by Susan Swan
From the far corner of the sauna comes the creak of footsteps on the moist floorboards; then a hair-covered body emerges out of the scalding mist and a long arm stretches toward me, a thingamajig grasped in its thick-knuckled hand. When the arm disappears upwards into the hot, roiling clouds, I suddenly understand.
9
I LIE ON a cot in the prison infirmary, a thick surgical bandage covering the wound at the back of my skull. Bailey and Derek are by my bed, expressions of consternation and alarm on their faces. What trustworthy comrades! To comfort me, Bailey has brought a can of iced tea from the commissary, while Derek gave me a sketchbook he pinched from the supply warehouse. Derek and Bailey think my assailant used a tube sock stuffed with gym locks. It seems the cretin exchanged five Zsa Zsa Gabors for six of my Stephen Hawkings, which I had left in the pocket of my browns.
To comfort myself, I spend my afternoons drawing. Although it is generally dismissed as frivolous fare, there is a great deal to be said for doodling. You make a mark on the paper, and you respond to that mark. Yes, you make a mark and you exclaim: How dandy! I was the one who did that! And after a while you begin to think that nobody else can do it the way you do and you fall into a swoon over what you have done. And sooner or later, when you have drawn enough, you become the master of your doodle the way a factory worker gets the hang of screwing on a bolt.
10
WHAT HAS MEREDITH done? She has cut off her braids and dyed what is left of her grey hair an unsightly aubergine. She has also lost weight, albeit not a great deal of poundage, but enough that the counterpoise of her small, feminine head with the broad frame of her body looks more in balance, as if she has been redacted to the tall, big-boned girl I knew growing up.
She stares in horror at the surgical bandage I am sporting. You’ve hurt yourself!
Someone mugged me in the sauna. I pause. For five bags of Starbucks coffee.
They attacked you over coffee beans? She looks incredulous.
In here, good coffee is rarer than cocaine.
How odd. Are you sure you didn’t do something to upset them? Now that Googie is gone, it seems you are guilty in the Paul family until proven innocent. No dollops of grease for the squeaky wheel, in other words. The noise of the squeaking wheel sets them agin’ you.
I affect my best jocular smile and kiss her cheek. You look different. Where are your glasses?
She waves me away. I use contacts now. And you and I have important family business to discuss.
Her ominous tone suggests I should be awash with remorse, and yet I have no reaction. How I wish I could feel something beyond the pressure of her wishing I would.
With a sigh, I bring out my pen and start doodling. I’m not thinking about composition; I’m simply following where the pen is leading me. It is enormously satisfying to create logic out of randomness, to follow up on the possibilities the first doodle offers you. Doodling is pattern making, after all, and pattern making is how thinking works; you feel a sharp, ecstatic jolt when you come up with a new motif.
Point being, when you blacken a page, you are learning how to work with paper, whether it’s the smooth sort used in a printer or a material like rice paper that deteriorates over time. At first, the paper is inert and inflexible, and what’s more, it doesn’t speak, and then voilà! You give it a voice. Indeed, you are fashioning something out of an inanimate material … and that makes you a sorcerer who works beyond the bounds of logic.
Meredith’s voice breaks my concentration: Why are you drawing? Please put down your pen and listen!
I explain that I listen better if my hand is busy, but nevertheless I set down the pen. Satisfied she has my attention, she pulls out a piece of typed paper and dons a pair of bifocals that match the colour of her zany hair.
Dear Dale Paul, she says, reading. Last week Malcolm told me there is no money left in Googie’s trust fund. For a few days, I despaired. This is the first time you have deliberately hurt your own family members. I tried to understand the reason for your behaviour, so I looked at an old YouTube clip in which you discussed your rules for making money. Number one: Take action. Number two: Learn to sell — selling is a transfer of emotion … I had to shut down my computer because I couldn’t listen to your lies.
You mustn’t jump to conclusions, Meredith.
Not so fast! I wrote down what I have to say so you can’t con me.
When I protest, she shakes her head and continues her cousinly obloquy:
I used to think you were a better person than the man the public saw in the news. And when you were charged with fraud, I felt if I could understand what was stopping you from being honest and fair, I could help you learn to be less selfish. I’m a teacher, after all, so I’m inclined to keep reaching for knowledge, even if it means I get hurt in the end.
I’m inclined to keep reaching for knowledge, even if it means I get hurt in the end … The ease with which my cousin is able to describe her feelings puts me at a disadvantage. My own emotions are not always available to me.
Well, do you have anything to say for yourself? Meredith asks.
I showed you the photographs of my retirement community in North Carolina … the unfinished streets, the fire hydrants and gravel side roads sitting idle and unused …
She looks puzzled.
I told you I needed funds for this development, and I didn’t hear you say no when I said I was going to borrow from the trust. Did you? Admit it.
She gives me the stink eye and picks up where she left off:
I have absolutely no idea how you could spend all of Googie’s money on business projects. Malcolm de Vries claims you had the right to do so because my aunt had given you power of attorney over her property. He says this document meant you were effectively Googie, and any purchases you made in her name were legal, so there is nothing, absolutely nothing, we can do to reclaim that money. How could you have been so reckless?
She frowns as more puddles appear on my piece of paper. Depending on your point of view, puddles are material in perfect repose. Or mass with potential. Today, my pen is making one otiose blob-like shape after another.
Puzzled, I add some dots to see if that improves matters. Hmm … not so much, so I draw a few more blobs, a variation on the theme.
All right. Have it your way. Meredith regards me over the tops of her bifocals. Let’s hear your excuse.
I realize you were counting on getting money from Mother, but I’m working on something that will bring in cash. I can’t talk about it right now.
You can’t talk about it right now … Of course you can’t. Because you’re probably up to no good. Do you remember telling me the money from the family trust would be my retirement pension?
Well, I thought … I hoped that was the case. Look, I’ll make the money back because I care about you. My childhood would have been lonely without you, Meredith.
Her good eye softens. Now that she is without her unflattering glasses, I can see her other eye, the fake eye, clearly.
Good old Kis. You are my ally, aren’t you?
Well, you were so fond of me you ran through all the money that Uncle Joe set aside for my old age. Were you too cowardly to tell me what you had done? Or maybe you just don’t care. You don’t seem to suffer, Dale Paul, but everyone around you does. We pay your price.
Oh, I think I am paying the price now.
Are you? I wish that were true. Nothing gets through that thick skull of yours. She stuffs her nasty letter back in her purse. Do you remember the way you acted when Earl assaulted me?
I feel myself stiffen. Kis, why bring that up?
See, there you go denying things! When Earl tried to rape me, you said it wasn’t important.
Her po-faced air takes me back to our childhood — my cousin has always put on a sad expression when she wants me to agree with her. Fine. If only I could. But I’ve been down th
at route before — surrendering my will for a set of false promises to satisfy my cousin’s notion of how men ought to behave. Before she can make further accusations, I tell her I need to visit the washroom and walk quickly away, the shoddy parquet floor dipping slightly under the weight of my footsteps.
11
WHEN I RETURN to the visitors’ lounge, Meredith is weeping into a tissue. I well up. Doesn’t she know how much it hurts me to see the childish pout on her lips, the depressing way her broad shoulders slump? Perhaps I have gone off on the wrong tangent. We should be talking about how I’m going to provide the family with the money I have lost. Point being, I need to reassure her that things will turn out well.
I sit down beside her and start over. Meredith, I disapproved of Earl’s behaviour that night. You know I did.
She puts away her Kleenex and makes her fussy tock-tock noise with her tongue. Oh, don’t pretend to be concerned. You don’t care what hap-pened to me. You are indifferent to other people.
Kis, I always want the best for you.
She laughs a harsh little laugh. You make me think of something I read once. Never trust a man whose first name could be his last.
That’s not funny, Meredith. Tell me. Have you seen Davie? I’d rather he didn’t know about the trust.
Davie is dead.
I know otherwise.
She gives me a disbelieving look. Please, Dale Paul, not that again.
All right. I make an attempt to smile. How is Nugent? Are you still helping him with his research?
Tim and I have been seeing each other. She starts putting on her coat.
You’re not leaving, are you?
She nods yes.
I see. Then please congratulate Nugent. He always wanted to know what you were like in the sack.
If you cause us any more problems, I will never speak to you again.
Hand on heart. I won’t let you down.
Oh, go fuck yourself, she says and hurries for the door.
12
Tim Nugent
THE LIGHTS WENT off hours before in the skyscrapers near Tim’s building, but Tim is still at his desk, making notes on Meredith’s account of her visit with Dale Paul. Imagine having the gall to doodle while your cousin tells you the bad news about the family trust! He was there when the lawyer told Meredith the money was gone, and the sight of her face tore at his insides. He might as well admit it: he has started to loathe Dale Paul. The lies — the lies are constant. It was Dale Paul, not Tim, who stepped on Meredith’s crinoline at the dance. Dale Paul did it because he was in a bad mood and he wanted to make sure someone else felt miserable too.
Dale Paul’s dismissal of Earl’s assault on Meredith takes the cake.
It happened years ago on a Canadian Thanksgiving. Tim and Earl had gone home with Dale Paul for the holiday. The Pauls lived then in a comfortable stone mansion a few blocks from the boarding school, and Dale Paul had his own apartment inside the house; it was a bedroom suite that had been built for the previous owner’s invalid father, and Mrs. Paul had installed brand new Danish furniture for her son along with a full set of beer glasses, a dishwasher, and a Coca-Cola machine.
Meredith slept next door to Dale Paul in a cramped bedroom that had once belonged to a servant. She jokingly referred to it as The Garret; the wall by the door sloped halfway down so you were obliged to stoop to look out its tiny window. That weekend, Tim had slept in the bedroom next to hers.
The Thanksgiving meal started off badly. Tim had watched in shock as Earl jabbed Irene’s roast turkey with his oyster fork.
For god’s sake, young man, Mr. Paul cried. Were you born in a barn?
Earl exchanged baffled glances with his friends. He had used his hands to slurp down the oysters, so the oyster fork was the first implement he saw by his place setting.
Dale Paul handed Earl a proper dining fork. This will work better, Tim remembered Dale Paul saying.
Okay, I thought maybe Canadians used miniature cutlery, Earl said, colouring up. They do in some countries, right?
Golly, how backwards do you think we are? Meredith giggled.
After that, there were no more gaffes by Earl. Dieter poured them all glasses of Portuguese rosé and they made short work of Irene’s turkey and pumpkin pie with hand-whipped cream. When they finished, Mr. Paul rose to his feet and hit his water glass with his spoon. It made a surprisingly loud tinkling sound.
“My flesh is clothed with worms and dirt; my skin hardens, then breaks out again.” Mr. Paul’s voice sounded soggy with Scotch.
Meredith looked embarrassed, while Tim and Earl stared up at Mr. Paul in slack-jawed wonder.
Job, chapter two, verse twenty-eight, Dale Paul responded.
Life is a tale …
A sorry tale of pain and suffering, Dale Paul answered.
Vallis lacrimarum, Mr. Paul prompted.
Life is a vale of tears. Psalm 84:6 refers to the valley of Bacca where rain filled the pools.
Thank you, son. You often get what you want.
But it comes with a twist, Dale Paul replied. Pater, of all your bromides about suffering, I dislike this one the most. The twist reminds me of the dismal ending in a Grimm fairy tale.
Mr. Paul snorted. When you grow up, son, you will discover the truth of what I’m saying. And look here! He pointed at Earl, who was pouring himself another glass of the rosé. One of our young buckaroos is drinking us out of house and home! Good sir, will you put down that glass and listen to your elder?
Dale Paul reassured his father that Earl had absorbed every word, and Earl made a sideways movement of his head suggesting agreement. Soon afterwards, the teenagers fled to Dale Paul’s apartment, where they smoked a pack of Players that Dale Paul had stolen from his father.
Several times, Tim caught Meredith laughing at something Earl said. She seemed to be enjoying Earl’s attention. Tim excused himself and said good night.
Later, he was awakened by the sound of something large and heavy crashing against his bedroom wall. Alarmed, he threw on his bathrobe and rushed to wake Dale Paul. When they opened Meredith’s door, the party dress she had worn earlier was lying on the floor, and for the first time Tim saw her panties and snow-white bra whose cups had been memorably sprinkled with Shasta daisies. Her dark braids hung in dishevelled strands down her shoulders. She appeared to be panting.
A look of relief swept across Meredith’s face when she saw them. She shoved Earl with all her might, and he half fell to the floor. He let out an outraged howl, and, grabbing her by the shoulders, he threw her against the wall — so that was the cause of the strange noise.
As Dale Paul and Tim stood, too shocked to move, Mr. Paul marched in. He seized Earl by the ear and led Earl out into the hall. Before shutting the door, he yelled at Meredith: Don’t stand there cringing! Cover yourself up. Didn’t I tell you not to invite boys to your bedroom?
Meredith began to cry, and her tears seemed to make Mr. Paul angrier. Goddamnit, Meredith. Get ahold of yourself. None of this would have happened if you had acted more ladylike.
The next morning, Mr. Paul talked Meredith out of going to the police.
You don’t want to make a fuss, do you? he asked in a scolding tone. People will think you’re unhinged.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Earl said he wasn’t sorry about what happened because Meredith was only Dale Paul’s cousin.
It had been a cruel thing to say. Meredith longed for the Pauls to think of her as one of the family.
13
Dale Paul
MEREDITH’S QUESTION ABOUT my attack in the sauna haunts me. Did I do something to set someone off? What if she has put her finger on the truth? What if somebody somewhere in the bowels of this dreadful place wishes me harm?
To avoid encountering my assailant again, I no longer take a sauna with the others. And sometimes I won
der if Derek and John left me alone that morning on purpose. Yet surely Derek wouldn’t do something so underhanded. What possible reason could he have for betraying me?
Perhaps my imagination is working overtime, but someone followed me from the pool to my dorm late yesterday afternoon when the shadows were growing long between the buildings. Curious to discover the identity of my stalker, I waited behind the industrial garbage bins near the kitchen. A few minutes later a large man wearing a hoodie and gym pants walked my way, twisting around as if he was looking to see where I had gone. I stepped out of my hiding place, and he fled.
I swear I recognized the back of the dullard’s head; but, if it was Martino, he had vanished by the time I reached the admin building. There was no one around except for the C.O. at the main gate.
I stood for a moment, listening to the light March wind stirring the boughs of the pines. The grass in front of the admin building was still winter brown, but here and there, some yellow crocuses had sprouted, although soon enough the scofflaws will trample them down.
Suddenly, a furry orange shape came barrelling toward me.
I bent down and patted his fuzzy head. Fixing me with his round green eyes, he licked my hand with his sandpaper tongue. Riley, my boy! I exclaimed. What will become of us?
PART FIVE
DEATH WATCH
1
Tim Nugent
MY APOLOGIES FOR being out of touch, Alexis writes Tim in an email. I’m sorry it hasn’t been easy working with Dale Paul.
Under the terms of the contract you signed with us, the author has total discretion regarding the contents of the book, its copyright, and its disposition. As a ghost, you are bringing your craft to the table, not your ego. However, there is an escape hatch. The clause in your contract gives you the right to withdraw your name from the cover if you’re unhappy with it. In fact, publishers prefer one name with the title. None of that “as told to” business to confuse the reader! Of course, I hope that doesn’t happen in your case.
