Georgia said, “Go ahead. I’ll be right out.”
She checked on their sleeping children. In the bathroom she stripped to her high-rise cotton panties and dingy sports bra. When she saw herself standing there like Cinderella of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, she quickly peeled them off and tucked them inside her clothes.
No towels. They must have brought them to the hot tub. Ellen kept the clean ones in the spare room closet, but that was where the kids were. Georgia didn’t want to walk in there naked in case one of them woke up.
She padded on cat’s feet to the kitchen, dimly lit by the bulb above the stove. The air stroked her. Outside, Ellen was crying out, “It’s too hot, Larry! It’s soup!” He said something Georgia couldn’t hear, something about his mother’s borscht, and Ellen laughed with snorts.
Soundlessly, Georgia stepped onto the deck, into the cooler air. Her nipples hardened and she crossed her arms. Did she want to see Larry Silver naked? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she would rather he didn’t see her, but if he looked now while she was close to the kitchen window, he would. This prompted her to take a few rushing steps into the moonless obscurity before her eyes had fully adjusted. She could just make out Ellen and Gary sitting with their backs to her. Larry was facing Ellen. He was also facing Georgia, but she couldn’t tell if he saw her, he was just a shadow. The only visible thing was Ellen’s squashed white ass perched on the edge of the tub.
Georgia squinted and took another step, the wood of the deck rough under the soles of her feet, then not.
August 25, 1991. Georgia fell.
She landed flat on her back without making a sound, or not a loud enough sound for the others to hear over their conversation rising to a drunkenly boisterous volume. They had got onto sports cars, which Gary disdained but Larry loved. Probably Georgia had grunted when she hit the ground. Nothing hurt—the deck was only three feet up. Nevertheless, she lay there mortified and praying that none of them had noticed. They hadn’t, or they would have rushed over to see that she was all right. She was fine. She would just lie here for a minute until she thought of some way to save herself.
“Say my play’s a hit. Say I make millions and to repay you for your help, I give you a Bugatti. You wouldn’t drive it?”
“Nope.”
“Where’s Georgia?” Ellen asked.
“Modesty delays her,” Gary said. “I would sell it and give away the money.”
“My God,” Larry said.
“Modesty?” Ellen asked. “She has the body of an eighteen-year-old. Georgia!”
Georgia, lying three feet below them and eight feet to the right, heard sloshing. Larry asked, “Another one?”
“I’m okay,” Gary said.
“See what’s happened to her,” Ellen said.
“Would you sit in it?” Larry asked.
“Nope.”
She was cold. The grass prickled her back and buttocks. The smell of it and of the dirt under the deck intensified the longer she lay. She calculated her distance from the deck stairs. She could crawl over to them, drag herself up onto the deck and over to the hot tub, then pop up just beside it. They would never suspect. Or she could go in the French doors that led to the basement rec room and pretend she was only coming out now. Except that those doors were probably locked.
She heard a click, like a door unlocking.
“Really, though,” Ellen said. “She never put on a pound when she had Jacob.”
“I put on a lot of weight when she had Jacob,” Gary said.
“You were doing your part! Unlike someone else.”
Georgia sensed his approach—a very slight trembling of the earth. And then she saw him, a shadow crouching low, almost running, hurrying to her. He landed on his knees and bent over her, dripping. He found her mouth and kissed it. She didn’t resist—the opposite. She breathed in and welcomed first the pressure of his mouth and then his whole weight, so much less than what she was accustomed to. She considered the strength and mass of his shoulders and arms, felt herself pressed down into the earth as he swung his leg across her.
From that position, curled above her, he stirred. With his long, thin cock, Larry Silver stirred up her life.
INSENSITIVE maybe, for Georgia to link these two events in her mind—the Bentall Centre tragedy and that night at Ellen’s. But there were tragic consequences that night too.
First, The Larry and Gary Show was cancelled. Ellen called the next week to say that the DBP was not going so well and Larry was in a funk. “You don’t want to see him like this. I’ll let you know when he gets to the end of Act One.”
School had started by then and all of them were busy anyway.
Six months later Larry left and everything returned to the way it had been before, with Ellen calling late, slightly drunk. What she told Georgia was that Amy had originally kicked out Larry because he’d been seeing another woman; now that other woman had sounded her siren again.
“You’re sure about that?” Georgia asked.
“Yes,” Ellen said, and maybe it was true. When she cried on the phone now, her tears were for Mimi and Yo, devastated by their father’s departure.
“I could tell you didn’t trust him,” Ellen said. “I wish I’d taken the hint.”
Thump, thump, thump went Georgia’s little fist against her chest. Also, Ellen had discovered she was pregnant, but the fetus shrivelled inside her and died. Georgia accompanied Ellen when she had her D&C.
A bloody mess.
And now this, the most tragic thing in Georgia’s opinion, the thing she thought about every time she visited, the reason she couldn’t look at Larry—that Ellen had ended up living so much of what turned out to be her too-short life without Larry Silver, who anyone could see, anyone who had eyes in his head, was the love of her life. Georgia bore some responsibility for this.
The two events had twisted tightly together. Georgia wanted to unply the strands and release herself before it was too late, but in a way it already was. Ellen was dying. Georgia should have told her years ago.
THE next time Georgia visited Ellen, bearing a pot of borscht, it was standing room only even without Larry. In the kitchen, someone was using the blender. Ellen’s sister, Moira, a stouter and gruffer version of Ellen, had arrived from Calgary. Gerhard from next door stood around taking up space.
“You are enjoying this too much,” he told Ellen. “If we all went away you would get bored and go back to work. Your art is calling you. Can’t you hear it?”
Ellen laughed. She seemed ebullient, like she was holding court, alarmingly, after how subdued she’d been two days before. It reminded Georgia of the day before she’d gone into labour with each of Jacob and Maximilian, her sudden burst of energy that had sent her down to her basement studio, where she’d tried to work out a series of steps. She hoped this didn’t mean Ellen was about to die. She hoped it was the morphine.
“Georgia!” Ellen called out. “Moira! This is Georgia!”
Moira, sitting at the table with a pair of reading glasses clinging to her nose as she scrutinized the labels of Ellen’s pills, smiled a tight no-nonsense smile. A nurse, Georgia remembered.
“I was telling you about Georgia last night,” Ellen told Moira.
Georgia had some idea what Ellen had said. That Georgia choreographed dances for preschoolers; that she could, the night before a recital, single-handedly whip up enough tissue-paper flowers to decorate an entire gym; that her closet housed every possible colour of Crocs; that she had worn her hair the same way since Ellen met her despite the counsel of many, many black women who would sidle up to her with the name of the best salon for straightening; that she was “sweet,” “elfin,” a “pixie,” all things that outwardly were true but that belied the bitter seed in her centre.
Mimi was there too, back after several years in Toronto failing to establish herself. Two years older than Jacob, but far behind him in so many ways, she’d been a troubled girl much of her life, though had now sorted herself out enough to
be of help. She brought from the kitchen some kind of chlorophyll drink that Ellen tried to wave off.
“Drink it. Mom. Drink it.”
Seeing Georgia with a pot in her hands, Mimi floated over. She’d inherited her grace from her father—Georgia could picture her as a long-ago butterfly. She’d taught dance to both Ellen’s daughters, but only Mimi had talent.
“I’ll come back another time,” Georgia said, offering the pot to Mimi.
“No, stay,” Ellen said. “Mimi and Moira are going out in a second. Gerhard’s leaving too.”
He showed some surprise, rubbing his ringed hand all over his shaved head.
“Come back later,” Ellen told him. “I need to talk to Georgia.”
To-and-froing. Kisses, partings. Then Ellen and Georgia were finally alone. Ellen pointed to the green drink.
“Please pour it down the sink. She won’t let up until it’s gone.”
When Georgia returned, Ellen said, “She’s found God. Or something like that.”
“Mimi?”
“Ten years ago, if you’d asked me? I would have predicted she’d find Satan. Anyway, she’s more pleasant to be around, except for her concoctions. Sit here. Sit beside me.” Ellen patted the place. “How is Gary? Is he ever going to visit me?”
“He’d love to. You know that.”
With a nod Ellen acknowledged the principles that precluded Gary from ever being in the same room as Larry Silver. The man was loyal; no one could deny it. Ellen reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table, plucked one free and handed it to Georgia even before she started crying.
“You always look so sad. Tell me what’s bothering you. Besides me.”
Georgia looked at the ceiling, but this only made the tears stream faster. She staunched the flow with more tissues that Ellen passed her. “Gary,” she admitted. “I just don’t want to be around him. It’s terrible. But I can’t help it.”
“Did he do something?” Ellen asked.
“Him? No,” Georgia said. “He didn’t do anything. Yet I’m so angry with him all the time.”
“He’s so fat now,” Ellen said. “Are you mad about that?”
Georgia didn’t think so. It didn’t make sense even to her. If she was going to blame the victim, she should blame Ellen too. But she didn’t. Why not? Back then, after Larry left, she’d put Gary through several hellish years that really only ended with Maximilian’s birth. But now Larry was back, reminding her of everything that had happened.
Reminding her right now.
When the door opened, Georgia sprang to her feet automatically, like in the days of The Larry and Gary Show. “I brought soup,” she told Ellen. “Borscht. Mimi put it in the fridge.”
“Borscht!” Larry said, stepping inside.
“Don’t run off,” Ellen said.
But that was exactly what Georgia did. She pushed past Larry, pulled on her boots and bolted. Out the door and down the drizzling street, sobbing now.
After a few blocks, she leaned against a tree, searched her pockets for one of Ellen’s tissues, resorted to her sleeve. Stupidly, she’d run in the opposite direction of where she’d parked the car. Also, she’d left her umbrella and coat. Never mind. She’d go home and phone Ellen later to apologize. She’d pick up her things next time.
She’d just started back in the direction of the car when she saw Larry walking toward her. She recognized his springy gait, so odd in a moody man, and stopped. As though turning and running again weren’t an option.
He crossed the street, not hurrying, simply coming to meet her with a perplexed expression on his face. As he got closer, she noticed the dutiful set of his jaw. Ellen had sent him. People used to say that Ellen had wasted her life in the service of Larry Silver, but now Larry was serving her and no one said it was a waste.
He took her in his arms like he’d done that night, August 25, 1991, after they’d made love on the grass a stone’s throw from their trusting mates. That night they’d run inside, stooped and hand in hand. In Ellen’s basement rec room, Larry had enfolded Georgia against his bare chest. The flesh of her cheek pressed its wetness and felt the rebel thing inside him kick. He kissed her again, then signalled that he would go ahead. In a daze, she’d watched him go, naked, taking the stairs two at a time. She’d waited, then gone as well, up the stairs and through the kitchen and outside to the deck. When she slid into the scalding tub, the others applauded. It seemed hot enough to sterilize her, but wasn’t.
Now Georgia looked Larry in the eye. “I need to get it off my chest before it’s too late. Is that selfish?”
“What?” Larry asked.
“You didn’t leave because of me, did you?”
“When? The other day? I can’t meditate. My back’s shot. Also, you know.” He made claws at his forehead and shook them, signifying, Georgia guessed, mental unrest.
She placed both hands flat against his chest, pushed.
Larry staggered back, surprised, then offended. She could tell he wanted to storm away. But he’d been given his orders and now he scratched his head where the curls were thickest, wondering what to try next. Something that had probably worked a thousand times before: an arm around her shoulder, a reassuring squeeze. He guided her into taking a step. In her confusion, Georgia responded. Could it be he didn’t remember? Or was he pretending?
“The Larry and Gary Show?” she tried.
“How is Gary?” asked Larry, steering her on toward Ellen’s.
“He was helping you with your play. The Something Something. About the Winnipeg General Strike.”
“Please,” Larry said, sounding genuinely pained.
They walked the remaining block in silence. The only way a man could screw his wife’s best friend right under her nose, literally, was if, afterward, he just put it out of his mind. The solution was almost more audacious than the crime. Larry had probably behaved like this his whole life—but here was where he stopped. At Ellen’s door.
He gestured Georgia inside. “Ta-da,” he said to Ellen, before leaving again himself.
“Better?” Ellen asked from the couch.
Georgia nodded, though she wasn’t sure.
“Did he say something?”
“Larry? No. Not really.”
“Maybe that’s better?”
Georgia came over and looked down at Ellen. What do you mean? Georgia wanted to ask, but when she opened her mouth, “Borscht?” came out.
“That would be wonderful.” Ellen sighed.
Georgia went to heat it up. Every time she peeked out of the kitchen, she saw Ellen lying in the same position on the couch, half asleep. Once their eyes did meet (those blue, blue eyes!) and it seemed like Ellen was about to laugh, but she simply fluttered her hands and amended her expression.
11
ABSENT
Mom brought the Tech Deck mini skateboards from Vancouver when she went to visit Nonny Ellen. She got them at Toys “R” Us. There were two Shark decks in the pack too, and an ATM Click deck with a skull that’s Eli’s second favourite. But now Tru has the black Zero Cole Tech Deck with the cobra logo and it’s Eli’s. It is!
At recess Eli follows Tru around the side of the school to the skate park, the one they made themselves. Some of it’s Playmobil, some cardboard. The rails are chopsticks. “It’s mine,” Eli says, but suddenly Tru’s way ahead. He’s practically at the park. Then he is, squatting in the dirt playing with the Zero Cole Tech Deck with the cobra logo that he took from Eli, saying, “Awesome! Backside three-sixty kick flip!” though no way can he do these things. He can hardly ollie, even with his fingers. Also, he says his T-shirt’s camo when it’s tie-dye.
“That’s my deck,” Eli says.
“You’re an alien,” Tru says without looking up.
Everybody calls him that. Eli’s dad said, “Cool. Alien Workshop, right?” which is a skate brand. Eli felt good about it then, but now he doesn’t because Tru means something else, plus he has Eli’s black Zero Cole Tech Deck with the cobra
logo.
Use your words, Eli, Lindy, the teacher, always says. Well, Eli just tried and his words failed. He stalks over to where Tru squats with the mini skateboard, spinning it in the air about two hundred times and making jet noises so that spit comes out.
And Eli kicks him. Kicks hard.
But his foot doesn’t connect. He kicks the air and almost lands on his own butt. How messed up is that?
WHEN Mom picks him up with Fern, Lindy says, “Yolanda? Can we have a little talk?” So they all go into the classroom. Fern screams to be put down, then runs around looking for things to mess up. Mom has to follow her, taking stuff out of her hand.
Lindy says, “The first place to start is a hearing test.”
While they’re talking, Eli sneaks over to Tru’s table. Fern breaks free and makes it to the art centre, spills the paintbrushes on the floor.
Then Mom’s saying, “Honey, you’ve got to listen to Lindy, right?”
Eli’s hand is in the book slot where Tru sits, feeling for the Tech Deck. Tru didn’t put it back in his case. Eli stopped him after school and checked.
“His dad’s dreamy too,” Mom says.
Books are in the book slot, and something old-sandwichy. A pencil case. Balls of worksheets. Eli crouches and looks.
“Eli? Eli!” She’s pulling on the neck of his shirt so it chokes him. “I said we’re going now.”
As he follows Mom out, Lindy says, “See you tomorrow,” and smiles like she’s not mad at him, though she is, she’s mad all the time. She’s had just about enough of him two hundred times a day.
Eli runs ahead and climbs in the truck. Then Mom’s buckling Fern in her seat and Fern’s saying, “Me want! Me want!” and grabbing at him.
“Stop it, you two,” Mom says.
Fern bites Eli on the shoulder and he smacks her one.
Mom leans on the horn. HONNNKKK! “I can only take so much more! Do you hear? Then I don’t know what I’m going to do!”
She hardly ever yells and never has she honked. Both Eli and Fern stop fighting and stare. Mom starts bawling and so does Fern.
“Me want!” she cries like the two-year-old that she is.
Ellen in Pieces Page 24
