Last thing Henry sees as they retreat is Joey playing air guitar out in the yard.
Once they’re through the border — thankfully with no issue over the purpose of the visit — Aristedes, who is navigator, fumbles with the map, turning it upside down and right side up before attempting to explain the route through Diablo, the same one Henry had to turn back on in the fall because of the snow. Henry makes a noise from the back seat that even he thinks sounds like a whimper.
What now? Chas asks.
We can’t go that way. Not this time of year, Henry says.
Ah, the seat of the back driver, Aristedes says.
Henry says, I’ve been this way before. Look at the map, the road is closed in the winter.
Why should we believe you? Wendy asks.
Really. I can’t miss this date tomorrow. I could go to jail.
Jail! Aristedes roars. Aren’t you fancy, my friend.
Okay, we won’t go through Diablo, Chas agrees.
Henry closes his eyes and wishes there was a good road map for his life. The sky is grey and so is his mood. He pretends to sleep for as long as he can, the heat in the car helps, and except for a pee break in Ellensberg, and a dinner stop in Coeur d’Alene, he pretty much fakes the sullen-criminal-in-hiding thing until they’re in Wallace cruising for a room. They pass the courthouse, an imposing boxed-wedding-cake structure that takes up the entire block at Bank and 7th Street, and looks more frightening than it did the first time he was there — the snow on the dark mountain behind bothers him. It’s late by then, after ten o’clock, and the motel’s sign is blinking no vacancy. They drive by a quaint historic hotel, but Aristedes and Chas decide to pass.
Too small to fly under the radar, Chas says.
Gay men in cowboy land. Gyro mess, Aristedes adds.
After circling town a couple more times, they pull up in front of the squat two-storey sandstone hotel at the end of Cedar Street. Old-fashioned brass sconces adorn the doors and give the place a big city, tarted-up look, sophisticated enough to provide anonymity. Chas holds the oak door open for everyone. Aristedes heads straight for the lounge, and Chas steps up to the clerk.
Two rooms with double beds in each. Yeah? he says, turning toward Henry and Wendy.
For the last part of the journey, Henry has been moving between sleep and anxiety, apprehensive about this moment. What kind of room should he and Wendy ask for, and what will happen when they get there? He really needs to sleep to be sharp the next morning. He’s about to shrug out a yes when the clerk saves him.
Sorry sir, there’s only one room left. Might be the last one in town, what with the skiing being so good. Are you here for the skiing?
No, we’re here for a court hearing, Wendy says.
Well then, I’ll see what I can do to make you comfortable. How many are you?
Four, says Henry. He wants to take control of the conversation, make sure no one says anything more about court.
I can set you up in the queen room with two cots. Would that suit?
In the morning Henry can barely wake up and his tongue feels thick as a sausage.
It’s probably the Ativan I gave you last night, Chas says.
When they walk the three blocks to the courthouse, Henry realizes he might still be a little stoned, which surprises him — the pill was so small. His legs are on autopilot as they come up the courthouse steps where a few people are sucking on last minute courthouse-jitter cigarettes; two bored-looking cops loiter near the top. Wendy, who looks sleepy, is first through the glass and metal door. Aristedes and Chas file in after her. Henry is last. The heavy door slams, and the clatter echoes down the long corridor. Inside there seems to be the sound of many feet drumming on the floor, reverberating, even though it’s only a woman walking toward them on the marble floor in high heels.
Henry holds out his court document. Excuse me, where can I find this courtroom?
Right there. She points to a mahogany door.
Chas says, It’s hard to believe you need so many courtrooms in a town this size.
Oh, there’s loads of people get themselves into trouble around here, she says.
Her shoes clack on the floor as she moves away down the corridor under the high ceiling and past several doors.
The four of them sit at the back of the courtroom on a hard bench. They might be in a church, what with the bible on the witness stand and the high wooden desk like a pulpit at the front. There are already a dozen people in the room, all of them silent except for one guy with sideburns the shape of a Texan boot, who seems fussed about the length of the list for the morning. He’s trying to convince the clerk to rearrange the appearance order.
The DA has no objection to me going first, he says, pointing to a slight young man sitting at the front of the room running fingers through his greasy hair.
The DA doesn’t respond.
The clerk says, I’ll ask the judge.
Henry takes comfort from this if it means he won’t have to go first. Just then the doors behind the wooden desk open. A diminutive man with a round head and in ill-fitting black robes walks through to sit in the pulpit chair.
All rise, the clerk says. Order in the Court on Friday the 4th day of January in this the year nineteen hundred and ninety-one, Judge Stanley Hinds presiding.
The judge picks up a piece of paper and says, I want to start with the detention list.
The clerk says nothing, the DA runs his hands through his hair, and Sideburns lets out an audible whoosh of frustration.
The clerk stands and calls, Henry Parkins.
Henry floats out into the aisle.
The judge gestures him to come forward.
He walks toward the front and the DA begins, If it please the court, the details are in the remand record . . .
The judge holds up his hand.
The DA stops speaking.
The judge picks up another piece of paper and studies it.
Henry’s head whirls with random words — baby jeans, baby jeans pays, baby jesus, baby jesus prays —
The judge is talking again.
So, Mr. Parkins, am I to understand that you drove down here from Canada looking for one of our local celebrities, got yourself drunk, crashed into a transmission tower, destroyed private property, nursed a hangover in our jail, promised to pay us back? And now you’re reneging? Is that right?
Henry nods.
For the record, Mr. Parkins, yes or no?
Not exactly.
Well what then?
Henry doesn’t know what to say. Words are swimming — Mother caused it, Mother made me, you’re such a bad boy, cluck, clucking disaster, you’re going to jail Henry — but nothing will come out his mouth.
Well?
I don’t know, he finally answers.
Do you have a job?
No. Yes.
What does that mean?
I was working. I am working. I’m starting a new business.
So, you have capital?
No, not really.
Assets?
A house, but it’s in foreclosure.
Lord above. Well I hope you brought your overnight bag because you’re going to jail, Mr. Parkins.
Henry looks to his left to see Aristedes standing next to him.
If I pleased the court, I am Aristedes Giannakos and I am Mr. Parkins’ guarantor. I run the best Greek delicatessen in all British Columbia and Mr. Parkins grows the best chickens. He’ll have you the money in six months. I put my word.
We’re going to need more than your word, Mr. Giannakos. Are you prepared to post bail?
Yes. I have all the money you need.
The judge turns to Henry. So you’re a chicken farmer?
Yes, sir.
Have much trouble with avian flu up there in Canada?
No, sir.
Good. Do you believe in clipping wings?
Henry is on home turf now, like he can talk a little. He tells the judge, You only need to clip one wing. If you do th
at, it throws the chicken off balance and it can’t fly.
Okay then. Mr. Giannakos, speak to the cashier, see what you can work out. And Mr. Parkins, you straighten up and fly right from now on.
Yes. Thank you, sir, Henry says.
The four of them walk toward the back of the courtroom. Aristedes turns to give a polite bow to the judge, the door crashes behind them and they’re in the hall.
I don’t know how to thank you, Henry says.
I’m proud of you, says Aristedes. Enjoying yourself so much you go to jail!
I’ll get the money back to you soon.
I know this, my friend.
Back at the hotel it’s late afternoon. Everybody but Henry has had at least two glasses of retsina and is starting to feel happy. Aristedes, who has had several glasses of piss of the rat, hits Henry on the back, and says, Stick your chest out to crow. You’re free. Show us around. Where do you go to drink here?
Well, I bought the beer at Singles’ Nite in Kellogg, Henry says. It’s Friday, so it should be happening again tonight.
Well then, it’s to Kellogg we go, Chas says, putting on his jacket and fishing in his pocket for car keys.
Wendy insists Henry sit beside Chas to navigate. Henry feels guilty because he’s thinking about Charity, wondering if she’ll be there, if she’ll remember him. She probably will, they had their picture taken together. The thought of her pretty smiling face makes him feel shy, and what about Wendy in the back seat? How will this all go down? It’s so complicated. They should turn around, but since everyone else is in such a good mood, it doesn’t seem fair. They drive the dozen or so miles to Kellogg, stopping to treat themselves to double-bacon cheeseburgers, passing the corner where the mechanic’s shop was, a For Lease sign out front — no wonder the guy cheated on the bill; even so it still makes Henry mad thinking about the Visa. But when he sees the neon can spilling golden beer into the parking lot and the overly bright fluorescent lights inside the place, his palms begin to sweat.
Pull over here, he says.
Really? We’re going to Singles’ Nite in a strip mall? Chas asks.
You’ll see, Henry says. Tell the woman with the rusty yellow freckles you’re single.
Charity is spinning the singles wheel. This time she’s wearing a green gingham multi-layered southern belle dress and old-fashioned lace-up boots. Her hair has been dyed ginger and piled on top of her head in what Henry believes might be a bouffant. She looks even prettier than he remembers, and slimmer.
Hey there, welcome to Shop-Mart! she says. I’m Charity. Give me a second to finish up here and I’ll be right over, folks.
She hasn’t really looked up. That’s maybe best.
Chas and Aristedes disappear to the magazine rack and Henry ushers Wendy to the back to hunt for the knitted mice that hang by the processed cheese slices. When they get to the cooler, the mice aren’t there anymore, but in their place is a giant knitted Swiss cheese wedge with a small mouse peeping out one of the holes.
Isn’t it cute, Wendy says.
A set of couples is in the midst of a singles swipe. Two beefy men with outsized women hog-tied to their right legs push shopping carts around, a small crowd of onlookers cheering them on. The big man with the red face wrenches a bottle of hand lotion from the hand of the large blonde woman on the other team. The lid comes off and a waterfall of pink spills to the floor. The crowd cheers. The blonde shouts, We have a default here!
Above the cacophony, Chas’ voice explodes, Unreal, two of you in the same room!
Henry turns and sees Chas wildly gesticulating at him, Come on over here, Henry. We gotta do this. It’s tomorrow night.
Chas holds a card out. Henry approaches. On the front is a picture of a knitted Airstream Trailer with the words KNIT REACTOR printed below it.
What’s tomorrow night? Henry asks.
Hey, I know you, Charity says.
Yes, I was here in the fall. From Vancouver.
Yeah. I sent you an invitation. You came. That’s so cool. Nice to see you again.
Henry flips the card over and reads: Charity makes her knit art to bring attention to all things that fail the honor test, whether it be the home of a murder victim, or the lowly war declarations of George Bush (may he never succeed).
Henry’s a knit artist too, Chas gushes.
You never told me that. What’s your focus? Charity asks.
I don’t know. I don’t think I have one, Henry says.
Sure you do, Wendy says. He works with feathers and wool. He makes beautiful meditative environments.
He made a Constellation Room, Chas adds.
Aristedes stands with them now. Henry can tell by the way his bearded mouth makes a big O, he’s going to say something wildly inappropriate, and hugs himself in fear of it.
He makes best knitted chicken bottle, Aristedes says. Wait. I go. I come back.
Henry lets go of himself, nothing bad came out, and everybody laughs when Aristedes swings back into the Shop-Mart with the bottle on his head and the knitted chicken neck swaying rhythmically in front of his face.
It’s not supposed to be a head adornment, Henry says.
He takes the knit chicken from Aristedes and nestles the neck into the body to make the chicken look like it’s sleeping.
Everyone take turns stroking the black-and-white feathers, admiring the handiwork.
Can I include it in the show? Charity asks.
Sure, says Aristedes. We fill her with more hot water and she plumps up even better.
SIXTEEN
Dirty Annie’s
OH MY GOD, HENRY SAYS.
It looks great, doesn’t it? Charity says. She sidles over to the Pepper knit chicken bottle, which has been placed on a plinth in the centre of the Shoshone County Gallery. But it is the guest in the corner, the one wearing the silky western cowgirl outfit, that’s astounding him. Her hair is a bit darker than in her pictures, but there’s no mistaking the perky breasts. And what’s more, Jamie Lee is prettier in real life than she is in her promo photos.
His foot gives an involuntary jerk in some sort of fright or flight response when Charity introduces them.
Henry, this is my good friend Jamie Lee. She’s master of ceremonies tonight.
Charmed, Jamie Lee says. Aahhh-eehhh.
His hand collides with hers in a handshake. Likewise, he says, not trusting himself to say more. Besides he’s not sure what she said there at the end. Maybe she knows who he is, and is exclaiming about it. But how could she know? He tells himself to stop being paranoid. Then when Jamie Lee speaks to the woman behind her, he is pretty sure she gives the same little aahhh-eehhh sound after she’s finished. Soon enough he realizes she makes the sound nearly every sentence or two. He wonders how she gets away with not doing it on the radio. To his ear, the sound resonates in the same range as the notes so-la from the song “Doe a Deer” that he used to sing in elementary school.
Everybody circulates with drink in hand, oohing over the art, even though most don’t understand what they’re looking at — Henry included. But he reads the title cards and all the statements, and he’s tingling with excitement, fascinated by the connections Charity has made, the colours in the room, and of course, the people — Charity and Jamie Lee make quite the pair. He has to keep himself busy so he doesn’t stare too much. He does the circuit again and this time he understands, he gets it how innocent knit objects can stand for something else. The knit airstream trailer replicates the home of a recent murder victim from Silverton, a young mother killed by an angry husband. He is reading a statement tacked to the wall near a knitted machine gun — some places where there’s been a war, whether physical or spiritual, need to be covered up, others need honoring, either way the knit medium works — when he hears the familiar radio voice.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.
Jamie Lee is standing on a small stage, holding up a glass of white wine, with Charity beside her.
Everybody get yourself a glass so we
can toast my good friend Dora, I mean Charity. Gee, Charity, it’s hard for me to get used to that. All those years living next door to each other, Charity was Dora to me. A toast to my good friend, Dora-Charity, in her artistic triumph.
A young man appears at Henry’s elbow and holds out a tray full with glasses of red and white wine.
To be polite, Henry takes a glass of red and hoists it with everyone else and without thinking takes a swig. It tastes a lot better than retsina.
Jamie Lee rattles on about Dora and art school, Dora and tattooed freckles, Dora and southern belle dresses, Dora and her photographer boyfriend Peter, so notoriously shy he’s outside right now shooting the event through the window. Never once does she make the so-la sound. That is, until the end of her tribute.
To Dora and Charity, she says. And to her new found artist friend from British Columbia, Henry Parkins. So-la.
He takes a big gulp of wine. She knows his last name. Someone along the way must have mentioned him to her — this crazy guy Henry Parkins who stalked her all the way from Canada and crashed into the KLUK transmission tower. Now she knows he’s that guy. He downs his drink and grabs another from the young man’s tray.
Somebody has decided to join the drinking team, Wendy says, smiling away.
No, not really. Here, this glass is for you.
Thanks, I already have one. But if you’re sure you don’t want it, I’ll take it over to that guy playing guitar.
Now that he bothers to notice it, the rock-music-trying-to-sound-jazzy is loud; a big man with long blond hair streaked with grey, hands the size of baseball mitts, is hunched in the corner over a beat-up Les Paul guitar. Henry watches Wendy put a glass of wine on the amplifier and the blond man smile at her as he switches his song from “One is the Loneliest Number” to a jazzy version of “Lay Lady Lay”. It’s corny enough to make Henry sorry he gave up his wine, so he goes in search of another.
He’s beginning to have a good time, except for the stress of being in the same room with Jamie Lee. But the wine helps, especially when he’s sidelined by the lady from the Arts Council with the droopy eyelids and a hat that’s hard to look at — jewelled cats and penguins dangling from the brim — who chats him up for a donation. It isn’t until he gives her ten dollars he doesn’t really have that she moves on to other victims. When his eyes lock with Jamie Lee’s across the room, only social protocol keeps him from running. He’s not sure what he sees in her eyes. Disdain? Possibly fear? Not good, whatever it is. Besides, isn’t she married to Billy Wray? He just has to ignore that she’s in the same room with him. Come to think of it, where is Billy Wray?
Cluck Page 20
