The birds were singing. The morning seemed to smoulder. A black filament spun from the sailor to each object as we walked, his hand round my waist.
“Hey, that dude you were kissing at the bar, the sax player? He’s damned hot is what he is! He your old man?”
“No.”
“Say what? Bullshit!”
“I guess.”
“But he’s hot. Say that much. Hey, girl. You’re too smart to get it on with a loser!”
And of course the night passed as nights pass. You know. The traffic rattles over the bridges, the floors at home creak. I am glad Brian didn’t bleed to death. I pity him. Sometimes there’s a spider in the bathtub and I talk to the spider, we have great conversations about men and women. I will just keep planting the glass. Wait for the glass to do its work. My eye on the world sees only him and I pity him.
I’m looking forward to the day — soon now — he’ll get out of hospital. We’re bound irrevocably. I believe that people create their own lives, and I’ve hooked mine to his. Our moments link together. I begin him. He ends me. Begins the word bitch with his lips, stops it with his tongue, finishes it off with his eyes. Some fabric like metaphysical flypaper fixes us. My nerves, his fear, our by-products. Just you watch the sparks fly.
I was not there in the park that morning when. That day of bonding when. My foot is not growing numb as. This meshing fills my senses. Brian walked the railway tracks home after the gig, under the Bay Bridge to the path through the trees lining the inlet, rather than over the bridge and along the streets, sun not yet up but the sky already white. Tripped twice over a tie; the second time set his tenor case between the rails and took a piss watching the water ripple past the little island just east of the rail trestle. Used to be a burial island, rumour has it. Log booms skirt the old sawmill buildings across the Gorge. A barge waited at dock, half-full of sawdust, for the machines to start up again, for the spout to begin spewing yellow shavings. Nodding off. Drag the horn up and reel on along the tracks, family of quail cheeping from the bushes. A motor launch for company across the disused freight yards: intermittent company along the winding path into the eastern reaches of Bamfield Park. Round a bend, the launch bow pitched toward shore. Phoenix. A dog asleep on a shelf against the wheelhouse glass. A man and a boy staring intently forward to where the path ahead dipped to the Gorge, to a man crouched, his shoulders straining, face set. The Indian, dressed in jean jacket and soiled striped pants, was adjusting a come-a-long, increasing the tension of a heavy cable connected at one end to the prow of a vessel half-submerged at the inlet edge, the other end tied round a tree alongside the path.
“Your boat?”
The Indian lifted his eyes. “Gillnetter.”
“I guess you’ll wait for the tide?”
“Fix her this afternoon. Float her next flood.”
Brian straddled the cable. The name on the hull of the grounded boat was Marilyn, in gothic script. Some details already established differed from the actual details. The taut line was not heavy wire but thick polypropylene rope, frayed and dirty yellow. The real cable lay slack in the grass — two casual loops on the path — disappeared into the water to surface at the tilted bow to which, like the rope, it was affixed. He could see it now. The cable, the rope, the come-a-long. The taut rope, a provisional link, was fastened around the tree trunk. The Indian held a knife under the rope and, as Brian set his foot into one of the cable loops, slashed upward. The Marilyn lurched backward into deeper water, and stopped. A crackle of pain circled his right ankle. The Indian’s shout was laughter, pain his answering hoot. They shared a great joke. The cable loops disappeared, the wire dug into the red ankle. The dog in the launch barked, while father and son came chugging closer, faces pale and grim. The hot circle rose and expanded to fill his body. The Indian, the Gorge, and the trees began to revolve in a ponderous fashion. Dirt crammed under his fingernails. A metallic smell permeated the air. Wheeling gulls assisted the pirouetting landscape as Marilyn shuddered farther onto her side. Wrens ticked through the mesh of leaves. On the path was a glass shard, each word on the torn beer bottle label so clear. His fingertips ached from punching the pearl-faced keys to achieve the wild riff with which he’d ended his last set.
One other thing. As Brian relived this scene for me, I saw with absolute clarity, above the path, in the gnarled oaks, the retreating backs of Naomi Frechette and Al. The two were holding hands and Al’s inquisitive head turned this way and that. Naomi wore the green housecoat. One sleeve of Al’s plaid shirt was rolled up, the other flapped from his loose wrist. Round them, the wood, the grass, the criss-cross streets enclosing the park and the Gorge, sparkled in early sun.
JANE HART’S AIRBAND
One
Hi, this is Jane Hart.
Let’s see. Okay. Last Monday at nine am I entered the grocery on Princess and felt on edge. Strange, because the twangy voices from behind the bead curtain usually put me right at ease. Did I recognize a false note? In hindsight sure, a beefy tone below the twitter of the Chinese family. Maybe even then something weird cooking.
“Tempus fugit, kid,” I said to the punk minding the till.
His eyes glazed over. A definite stink, like fear. I stretched my jacket tight against the piece at the small of my back.
“Don’t wet your pants,” I said. “You got any tomatoes? Fresh tomatoes?”
The punk stared at me, then his eyes skittered across the shelves round the shop. “Tomatoes?”
“Yeah. Red juicy things full of seed.” I could almost see his mind playing commercials. Row after row of canned tomatoes, tomato paste, tomato juice. But fresh tomatoes?
The yapping suddenly stopped. The punk looked desperate. “No,” he said. Then he clammed up tight as a working girl to a known scumbag.
“Next time I want to see big ripe tomatoes, understand?”
I took the envelope and left, called over my shoulder as the door swung closed — knowing the kid would strain to catch the words — “Hey, relax. You got a kind face. Don’t mess it with worry. See you!”
The street smelled like rain and a rainbow slammed its bridge across the sky over the Institute and the Coroner’s office. I felt better. I did a few shoulder flexes. Maybe in the afternoon I’d throw some baskets with the girls in the business section.
Mr Wonderful, I know you’re interested, I figure The Court of the Crimson King was maybe the finest long player to come out of the sixties. My mom played it a lot when I was four or five, when we were living in North Van. Recently I’ve been listening to it as I get dressed mornings, before going out collecting. Baam-bam-bam-bam-bap-baam, baam baam baam. “Twenty-first century schizoid man!” I dig the saxes best of all. I think maybe I’ll organize an airband in the neighbourhood. You know, mime freaks who want to be stars, and we’ll get bedecked, spangled and coiffed and make let’s-pretend rock vids. I’ll start an airband with a twist. We won’t follow anyone. Jane Hart and the Hoods. Total silence and a lot of frenzy. Maybe the hiss of a blank cassette, cutout cardboard guitars. All original arty stuff. My favourite books are by this chick called Constance Spry. I found them in the antique store on my route. Come into the Garden, Cook and How to do the Flowers and Flower Decoration. I get a real kick out of Flower Decoration. Some “Sir” says in the introduction that florist’s shops are the rendezvous of gilded youth. Yeah, that sounds about true. There’s this really meaningful guy works in the flower shop in Chinatown always gives punky teens the sad eye. Looks like Gumby. Got him pegged as the airband’s drummer. A sweety, but he’s probably dyke, a pretentious slender type who looks like he thinks he’s another sex. Sure, he’s a cock, I’m a pussy, no doubt about that, but he’s only interested in me as friend. Because of my business suit, I guess. Because of my savoir faire — I know a lot about flower arranging. Because I collect. Mostly because I collect. Tits in lapels only attract certain types, and the piece outrages everyone. That’s why I’m a free agent. Kill myself with drugs, I won’t. I’m a collect
or and I don’t want nobody plugging me. That’s what it is, the nine-to-five machine, uncut dope, pure and simple, to match you with the rest. My mom would agree if she was still around, though she was stupid in every other way. She passed on waiting for true love to show its face. You’d die, Mr Double-You, you and your jerks and your children (that’s what I call the clients, children), if you saw me let down my hair and put on a soft cotton dress at night in the privacy of my own domain. Come on, Jane, you’re so pretty in the mirror. But I’m not butch or cocksucker, I call my own tunes. Gotta think some more about that airband. God knows, I still like flowers and that nice loud music, before it got phony and electronic, a sample of this, a sample of that. Lay a track, dub dub, ten years in the studio. I used to be feminist centuries ago, when I was seventeen I guess, two years ago. But I saw clean through that intellectual bullshit the night my then beau said he was feminist right after saying he loved me, right after screwing me three different ways in the alley behind the elementary school off Commercial, right after signing a highschool chick to play the lead in his latest porn flick. Not that I completely despised the alley experience, don’t get me wrong. Written on the scabby wall above the garbage was Terrorism AD NAUSEAM. Yep, I thought. Right on. Anyhow, that’s when I decided to pick up Latin, a few words and phrases.
Come to think of it, I fell in love with Trudy immediately after that. She is sweet, a sweet yam, wild honeysuckle, apple blossom. I’ve never liked the smell of apple blossom, though. Ah well, flagrante delicto, as they used to say.
When I want to think of Trudy, I read Chapter VI of Flower Decoration. It’s called “Red and Pink.”
You know, Mr Double-You, I had no time for this speculating before I became Jane Hart, the Shadow. I had my route, like the milkman, pickup and dropoff. I don’t know anything about writing Shadow Reports, but my guess is you don’t know much about reading them, so I’m making you this tape instead. I figure my present job is to prove I’m real trustworthy, to lay out the dope on Lou Hum. And I will, okay? Trust me. I don’t want to blow my cover, because I’m onto something. That made you prick up your ears, didn’t it?
Speaking of cover, Trudy’s no fifty-yarder. I’m talking camera distance. What am I saying, she is no fifty-footer, never mind, she’s out to be seen and likes to be snapped close-up. She’s an artist at paint-by-features, but she’s not all makeup. Her cheek bones, the plane of her forehead, her temples — her natural shading at five feet is remarkable. And blue eyes like mine. In short, you’d want her. Only in the clutch does she turn human. Pores and tiny hairs. A teensy birthmark just inside her left nostril. Oh, she climbs lightly down from the front of Vogue or Cosmo, lands on her feet, poised in the lights, on a little carpeted rectangle with a brass pole to grab hold of. She’s quiet in another way: she can’t talk, she’s mute, she’s deaf. She dances to her own music. You see why I won’t tell you how to find her. She has promised to always wear fiery colours when we are together. She’ll be the Hoods’ lead singer.
She peels mostly in this place full of stuffed decorations, stags’ heads, elk antlers, whatnot — there’s even a boar’s snout mounted on the wall behind the stage. We don’t see each other often. She lives in a different part of town. You keep to your limits.
I have this daydream where the elk returns to collect his antlers, the pig her nose. The peelers are freaked, they will never rest now. Exotic dance, ha! What a wilderness! The punters, older, softer, more elusive creatures, never think to return to collect what they left. Souls, hairs in the sink, a gold cufflink, boxer-short come. By midnight an army of women have discarded their day-clothes in a heap. In body stockings, they trouble the streets of Mount Pleasant, remembering cosmetics, lights, style, videos and mirrors.
Sometimes it feels as if half my body has vanished. Then, I’m picking up envelopes, making threats, delivering envelopes, learning new threats. There are threats with my name on I call flowers. Very real. Sometimes I’m in a movie about farm life and in the movie I wonder what it’d be like living in the city.
Rain and shine, these April days wash the streets. I’ve never seen such a brilliant rainbow in my life! I had a couple more stops before I could pull the plug. Rain off and on all morning and I hate the antique dealer. Squat round dude with his turned-up nose and sad runny eyes. Always smiling and apologizing.
“I’m sorry, Jane. I did not hear you come in. You are always so quiet. Envelope’s on top of the clock. Sorry, no botany books this month. Sorry to hear about your friend.”
“What friend?”
“The big Chinaman with the limp. Lou’s his name, yes? Blew it. Crossed over. Didn’t you know? Alexis told me. Thought they would alert the faithful. He was trying to go solo I heard. It’s none of my business. Half the district is looking for him. I do hope you’re okay.”
“Right. None of your business. Don’t lose sleep over me, I’m covered.”
But the envelope proves me maybe wrong. A blue note from you, Mr Wonderful, a moratorium. I have suspected a special connection between you and the antique dealer. Lou and I have discussed it. You look like twin gnomes. You both crunch mints. And now this message in the dealer’s payment. Whether I am suspended, or the whole operation, is unclear. The only shining news is sleazy: if I can find Lou Hum and get the dirt on his activities, the street world will right itself. You choose me because I’m a girl and you want me on one leg. Watch out, Jane Hart, it’s a setup, but go along because you’re not ready for greener pastures, bluer skies. Nope. Don’t want to hitchhike on Broadway, don’t want the stage. This my home, folks! I play whiteyball till I’m beat.
That afternoon we broke a hydrant like in the movies, and in April! I got such a happy out of watching the net drip, the splashy ball. Tough girls’ wet T-shirts. All of us laughing so much we kept scoring, swish, without even trying. Then Snowball, this all-leg lounge Lizzy, threw her arm round my shoulders, told me she’d heard I was in deep, left field, honey, that is how it starts, yes, ma’am.
And I got to say, there in the afternoon sun with my friends I felt cold like I hadn’t felt in a long time. Scared.
Two
I’ve been following Lou Hum for the past week. It’s crazy to watch a person’s back all the time. Especially when you know him. Creepy what people do for smokescreen. At first I wanted to keep the heat off myself. Then I got interested. He knows I’m shadowing him, so his life’s a series of elaborate feints. Sooner or later he’ll have to stop acting. I just hope I have the sense to separate what’s phony from what’s real. Right now I’m in terra incognita without a paddle. I like this big white Chinese, he’s mixed up as me. We had a small thing a year ago, didn’t last, got together three, maybe four times, separated friends. I’m relying on that friendship to keep my front safe. I hope he appreciates my not pretending I’m not glued to him. My back’s wide open to you, Mr Double-You, but I have faith in your Lordship. Your wishes are my commands. You are one white who respects mostly whites. Besides, you’d never trash an untried girl, would you?
I knew where he got his shirts cleaned, four a week, every Thursday. That’s how I picked up his trail. Aside from that he’s dumped his routine, hasn’t been home, visits none of his friends or contacts. You have to admit, he’s good. Every hour he does something different. Moves on. Sleeps on the run. I feel like a mirror image of him. He knows I know he knows I’m trailing him. We sit at adjacent tables in restaurants, neither acknowledging the other’s presence. We sleep in each other’s sight, often in cabs that cruise, one after the other, round and round the city, our drivers playing simple car games, the chase, chicken, or just parking in dark lots, window to window to share a cigarette, the latest accident reports. My driver always has a Thermos from which he pours delicious milky coffee, and Lou and I, when we hook up, share the same cup with the two cabbies. I even get to go home and shower, change my clothes, dance to King Crimson in my living room. I just follow Lou to my apartment block, up the fire escape to a storage room beside my suite. He quie
tly shuts the door behind him. He leaves on the light in there — a sure sign of his trust — and one beam shines like a movie projector through the hole in my living room wall, one gleams through the hole in the bathroom wall. To prove my trust, I carry on as I have always carried on. When one projector’s eclipsed, I know he’s watching. Our roles are reversed. Of course there’s an element of self-consciousness. I’m letting him look. I’m not sure where all this is leading me. Us. You. Soon I will have to submit this report. I’m totally mystified by the absence of muscle keeping tabs on me. Could it be that Lou is so good that I’ve been sucked in and we’re both invisible? That I’ve penetrated his world through the Thursday laundry and, Mr Wonderful, you and the street are holding your breath, gazing at the steamed up windows? Or, Mr Double-You, are you keeping us so involved with each other, that we’ve lost the big picture! I sure do miss basketball. I can’t go on like this forever. I even miss the florist. I wonder what farm life would be like. On the other hand sometimes I feel fulfilled and content. I’ve found my bass player, stand-up bass. You know it. A strange idea occurs to me: I’d like to have Lou’s child. Here’s a perfect life — no reminiscences, no goals, no sentimental moments to crap up the arrangement — separate and yet together, Lou preceding me through life, I on his heels, baby at breast, we live happily ever and ever; and yet I hold the trump, the long report, my mission tape. Our security. For when you know all, Mr Double-You — I know you to be a ruthless man . . .
I am trailing him, I am trailing him. Our life is a language of signals, invisible to the florists and deejays, an inviolable trust. Bottomless. But this is obsession, I am well aware. You gotta turn aside, Jane, if only to quote Latin, throw a basket. Too much care for Lou Hum would be ordinary, too much fear would be normal. Might as well be working for him, get a contract on Mr Wonderful, same difference, one man’s good as another, I get confused. And my kid growing up with a slushy longing for his absent dad pretty well disgusts me. There he is. That’s his back, those his shoulders, sweety. Our family would be gunned down in McDonald’s, or die of boredom driving two cars across the Nevada test site.
Parallel Rivers Page 16
