by Colin McAdam
His car was near, so he decided to follow them when they drove away. Matty got into her car and Simon slipped more carefully out of the eatery this time and got into his own car.
Matty and Kwyet pulled away and drove the usual route to their house. But as they got near they took an unexpected turn left. Simon followed them at a safe distance. At one point Matty reached across and stroked Kwyet’s cheek.
Imagine being inside the intimacy of that car.
Where were they going now? Another unexpected left, now slower, slower, careful. What were they doing? They were stopping.
Kwyet got out of the car. She stretched. Oh, she stretched! (When she stretches we can all stay still and hope.)
Then Matty got out of the car. She went around the front, Kwyet went around the back and got in behind the wheel.
Kwyet drove much more quickly than Matty. He could see Matty shrinking a bit, probably offering gentle suggestions about speed. He fell back from them, sped to catch up, fell back. They knew all the roads around there better than he did. They were all new roads (built by Leonard’s friends, no doubt).
He knew where their house was though, and it was clear they were going somewhere else. It was a sunny day; perhaps they were just having a drive. Kwyet had sped up so much that he could see only the shine of the car’s paint, and when she turned a corner he saw nothing.
He drove on, turned the same corner, but he couldn’t see them any more.
HE FOLLOWED THEM like that for months. There were several occasions when he was sure he could see Kwyet’s eyes in the rearview mirror looking at him.
And once there was Kwyet’s face looking up from a book in their living room. She saw him, and her look was inscrutable— remote, warm, surprised, apathetic—every contradiction harmonized into an ineffably perfect calm that made Simon frantic.
And Matty. He realized middle-aged Eros would soon have run his course anyway, but, let’s speak in unadorned language now: you tasted like fresh bread.
He knew he had developed an inevitable obsession with your daughter, but that would not necessarily have meant the end. He had the funds for an army of loves. Loving you and your daughter made perfect sense. The three of them could have met in the park for ever, never getting to know each other, laughing in green delight.
Now someone wanted to make that into a golf course.
HE WORKED busily behind the scenes. He avoided his office.
Eyebrows—Leonard’s, Eleanor’s, Renée’s—rising two by two.
“Dammit, Struthers, why the delay?”
“Dammit, Schutz, the damned don’t delay, they eat too much and thrive on venality. How are your developer friends?”
HE COULD NEVER hear their voices. Whenever Kwyet visited and they ate dinner together like this, Kwyet was the most animated. Matty smiled, made witty contributions. He knew they were witty because Kwyet smiled and Leonard continued eating. Kwyet tells stories. She moves her hands. She describes a world he doesn’t know in words he can’t hear. Windows shouldn’t be triple glazed.
IN THE BATHROOM at work one day Leonard was in one of the cubicles, shaking the toilet seat and quietly weeping. I was sitting in the cubicle next to him, trying to be quiet so he wouldn’t know I was there. One is used to hearing one’s colleagues at their most vulnerable when they are in the cubicle next door. It is a time when we all tacitly agree to be human, to put up with each other. But this was upsetting.
Everyone in there was listening intently. Was a man really weeping? There was a sense of shuddering nearby.
I suppose he felt his career was threatened. I suppose he was afraid that his income might be questioned. I suppose he knew that his wife had betrayed him.
It was chilling and dreary, I have to admit—a moment when I couldn’t think of anything but emptiness and struggle and how remote the fictions were that baffle the struggle and emptiness.
WHY PUT KWYET amid such predictable geometry?
No line is an accident, every street a foregone conclusion. Mrs. Smith, who wears blue plaid pyjamas, lives at this end of the street, ergo the same Mrs. Smith, ceteris paribus (pyjamas), lives at the other end of the street. Every up has a matching down. Loops, curves, roundels, turrets, mere variations on a theme of straight. Why not squeeze it all together on every side, see what gives? Bend that house into this, let’s wriggle cheek to cheek. Draw a cincture tight around each outside wall until cracks and comical bulges appear, until the space between us is just an idea. There is no need for streets; he can traboule through your living room when expedience dictates. Or if it is all too close, Kwyet, then run beyond the walls.
He can’t keep walking down these streets. Every house has two dormers, on every slanted roof, staring forward, relentless, catatonic. He is walking down the aisle of a mental ward.
Neighbors, neighbors. He was not what he seemed, some common voyeur. He was never what he seemed. But he couldn’t do this much longer. All these walls going up between him and Kwyet. Why won’t you just come out of your house?
He was a giant, Kwyet. Didn’t your mother tell you? When he was your age, he could accomplish anything, have anyone he chose.
“STRUTHERS.”
“Schutz.”
“What’s happening with this golf-course proposal?”
“I am considering it.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Look, Simon . . . I am not alone among our colleagues . . . I don’t need to remind you that these are political appointments. They end, Simon. Approve the golf course.”
“Are you telling me what to do?”
“Let me put it another way. Our Division needs funding, and if it doesn’t get new sources of income, as well as higher public approval, we will all end up in Transport.”
“I have been concentrating on something else.”
“So I gather. And I am beginning to wonder whether it is all that efficient for you to be involved in these decisions.”
“They are my decisions, Leonard. Remember who I am. I am well aware that these are political appointments, and if you think that I cannot get another one, you are forgetting who I am. It is the whole idea, the whole vision.”
“Of what? Vision of what?”
“Imagination, Leonard. I am talking about imagination.”
“What are you talking about?”
“How many golf courses are there in the world?”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, these phases, these proposals, these developments, the golf course . . . more houses, more houses, more houses, and a golf course, Leonard. What are we left with then? What has it all become?”
“A neighborhood.”
“The end, Leonard. Death pretending to be life. Predictability, disappointment, and in the middle of it all a manicured fantasy for men in plaid knickers. A golf course, Leonard? I am talking about creating something wonderful, using the Greenbelt as a proper playground, where imagination grows, not where it ends, not where it has to fit into all the familiar vessels. We can put things there that renew possibility.”
“Right. Like a worm farm?”
“Would that be worse than a golf course? I know what your interests are in this, Leonard.”
“Enough with your threats. I need to know what you are talking about. There is pressure on me. Why will you not approve this golf course? What exactly are you talking about?”
“I’ll show you.”
“Yes?”
“I will show you.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Dr. Paul Overington
National Research Council
1028 Montreal Road
Ottawa K14 6Z8
Dear Paul,
Just wondering if you received my letter of six months ago.
I can assure you I have something to propose that will interest you. Should I call you?
Sincerely,
Simon
Distrust was rising to a poin
t that was no longer fruitful.
It was indeed conceivable that all of their appointments could end soon—Simon’s, Leonard’s, all of theirs. Even if no one did anything wrong. He realized the truth. He was capable of realizing the truth.
I have been looking for a point where it all went wrong.
It was good that he moved quickly.
Someone fell from a window.
Mr. Jerry McGuinty
McGuinty Construction
4 Kathleen Crescent
Ottawa K18 2N4
Dear Mr. McGuinty,
Further to your application (file 80814) , a number of supporting documents will be required before preliminary consideration by this office can take place.
We will require the usual written assurance that hydroelectricity can be adequately supplied and that you have obtained approval from the water board.
However, given the extraordinary nature of your proposed development, some initial environmental impact studies must be undertaken by a neutral third party before our most basic deliberations can take place. Noise and traffic studies, according to the guidelines set out by the City of Ottawa, should be completed over the next four seasons.
An inventory of vegetation and wildlife, compiled, again, on a multi-seasonal basis will also have to be submitted. Please ensure that this first gains the approval of the Provincial Ministries of Natural Resources and Energy and Environment.
Also, in relation to the environment, you may appreciate knowing that the Provincial Department of Land and Environment, in conjunction with the Regional Conservation Authority and the University of Ottawa, is currently engaged in a study of wetlands in the Manotick-Nepean-Ottawa-Carleton region with the intention of formulating a policy on conservation and appropriate development. You will note that near the proposed fifth hole of your golf course there is a large pond. Any decision from this Division on that segment of your proposal will be withheld pending the outcome of the wetlands project.
5
You may be asked to provide additional supporting material from time to time.
Once again, we ask that you do not contact us with inquiries regarding the progress of your application.
Yours sincerely,
Simon Struthers blah blah blah
“WHAT ARE YA READING, JER?”
“A letter.”
“Yer up late. Yiz are always up late.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“I was only wondering if ya wanted to come and sleep with me, like, not sleep with me but, like, maybe you’d like to join me in the room for the night.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“It doesn’t mean there’s something wrong if I want ya to join me, is it? Does there?”
“No. I was only asking. Yeah. I want to join you.”
“Come on then.”
“Fuckin Government.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t be taking yer work to bed, cause there’s no room for the three of us—not near these ribs.”
“It doesn’t smell very good in here, Kath.”
“No one’s cleaning, is it? Is anyone?”
“It’s been a long time since I was in here.”
“It’s a good room. Ya built a nice room, Jer.”
“It does smell though.”
“And I’m . . . sick to death of this room, Jer, to be honest witchyez. I’m sick of it and you say it stinks but it’s a good room, Jer. Let me just lie my head on yer chest there now.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, Jer, yes it has.”
“Long time.”
“Now, don’t start getting into that, Jer. Just leave it. It’s been a long time. Right. Yes. And if it’s been a long time, there’s all the more reason to forget. I haven’t thought . . . the idea of having . . . with anyone . . . no. It’s ages now. How long is it? Ages. Years. More than a year. More than a year.”
“More than a year.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry. Enough, now. Put yer hand back on my head there.”
“Are you tired?”
“Fagged. I can’t stop the tired, Jer.”
“Well, you sleep then. I’ll turn off the light.”
“Don’t turn off the light.”
“OK.”
“I’m sick of the dark.”
“It stinks. I should open a window.”
“It’s cold. Don’t. It just needs a clean. I’ll be better soon and I’ll give it a proper bang-up clean. I’m just tired. I can’t stop it.”
“Do you want a painkiller?”
“Yeah. Pass us a painkiller. Has it really been a year?”
“More than a year, Kath. Maybe you should see a doctor again.”
“It’s your son that should be cleaning. He should tidy up more, but he’s bloody hopeless.”
“He’s been looking after you.”
“Not much, I tell you. Not much, Jer. Have ya noticed that his voice is breaking?”
“Is it?”
“That’s right And you know what that means. He’s off masturbatin on his sheets all the time and not doing what he’s supposed to.”
“Does it?”
“A breaking flippin voice. I’ve got a son with a breaking cracking voice, like with age, cracking with the passage of time. I’m not that old, am I, Jer?”
“You’re not old.”
“I notice yiz have lost some of yer hair there.”
“Sorry.”
“I like it. But it all means I’m old, Jer. He’ll have hair under his arms, too.”
“He will.”
“He does. I’ve seen sweat marks, and he smells like a man, Jerry. And hopeless. Christ I feel old, Jerry.”
“Relax your head there.”
“I feel old.”
“You’re not old.”
“Too old to change anything. Change is just happening, isn’t it. It just walks in and out of the room with a breaking flippin voice. I want to change so much, Jerry.”
“Just relax.”
“I’ll just get over the tiredness. Then I myself will change, Jerry. I promise I’ll get better.”
“You need some fresh air. That’s all.”
“Yeah.”
“How would you like to live by a golf course?”
“Lovely.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ll change.”
“You just rest.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll turn off the light.”
“No.”
“Have a sleep on my chest.”
“Yeah. Goodnight, my Jer.”
“Night.”
BY THE TIME my own voice broke I was on my way to my apprenticeship. When the world was iron and cold, that’s what a young man did.
I don’t believe in that sort of suffering. I believe in the fat of the land, milk and honey, yes. You might not expect that of me. I don’t believe in work for its own sake. It’s like believing in faith and ignoring God. There has to be a point to all that work. I was accumulating some sweet little vats of milk and honey for my son, my friend, and a whole lot of fat. I didn’t want him to do a bit of work if he didn’t want to, because I knew, somehow (faith), that he was a handsome piece of perfection who needed none of the necessary whittling that work can sometimes do. He didn’t have to lift a finger. I had all those secret vats, all that tasty fat.
But up he comes with his cracking voice, saying, “Dad, I think I need a job.”
Boy he made me proud.
“A job, eh?” I wanted to hear him speak more because that voice was giving me little shivers of surprise.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of job?”
“I don’t know. Work. Have you got any work?”
“Have I got any work? Did your father marry a beautiful woman?”
“. . .”
“Yeah, I’ve got work, bu
ddy. You’re just in time. It’s all happening. More work just got approved, so after we pop a cork in honor of your father and the wall-maker’s trade, we have a lot to do.”
I gave him a taste of everything. For about nine months there, he was working in the mornings before school, in the evenings. He worked in the site office, helped some of the girls with whatnot. He worked with the road builders for a bit, shoveling the tar. He worked on Cooper’s team. He still loved Cooper. “He knows things, Dad. You don’t understand,” he said.
He built a wall or two, my friend, so praise his precious hands.
I paid him generously. He was the richest fourteen-year-old in Ottawa South, probably. I’m afraid that I didn’t watch him very closely, though. I just heard what he was up to from other people, in passing. Turns out he was saving.
I WAS AT THE PEAK of my career. People knew me. “McGuinty’s good. Builds a fine home.”
“I see you live in a McGuinty home. That’s fine.”
“Oh, yeah. McGuinty. He built a lot of the best stuff around here.”
That’s the sort of thing you might have heard if people talked like wood. (It was from my radio ads, actually. Very effective.) People came to me with proposals.
“I’ve got a subdivision out in Nepean there. You want a piece of that?”
“We’ve got a nice little piece of land out Gloucester way— care to come in on that?”
I became a bit of a brand, a badge of quality. People wanted my involvement in their projects so they could put my name on their signs. You know you’re a success when the least tangible thing about you becomes valuable. Not your speed, not your ability, not your fists or your possessions—your name. McGuinty.
I am Jerry McGuinty. I was scheming, planning, closing, laughing, struggling, having, wanting, growing seriously big in the gut. I was aware of nothing but what I had to do. And more than anything I was convinced that what I had to do was build a golf course.
I was too busy to wonder why. I caught myself imagining I would one day see Kathleen driving around the kingdom outside my window, my kingdom, in her own little golf cart. I imagined I could own the limits of her world: everywhere she drove was Jerry. I didn’t think about why. That’s the nature of business and dreams. I suspect that you have spent most of your working life dreaming of owning an art gallery or moving to an island to open a scuba shop or something laughable like that. When you get close to it you’ll realize that you can’t paint or you don’t actually like art, that you’ll be bored, that you’ll be broke, lonely, frightened, that to succeed you would need twenty years but all you’ve got, at the most, is ten.
