by Cary Fagan
All right, a sofa. Belonging to the two of you.
Technically, yes. We got the sofa when we decided to share the apartment. It belonged to the person who lived there before us. We bought it from him.
For how much?
What does it matter, how much?
Out of interest.
Twenty bucks. We paid twenty.
And whose wallet did it come out of?
Well, his. But that’s because he actually owed me sixty dollars. So he was paying the guy with my money.
And it stayed in the apartment for the whole time the two of you lived there?
It should take a vacation? Yes, the sofa stayed. Two years we were there. Well, twenty-two months. We got the place cheap because it had no hot water.
No hot water?
The owner didn’t want to pay for hot water. He claimed to have some wacky belief about the healthfulness of bathing in cold water. Actually he was a skinflint.
What were you doing those twenty-two months?
Writing for television. Or trying to. For a show called Out of Time. You ever heard of it?
No, I haven’t.
Doesn’t surprise me, only lasted three seasons. It was basically a Twilight Zone except the idea was that every episode had to do with the concept of time.
So you were writing for it.
Like I said, trying to. Harry knew somebody on the show, an assistant to a producer. So we would write a script and give this guy a few bucks to show it to somebody.
How many scripts did you write together?
Let me think. Eight, maybe ten.
What were they about?
One was about a guy who gets into an elevator and when he comes out he realizes that for everybody else time is moving backwards. Only he can’t talk to them because he’s moving forwards.
That’s a little hard to imagine.
Okay, maybe it was a little high concept. We had another about a kid who, by shooting his toy gun, can make time stop for four seconds. That was a good one.
And did you sell any?
Not one. I’m sure Harry’s friend showed them to somebody. The janitor, maybe. We were getting nowhere. I started thinking about trying to go a different route but by then Harry had met Harriet.
Harry and Harriet?
No kidding. She was a secretary at the network. She read some of our scripts and agreed to meet us to say why they were no good, like her opinion was worth anything. I couldn’t go because of my evening job working the slicer at the deli. But Harry went and I guess the two of them fell hard for each other. I have nothing against that, I’m not the anti-Cupid.
But something happened.
Sure. Harry and Harriet went to city hall and got married. Then Harriet’s dad, who’s some advertising big shot, bought them a house in the suburbs. Before I can zip up my fly Harry’s moving out. He takes all his stuff, he takes some of my records, he takes the sofa. I didn’t care about the records but I needed that sofa.
Why would you need a sofa?
Everybody needs a sofa. You ever see a home without one?
But why did you need that particular sofa?
Because it was my writing sofa. I’d lie on it with a yellow pad and a pen and write. I got all my best ideas lying there. It was my inspiration, so to speak. I wrote whole scripts.
With Harry’s help.
That’s not the point. He never lay on it. He liked to pace around. He’d stand in the kitchenette and make bowls of potato salad using some old family recipe. He’d toss playing cards at the wall. But I didn’t move. Harry would say, “Get on that damn sofa, we need to work.” It was a very comfortable sofa and it had conformed to my particular frame. It knew me. What I’m saying is, it was my sofa.
So you didn’t give Harry permission to take it?
Permission? Are you even listening? Harry moved out while I was visiting my folks. I came back and found a note on the counter. Sorry, partner, gone to Shangri-La with my angel. That was it. Not even his address — I had to get that from the mailman.
Did you ask for the sofa back?
What would have been the point? He took it without asking, didn’t he? And he never paid me the rest of what he owed. I tried to get along without it. I would sit in a chair but my ass would get sore. I would lie on the bed and fall asleep. I couldn’t write a thing. I needed that sofa.
So you went to get it.
You’re damn right I did. I hired a company, Glenn Movers, and the guy, Glenn something, or maybe it was something Glenn, came with another guy. I had him drive us out to the house, took an hour to get there. I knew Harry wouldn’t be home because he was working in his father-in-law’s fancy office by this point, the sellout. While the guys waited in the truck I walked up to the door and broke the glass with a brick. They weren’t too happy with the situation but I told them that I’d forgotten the key. And then they were suspicious when all I wanted was the sofa. But they took it. They picked it up and carried it outside. Actually, a sofa is not an easy object to carry. They had to tilt it sideways to get it out the front door. And the guy helping Glenn, not in good shape to begin with, was hungover. Unsteady on his feet. He almost dropped the sofa as they were hefting it up onto the truck. Then we drove back to the city and used the service elevator and put it back where it belonged.
And that was it? Without a word to Harry?
I left a note. Right where the sofa had been. I’ve got that by heart, too. Sit on this, you heartless son of a bitch. But I never heard from him. He didn’t phone me. He didn’t try to get it back.
And it was just the same?
Except for a wine stain on the arm. Still fit me like the proverbial glove. I picked up my pad and pen and flopped down. And you know what? Working with Harry had held me down. I wrote better than ever without him.
So you actually sold a script?
To that same show, Out of Time. About a woman who finds an amulet that transports her though time. One day she complains to her husband that he doesn’t treat her like a queen and she finds herself transformed into Marie Antoinette waiting in her cell before her execution. It was the second-last episode before the show got canned. I bet you Harry watched it — he loved that show.
And what are you doing now, trying to write for other shows?
You better believe it. I’ve got a million ideas. I’ve got scripts coming out of my wazoo. And not just trying. I already sold one to a show called Remember or Forget. You heard of it? Every episode is about a memory. Yes, sir, everything’s coming up roses.
And you don’t miss Harry?
Okay, fine, once in a while I wish the big ape was around. But you’ll see, he’ll get tired of rubber-stamping orders or whatever he does. He’ll come knocking. Not that I need him to write, that’s crystal clear, but he was better at female characters, and he could add a nice, sentimental touch here and there. He’ll come knocking and just maybe I’ll let him in if he apologizes. And pays me back the forty bucks he still owes me. Then I’m getting back onto this sofa.
GRANGER
My sister thought he was good-looking but he wasn’t, not if you really looked at him. Mostly it was his eyes, there was something too intense about them, too wary. It was like he thought you were laughing at him even before he said anything. And he was always smiling, showing the space in his front teeth. Most people with a gap like that, they know to keep their lips together.
Dad called him a greaser because of the stuff he put in his hair, but he didn’t mean it — he liked Granger because of his skill. Granger was a boat mechanic and could fix any kind of inboard or outboard, steering systems, even rigging on a sailboat. He worked in a shop at the marina and had an agreement with his boss to buy the business when the man retired.
Funny thing, he didn’t care all that much for being on water and had no desire to own a boat himself. Inste
ad, he had a motorcycle that he took Betsy for rides on. She said it was exciting and she just wished Granger didn’t make her wear a helmet, especially since he didn’t wear one himself. She said it mussed up her hair.
He’d ride up on Saturday evening and Betsy would run out and climb on behind him. Then they’d roar off. I was only eleven and the idea of going on a date made me want to throw up. I’d heard all about what you were supposed to do. So anyway after they were gone I’d be stuck at home with Mom and Dad, and I couldn’t help making some comment about Granger, how he just had a dishonest look, or how he acted like a know-it-all, which of course he couldn’t be because he never even finished high school. One time my dad looked up and said, “I know it’s hard to watch your sister grow up. It’s hard for us, too.” Which made me mad because it wasn’t that at all, but I stopped talking about him because I knew they would just think it was sour grapes.
I didn’t stop watching, though. I knew something would happen, that one night she’d come home crying that he was a pig and she never wanted to see him again. Or he’d get fired from his job for stealing or showing up drunk. Maybe he’d get arrested for something.
Meanwhile, whenever he came to the house he’d try to butter me up. “What’s shaking, little sister?” he’d say. That’s what he always called me, never my name. If I was on the porch reading, he’d sit down and ask what the book was, as if he’d ever read one in his life. Or if I was on the tire swing in the tree, he’d ask if I wanted a push. I always refused. He didn’t even try very hard. He’d just say, “Suit yourself, little sister,” and go find Betsy.
So one Saturday Granger came by in the afternoon. They were going to a dance in the evening and had decided to see the matinee at the movie house. I was on the porch (nobody else ever used it, why shouldn’t I?) as they were coming out of the house and Granger turned and said, “Hey, little sister, why don’t you come to the pictures with us?”
“Because she doesn’t want to,” Betsy said, really quick.
“What’s on?” I asked, all innocent.
“Some outer space movie that everyone is yammering about,” Granger said. “With one-eyed Martians or deadly blobs or something. You can explain it to me. You like that TV show I can never follow, the one about time travel.”
“My sister prefers to stay home.”
“Why, I’d just love to go,” I said, getting up. “I’ll just get some money from Dad.”
“My treat, little sister. We can’t all get on the bike, though, so we better hoof it.”
And you think Betsy was happy about walking? But she just gave me a look and took Granger’s arm. The sidewalk wasn’t wide enough for three so I had to keep behind, but Granger tried to include me in the conversation. “So who’s your favourite movie star?” he asked, dumb questions like that. But at least he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with me the way my sister was, especially when we got to the movie house because of course we knew half the people there. “Jeez, we’re surrounded by kids,” Betsy complained. “This is the last time I go to a matinee.”
Granger bought our tickets and even got me a box of Milk Duds. I don’t know how he knew I liked them. The show was crowded and we sat near the back with Granger in the middle. Every so often he’d whisper some question to me, like how could there be oxygen on the planet or why did the robot shut down at the crucial moment. There never was any logical reason but I liked the movie anyway. When it was over Betsy and I both had to go to the washroom so we got in line while Granger said he’d meet us outside.
Betsy said, “The next time Granger asks you to come with us, you better say no.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You’ll be sorry, that’s all.”
“Hmm, I noticed that there’s a war picture playing next week. I bet Granger likes a good war picture.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
Betsy got a stall first. “Don’t expect me to wait in here for you,” she said. I got my turn at last, I was bursting, and when I came out again sure enough Betsy wasn’t in the washroom or the lobby, so I went outside, but I didn’t see her or Granger, either. They wouldn’t dare leave me behind, would they? And then I noticed something going on, some commotion in the alley next to the movie house.
I followed the other people but at first I couldn’t see anything and had to push my way through. Granger was in a fight with two guys — guys who were twice as big as him. He was still standing but I could tell he’d been hit a few times because he looked dazed and his nose was bloody and there was an ugly scrape on his forehead like he’d banged it on the wall or maybe the ground and had got up again. He had his fists up and was trying to dodge but the two guys were on either side, passing him back and forth, one smacking him in the shoulder, another clipping his ear. I must have shouted out his name because he turned his head and gave me that smile of his and then one of the big guys drilled a punch into his gut and he doubled over.
I felt as if the punch had hit me. I think I screamed but a hand grabbed me and I knew it was Betsy who began to drag me away. I tried to pull free but she got me around the waist and dragged me out of the crowd. She held my wrist and hustled me along the street, turning the corner as soon as she could. I kept telling her to stop, saying we had to go back, but she just kept yanking me along.
Only when we got closer to the house did she slow down and let go. I saw red marks where her fingers had pressed into me. “Why are they fighting?” I asked.
“They called him an Indian. A part-Indian.”
“Is he?”
“Shut up!”
“Is he?”
“I don’t know. You can’t say anything about this to Mom and Dad. Do you understand?”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Hurry up.”
We got home and it was a good thing our parents were out because they would have seen something was wrong. Betsy locked herself in her room. When Mom and Dad came home she said that she didn’t feel well. She took a bath and went to bed.
The motorcycle stayed parked in front of our house for three days and then, when I came back from school, it was gone. After that Granger never came around. He telephoned a few times, at least I think he did, but Betsy always hung up without speaking. A few weeks went by and I stopped thinking about him. Betsy began to date another guy, a boy she’d known in high school who now had some administration job with Howard Johnson. Nothing was wrong with him except that talking to him was like watching Face the Nation.
I got my first job, walking the neighbour’s dog after school. One day I was out walking when I saw Granger coming down the street on his motorcycle. I’d imagined that he’d been permanently damaged, that he wouldn’t look the same anymore, but in fact he looked just like before. My heart started beating fast.
He saw me, too, and slowed down. He didn’t stop, though. He went slowly by, waving his hand and smiling so the gap in his teeth showed.
THAT’S MY BOY
Gordon is shouting, “Mom, Mom, look at me!” and all that he’s doing is floating in the shallows like a little whale. Over and over I’ve encouraged him to make friends with some of the other kids on the beach, and he never disagrees with me, he always says, “Sure, Mom, in a minute, after I build this sandcastle, after I fill this moat, after I find enough of these shells to make a necklace.” It’s not because he doesn’t want to, it’s all the bad experiences he’s had, kids calling him “Fatty,” kids making fun of his naive questions, his excess enthusiasm, or just being mean because they need somebody to exclude. Kids can spot vulnerability the way mosquitoes smell blood. So how can I blame him for shying away?
But I worry. I worry so much about my boy. Sometimes I can’t help imagining the life that awaits him. At the moment he’s still getting invitations to a few birthday parties because the parents know us, but in another two or three years the kids will have more say
and then he’ll be staying home, all too aware that others are having fun without him. He’ll say, “It’s okay, Mom, I like staying home with you.” He’ll be sweet about it, uncomplaining, but what he’ll feel I hate to think. Another few years and the kids will be going to movies on their own and riding their bikes to the park. And then they’ll be teenagers getting their older siblings to buy them beer and hanging out at the quarry, and the girls and boys will notice each other in different ways. And all the time Gordon will be at his desk, doing homework, getting high marks that will make him seem even more worthy of scorn and dismissal. He’ll go to the part-time job that he’s found for himself, delivering newspapers or helping in one of the Saturday market stalls, and he’ll save all his money because he doesn’t have any friends to go out with for a float or a hamburger. Maybe he’ll talk to himself once in a while just to hear his own voice. Or he’ll become obsessed with some hobby like building miniature sailboats and he’ll talk about it at every meal, how hard it is to match the colours of some historic schooner or get the thread to look like rigging. Then he’ll graduate high school and decide he doesn’t want to leave me and go to college, where he’ll feel even more friendless and alone, so he’ll get some local job, inspecting furnaces or maintaining public telephones, and he’ll stick with it because everything in his life has told him he can’t succeed or have ambitions, and he’ll never meet someone who can love him for the sweet man he is, and he’ll never know the joy and comfort of another warm being in his bed, and he won’t become a father (he’d be such a wonderful father, I know it) and one year will pass like the next and out of boredom and depression he’ll eat and gain more weight and I’ll grow old and he’ll drive me to the doctor for my appointments and look after me when I become ill and then I’ll die and he’ll have nobody to keep him company and absolutely nothing to live for.
And there he is, calling, “Mom! Bury me in sand, bury me in sand!”
