A Boy at the Edge of the World

by David Kingston Yeh

  She squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll explain later. But everything’s good. Trust me. We’re good.”

  Later that night, I thought I heard Karen and Liam arguing. After a while, just as I was dozing off, I was sure I could hear them making love. I could tell they were trying to be quiet about it, but I could make out their exhalations and the rhythmic creaking of Karen’s bed. I imagined their hands and their mouths, the position of their limbs. I imagined Liam inside of her. I resisted an impulse to sit up and press my ear against the wall. Jackson nosed open my bedroom door and tentatively crept up onto the mattress. I rolled over and let him curl up on top of my feet. After some time, the apartment and the whole house fell quiet. Directly above me, Melissa and Mike’s newborn baby slept in his crib, breathing in and out through his tiny nostrils, with his miniature hands curling and uncurling. I fell asleep feeling the pulse of Jackson’s heartbeat against my feet.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lost Together

  That fall, Liam went on what he called a walkabout. He said he wanted to see the Pacific Ocean, packed his Jeep and started driving west. Apparently, he’d told Karen his plans at her father’s funeral. It was what they’d been fighting about. In hindsight, the week he’d spent in Toronto was a farewell of sorts. In Sudbury, Pat moved back in with his girlfriend Blonde Dawn. During Thanksgiving at the Miltons, he let everyone know he’d dropped out of his Paramedic program and started a course to teach ESL.

  Around that time, I started seeing a man named Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. I’d actually been introduced to him six months earlier by Charles, who had interviewed him for his research. The first time I laid eyes on Marcus, he was naked (except for a pair of diapers), tarred and feathered from head to toe, and standing in a pile of pigs’ intestines, alternating between reciting nursery rhymes in a little baby’s voice and throat singing in the tradition of the Siberian Tuva people. He did this non-stop for twenty-four hours, cordoned off within a square of red velvet rope inside a warehouse art studio in the west-end. People paid money to see him, drank cheap wine out of plastic cups and exchanged discreet commentary in hushed, reverent whispers. It was a fundraiser for Tibet, and the overall effect was fantastical and disturbing. Charles had seen a lot of performance art in his time, but confessed this piece was particularly unusual. Incredibly, Marcus had won multiple grants and awards for similar avantgarde productions over the years. His vitae was more than impressive. After three wine spritzers, I signed a guest book that night, and within days found myself accepting a Facebook Friend Request from Mr. Diapers himself. I was shocked by his self-portraits. He was, in fact, a physically beautiful man, with the flawless and androgynous features of a Renaissance saint. I figured the images must have been seriously Photoshopped, until the day Marcus approached me while I waited at a streetcar stop.

  “You’re Daniel Garneau,” the soft-spoken, pale-faced individual poised in front of me said. He was wearing cords and Doc Martens, a camel cashmere coat and a moss-coloured scarf. On this occasion, his neatlytrimmed hair was thick and glossy chestnut brown. Snowflakes settled on his eyelashes as we spoke. Even though I recognized him instantly from his Facebook images, it took me a moment before I could form a reply. Then he said his name and smiled at me, his hands resting at his side.

  “I know who you are,” I said.

  “You were at my fundraiser for the Dalai Lama.”

  “You were wearing a diaper.”

  “That’s right. You’d come with Charles Ondaatje. I never forget a face. Can I tell you a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  “The diaper wasn’t really meant to be part of the piece. I was simply wearing it so I could pee.”

  “I see.”

  “Mind you, I’ve staged other performances where I have urinated and defecated in front of an audience.”

  “Oh, okay.” The streetcar was nowhere in sight.

  “I’m kidding.” He smiled at me sidelong.

  “Right.”

  “How did you like the show?”

  “That chanting you were doing ...”

  “Overtone singing.”

  “That was really interesting. I’ve never heard anything like it. How’d you learn to do that?”

  “I trained with a sheep herder from Siberia. It took over a year and a half before I was able to master the technique.”

  “You’ve been to Siberia?”

  “Oh no, it was at the Kadampa Meditation Centre here in Toronto.”

  “Okay. Well, it was pretty cool.”

  “Thank you. Charles tells me you plan to be a physician?”

  “I should stop telling people that. I haven’t even applied to med school yet.”

  “The human body is truly a miracle of nature.” He stood perfectly still when he spoke. I couldn’t help but feel he was undressing me with his hazel eyes.

  “I suppose it is.”

  “Capable of all sorts of things.”

  “No kidding.”

  “If you’re interested in overtone singing, Daniel, let me know. I’d be happy to instruct you. It’s all a matter of muscular control in the mouth, larynx and pharynx. It can be a very powerful experience.”

  I didn’t know if he was flirting with me or if I was just chronically, pathetically horny. “Okay, I’ll keep it in mind.”

  My streetcar had arrived. After I boarded, he stood waving as I pulled away. Later that night, I found a link to Marcus’ official website. Apparently, while overtone singing was best known as a Tibetan Buddhist tradition, it spanned many world cultures, from Inuit to Irish to Indian. I looked up a tutorial on YouTube and was practicing when Karen walked into the apartment. “What on earth is that hideous noise?” she called out, unpacking groceries in the kitchen.

  “Nothing.” I cleared my throat and quickly closed the lid to my laptop.

  After Charles broke up with me, I found myself continuing to follow Marcus’ activities. That spring, I secretly attended a live reading at his book launch, a compilation of poems and short stories entitled, Tales from the Bottom of My Sole. I was sure he saw me in the back row. Afterwards, I slipped away as quickly as I could. Later that summer, I took Parker Kapoor to the Art Gallery of Ontario where Marcus was one of nine individuals featured in an exhibit of up-and-coming Toronto-based artists. I didn’t tell Parker the real reason why I’d come. To my amazement, he’d actually heard of Marcus Wittenbrink Jr.

  “He’s a freak,” Parker said. “He goes out of his way to be outrageous. He’s all about shock value. Look at this, it says here he identifies as two-spirited. That’s ridiculous. His parents are whitebread lawyers from Burlington.”

  “People think he’s one of Canada’s top young emerging playwrights.”

  “All I’m saying, is here we have this privileged white guy who goes native and everyone thinks he’s hot shit. Woohoo. Look at this, the Globe & Mail writes: ‘What Tom Thomson did for Canada’s geographical landscape in the 20th century, Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. does for Canada’s cultural landscape in the 21st century.’ The Toronto Star calls him ‘quintessentially Canadian.’ What on earth is that supposed to mean? That his underarms smell like maple syrup? The truth is, if he wasn’t so incredibly good-looking and prone to taking his clothes off half the time, he wouldn’t be half as popular. All this postmodern neopaganism is a little pathetic. You know I heard he performed naked once chanting in a pile of pig shit? How much Ontario Arts Council money is this guy getting?”

  “It was pig intestines. And he was wearing diapers.

  And it was Tuvan throat singing. And it was a fundraiser for the Dalai Lama.”

  “Okay, Mr. Fanboy.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Parker.”

  “Fine. I’m just jealous, alright? I admit it.”

  “You’re jealous?”

  “Of course I am. Look at him! He’s gorgeous. Who has a body like that? I’m sure he’s got groupies following him everywhere. I’m the same age as him, and what have I got to show for myself?”

  �
�Um, you hold the high score on every pinball machine at Playdium?”

  “I’m done with that.” Parker collapsed on a bench. “That is so yesterday. I need a change.”

  “Why don’t you try writing?”

  “Writing? Are you kidding me? That would take discipline, that would take focus. I don’t have either, I have ADHD. It takes me forty-five minutes just to decide what breakfast cereal I want to eat in the morning.”

  “You could write your memoirs.”

  “My memoirs?”

  “You’ve been around the block, Parker. You’re always making observations of the people around you. Think of all the craziness that happens at the group homes. You could write it all down. The Adventures of Parker Kapoor. I see a movie deal in there somewhere.”

  Parker’s eyes swivelled wildly in his head. “I should, shouldn’t I? Dinner conversation at the Kapoor household could fill up half a novel by itself. You have no idea what it’s like being the youngest in this family. I should invite you over during Diwali just so you can witness the spectacle for yourself. The Misanthropic Misadventures of Parker Kapoor. Daniel, you are a genius.”

  “I try.”

  Parker pressed his nose up against a semi-nude image of Marcus tied to a tree and shot through with arrows. “You think I’d ever have a chance with this Wittenbrink guy? I could be a groupie. Do you think he hosts Bacchanalian orgies? I’ll bet he does. What do you think?”

  “Parker, I don’t think you’d make a very good groupie. You should focus on your memoirs.”

  “You’re probably right. When I’m famous I won’t forget you, Daniel. I promise.”

  “I’m holding you to it.”

  A month later, I attended Marcus’ one-man show Philophobia at the Tarragon Theatre and brought Karen along. During intermission, to our surprise and delight, we bumped into Charles and Megan.

  “You were in the front row, weren’t you?”

  “How can you tell? Oh, of course, you can see we got splashed.”

  “Just a bit.”

  “Don’t worry, its water-based and comes out. It says so here in the program.”

  “I totally wasn’t expecting him to do that upside-down thing.”

  “Which upside-down thing?”

  “That thing with the giant puppet.”

  “Oh, I thought you were talking about that thing with the gymnastic rings.”

  “I didn’t know he could beatbox.”

  “I didn’t know he was double-jointed.”

  “I knew he was double-jointed.”

  “When was he doing anything double-jointed?”

  “When he was upside-down on the rings.”

  “Oh, I thought there was something weird about that. That last tableau was kind of like a Picasso.”

  “Holy shit! That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “He’s amazing.”

  “He’s a genius.”

  “He’s in my thesis.”

  Charles wanted to meet him backstage after the performance. By the time Marcus had showered and cleaned off the body-paint and gotten dressed, all of the audience was gone except for the four of us. We greeted him in the green room where the walls were plastered with dozens of faded posters from past productions. He came out wearing a plain black dress shirt and jeans. The first thing he said was: “Daniel Garneau, you look well.” He stood back appraisingly. “You must be Megan Calderon and you must be Karen Fobister. Charles, your friends here are even more beautiful in real life.”

  “Real life?” Megan squeaked.

  “Facebook,” Marcus said. “It is a new reality. I think my next project will be a deconstruction of Facebook.”

  “Marcus,” Charles said, “has a photographic memory. Be careful what you put on Facebook.”

  “That one image, that expression on your face, Daniel, when you were just about to come,” Marcus said thoughtfully, “out to your brothers, it is sacred.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Karen scratched her nose. “Daniel, remember? I tagged you on that picture I took of you, on Christmas Eve, two years ago.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Megan, you and Charles were truly meant for each other. Have you thanked Daniel and Karen for bringing you together?”

  “Um, no,” Megan stammered, clutching Charles’ arm. “Not yet. Karen, thank you. Daniel, you too.”

  Karen and I glanced at each other. “You’re welcome,” we said in unison.

  “Thank you for coming to my show,” Marcus said. “It is always humbling when people take time out of their lives to notice my work. Charles, you have been a constant support over the years. Daniel, I missed speaking with you after my book launch at Hart House. I wanted to ask your opinion of my title poem. My stage manager will close up here.” He regarded each one of us. “Shall we go for a drink?”

  At Charles’ suggestion, we ended up cabbing across town to a bar on Queen West called The Beaver, an eccentric and packed little hole-in-the-wall. As it turned out, Marcus had no money on him. The rest of us took turns paying for rounds. At one point, the waiter served up five shots of Goldschläger, compliments of the house. Everywhere Marcus went, people’s heads turned. He was even more beautiful in real life. When his hand came to rest on my knee beneath the table, I banged my teeth against the edge of my glass. He was speaking to Charles and Karen about the appropriation of aboriginal culture and the works of this well-known artist and that well-known artist. He didn’t glance at me once. But his hand massaged the inside of my thigh as he spoke about the Woodland School of Art and the troubled life of Norval Morrisseau. Then he leaned back, removed his hand and took a sip from his pint. He nodded towards me politely. “What do you think, Daniel?”

  Everyone’s head turned. “I think,” I said carefully, “there are some people who feel you’re a privileged white guy gone native.”

  “I see,” Marcus said. “Well, I am. That is clear. But what do you think of it?”

  “I think,” I said, “your work does for Canada’s cultural landscape what Tom Thomson’s work did for Canada’s geographical landscape.”

  “This is why,” Charles said, laughing and tousling my hair, “I dated this guy.” He draped his arm over Megan and hugged her close. I’d never seen Charles this relaxed or happy before.

  Later that night, when Karen and I returned home, I asked her how her evening went. “It was interesting. I had a good time. Thank you for taking me out.” She untied her hair knots, collecting pins in her mouth. “It was great to hang out with Megan and Charles like that. We should do it more often. Your friend Marcus seems to really like you.”

  “He’s not my friend. He’s Charles’ friend.”

  “You’re friends with him on Facebook.”

  “Yeah, and three thousand other people. It’s like his professional Facebook page.”

  “Was it weird?”

  “Was what weird?”

  “Being at the Beaver. You know we were just a block down from the Drake Hotel. Your ex Sean was spinning there tonight.”

  “Oh, Karen, you know what? That wasn’t even on my radar.”

  “Okay, Daniel. Just checking in. You and this Marcus guy, you’ve got some chemistry going there.”

  “What?” I threw my shirt in the hamper and went to brush my teeth. “Are you kidding? Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. is so out of my league.”

  “Daniel Garneau.” Karen followed me to the washroom. “Do you know how pathetic you just sounded there?”

  “No. Karen.” I focused on squeezing the last bit of toothpaste of out the tube. “I’m just being realistic.”

  “His hand was on your knee half the night.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think anyone noticed that.”

  “I noticed.”

  “I just don’t want to be another groupie.”

  “A what?”

  “He probably sleeps around with all of his fans. He probably hosts these Bacchanalian orgies.”

  “You’re a fan?” Karen poked
me in the butt.

  “That”—I waved my toothbrush—“was just a figure of speech.”

  “Daniel, you like this guy.”

  “He’s interesting.”

  “And so are you. You should go on a date.”

  “What would we have to talk about?” I was frothing at the mouth but I didn’t care.

  “Tom Thomson?”

  “Oh, shit, Karen, I was just quoting a newspaper article. I’m Fruit of the Loom, remember? This guy’s been featured at the AGO, he’s been nominated twice for a Dora Award and who knows what else. He knows how to Tuvan throat sing, for chrissake.” I rinsed and spat.

  “This isn’t like you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You used to think more highly of yourself.”

  “This isn’t Sudbury, Karen.”

  “No, this is Toronto. You and me, we have a right to be here just like anyone else.”

  I opened and closed my mouth. I raised and dropped my arms. Finally, I put my toothbrush back in its holder and just shook my head. “Fine. I’m just not so sure where here is.”

  “We’re right here.”

  “I think.” I sighed. “I think I’m just feeling a little lost.”

  “You’re not lost. You’re right here.”

  “I worry about Grandpa. I worry about Liam. I worry about Pat. Fuck, Karen, I worry about you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m serious. I’m doing okay. It was hard having Liam leave like that. The timing sucked. But I’m okay.”

  “Karen.” I drew a breath. “I’m so sorry about your dad, I should’ve been there, I really should’ve been there.” I was crying again. It was ridiculous how much I cried. But I couldn’t help it. “Why didn’t you tell me about him? You told Liam.”

  “That man wasn’t my dad. He was my biological father, okay? I barely knew him. Look, Daniel, it’s over now. Really, it’s over.”

  “I’m so afraid I’m losing you.”

  “Daniel, you know I’m leaving Toronto after I finish this year.” I nodded. “And you’re applying to med school. I know we don’t talk about everything. And after this year, we’re going to go our separate ways. But listen to me. You’re never going to lose me. Never. You and me, we’re gum stuck to the bottom of each other’s shoes, alright? We have one year left together here. We have this amazing apartment. We have friends who live right upstairs. We have us. Let’s make the best of it, okay? Did you notice they had sweet potato burritos on the menu?” I shook my head. “Well, they did. You and I, we’re going to go back to The Beaver and check it out. There’s a million things in this ridiculous city we haven’t done yet. We’ve barely scratched the surface.” She gripped my shoulders. “I want you to promise me one thing.”