“Have you seen my mother here today?” Tom asked. He felt Eddy leave his side and move to the edges of the crowd. Before he could call to her the Reverend had him by the arm and was leading him through the sea of blue and gray hair and polyester and pure white sneakers.
“I believe she’s among the pastries,” Reverend Tom Jones said.
Tom found his mother holding court with several other women and a scattering of bewildered-looking older men at a table displaying goods she baked. Tom had not known his mother to bake before, so he found it difficult to believe that the snacks before him were her product.
“I’ve found your only son, with whom you are well pleased, I’m sure,” the reverend said as they approached. “Such a fine young man.”
“Tommy!” his mother shrieked, and all faces turned to him. “You came. Now try some of this.” Before he could protest, his mouth was filled with pastry. Soon women from other tables were introducing themselves and, instead of the customary handshake upon greeting, were forcing cakes and brownies and rice-krispie squares into his mouth. He smiled and chewed and tried to make casual conversation through mouthfuls.
His mother interrupted now and then with “this is so-and-so” and “this is so-and-so.” And Tom nodded to each person and forgot his or her name immediately.
“So tell me,” the pastor took Tom’s arm and led him out of the circle of women while his mother winked at either Tom or the pastor. “When are you going to come to one of our services? Your mother speaks of you quite often and it would be great to see you in the congregation.”
“Oh, well,” Tom stumbled, “My job is... it’s not your nine to five kind of thing. I work a lot of evenings and weekends, you know. You go to the people when it’s convenient for them.”
“Of course.” The pastor led Tom to the edge of the parking lot away from the business of the bake sale. “I understand that sort of work. My brother sold cars for most of his life. Did fairly well.”
They stood in the parking lot facing the Art Official brewery. Tom smiled and jabbed a thumb at the church neighbor. “It’s too bad you have to share space with the brewery here,” he said, “My mom says it’s blasphemy.” He hoped church lingo would ingratiate himself with the minister. He felt inexplicably nervous.
“She said that, did she?” The pastor glanced at his neighbour’s building. Then his gaze met the swaying trees and the clouds above them. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Tom,” he said. “You mind if I call you Tom?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then please, call me Tom.” The pastor smiled. “I’ll tell you something, Tom. You see that church?” He pointed back to the large building and the people selling cakes in the parking lot. Tom nodded. “That is just a building. And so is that.” He lifted his arm to indicate the brewery.
“...”
“Many of these ladies here, and I’m not saying your mother, but many of these ladies here get offended by things that have nothing to do with the church. But you know, Jesus told us to live in the world, but don’t be of the world, if you know what I mean. Or if you know what He means.” The pastor laughed.
Tom smiled uneasily. “Actually, I don’t think I do.”
“Folks get hung up on things.” The pastor was not smiling now. He was looking wistfully at his flock in the lot. “Legalistic, you know. The truth is if you believe in God and give your life to Him, then nothing else really matters. Was your father a religious man?”
“I’m not sure,” Tom said, “He never talked about it a whole lot.”
“The way your mother speaks of him he must have been a spiritual man”
“I don’t know,” Tom answered honestly and at that moment realized the pastor’s hair resembled his father’s a great deal. The same sweep of gray off the forehead, the same length of sideburns.
“Well, I would have liked to meet him.” The pastor said.
“He was very good,” Tom said simply.
“I can imagine.” The pastor smiled. “Come to the service one Sunday, Tom. Take what you want, leave the rest. You don’t have to buy into everything everyone tells you, but in my experience, it gives a person great comfort. Who could ask for anything else?” His hand was on Tom’s shoulder and, rather than feel uncomfortable, Tom felt relaxed. It was like speaking with an old friend. “Just be good to yourself,” the pastor said.
“Everyone!” someone shouted from the front doors of the church, “The Kool-Aid is ready!” The people in the lot began to gravitate to the church, mumbling their conversations to each other.
“Well, ladies,” Pastor Tom Jones shouted back to the group, “Shall we?”
“Are you coming in, Thomas?” his mother called to him from across the lot.
“I suppose so, I do have a lot of things to do today,” He said, “And I wonder where Eddy went.”
Tom loitered in the parking lot watching for his dark-haired friend among all the white-haired ladies. Soon, he felt he was alone in the lot and he was sure he hadn’t seen Eddy go in. “Eddy!” He called out and startled an elderly woman he did not see. She clutched at her heart and frowned at him severely and he apologized with a grim smile. “I can’t find my girlfriend,” he offered as an explanation, and the woman started on her walker to the church. He followed her briefly wondering if he should offer assistance. The scrape of the aluminum walker against the tiny rocks in the parking lot, the shuffling gait, it looked like an arduous procedure. But how would he help? Give her his arm? She had the walker already. Pick her up and carry her to the front door? Would it be piggyback, or would he just hoist her under his arm? Would he have to prop her somewhere while he retrieved the walker from the lot? What if someone ran over the walker while it was sitting there alone?
“Tom?” he heard. It came from far off. “Eddy?” he shouted again. He heard Eddy yell his name. He began to walk the perimeter of the church.
He finally found her between the side of the church and the near-empty back parking lot. She sat crossed-legged and gazed up at him with horror, her eyes wide, her face and neck covered with ooey-gooey goodness. Chocolate, whipped cream, marzipan... Her hands protected the bounty in her lap, stolen frantically from the bake sale tables.
“Oh my God, Eddy. Are you alright?”
“Tom... Tommy...” She gasped in ecstasy.
There was a scream as the woman with the walker found them and mistook the raspberry sauce for blood running down Eddy’s chin and neck. The woman looked at Tom with a mixture of disgust and fear. She fumbled in her purse for either a cell phone or mace. Before she could decide, Tom bent and held Eddy’s sticky hands to lift her easily to her feet.
“Get me out of here,” Eddy screamed, with Tom alternately leading her away and keeping her hands from reaching up and shoving a finger down her own throat. “Please, Tom,” she gagged. Tom carried her to the car.
She threw up twice in the car on the way home. “Eddy,” he called to her through his own retching, “don’t do that!”
“Oh my God,” she choked, fingers down her throat. The chocolate had quickened down the front of her shirt. Tom stepped harder on the gas wishing to be home that instant. The Saturday drive to their apartment was different than his morning and evening weekday commutes. The traffic did not flow as well. Those driving during the week had a purpose and a place to go each way. Weekend drivers were impulsive in the way they changed lanes and where they decided to slow down or turn. Tom felt something near panic as he instinctively slalomed through vehicles, intuitively turning for the off-ramps that would take them to their neighborhood, their street.
The mannequins turned slowly to greet them as they came down the street. Tom shut off the headlights long before they reached the drive. Eddy pulled herself from her slump in the passenger seat and ran to the apartment door in quick, jerky movements. She didn’t want to talk and she didn’t want to be near him. She wanted to lie down in the darkness of their bedroom. Tom found he was all right with that idea as well. So he tucked her
in and played her a relaxation CD of electronic cascading waterfalls. Though it skipped badly, like all their others, only this CD lost nothing through digital malfunctioning.
He retreated to the living room and stared at the telephone wondering if his mother would phone to rant tonight or leave it until Sunday. Maybe she hadn’t been apprised yet. Word travels fast, of course, but perhaps she would have to gauge her response by the attitude of the friends bringing her the news. The Christian thing to do, Tom knew from their conversations, would be to pray for the person, not judge, and disallow gossip. So Tom knew they were all talking about it this very instant.
Tom knew people who would believe it to be their duty to let others know when they were going wrong. He knew people, and some former friends, who would seem to take pleasure in exposing another’s failings in a feigned effort to help. Tom always thought of it as being nosey, or bossy. Or both. Tom was not like that. He would not point out mistakes, thinking instead that the person who perhaps needed correcting knew their problem already and was either a.) Living with it and relatively happy or b.) Unhappy as hell but unsure how to fix behaviour and/or situation. Either way, Tom was not qualified to solve personal problems. The best he could do had been written in hundreds of greeting cards already. In fact, the rare time he did try to placate someone or offer that person words of wisdom, the words were lifted wholesale from the type of feel-good junk e-mail one received daily. Yet, with Eddy, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his opinions, and even judgments to himself.
First of all, she probably wasn’t healthy, either mentally or physically. Second, she was miserable, because she was undernourished and depressed about her body image. He wished he could try to be more understanding, but it was hard to live with someone who acted as though they hated you. He tried to be supportive; he hid the fashion magazines that always displayed the sickly-looking models she chose to emulate. He made dinner frequently and watched her pick at the food and later disappear into the washroom. Third, and he was ashamed to admit this even to himself, she looked like shit. Her bones stuck out in jagged edges everywhere he touched. Her face was sunken and withdrawn, her eyes dark, her mouth a grimace. She didn’t look at all like the fashion models. Even they, with their protruding bones and withered faces had expensive clothes and lighting and professional photographers to make them appear sexy to someone. Yet Eddy looked like a toothpick draped in a sock. Clothes hung on her. Even her g-string drooped on her. The rare time she would let Tom touch her, he was afraid she would just break apart, like a treasure at the bottom of the sea, tampered with after hundreds of years and evaporating before the treasure hunter’s eyes.
And fourth, did he really love her? He was not without his own problems, he knew. When they first met he was adjusting to anti-anxiety pills that made him feel weightless, or like he was slowly treading water all the time. She told him pills were nothing to be ashamed of and confessed her eating disorder. She ate too much, she said, and he complimented her on her figure for someone with that sort of hang up. She showed him her plethora of diet pills. Pills were just something to help keep the balance, she told him and he felt relieved. After all, the anxiety pills did level him out enough that, while he couldn’t go back to college, he did decide to embark on the life insurance career. He was not much qualified for anything else.
When he decided he could not go back to school he tried selling cars. And this was how he lost that job: There was a client who he should have called on Thursday morning. Tom knew it was going to be a problem and he was looking forward to a long weekend and did want to be mired down with any customer complaints. Overwhelmed with his lack of productivity, he felt paralyzed and knew that getting away from it all for a day or two was the perfect thing. Monday morning, he placed the belated call only to discover that the customer’s main and most fervent complaint was that he hadn’t received the call on Thursday. The man was so angry that Tom defended his lack of action by telling the client that he was very sorry, he was away because his father died. The customer mumbled an apology and hung up. But the client immediately called again and asked for the manager, telling the manager that he admired Tom’s work ethic so much, coming to the office so soon after his father passed. The manager then called Tom to the office and praised him for his work ethic and insisted he take more days off. Which Tom did. Only in the shower on some mornings would he question what he had done. When he got back to work there was a lot of sympathy and he had to force himself to mope around as if he really had lost his father. In a few months, he was able to pretend to be slowly getting over it. He carefully paced himself through the five stages of grief he researched on the internet. He circled dates on his small desk calendar with different coloured sharpies. The 23rd you will still be in denial, the 24th you can be angry for a few days. And he feigned anger, and people tolerated him. The acceptance stage was circled with green and he felt so pleased at arriving to this stage he was sad he couldn’t share it with someone. But when his father truly died, for real this time and unexpectedly, Tom had to spend his grieving period going to work and smiling at everyone and anything. He found that the five stages of grief could not be scheduled and tended to overlap and return. There was Facebook, of course, so it didn’t take long for management to say they had heard through the grapevine that his father died. Did Tom have two fathers? It was possible. But, no. Tom told them everything and was fired.
The balance Eddy told him about seemed absent in her life as they grew closer. If she actually attained her goal, whatever that may be, what would be left of her? What at first seemed to be a nagging inconsistency at the peripheral was now an all-constant center. Whatever the center was for her it blotted out everything else, including Tom. And Tom had not only grown accustomed to the back seat, he began to prefer it. He couldn’t understand it so he left it gratefully alone.
“Why do you care so much?” he asked her on a rare moment he broached the subject. She was not in the mood.
“Your problem is you don’t give a shit about anything,” she hissed.
“That’s not true,” he insisted, while inside realizing that he had no haunts. There was nothing that drove him toward some end. There was nothing worrying him at inconvenient times. His inability to worry began to worry him. Then he would begin to feel offended. Maybe it is true, he thought, maybe I don’t give a shit about anything. It isn’t such a bad thing. In fact, it feels downright pleasant and relaxing. Who wouldn’t prefer that feeling to driving yourself or someone like you toward some end? What would the end accomplish? And how would you know that you have reached the end you envisioned. “Who really gave a shit?” Tom always concluded.
$$$
“Eddy, this is going to sound strange,” he said, “but I have a plan.”
“A plan?” Eddy asked from her perch on the edge of the couch. “What are you talking about, a plan?”
“For our money problems,” he said, and she looked over at him. He glanced away. “It might sound weird, though.”
“What the hell is it Thomas,” she said. “You’re freaking me out.”
“If we took a life insurance policy out on you it would mean a paycheck within say three weeks.” He winced.
“Are you going to kill me?” she deadpanned.
“What, no, God no. What?”
“I’m kidding,” she leveled. “I know what the fuck you mean. You get paid on a policy that you sell.”
“That’s right. That’s right,” Tom said, excited. The money would relieve some of the stress and pay off some urgent things, but the esteem was attractive. The esteem of taking something from payroll with his name on it. They would slide the cheque in the mailbox next to Wally’s or someone. Theirs would be much larger, of course. Yet, it would mean he was in there. In the running. He felt his belt buckle inching into his stomach, little by little. Nearly painful. Nearly time to loosen the old belt. He hoped he conveyed all this to Eddy with his eyes, because he needed her to understand immediately.
&n
bsp; “And what happens after that?” she said bluntly. “Maybe you don’t sell another policy for who knows how long, and then on top of all these other bills, we have one more; i.e. my life insurance policy.”
“But I will be on a roll.” He said, but at the same time snickered at her use of i.e. which made his reasoning sound insincere. He wondered how he was to explain the concept of roll to her.
Her face suddenly contorted into a grimace that caught Tom off guard. She was crying. “I can’t believe I am saying this, Tom.” She hiccupped, “I don’t believe in you.”
“OK.” He shrugged. “That’s ok.”
“No, it’s not.” She coughed each word out, “I don’t think I love you.”
“Ok.” He said again. And shook his head good naturedly to reiterate.
“Oh my God!” she said. “That makes it worse. You aren’t in love with me. What am I doing here?”
She began to flail on the couch, as if struggling to get up. Tom knew he should just be quiet. This could be another of her episodes. Times when it was dark out, with no moon, she would pace the apartment slowly. It was unsettling enough when it was raining and he would close his eyes at night and see her creeping around the living room, creeping over the furniture, or simply swaying like those mannequins right above their heads. Why didn’t someone put up curtains? Could he demand that? To whom? The landlord would know. Perhaps the landlord and the owner of the mannequins were one and the same. Still, and better yet, why didn’t they take them all away? Why only some? And then bring in more. It was so morbid. The way his headlights glared on them when he came home. He knew some of the figures so well he was saddened by their abrupt departure some evenings.
Eddy straightened in the couch, and calmly took Tom by his shoulders, looked in his eyes. “I will do this for you. But I am leaving you. I don’t love you and I want something better for my life.” She sniffed, and a tear/stream of snot went up her nose like water in a dry bed of a neglected houseplant or desert. “I will sign the document, but it’s your bill, you show me where it says on there that you pay for it, because you and I are through, as of this minute. Done.”
It's Called Disturbing Page 10
