years from now, no one’s going to care how these two got together!”
Father Dave shakes his head. “Tell that to the archbishop, Ed. He still wants to go back to the Latin Mass.”
“The real husband brought her over under false circumstances,” Ed continues. “He claimed to be a horse rancher, but turned out to be petty criminal. A pornography smuggler using his candy store as a front. Try telling the archbishop that.”
Dave glares at Ed. “You think he’s the first guy on this street to lie to a woman he’s married, but never met? You’re going to have to do better than that, counsellor.”
As Ed and Father Dave skate around one another, elbows up, Marcello’s mind drifts to Ida, who continues to ask what difference it makes if they get married? Marcello knows that it shouldn’t matter in a world where they could be blown up a by a nuclear bomb at any second, where guys are drifting back from Vietnam, no legs, no hands, no nothing. Who worries about an old-fashioned idea like marriage?
Running away together had been the right thing to do, even if he was technically sleeping with his stepmother. But Marcello can’t escape the feeling that, right or not, it is the type of sin that exacts a heavy toll. He’s never stopped believing that the stillbirth in Prince George was a form of punishment. Never again. A proper annulment and a real marriage will wipe the slate clean. It’s the only reason he persuaded Ida to come to Toronto—far enough from Shipman’s Corners that they’d never have to see Senior. Close enough that Marcello could force the issue if he had to. Maybe even resolve the problem with the cops, if he and Ed can figure out a way.
“Marcello? What do you think?”
“Huh?” says Marcello. His mind snaps back to the rectory office. He’s conscious again of the smell of scotch and cigars, the cloying lemon disinfectant, Ed Ceci, the priest, the crucified Christ over the desk with the And good luck to you pal expression painted on His face.
“I’ll come back with Ida next time,” says Marcello, hoping this is a reasonable answer to whatever question he was just asked. It’s also a promise he’s not sure he can keep, Ida being reluctant to have anything to do with priests. Before they leave, he and Ed bow their heads while Father Dave mumbles a blessing. Marcello half expects him to drop a puck at the end of it.
The two men walk to Ed’s car in the church parking lot. “Can you give me a lift? The Chevy’s in the shop again,” says Marcello.
“You’re going to have to replace that old clunker sooner or later, brother.”
Marcello pops out the dashboard lighter and touches it to the tip of an Export A. “I just need her a little while longer. Till I’ve saved up.”
When they pull up in front of the house, they can see the conveyor belt moving dirt through the window; Vincenzo must be hard at work. Leo stands on top of a mountain of earth inside the bin, tamping it down with the back of a shovel.
“Seems like you’ve been on this job forever,” says Ed.
Marcello sits for a moment, drawing on his cigarette, staring at the growing pile of dirt. “We finally took down the pillar holding up the ceiling a couple of days ago, reinforced another four feet of foundation yesterday. Just got to dig out the cold cellar and I’m outta here.”
“Lousy job, eh?”
“Let’s just say I prefer the days I’m up at York.” Marcello opens the door. “Thanks for the ride, brother.”
Hopping out of Ed’s car, he crosses the front yard, cigarette hanging from his mouth, and picks up a shovel. Just before he lowers himself into the pit, he turns and gives Ed a quick wave, tosses his cigarette to the ground, and disappears into the underworld of the house basement.
Ed starts the engine and turns on the radio, searching for music. Finally, he finds Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” on CHUM FM. Nodding in time to the pounding guitar chords, he taps out a cigarette and pushes in the dashboard lighter.
He feels it before he hears it: a loud, deep boom like cannon fire. At first Ed thinks it’s from the radio. He looks up, hand still poised to light the cigarette. When a sulfurous stench of rotten eggs fills his nose, he realizes what is happening. Too late.
The blast blows a wall of dirt, dust, and debris through the passenger side window of Ed’s Pontiac where Marcello had been sitting minutes before. A chunk of wood flies in, hitting him in the side of the head. He reaches up to touch his face and his fingers come away bloody. His ears are full of a dull buzzing and the distant thumping of the “Immigrant Song” as though he’s hearing it through three floors of an apartment house.
He sees Leo staggering toward the car, a shovel still in his hand. His mouth is moving, forming words. He’s yelling something that Ed can’t understand. Ed manages to get his door open and pull himself out of the car, legs shaking, then forces himself to run toward the pile of debris that a few minutes ago was a two-storey clapboard house.
Leo catches up with him, grabbing him by the shoulders. He mouths words into Ed’s face. Ed can only make out one word: Help.
Ed and Leo limp past splintered piles of wood and slabs of ripped linoleum, twisted window frames, crushed doors, chunks of concrete like rotten teeth wrenched from the mouth of a giant. Broken glass and cement dust are everywhere. A stove leans against a toilet, blanketed by a sheet of plaster and lath decorated with Snow White and the Seven Dwarves wallpaper. Blackened roof shingles are scattered over the ground like autumn leaves.
An arm is sticking out from under a door. Stumbling over the debris field, the men grip the door and heave it away, Ed thinking, Thank God, he must have been blown off the ladder before he got down into the basement.
The man isn’t Marcello.
“Vincenzo!” cries Leo, pulling debris off him. “Don’t move! We call the ambulance.”
“Marcello’s still down there!” gasps Vincenzo. His face is a mask of cement dust except where blood trickles from his nose and lips, and down his cheeks from both ears. “He push me against the ladder when we smell the gas. I thought he was just behind me!”
Ed rushes to the edge of the house, to the spot where he judges the basement doorway used to be. The rubble pile is higher than his head.
“Marcello! Can you hear me?”
The sound of his own voice in his ears is
muffled. He falls to his knees and starts digging with his hands, bloodying them in the splinters and glass shards. Others are around him now, neighbours who have run out of their homes to see what the commotion is. Someone shouts that they’ve called an ambulance and the fire department. Leo kneels beside Ed, and the two men dig with their hands. They scoop up handfuls of splintered wood, plaster, and wiring. They keep at it until the ambulance arrives for Vincenzo and the Consumers Gas men start to evacuate the neighbourhood.
“You look like you’re in rough shape yourself, pal,” says one of the gas men to Ed. “I think you should get to a hospital, too.”
Ed shakes his head; he can hear a little more, the ringing receding to a roar like the sound of rushing water. “I’ve got to find my friend’s wife.”
“Calmati.” Calm yourself. A whisper, only. A breath. A thought.
Calmati hangs in the blackness.
His lips are sticky and dry, his mouth and throat full of blood and grit, as though he’s been force-fed sawdust. Why can’t I see anything? His lashes are heavy with dust. He touches his eyes; he can feel something grinding under the lids. Don’t touch. Has he been blinded? He reaches up and the tips of his fingers brush against a smooth, flat surface, an arms-length above him. Stretching, he can flatten the palms of his hands against it.
He decides that he isn’t blind. The blackness isn’t inside him—it’s outside and all around him. Blackness and dull silence. As if the darkness has absorbed everything, even sound. Except for that one word. Calmati. Someone is whispering to him, over and over and over again.
He tries to shout. The dust in his mouth won’t let him. His Help! comes out as a ragged gasp.
He reaches out to touch what’s on either side of him. There’s … stuff … piles of it, shifting and rough, some of it coming away in his hands when he touches it. Some spots feel jagged and slivered, others soft and powdery. If he digs with his fingers, he doesn’t get far until he hits something immovable. He’s hemmed in. Like being in a coffin. That’s what the smooth surface above him is: a coffin lid. They thought he was dead and so they’ve buried him, and now he’s woken up.
