Some Great Thing

by Colin McAdam

  So I come out and tell Kathleen, who immediately comes up with the idea of joining up with Edgar.

  “Why don’t ya see how Edgar’s handling it?”

  So I did.

  That was a nice day. The three of us drove around and stuff.

  EDGAR TOLD ME he was having trouble with it, with getting his mind around how to approach Big Government. I cut down the scale of The Oaks so that none of it actually ended up on this Government land, and while The Oaks was going ahead I met Edgar occasionally and we figured it out.

  The Oaks is a little gem, a little pearl of a neighborhood. It’s easy to drive by, thanks to the Government, but if you catch a glimpse of it, stop. It’s worth a look. You might like to marvel at its quality, especially when you remember that there were little more than two years between the first foundation and the dying breath of paint.

  The second crew made a difference, with babysitting particularly. As part of the reconciliation that I had brought about with the help of the Man in Black, Kathleen determined that it was time for Herlihy’s Meals on Wheels to roll again. Little Jerry had prevented her from working, and she told me in one of her honest moments that the truck helped her to feel free. So while I built The Oaks, Kathleen drove a yellow smile across the face of local construction. And Jerry . . .

  Jerry was such a beautiful boy. I’m going to tell you about his smile sometime.

  Kathleen would drop Jerry off at the site in the morning along with a bacon sandwich or what have you, and he would stay on-site all day. We had forgotten about school at that point, but we remembered eventually.

  I tried to watch him as closely as I could, take him for rides in various machines, but it was hard because, as foreman and The Boss, I already had a lot of kids to look after. So various guys in each crew would watch him.

  Adults don’t talk to kids without trying to teach them something, so even though my crew were morons they taught him things. He learned about accents and fear, as he would at school.

  Understandably the men did not much like having to look after him. He was a jolly little distraction for them sometimes, but you don’t want to worry about ten tiny toes when you’re riding a jack, and you do like to find your tools where you left them ten seconds ago. Cooper was often telling me to get that cunt child out of his face—and, as these things always go, Jerry loved Cooper.

  If I had a moment, say, between sanding a wall and, what, helping a brickie on the next house, I would show Jerry little things, important things.

  “Don’t throw oily rags anywhere, not just anywhere, Jerry. Throw them in that bucket there. K, big guy? Fire. We don’t want fire.”

  I taught him my secret mix. “Just a pinch of lime, K?”

  He learned a lot from watching. It was always the noisiest things that he liked. Steamrollers. You’ve never seen a kid get a more private pleasure than Jerry on one of those old rollers. I have recently had occasion to learn from him that the pleasure was like flying, and that flying, for him, is all about noise.

  THOSE DAYS ON THE OAKS were when I first noticed the clouds gathering in the head of Tony Espolito, usually when he was telling stories at lunch.

  “Your wife’s a fuckin drunk there, Jerry boy, Jerry boss. Your mommy’s a fuckin drunk, Jerry Junior boy.”

  “Shut your hole, Tony.”

  “It’s true, fuck.”

  “Listen to the boss, Tony, and shut your fuckin cunt.”

  “Up yours, Cooper. I’m just talkin, I’m just saying. I seen her is all I’m sayin. I was up there. Been up there around whatsitsname and I seen her is all I’m tryin to fuckin say. You know.”

  “Forty beers a day, or a two . . . twenty-four . . . a two-four of beers a day,” said Antonioni, “and you see a lot of things, Tony.”

  “He’s drinking on the job, Jer,” Cooper told me.

  We all drank on the job in those days. We all had beers in our hands when Tony was telling his stories because it was lunchtime and that’s what you do. I never had more than two while I was onsite. A man like Cooper had four or five—any more and he knew he would do something criminal. But Espolito had a lot, always.

  “In Italy: no!” Antonioni said. “A man does not drink the beer on the job.”

  “Fuck Italy,” Cooper said.

  “What’s Italy?” asked Jerry.

  “Prison,” said Cooper. “That is where a man does not drink beer. Ya can’t have all those bottles around in the yard, cause if there’s some fucker around like Espolito here, you’d cut him.”

  “Look, I see things is all I’m saying, fuckin clear sometimes, like I’m on high, like I’m a fuckin prophet, boys, and you can, and you can, fuckin listen or not. But I seen whatshername, and I seen terrible things in the future.”

  He would switch. We were all becoming familiar with his switches. He would look like he would be crying a bit, and then suddenly he’d be furious.

  “Fuckin clear. I’m fuckin telling you!”

  And he smashes his empty on a rock near little Jerry.

  Espolito was aware of those clouds, at least. He would look surprised and remorseful after he did something ugly. Whatever it was that made them gather (whether it’s the booze that makes the clouds or the clouds that make the booze—I’m not the person to ask), he had some sense that something was going wrong, and eventually he did something about it.

  Edgar Davies came by the site that day just as Mario was punching his countryman in the gut for smashing his bottle near Jerry. I was ashamed of the scene in front of a visitor. I took Edgar aside and invited him into one of the finished houses. I would show him that if my men couldn’t get along, at least they could build.

  “The fighting keeps them warm,” I said, and I lit a propane burner to make things feel civilized.

  “It’s cold as a nipple, Jerry. I don’t blame them for exercising. This is a nice room, Jerry. Shit. How much did this cost you?”

  “My right arm, Edgar. My right priceless arm.”

  He was one of those handsome men, Edgar. Smile and all that. He still is, I suppose, but old men with all their hair look like women with too much makeup.

  “I’m glad you came by, Edgar. I think I’ve got a solution.”

  I told him about the mall and we worked out our plan. Truly speaking: I told him the plan, I did the thinking. I was generous with Edgar in those days because I knew Kathleen liked him.

  “He’s a chum,” she said.

  We worked it all out. Edgar knew how to get the investors’ attention, and I held one little magical piece that I told him about. I’ll tell you about it in a second. Altogether we chatted for a couple of hours and I felt excited about the future.

  I came outside when Edgar left and noticed Jerry looking pale and shivering so I brought him into the room I had heated. That did the trick.

  “AH, JER, I HAD a good day today, I’ll tell yuz, a great free day, and I made us a bit of money.”

  “You didn’t . . .”

  “I know I didn’t need to but feck it, I did. Maybe forty dollars or so. Edgar’s got a lot of fellas working for him.”

  “So do I.”

  “I’m only saying. I made a lot from them. And I drove a lot, now, free as a bird for a couple of hours there, love. The van will need some work, though. I’ll be putting the money toward the van, if ya don’t mind. Jerry, in an unrelated point, would ya mind trimming some of that hair in your ears? You’re lovely though.”

  “You’re lovely. You look happy.”

  “Ah, feck, am I. What was the monster doing today? Did ya have to clean his arse?”

  “Why are you always asking about his ass?”

  “Because I’m sick of it.”

  “He was good. He worked hard and the boys treated him well. Except for Cooper. Cooper made him do some sanding because there was no sanding to do in the house Cooper was in. I had to take a few splinters out of him.”

  “The truth is, Jer, I don’t think forty dollars will entirely cover the work on the van.”


  “Let me have a look at it.”

  “You’re too busy.”

  “I’ll look at it tomorrow.”

  “You’re too busy.”

  “I’ll look at it first thing.”

  “I said you’re too busy, now stop arguing. I just thought you might give me a little money, for the van and other things sort of freedom-related. I found myself without tomatoes this morning, which is not a good sort of a thing, and I quite like the idea of having a beer, like a little one, with the likes of you at lunch.”

  “That’s a great idea. You’ve got to join us more at lunch. Stay with us.”

  “That’s a lovely idea. But it’s hard, now, isn’t it, because lunch is when I’m selling the most. Forty dollars. It’s not to be sneezed at.”

  “You don’t need to sell all the time. Join us for lunch.”

  She started a round of sneezing then, which, given what she just said, seemed like the cutest little joke imaginable at the time. Up yours if you think it’s corny. I gave her a hug that I can still feel, which makes me sad to still feel because her hugs, when she meant them, rolled up from her feet and pressed all the right places.

  “I’ve got twenty bucks I think,” I said.

  “Lovely. That would be lovely.”

  She said it in my ear.

  It was freezing in that house and we instinctively stayed within an inch of each other even if we weren’t getting along. It was a feature of the winters in that house, me and her acting like Siamese twins.

  I could be an honorable man on occasion, too. I was on that occasion. I had her an inch away from me, her gratitude in my ear, and I stayed an inch away. No pressing, no pleading, no “Hey . . . look what I’ve got!” Just an inch away like the air of her body is all a man needs.

  I build cold houses. I should warn you.

  MY LITTLE PIECE of magic was a fat fucking chump by the name of Leonard Schutz. I had known him from one of the local councils seven years earlier, and now he happened to be in Big Government, a Chairman of some sort, happy as ever to lick the bowls of others.

  “Mr. McGuinty,” he says, “I see you have built some fine houses,” he says, “even I myself would buy one.”

  “Is that so? Is that the case?” I says, and “Yes,” he says, “it is the case, my good Mr. McGuinty, and I wonder if you plan to build more.” So I says, “Yes, as a matter of fact,” I tell the man, “I do, in point of fact.”

  “I admire a man of fact,” he says, “and what,” he asks, “are the facts that you might not be of?”

  “I am all ears, my kindly gentleman buddy, ears and hungry for facts.”

  “Well,” he says, “one fact that you might not know is that you cannot build just anywhere, Mr. McGuinty, sir, not just anywhere at all.”

  “Well,” I says, “I was possessed of that general fact, the sort of father of that fact, but I don’t know all its children.”

  “Well, before I introduce you to them let me provide you with the fact that I am your friend, Mr. McGuinty, a good friend, with things to offer, as well as certain needs. Would you like a chocolate?”

  “No,” I tell the man, and he says,

  “I know the sort of environment that exists at the moment in the planning of what you might call the future of this city.” And he sucks on a fuckin chocolate. “In fact, I have a hand in it. You and I are friends, of course, and so we can be frank with each other. But before we be frank, would you mind telling me what sort of a price you might be asking for a three-bedroom house of the sort you might be able to build?”

  I can’t remember the exact figure, but these days you would laugh at how small it was, because money has been putting on some ridiculous airs in the last twenty years.

  “That is a fair amount, my friend,” he says.

  “It is a solid amount, my friend. Fair in the sense of fair, is what I think you mean.”

  “Indeed, Mr. McGuinty, it is fair in every sense. As am I, I believe. And I believe that it would be a shame for you not to be able to capitalize on a number of houses at such a fair amount.”

  “I’m all ears,” I says.

  “In the current environment I would have to say that your chances are not so fair. This is not local council any more. It’s one hundred percent different.”

  “A hundred percent,” I says.

  “That’s right, Mr. McGuinty.”

  And so I say, “Let’s say it’s not a hundred percent. What percentage difference from the days of local . . . what percentage difference, generally speaking, would make my chances of building more fair?”

  “On a hundred percent, I would say a difference less of eighty percent would make a likely difference.”

  “Twenty percent?”

  “Eighty percent less. That’s right, Mr. McGuinty”

  “I’d say forty percent less sounded more believable.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to say less than sixty-five percent.”

  “How about fifty?”

  “Fifty-four.”

  “Fifty-three.”

  “Done.”

  So, who cares, a fat goof gets a house at forty-seven percent of the price I charge everyone else. So what? He promises to sprinkle chocolate on the tongues of Big Government. It’s worth it.

  It’s magic.

  A NAKED KATHLEEN in the blue light of our bed at night could blind me for a year. Only on occasion, let’s say once a month, would I see her like that: pale, nude, open, her and the bed like some sweet bruise that I had to press on. She gave me a sense of sadness and fragile human bones that I got from no one else. I might have learned about fragility from my quiet little son, but in fact I wouldn’t have. The past few years have taught me that Jerry is the strongest substance known to man. My business is in things that can’t break; I don’t know why it took me so long to appreciate Jerry and reject Kathleen.

  You there listening to me, know this: she blinded me till there was hair on Jerry’s chin. Don’t expect to hear about a very Big McGuinty for the next little while, not until you hear the sound of a woman hitting a window.

  I won’t tell you more about that until its proper place, but the window comes to mind when I’m talking about fragility. Just know that when you hear that sound, I have smartened up—strengthened. Until then you might occasionally wish to have a laugh at my expense. Go ahead and watch me in that bruise of a bedroom and laugh until the tears come.

  WHEN YOU’VE FINISHED, dry your tears and picture me in a furniture store, if you please, because that is what I remember next in the establishment of my life.

  I had sold a chunk of The Oaks and was looking for furniture with my friend Kathleen, who knew what every salt drop of me tasted like, and we were at the height of happiness buying things with some shiny new wealth, hoping to make our house look different.

  We weren’t very good at furniture. I am the first to admit that I have no taste, but it occurs to me that having good taste is usually about living for other people. Kathleen had no taste, but I thought the things she did with cloth and curtains, what have you, were kind of glorious, even if they were usually kind of funny and flammable.

  We decided to spend a lot of money on this occasion. We bought a couch that cost as much as the room cost to build, and we bought these four swivel chairs that were made in Finland, or one of those other countries I’ve never wanted to visit. Height of fashion, is what the salesman said. They looked pretty silly, like they would last as long as a haircut, but these four chairs were the craziest fun I ever sat down on, and they eventually played a big role in my life. They lasted for ages.

  Kathleen, Jerry, and I sat on them in the store and loved them immediately because they Spun, buddy. One touch of your toe on the ground and you turn from noon till nine before you realize where you are. The three of us went for a spin together—they had the four chairs set around a circular table in the store—and we had a good giggle, turning slowly at first just from the force of sitting down. Then faster. Then faster. Kat
hleen’s face flying by, smiling, Jerry reaching down to the ground with a foot, climbing back up when he’d pushed himself off, squeaking his laugh. Those chairs are like ice that you can’t stand up on—you never get where you want to go, and the effort makes you laugh. They were gold velvet; I knew Jerry wouldn’t like the material (I don’t know why kids hate velvet and adults think it’s a treasure), but he loved the spin.

  I got up from mine and went over to Jerry, grabbed the high back of his chair and spun him hard. Yaayhaay! He spun like he was falling. And then Wham! I stopped his chair fast to make him dizzy, boy. The second time I whammed my hand down I declared that I would buy the lot—the four chairs and the table (and the couch). I left Jerry spinning in his head and Kathleen spinning for real, and I went and paid for some priceless fun.

  When I came back to the two of them about ten minutes later I saw a red mark on Jerry’s cheek, purple anger on Kathleen’s face, and puke on the table and on the arm of Jerry’s chair. It smelled like the raisin toast that Jerry liked for breakfast.

  I should have realized that those chairs would cause me trouble. I should never have taken them home.

  “I’M PROUD OF YA, Jer, proud of you building all them houses.”

  “Thanks, baby.”

  “It’s a hard thing to do.”

  “Thanks, baby.”

  “Sure, I am proud, baby.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ve only driven my truck around, in my life. I’m proud of yiz. That’s a nice thing, is it, to have someone to be proud of. I’ve never felt that before. Feels like a luxury. I like it. Like it’s a feeling you, like, someone, could do without, but it’s lovely anyway, right, like you’ve got your love and you’ve got them sexy feelings, and hate, and all them things that shake the world around, and having someone to feel proud of isn’t anything that will do much shaking, like it’s all just for my own benefit, which is lovely. It’s a feeling on top of a feeling, like a sauce. Am I sounding like an arse?”

  “I think you should sell your wisdom instead of your sandwiches, baby.”