When under my breath I say, “I want to see you,” his pants disappear like the magician’s tablecloth trick. He smells good, not funeral-flower sweet, more like salvation-clean soap. I like the velvet of his thigh skin and the coarsening of his belly hair as it moves down to his penis, like leaving the forest edge for the heart of the woods. I like his swallowed gasps and pleasure moans. And I love that he keeps his hands tucked under his head.
Almost-nineteen-year-old boys who are touched like this come quick and easy all over their bellies, and in my mind a long-ago sermon surfaces about some guy getting slaughtered by the Almighty for spilling his seed instead of getting his dead brother’s wife pregnant. So sadness muddies the joy as I wonder about a God who fries a person for that but doesn’t bother much about a father that knocks up his little girl.
Jake strokes my arm, “What are you thinking?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Do you need me to?”
“I need you to talk me through the tangle. What is and isn’t sin about this is hard to figure.”
“All I know is you set me breathing my own breaths.”
“Mary and Nia get me thinking about a creator. Len had me believing in something more. But God the Father makes my teeth itch.”
“When I fiddle I feel something big like the ocean listening.”
“I’m listening. Sometimes, back there in Toronto, on the loneliest nights, I swear I hear you.”
“I know I have many sweet listeners, but oftentimes I feel there’s only one in this vast universe who really hears me.” It might be the fear-fullest touch I’ve ever felt when he wraps his arms round me. “Love me, Ari—please.”
“Forever, Jake.”
On the shore, Mikey treasure hunts with a legion of pirates. From my perch on the ridge I can see the dragonfly sitting on his shoulder. Nia helps herself to the patch on my left and Mary to my right. “Why do I have to leave here? The only conversation Mum and I have had this past year is, ‘Gimme a twenty and where’s the Bromo.’ I wish she’d just hurry up and kill herself.”
Mary gathers my braid in her fist. “So do I.”
I look at her. “You never think any such thing.”
She laughs like a coyote. “What do you think flies through my head when I’m whipping stones at my failure pots?”
“You should play volleyball.”
“I just wish Jacquie was going to be there for you.”
“Babcia is failing and she needs Jacquie; being back home has lifted a little of her sadness. I’m relieved. It scares me the most what the Dick could do to them. Ricky told me he’s a dirty cop with pockets full of scum friends who owe him favours. I just wish I knew what he’s planning for me. They had their eyes on the store but it’s sunk in that it’s gone.”
“Does he touch you?”
“Sex-wise he prefers used-up old broads. He never lays a hand on Ronnie. But he smacks Mum. Takes belts to the boys. He’s more into hair pulling now that Mrs. Vandervolt is sniffing for bruises.” I turn my bracelet, woven from the horsehair of Jake’s broken fiddle bow. “It’d be so sweet to yank out just one fistful of his.”
Nia pulls my head to her shoulder. “A few more treasures to unearth then you can come home. We’ll come at Christmas and stay to New Year’s.”
Mikey’s laugh floats up as he chases Jake. “You think you might sneak Jake along? The Ellis’ have a big house.”
Mary says, “He’ll have festive gigs right through. He’s bound and determined to save for a house and a boat.”
“Can he stay with me in the summer house tonight? We’re not. . . you know. I just want to be with him all the minutes I can.”
My fingers play over the skin the sun never reaches. “You ever notice that all of our wants and hopes fit together like notes in a song?”
“Soul music.” He lifts on one elbow, his finger chasing love-happy curls away from my face. “Ari, I know there are years before we can be together. Just say you might save last dance for me.”
“Is that a proposal, Jake Tupper?”
“What life is worth living without you?”
“What if your band becomes bigger than the Beatles?”
“That’d send me screaming home faster than being chased by pissed-off bees.”
“What if a woman lures you with her exquisite beauty and blue-as-sky eyes?”
“Then I’d be dead because anyone more beautiful than you would have to be an angel.”
“What if you’re given command of the finest vessel to sail the ocean?”
“I might be late for supper, but I’d be home before bed.” He helps himself to a slow, deep kiss and I discover that prime fiddlers play encores.
Once again the train is chomp-chomp-chomping up the miles away from where I came. Mikey is a puddle on my lap. William Walrus brings him a pillow. “There, there, laddie. The glory of a train is, for every trip away, there’s always a train home.”
His face is so tanned against the white pillow. “I promise, Mikey, it’s just the beginning. We’ll go back next summer. Until then we’ll treasure hunt together.”
“I had the best time ever.”
“One day you’ll live with me there. You and I know how magic it is because of where we’ve been.” He clings to a stuffed bear Sadie made for him and drifts off to sleep. As the August-end pictures blur outside the window I close my eyes to see M&N reading the note I’ve left tucked into the pocket of Mary’s ratty old robe.
Aunties: Do you know who is borne of you? Who turns the world with her hand, calls spirits from wood, and leaps over the edge believing she can fly? I am the child of your love. I am your child. Ari.
FORTY-SIX
Mr. West always brings a book on third Sunday, seeing as our meeting times vary according to epilepDick’s seizures. Still, I run across the park to him, as if to lessen the span that July and August created. He closes Meditations in an Emergency and looks up. He’s changed. I’m changed. The East does that to a body. His hair is longer and he looks like his shoulders have been weighted with both wonder and despair. The Taj Mahal is crossed off his list but I suspect a boatload of new questions have been added.
Heat percolates inside and out and I remove my sweater without thinking.
“Jesus, Ari, what happened?”
I scan my arms. “Just a precious little game the Dick and I play, Assault and Buttery.”
“Say what?”
“For every pinch he gives me I butter his sandwiches with vermin droppings. Sometimes I goad him just so I can spread some bird shit on his bologna on white.”
He studies the mess like it’s a Picasso, Arm with Green and Purple Grapes.
“I’m just sparing myself from becoming ‘a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.’”
“Pardon?”
I tap his book. “You haven’t reached that bit yet?”
“Don’t think so. You’ve read this?”
“Title sucked me in. The reference is to making one’s self appear too beautiful.”
“I don’t know a single girl who reads O’Hara.”
“Jacquie gave it to me. She used to read a book a week, sometimes two.”
“Her headaches still bad?”
“No, she’s doing great. It’s like her washing and bundling Jet for Jory depressurized the hurt in a way nothing else could. It’s reading Polish storybooks to Arielle that’s slowing her down.”
“How’s Mikey?”
“Spectacular. What a time he had discovering his inner dragonfly. And, Dickie has eased off with the pummellings because Mrs. Vandervolt is right nosey about his ‘accidents’. The prick just chucks him into the cellar now.”
“Jesus.”
“Chase got us a vermin-proof container from his dad’s company. We stocked it with all the comforts of home: mattress,
books, pillow, blanket, nourishment, flashlight, sweater. It’s like a fort. It even has ventilation, so he can climb inside and close the lid when he hears things scratching in the corners.”
“No one should have to live like this, Ari.”
“And yet we do and we are not a few. You found out just that on your travels this summer, didn’t you?”
His hands swallow his head.
“This will cheer you. I’ve taught Mikey to play Sanitary Confinement. After the Dick throws him in the hole, Mikey puts in time cleaning the toilet or the bird cage.”
“That’s cheery?”
“He uses the Dick’s toothbrush.”
His baritone laugh sounds as beautiful as the turning leaves look.
“Do you sing?”
“Did my time in choirs. Like you, church made me pissy.” He scans the water. “I don’t know how to process it all. The poverty in India is something I can’t get out of my head, and the spirituality . . . everywhere I travel they have their story, the truth for them.”
“Yeah, more and more I think this big God thing is imagination run amuck.”
“My parents think it’s dangerous to my soul that I went there.”
I sit sideways, knees up on our bench. “It is if you let it make you sad, but not if you let all that your trip gave you soak in and mean something to you in how you appreciate your life.”
He turns from the water to my face. “I’m not sad.”
“Yes you are.”
He half laughs. “You’re right. I am. What do you suggest I do about that?”
“Sing.”
“Sing?”
“Sing the song about being more worth than you are trouble.”
“I just feel so . . . I don’t know, heavy.”
“What spectacular luck.”
“Why?”
“It’s like a thistle in your underwear. Who would change anything if they felt nice and comfy all the time? My old teacher at Pleasant Cove went to Haiti and came back ready to hurl herself off a cliff. Instead she collects broken crayons, scrap paper, old books, pencils, all kinds of stuff and sends them to a mission there. How about collecting up all the textbooks ready for trashing? Box them and ship them to that school you visited. They’ll think Vishnu himself has arrived.” He snaps out of his slump when I start singing a down-home folk tune,
Lay hold William Over, lay hold William White,
Lay hold of the cordage and pull all your might.
“What’s that?”
“Sacred music at its best. A story about neighbours helping.” Sun through the maples lights the space around us more spectacularly than cathedral glass.
“Can I hear more?”
“There a whole lovely story but here’s the end chorus:
Lay hold William Over, lay hold William White
Lay hold of the cordage and pull all your might
Lay hold of the bowline and pull all you can
And with that we brought Kit out of Tickle Cove Pond.”
“You have a nice voice.”
“My dad had the voice. Whenever he sang the whole church, even the piano, softened in respect and the pews became deathly quiet. Down-home music is often a whale of a fish story but it’s never a lie.” I check my watch. “I have to go.”
“But you just got here.”
“Laura didn’t pick Mikey up on Friday. I promised to take him over to see that she’s okay.”
“Is she?”
“She’ll pull herself together enough to reassure Mikey.”
“You need help?”
“Chase is picking us up. But next time Laura bails it sure would be nice for Mikey to spend some time with a shit-free person.”
“Well, I’m your man.”
“You are at that.”
His lips tense into a sad smile. “I’ll keep my weekends flexible.”
“It’s your heart you keep flexible, that’s why you’re shit-free.” I reel away singing. “Lay hold Ari Zajac, lay hold Aaron West. Lay hold of the cordage and pull with your best . . .”
He calls, “Ari, I’m glad you’re back.”
“Third Sundays are worth coming back for. Say hi to Belle for me.”
Laura meets Mikey and me at her door. She looks like a dripped-out icicle ready to break. “How’re you feeling?”
Her head moves like a bobble doll. “So-so.” Her hand trembles as she smoothes Mikey’s hair. “Just a bit of the flu. I’ll be right as rain next weekend.” She steadies herself against Mikey’s hug.
She looks more at the greying sky than into my eyes. “Thanks for taking Mikey along this summer.”
“We had a great time, didn’t we, bro?”
Mikey releases his mom and takes hold of me.
“Those chimes he made were the prettiest things anyone has ever given me.”
“Next summer I’m going to teach him how to turn pots.”
“Can’t wait to see what I get out of that.” And with that, it’s over. She says, “Be good, sweetie. See you next week.”
The craphouse smells like piss and bird shit despite the fact that Cunt died two months ago. My mother is wired on shit and the Dick continues to shit on everyone, so life is pretty much how we left it. Except for Todd, who lost maybe twenty pounds just getting off the couch and off to work at the veterinary clinic. He’s closed the book on school but with all his experience living in shit he has a great career ahead cleaning it up.
Ricky never responded to any of my letters and in truth I’m not sad he’s gone. My Fiddler has room for Existential Love but things would be way too complicated living with the Soldier Boy.
I open a letter from Jake. His poetic rambles keep me afloat in this cesspool.
Isaac and Peter’s mum finished her time and came to collect them. Oh, the joy-jumping at her arrival. They’re all off to an uncle’s farm over on PEI. They’re such good lads, they’ll do well. We’re taking a gig in Charlottetown so I can stop in and give them a hello.
No sooner had they left than Danny arrived. He wasn’t in the house an hour before he set the Missus’ best tablecloth on fire. He’s a nine-year-old sorry stew. Mary and I went to a psychologist for some pointers. He said that I had insight. Imagine him saying such a thing. Anyways, he told us about Danny’s dad who treated his only child worse than one would a rodent. Yes, girl, I’m listening . . . and seeing.
Yesterday, I anchored the boat and stood for a while watching gold-limned clouds turn like skirts at a Friday dance. A great blue heron nabbed a fish nearby then launched like an arrow inland. I wondered if he was taking it to his mate or a lonely marsh for one. I know bounty not shared is bitter, and solid is as likely as the ocean roll under me. I know, too, that love is as much held as those clouds are. All it can ever be is a hope, or maybe something bigger, like a belief. Right now a simple hope would keep me breathing. Save last dance for me, Ari?
And so begins our what-if game played across the miles:
“What if Nova Scotia falls into the sea?”
“Then I’ll build us a submarine.”
“What if an eagle steals your fiddle?”
“I’ll send a lioneagle to fetch it back.” I especially like that one.
“What if a giant turtle snaps off my toes?”
“Then stand on my feet and I’ll dance for you.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Milky grey saturates third Sunday, January 1969. I bring hot chocolate and Aaron West and I sit close. His solidness quiets the chaos that follows me from the craphouse.
Aaron asks, “How was your holiday?”
“The usual worshipping of baby Jesus with spirits.”
“Not good?”
“Come they told me for rum-rum-rum-rum. The Dick and Duchess were more rum-soaked than the Christmas pudding. Jillianne came for a visit.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Loves her job. Says she can’t sleep sometimes for all the ideas in her head. She’s off drugs but she downs the wine like its H2-oh-no-problem. We went to Jennah’s and she and Jory emptied five bottles in two hours.”
“You hear from June?”
“Metaphysically. I imagined her in a cozy log cabin. Did you have a good Christmas?”
“It was fine. My sisters got the church involved making shoebox school kits to send along with the book shipment.”
“Did you know your mom sent me a picture of Zodiac in reindeer antlers pulling your cousin on a little sleigh?”
“Yeah, he was the star of the annual skating party.”
“Did you skate on your pond?”
“Every Christmas.”
“How Norman Rockwell. Belle took Mikey and me to the Ice Capades. The kid loved it.”
“What doesn’t delight Mikey? He sees magic in a hike through a swamp.”
“It’s the dragonfly in him.”
He surveys the naked branches above us. “You ever going to tell me what you see in me?”
“Doesn’t work that way. You’ve got to meet it yourself. But stick around. You know Jasper is bound to get pushy. Especially if you keep looking for it in the trees.”
He shifts. “But what if you don’t stick around long enough for me to find it?” His face is so open and lost and—exquisitely sad.
“Jasper never leaves a kindred spirit behind.”
“You see a seahorse?”
“Lord, no. Your animal is way too adventurous to live in the sea grass.”
“You see a fish?”
“It’s a voyage of discovery, not question and answer time.”
“Question and answer is how I discover.”
“Sorry, my craziness, my rules. Tell me, what animal do you see in your mother? Don’t think just say it.”
“A brumby.”
“Nice horse. How about your dad?”
The Clay Girl Page 24
