Newell, strolling along behind, grins at her beautifully and lifts his hands in apology. “Really good to see you, sweetheart, I’m so glad it’s you. Unbearable,” he says into her ear, hugging her, “if it had been anybody else.”
Oh, why did she agree to do this? Newell’s pity is almost more than she can take. He must know about her trouble. Four thousand, four thousand, she says to herself, and she smiles at Burton with just the degree of respect tinged with challenge that he tells himself he likes. Actually, he likes you to kowtow, but he wants to pretend that he’s an equaller equal among equals. It wearies her very much to know so well how to pander to his measly soul. He’s spouting off about his Mrs. Lovett—how he wants her: solid, fleshy, gap-toothed, definitely middle-aged. Which is so flattering. Plus, she is not gap-toothed.
Newell interrupts Burton. He hands Ivy a small pie and a glass of punch. “Mrs. Lovett, how I’ve lived without you all these years I’ll never know.” She’s forgotten that trick of his memory, knowing all the lines, using them in conversation to create intimate understanding, trusting that you will know both the surface meaning and the lurking ironic undertone, undertow. Trust is Newell’s coin.
“Anyway, one thing I can promise you,” Burton says, grabbing their attention, annexing Newell’s untouched pie. “No performance! We won’t stage this for an audience, I’ve made that clear to Pink. Master class means just that, class. No performance. All righty?”
Ivy’s bite of pie was a mistake. Barbecued duck, when she thought it was cherry. But it allows her not to speak, to put up a hand to cover her mouth. She smiles and nods over the hand, coughs, looks around for the bathroom. “Under the stairs,” Newell says, and she bolts.
“That’s Ivy Page, Hugh,” Burton says behind her, perfectly audible. “Not entirely …”
“Ivy Sage,” Newell sings, over whatever Burton was going to say.
Across the hall, under the stairs—first door opens to steep stairs, basement. Next one, there we are. As the door closes behind her, Ivy hears Burton: “Blank page, I must have been thinking.”
In the tiny bile-green washroom the mirror gives her back a flat white face. Small eyes and a sorry expression. She spits the pie into the sink, then cups up the whole mess in her hand and flushes it down the toilet. The taps gush a stream of hot water to clear the dribs out of the sink, but she can’t wash her face for relief. Her mascara (pathetic attempt) would make a mess of her face and the towel. She leans against the door for a while. Like in an airplane washroom, she can’t bear to go back to her seat, a middle seat too far back, between oily, patting Cherry Pink and that poisonous duck Burton. Four thousand, four thousand. Money is a bugger. If she wasn’t so weak and stupid and broken she wouldn’t be doing this, she’d have gone to law school, or gritted her teeth, gotten her goddamn MFA, and be teaching in some cozy university on the other side of the country.
Hugh drinks punch. It doesn’t seem to be affecting him, in terms of making it easier to be here, but his teeth have stopped bothering him. He tried to leave after Burton was stupid about Ivy Sage, but Newell looked at him and smiled, and he can’t leave Newell. Is that what Newell would say about Burton? But Hugh loves Newell.
The punch might be getting to him after all. Obviously Newell loves Burton in some way, some awful Stockholm syndrome way. People are the death of each other all the time. The funeral was this morning. He ought to be at the hospice, not that Mimi will miss him.
“I don’t have a lot of time for that Burton,” someone says, right behind him.
It takes Hugh a second to shift contexts: Ruth, here at Pink’s. She’s setting another tray of hors d’oeuvres on the table, making room, clearing up. Copper coat off, white blouse and black slacks. Server uniform. It kills him that she’s still working all these jobs.
“Are you getting paid for this?”
“I am, don’t fuss. Fifty for the evening, and Jerry Pink had it catered! Everything came from the Ace, all I have to do is set out and refresh.”
“If you’re going to be late, take tomorrow morning off,” Hugh says. He loves to give her days off. The morning gallery is so peaceful without her.
“No need! I’m out of here by ten, I told him that, it’s a school night and he has no business letting the party go long. Did you bring the certificates?”
“Took them to the school on Friday,” Hugh says. He needs and appreciates her nagging.
Ruth gives him a nod and sweeps up three scrap-littered platters. She marches off to the kitchen. Fifty bucks, for what, five hours? Okay. As long as it’s cash and she doesn’t have to declare it. But if Hugh knows Jerry Pink, he’ll have a school cheque for her with her SIN number on it. Anal asshole. That makes Hugh laugh to himself, ha. Can’t it be time to leave? He looks through the crowd for Burton’s mauvery, thinking Newell will be near.
But Burton is in the nook by the fireplace, glass in hand, talking animatedly, in an intimate undertone, to a blond boy. Orion.
Orion’s mother, Mona, was one of the questioning parents at the meeting. The father has never been in the picture. Mona is a drifty-scarved, half-starved sessional in the dance department at the university. Religious about furthering Orion’s artistic education. Dance, of course, modern, tap, ballroom. All those art classes. Orion: clever, odd, likeable, a sharp-edged, fragile/tough boy whose work is always interesting. No visual talent, but himself visually pleasing; a serious actor. Newell might do him some real good.
Burton leans closer, close enough to speak into Orion’s ear under the eccentric stab of golden hair. Where does he get that haircut? Not here. Mona must take him into the city.
Hugh’s eye is still on them when Orion reacts to whatever Burton is saying—a quick jerk of the head, eyes staring up in one short glance, and then down again, a brief flush of colour. Tendons tighten in Orion’s neck and he bends his head away like a bird’s, the whole line of head and spine curling away, the soul sent into hiding.
Hugh looks around, checking.
Newell is at his side and, yes, has seen this interaction too.
Burton lays a well-groomed hand on Orion’s sleeve, and Orion looks up, smiling carefully. He says, as if he’s guessed the riddle, “That’s Blanche, right? From Streetcar.”
Burton gives himself up to a wild guffaw, shouting, “A scholar! Newell! We have a scholar of the drama here!” He turns back to Orion. “And to finish the quote: Run away now, quickly—I’ve got to be good and keep my hands off children.”
What, what will Newell do?
Nothing. His flat-lidded eyes flick from Orion to Burton, then back. His mouth moves, tightening downward, but he says nothing.
Okay. Okay, what would Hugh do? This is not a court of law. Who knows what Burton said. Or what Orion is reacting to. Maybe Burton asked if he contributed to the Conservative Party. If he did make a pass at him, what’s Newell supposed to do about that? Orion’s eighteen, for one thing.
Newell grins at Hugh, holds his empty glass up, and turns to the bar table.
Hugh slides back farther into the alcove and occupies his mind with a familiar substitution: if Newell had an older, awful wife, and that awful wife was whispering to boys, would it be any of Hugh’s business how Newell dealt with Burtina? No, it would not. He finds the image of Burtina restful.
Gay and straight, he thinks: like listening to a speech in French when you don’t speak the language well, when you’re still hearing the French words, translating them, then receiving the meaning.
Tiring.
(DELLA)
promised not to be late—
stupid to wait and wait for a call / a text nothing
in the door at full gallop
Elle, Elly
there in the back corner fine she’s fine back to back with Jason
Hugh and Newell and a woman watching them
Mrs. Lovett: drunk, slightly sexy, superior, like what’s her name
who played the Queen Mum she’s all lit up
what’s so inte
resting?
booze in the punch
Jerry Pink runs close to the edge
sweet Savaya also runs close right on the edge
Pink: pasty smugface plaid a cartoon of himself
we hate him
where did Hugh go?
shadowy in the alcove by the sunporch watching unlovely Burton
lovely Newell our hearts go out to him; the little brother
he looks so sad why does sadness make us love?
true sadness
not the slump of depression that makes us hate the person
like Ken hates me
and I him
Pink surging up to speak ditching Savaya
ought to talk to her mother that will be a rough conversation
Hi, April, your daughter is slutting around with the principal.…
and what it would betray Elle’s confidence
things overheard and seen impossible
Elle, Elly, are you all right, with everything that’s been going on?
11. PUNCH HUGH
More punch will get you through this. “The list of those teachers who’ve gone above and beyond is really long this year.” Every syllable out of Pink’s mouth sounds smeared. “Lead us in the quest for excellence, we’re here tonight to celebrate enthusiasm, commitment, the achievements of this great school. Vision revisioned, following twelve months of review and consensus—” Pink does not even bother to finish the sentences.
Hugh’s heart is full of hate these days; head pounding too.
“Today we honour those who asked those questions and committed themselves to finding the answers. Worked late into the evening and early in the morning, winners who wouldn’t take No for an answer. Support and encouragement of family and friends. Through the years, enlightenment and inspiration. Sponsors, encouragement, support … start every day with Quaker Oats.” Had to get product placement in there. Pink gives a rich, corporate laugh. “Finally, I would like you to take as your motto the words of Pearl S. Buick, who said, All things are possible until they are proved impossible and even the impossible may only be so as of now.”
What the hell did that sentence even mean? And did he really say …?
It seems so. Hugh looks up—Della is far away, staring at Elle. But Ivy Sage, by the stairs, catches his eye. Pearl Buick? Her own eyes wide, registering, laughing with him—then sliding down, her face ironed out to decorum.
The awards go fast, eight of them given out splat-splat-splat. Best this, best that, none of Hugh’s pals in the art department recognized, including Della in her part-time class—par for the course, part of the core beliefs. Burton drifts over and maintains a snide commentary during the outflow of plaques and certificates: “The Argylle Gallery’s finest work,” he says, in vile congratulation.
Hugh edges delicately out of his earshot, again and again, but Burton tags right along, until they’re out of the drawing room and into the wide hallway.
“You’re looking hearty, healthy, hale, these days, Hugh,” he says. “Looking after Mimi hasn’t got you down, I hope?” As if they could have a real conversation.
“Glad to do it,” Hugh answers, pointedly watching the current award recipient.
“Oh yes, I know. I myself …” Burton begins, eyes going wet. Dank pools of sentiment that Hugh honestly can’t stand to look into, rude as avoidance might be. “It is the last honour, to be the handmaid of the beloved.”
Hugh downs his punch to drown Burton’s words, but chokes—can’t stop himself: “Don’t compare some casual boyfriend with—” He chokes again, coughing, dismayed by the venom in his own voice, the contempt contained in boyfriend.
With poisonous deliberation, Burton turns away and begins remarking on the crowd, the bad perms, the fashion sense, the relative slackness and fatness of the teachers. “You’d better watch out too,” he says, patting Hugh’s belly. “There are getting to be two of Hugh.”
Possibly having heard some of Burton’s epithets, Newell slides through the crowd and puts a hand on his arm, not so much comradely as controlling.
The last award: long service, for Ms. Blaikie from the library. A generously girthed, kind person, she crosses the carpet to Pink, who is holding out the last framed certificate. Burton seems to loathe Ms. Blaikie most of all. “Look at the waggle on that ungirdled rear—feminism has a lot to answer for …”
Hugh taps his teeth together, but can’t wipe dislike away, though he knows it will only egg Burton on.
It does: “But she’s somebody’s mother, men, as the corporal would say. My own mother, ungirdled as all get out, God rest her, God rot her, gave me love and cigarettes and booze, and a fantastic succession of stepfathers, back when a father’s step really meant something!”
Hugh makes an involuntary noise, and Burton turns to look full at him. “Don’t like a slur on the mothers, do you, Hugh? Humorous, Hugh-morous to think it—when your own is such a piece of work.”
Newell’s lids lift to stare down at Burton.
Who shakes his head and elevates his chin. “No, no, we mustn’t speak ill of the ill, the semi-deceased, the decently near-ceased her exit so long anticipated—” Newell’s grip tightens, but Burton rattles on, “Fragile Mimi! That hideous strength, even in affliction, oh, Oedipus was never so pussy-whipped as you, Hugh.”
Hugh finds himself again making a noise in his throat. Like a growl.
“Burton, quit,” Newell says. “Hugh’s taken care of his mother for years.”
“He’s taking care of her, all right,” Burton says. His eyes brim with joy. “Helped her right into the hospice. I’d like to help you out, which way did you come in?”
Only Newell could have told Burton that old joke. A vision of them laughing together about his mother makes Hugh dizzy. He reaches out blindly for Newell’s shoulder, to demand satisfaction, or something—but Newell has turned away, not wanting to take sides. Hugh’s head pounds.
Burton is still smirking, still scoring some point: “He’s cleaning her clocks. He’s cooking her goose. He’s saying, Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?”
“You fucking—”
Hugh doesn’t bother saying anything more. He hits Burton with his fist, as hard as he can, straight in the face. Burton looks surprised and pleased as he falls. My mother and your mother were hanging out clothes, My mother punched your mother, right in the nose.
Burton lies splayed on the gleaming wide-plank heritage floor. Newell kneels at his head and checks for damage.
Reeling away from the two of them, Hugh falls backwards against the door behind him—a door that pops open and decants him down the cellar stairs. A short flight, four steps to the landing, and the stairs are carpeted—but his head hits the wall and Jesus, it hurts like heck.
Dizzy, Hugh staggers to his feet and struggles up the stairs, through the doorway, off balance, falling again.
Newell twists to grab for him, but Ivy Sage’s strong little hands are already there, easy on his elbows, bending herself to take his weight without fuss, as if they were doing a trust exercise.
“It’s you,” Hugh says, relieved. “I was looking for you.”
“Oh yes?”
“Well, I …” Nothing comes to his mouth.
She looks at him, not smiling but not at all sad. Even in his haze he is struck by her eyes, clean and young in the squashed face. Shining like aggie marbles, greenish, with a dark ring round the iris.
“I—you, I—wondered where they’ve put you, where you’re staying. Or—” Why be floundering? “You seem to be new to town, I thought I’d talk to you some more.”
The clean eyes assess him, sparkle at him. “And you are who?”
“Yes, yes, I am.” Dazzle, shards of light.
“Who?” she asks again. Then he hears it: who, not Hugh.
“Oh! Sorry! Hugh, I’m Hugh Argylle, the Argylle Gallery.” He has a card in his pocket, it’s a miracle. “Not hard to find. Beside FairGrounds coffee, if you drink coffee.”
&nb
sp; Ivy laughs, her face folding into a pleased crumple that makes him happy.
“Ivy.” You name people to put them in the world, in your own world.
“Hugh,” she says. Putting him in hers. “Nice clean hit there.”
“If you’re not busy, dinner tomorrow? Seven thirty? There’s a nice—the Duck and Cover.”
Ivy nods, once.
And then Burton is up on his feet, shouting for revenge in a gleeful have-at-you tone, quite the commotion, so Hugh slips down the hall and out the side door Della is holding open, and is gone.
(DELLA)
blood is always so red! so much redder than we think
what is to be done? oh Newell
this boorish impossible bloodsucker you’re stuck with
you know how we all hate him Hugh most of all
Mimi will die soon, Hugh will get better
or what if Hugh kills himself
what if he—
he doesn’t have a garage door, just the lean-to
the funeral was only this morning we’d feel so
if he did
if Ken
if Ken was so fraught, so sad,
so unhappy to be leaving
to be unfaithful
not the car, the garage what a word
but a bridge exhausting
or a baseball bat picked up in one swift movement
or a gun in our
what we imagine if we stop if we stop for an instant
Elle
if she did
12. HUGH BE THE JUDGE
Damp, velvety darkness confuses the streetlights, each pale head in a mist. The river flows turgid, slower than summer, settling iceward. Hugh walks along, thinking not about Burton or Mimi, but about the basement of the gallery. What else has to be shifted down there, in case the foundation crack widens over the winter, floods in the spring.
Close to Hugh Page 5
