A Boy at the Edge of the World

by David Kingston Yeh

  That afternoon, to my utter amazement, I found myself telling McNeill-Tsao everything, at least everything that mattered. Karen had always been my confidante, but it was different talking to another guy. It was also different talking to someone who had no investment whatsoever in my life. By the time we finished our smoothies, I felt lighter, like I’d gotten a huge weight off my chest.

  “So,” McNeil-Tsao said, “how come you didn’t tell Karen about meeting this old hockey coach of yours?”

  “I didn’t want her to know I went to a bathhouse. I dunno. I suppose I’ll tell her eventually. She’ll probably want me to sneak her in, just so she could see for herself.”

  “That’s the problem, Garneau. She’s too involved. Sometimes a man’s got to walk alone.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re a mama’s boy, Garneau. You let these guys walk all over you. You do that because you know whatever happens, no matter how shitty things get, you can always run back to Karen.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Fine. Prove it.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything. Karen’s my best friend. We tell each other everything.”

  “Did she tell you she was thinking of quitting school and moving to M’Chigeeng?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry. I convinced her to finish her degree first. The point is, you don’t tell each other everything. You tell her everything. She probably sits you down and feeds you ice cream while you tell her every single detail of every single date you’ve ever gone on.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “She tells you what you want to hear. I’m telling you what you need to hear. Man it up, Garneau. Forget the cheerleading squad, and focus on your game. Things will get better when you do.”

  I thought of McNeil-Tsao’s fiancée with her enormous tits, and how he liked to get it up the ass. There was a comeback in there somewhere. There had to be. But the truth was, it was all irrelevant. A week later, as Karen and I were packing, getting ready to catch a bus back to Sudbury for the holidays, she stopped and turned to me. “Daniel, last Saturday, I got two missed-calls at threethirty in the morning. You want to tell me about it?”

  I froze. Her tone was mild, but I realized she’d been waiting all week for me to mention this. But she hadn’t said anything until now.

  “No,” I said. I looked at her. “No.”

  To my surprise, Karen didn’t press the issue. “Okay.” She handed me a tiny parcel wrapped in Christmas paper. “Here. This came for you in the mail.”

  When I opened it, I discovered a single, brand-new squash ball in its box. A folded-up note read KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE BALL.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “It’s just a squash thing,” I said, “between M.T. and me.” And that’s all I said.

  That holiday season, Grandpa made arrangements to spend Christmas Eve overnight at the nursing home. He said he wanted to wake up Christmas Day next to Grandma. Apparently, last year was the first time he hadn’t done that in fifty-five years. He wasn’t about to let it happen again. Grandma’s health was stable, but she simply refused now to leave the home. Traffic frightened her. I used to let her kiss me on the mouth whenever we hugged, until one day she grabbed my crotch and tried to slip me the tongue. Since then, I made sure to hold both her hands and offer my cheek whenever we said good-bye.

  After dropping Grandpa off, Liam drove us home in the pickup truck. He’d bought his own used Jeep some months back, but had left it parked at the house. The house seemed different without Grandpa in it. Three days earlier, as was our tradition, all four of us had driven out past the airport, tramped into the woods and cut down our own tree. Now it scraped the ceiling of our living room, covered in gaudy ornaments, tinsel and strings of popcorn, and the same tiny, colourful lights we’d untangled every year when Mom and Dad used to be around. Liam had gotten himself a golden Lab that fall, a one-year-old rescue dog they’d found half-starved on Manitoulin. He told us the dog’s name was Jackson, and warned us not to make any sudden movements around him and never to approach him from behind. As it was, Jackson stayed under Liam’s bed almost the entire time Pat and I were there.

  When we got home, Pat put on an old Loverboy album and prepared us all flaming sambuca shots with whiskey chasers. Pat had enrolled in Cambrian College that fall and was living downtown now with his new girlfriend.

  “So where’d you meet this girl?” I asked.

  “Blonde Dawn? Met her at the Battle of the Bands this summer. I was one of the judges.”

  “What? You were one of the judges? How the hell did you get to be one of the judges?”

  Pat opened the back door and tossed Liam and me cold beers from the case we’d left outside. “You know someone who knows someone who knows someone.” He kicked the door shut behind him. “Anyway, so this chick turns up playing drums for this all-boy band. The band sucks big time. She’s awesome. We get to talking. She needs a roommate for September, so I move in.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Totally. Check this out.” He modelled the red, white and blue scarf he was wearing. “She knit this herself. She knew I was a Habs fan.” Pat flicked his beer cap into the garbage bin. “She also makes this mean matzah ball and bakes the best rugelach you’ve ever tasted. She’s the one who got me into the Paramedic program.”

  “So is she your roommate or is she your girlfriend?”

  “Or your chef?” Liam asked.

  “She’s like my agent,” Pat said, laughing. “How about that? She’s my roommate with benefits. She’s local, went to Lasalle. Blonde Dawn Singer. Two years ahead of us. Apparently, she knew who I was.”

  “Everyone in Sudbury,” I said, “knows who you are, Pat.”

  Liam propped his feet up on the kitchen table. “‘Blonde Dawn’?”

  “She’s blonde. At least up top. What can I say? All her friends call her Blonde Dawn.”

  The doorbell rang and we all answered it. Karen entered, stamping the snow from her boots. “Merry Christmas, yada yada yada. So are the Garneau boys playing nice? I hear there’s no adult supervision in the house.” She tossed her jacket onto the coatrack Grandpa had made from deer antlers, and helped herself to my beer.

  Pat cranked up the stereo. “Now that you’re here, Karen Fobister, we’re feeling nicer than nice.” He started swaying his hips. “You’re looking spicy nice.” He put on a Santa hat and held out a box of rum-filled chocolates. “Rumbly-filled chocolata, little girl?”

  I followed Liam into the kitchen. “So how is Grandpa doing?” I asked.

  “Fine.” He handed me a fresh beer. “He’s been spending more time up at the Good Medicine Cabin.”

  The Good Medicine Cabin was our nickname for the family cottage. It sat on forty acres, an hour north of Sudbury, land our great-great-grandfather had won on a dare back in the day (or at least that’s how the family legend went). “On his own? How much time?”

  “He’ll go up on weekends. Sometimes, he’ll go up for a week at a stretch, maybe longer.”

  “A week? Liam, are you sure that’s safe?”

  “What’s not safe?”

  “He’s in the deep bush all by himself.”

  “Better not talk like that in front of him, Daniel. He’s been going up to that cabin his whole life. He’s two clicks from the highway. I’d hardly call that deep bush.”

  “There’s no electricity or hot water. What if something happens to him? What if he has a heart attack or runs into a bear or the truck breaks down? I don’t think he should be up there by himself.”

  Liam folded his arms. “You going to tell him that?”

  “The least we can do is get him a cell phone.”

  “He won’t use it. The cabin’s his retreat. That’s the whole point. Sometimes a man’s got to walk alone.” He sipped from his beer. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “A cell phone won’t work up there anyway.
”

  I picked tinsel and pine needles off my sweater. “Remember when we used to spend Christmases up at that cottage with Mom and Dad?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Us kids would camp out in our sleeping bags in front of the fireplace.”

  “Pépère would dress up like Santa Claus.”

  “That’s right.”

  Liam cracked his neck and stretched. “Daniel, you should come up sometime.”

  “Naw. No thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. How are the two of you doing anyway?”

  “Pépère and me? It’s all good. The garage roof was leaking, I fixed it. We got the furnace cleaned. Pat drops in now and then, mainly to do his laundry. Look, Daniel, I think I might move out to Manitoulin come spring.”

  “So I’ve heard. You talk to Grandpa about this?”

  “He’s the one who suggested it. I think he’s actually looking forward to having some space on his own.”

  “Really?”

  “Ask him tomorrow.”

  “What does he do up at the cottage anyway?”

  “What he’s always done. He takes the canoe out, shoots partridge, goes for walks around the property. Now that he’s retired, he’s got all sorts of renovation ideas for the place. I’ve been helping him out here and there. When the weather’s warm, he goes naked.”

  “What?”

  “Last September, I went up to visit. I was a day early. I spotted him from across the lake chopping wood in the buff.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I pulled over, took off all my clothes, then drove up the rest of the way to meet him.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I parked the Jeep a little ways away. Then I walked up the drive and said: ‘Hey, Pépère, how’s the fishing?’ We had a laugh over that. We never did put our clothes back on. We spent the whole weekend naked together.”

  “You’re pulling my leg. This is something Pat would make up. You are so pulling my leg.”

  Liam shrugged. “You can think that if you want. But it’s true.”

  “Grandpa.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Grandpa’s a nudist?”

  “Daniel, he’s the same grandpa we’ve always had. I’m thinking he’s probably been doing this nudist thing since we were kids. For all we know, both he and Mémère might’ve been doing it together all their lives, before she got sick. You should try it sometime.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. Ask Pat.”

  “Okay.”

  “Liam.” I rubbed my temples. “You and Grandpa, you don’t go around this house naked, do you?”

  When Liam was drunk or high, it was almost impossible to tell. He’d just get quieter with a more focused look on his face. He regarded me intently. “Sometimes. Since that weekend, sure, why not?”

  “You mean to tell me the two of you sit around, in this house, on our couch in our living room watching TV stark naked?”

  “I don’t watch TV, Daniel. Haven’t watched TV in years.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Liam. You know what I mean.”

  “Maybe, like I said. Sometimes we might.”

  “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Were you joking when you told us you suck cock?”

  My hands went numb. I remembered dropping my gloves on the ice and punching Gary Kadlubek, the head coach’s son, in the face.

  “I didn’t say I suck cock.”

  “You’re right. In fact, the way I remember it, you didn’t say anything. You just let Pat and Karen do all the talking. It’s okay. I got over it. I’m okay with it. You’re my brother. Pépère’s Pépère. He’s not hurting anyone, is he?”

  “No,” I said after a minute. “He’s not hurting anyone.”

  “Pépère can take care of himself. We’ve all got our own lives to live. He’s got the Good Medicine Cabin.

  What’s important is that he’s happy.”

  “What about Grandma?”

  “He’s with her now, isn’t he?”

  I scraped my fingers through my hair. “Liam.” I finished my beer and dropped the bottle in the recycling bin. “Liam. I’m sorry I never talked to you about this.”

  “Just don’t get AIDS.”

  “Fuck, Liam! It’s not like I’m some faggot whoring myself out to every shithead I meet.”

  “I never said that. It’s just that Karen’s father has AIDS.”

  “What?”

  “In prison, They found out he’s got full-blown AIDS. Probably from sharing needles.”

  “She never told me this.”

  “Don’t tell her I told you. Let her tell you. She hasn’t seen him in thirteen years. But she’s been talking with him for a while. She just found out this fall.”

  “Since the fall? She’s known for months?” I paced the kitchen. “Do the Miltons know?”

  “Of course they do. They’ve been really supportive.”

  “And what about Anne?”

  “Anne doesn’t want to have anything to do with it. Look, don’t tell Karen I told you, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  Screaming and laughter erupted in the living room. The music was blasting, and Karen and Pat both had their pants off and were jumping up and down on the furniture, throwing pillows at each other. The curtains were wide open and I hurried to close them. A pillow hit me in the back of the head, knocking me to the floor.

  Long after midnight, when Karen and Liam had retired, and Pat had gone to his room to text with his matzah ball girlfriend, I stayed downstairs on the couch, in the dark, by the blinking Christmas tree.

  A shadow moved in the hallway. I was too drunk by now to be startled. Jackson peered around the corner and whined. I held out a pretzel. He crept forward, tail wagging tentatively. His nose was cool and damp against my palm. He ate the pretzel, lay down at my feet and sighed. On the stereo, Gordon Downie sang about Bobcaygeon and the stars in the sky.

  I fell asleep. When I woke up just before dawn, the room was grey and cold. The timer had turned off the Christmas lights. Jackson had crawled up onto the couch and was curled up between my legs. He was twitching in his sleep, dreaming. I’d been dreaming too, but the dream was fading away like the aurora borealis. I held onto a fleeting image of Grandma as a young woman again and Grandpa as a boy, Josette and Tom, both of them stark naked and beautiful, laughing and running and catching snowflakes on their tongues. And it was joyful and it was golden. And it was Christmas Day forever.

  From January to March, I dated a man named Charles Ondaatje. We’d met at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party. He was five years older than me, working on his PhD in psychology. At no point did we ever call each other boyfriends, but we spent every other weekend together and some weekday evenings too. We never argued. Sex was comfortable. He was clean and tidy, and rarely complained. He was tall, with limbs like pasta. When I explained this to Karen, she asked: “What kind of pasta?”

  I thought about this for a while and said: “The kind that’s round tubes.”

  “You mean penne?”

  “No, I mean the bigger kind, the kind that you stuff.”

  “Cannelloni?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Charles, he’s like cannelloni.”

  “That,” said Karen, perched up on the kitchen counter, “doesn’t sound sexy.” She was using nail polish to paint the cupboards with tiny, multi-coloured flowers. Outside, the snow fell thick in the bare trees and on the crowded sloping rooftops.

  “I never said he was sexy. But cannelloni’s like comfort food, it fills you up. It’s nice. He’s nice. I like it when he holds me. He lets me keep a toothbrush at his place.”

  “And what, pray tell, is this Charles stuffed with?”

  “David Cronenberg.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’s the hugest David Cronenberg fan. There’s a whole section in his research proposal where he talks about him.”

  “This is that horror director guy who made all those movies like
The Fly, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Well, some people would think that’s a little creepy, but it’s always good to keep an open mind. Does this Charles have any other interests?”

  “Um, besides watching Cronenberg movies? No, not really.”

  “What do you do together?”

  “Anything I want to do. Watch a game, go out to the movies, make a meal. He’s a walking encyclopaedia. He knows his wines. I forgot to mention that. He can tell you all about beers and wines. He doesn’t really drink though. He just likes talking about it. He’s really caught up in his work.”

  Karen hopped off the counter, tightened the caps on the nail polish, and tossed the bottles back into a shoebox full of make-up. “And what is that?”

  “Like I said, he’s working on his PhD. His thesis is all about the breakdown of the human body and cybernetics, and, well, I’m not so sure.”

  “And you like this guy?”

  I thought a moment before answering. “He’s comfortable. He’s safe.”

  “Daniel. Is that so important to you?”

  “I can depend on him. Yeah, at this point in my life, that’s important to me. You of all people should understand that.”

  “Okay,” Karen said. “Okay.” She stood back and appraised her work. “What do you think?”

  Flowers framed the cupboard doors. Over the stove, a red-breasted robin perched on a ivy branch. “Nice.”

  “Check it out.”

  By the baseboards, she’d painted mushrooms which I hadn’t noticed. “Whoa. Trippy.”

  “It’s my secret garden.”

  “You want to meet him?”

  “Oh, it’s finally come to that?”

  “Don’t give me a hard time. So do you want to meet him or not?”

  “Sure, look, why don’t you have him over? I’ll make dinner for the three of us. I’ll make cannelloni.”

  “Be nice.”

  “I am nice. I’m spicy nice.”

  In the end, we decided to invite three additional guests. This was our first time hosting a dinner party and we spent a whole day shopping in Kensington Market for just the right ingredients. We got three different kinds of cheese and a liver pâté, fancy olive bread, and two magnums of Bordeaux. We even bought wine glasses and a tablecloth. I felt like we were kids playing at being adults.