by Ian Williams
And Fortin said, Well, I have an accountant like most people. But I’ve never filed jointly. Does anybody? My money is not my husband’s.
Asked, Do you want a reconciliation?
With who?
Either man.
Fortin smiled and said, Yes and no.
In the interview, she explained that she thought the marriage was annulled. There must have been some kind of paperwork issue. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing when I turned eighteen. He was older. Loved me more than my father. Who could resist?
Oliver was still talking about his ex. Although Felicia was nodding and paralinguistically responding, she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Rather, she hadn’t heard a fact or detail about his ex-wife that she didn’t already know. She changed the subject when she perceived a lull.
He returned to his ex.
She tried again. The closet door is giving problems.
Which one?
In Army’s room.
He frowned as if he couldn’t place it or had trouble imagining anything in his house broken.
There’s only one closet in his room, she said.
The mirrored sliders?
She nodded. It came off the bottom track.
Oliver raised his eyebrows. I see the analogy.
Felicia’s whole body groaned.
I never—and you can attest to this—I never talk bad about her in front of my kids. But you should hear the things she tells them about me. You won’t believe this but Hendrix, little Hendrix, brought a belt for me from Massachusetts in his luggage.
Felicia crossed her arms. The evening was cooling down.
He said it’s because I can’t keep my pants on. Tell me, where did he get that from? And my daughter’s now telling me I have anger issues. She’s sixteen. She’s telling me I have anger issues. My own daughter? Have you ever known me to get angry, Felicia?
Everybody gets angry.
Without provocation, I mean. You think I couldn’t get angry every time Army and his friends run up my utilities? My cousin’s tenants shower in cold water.
I talked to Army about the hot water, Felicia said.
Exactly, I spoke to him, very calmly.
Felicia didn’t know that Oliver had spoken to Army. She didn’t like the idea of Oliver disciplining her son. Ever. For any reason.
I’m going to turn back here, she said. They were at the bend.
Oliver turned with her and began walking back.
The man needs a dog, she said to Army later.
* * *
+
The newspapers didn’t name Edgar at first. They referred to him as secret husband or wealthy businessman and once as heir to a sizable fortune. Not because they didn’t know who he was but because they were stretching the story out.
Soon a source close to the secret husband appeared and spilled salacious details to a tabloid newspaper. Felicia didn’t believe the $10,000 plane rides on the Concorde or the lavish parties. But she did believe the rest. The source said that Edgar’s was one of the names in the little black book, the leaked clients of an upscale prostitution agency in Toronto. The source revealed that within his company Edgar was well known as a philanderer. He was currently under investigation for several counts of sexual harassment. It was not his first time. He was a man of the slap-and-tickle generation of office interactions. And along with that exposé, Meet the Secret Husband, was a high-contrast photograph of Sophie Fortin with her head on Edgar’s shoulder in someone’s apartment, it seemed. Fortin is reaching for the cigarette in Edgar’s mouth and to prevent her he has turned his head away and upward so the cigarette looks like an erection in the mouth of Alfred Hitchcock.
* * *
+
Oliver was already in a sentence by the time Felicia’s attention found its way back to him.
—is better. You’re lucky you have no contact with your ex.
She never told him that. Army tell you that? she asked.
No. Heather did. You know how these kids like to confide in each other. Oliver wiped his face with his shoulder. He was in finance, was he?
Something like that.
I would have taken that rich bastard for everything he’s got.
Mom, am I a bastard? I can handle it.
Don’t say that word.
Bastard? I’m using it correctly, no?
You’re not a—
What? Bastard?
Army, stop it now. The word is illegitimate.
I’m not that sort, Felicia said.
The ex tried to bankrupt me but my sister has a friend who’s a big-shot lady-lawyer. Maybe she could help you get—
No need. Thank you.
Whoever gets the kids wins, right? You women end up with the kids, the house, the money, everybody’s pity.
Nobody really wins.
I don’t know what kind of settlement or alimony he’s paying you—
Felicia flared. You see what time I’m coming home tonight? You think Army feeding himself and buying his own—what they called?—Air Jordache?
Jordan, Oliver said. Air Jordans.
Children not cheap.
You’re preaching to the—
I’m not preaching.
You’re preaching to the choir, Oliver said. I mean, I’m not a Texas billionaire. But I don’t work hard (He ain’t got no job, Army said later) just to give all my money to a woman who has given me nothing. Nothing, Felicia. Sometimes I’d come home and she’d still be in pajamas with the TV on to some yappety-yap talk show. She wouldn’t even brush her hair. And she just gained weight after Hendrix until she looked like a cow. I mean, I might not be a looker, I’m not a teenager—
He complains like a woman, Felicia said later.
Self-dramatizing, Army said.
Yes, that’s the word. Dramatizing himself.
An orgy of disclosure, Army said.
Language, Felicia said. But it’s sickening. No sense of decorum.
No wonder she divorced him.
Felicia laughed. You bad, eh.
When we met, Oliver was saying, she was— He curved an improbable woman through the air with his hands.
You keep talking about her weight, Felicia said.
All she had to do was to get up and walk around the block. I’m trying at least. I’ve lost eight pounds, did I tell you?
Yes. You said seven.
It’s eight now, he said. How much are you? One fifteen, one twenty?
Felicia was not going to answer that, not because she was sensitive about her weight—she hadn’t gained or lost a pound since expelling Army—but because he sounded like he was weighing meat.
Give or take, he answered for her.
They were almost back at the house. Felicia was determined to take charge of the conversation somehow, to change the subject, to set her landlord straight. Walking toward them, but on the other side of the street, was the girl who had been playing with Hendrix. She was crying. Her brother was brushing ants from the dress of her doll.
Listen, Mr. Oliver—
Oliver.
Oliver. You have to let bygones be bygones. I don’t know if this woman was fat or what she telling your children, but you have them until September.
He rolled his eyes. Two whole months.
Per the divorce agreement, which Felicia knew by section and article, Oliver’s children would spend their summer vacation with Oliver and Christmas with the ex in lieu of constant visitation rights. They arrived promptly on July 1, Canada Day, and had tickets booked for the morning of September 1. There would be no give-or-take of a few days. In the one weekend they had been here, they were already grafted into the neighbourhood scene, thanks to Army. The daughter, Heather, had found a best friend with whom she alternated between chattiness and sulkiness on their daily trips to the mall. The boy had turned Army into a brother, had Army talking all sorts of nonsense as lessons like the king of a poor country with power but no wealth to share.
Listen, Felicia continued, you ha
ve them for the whole summer. They find some friends. Just enjoy yourself, nah man. What happened last year is ancient history.
Oliver straightened himself and said, You’re right. You’re right. I just don’t want to see her, talk to her, have anything to do with her.
She’s a ten-hour drive away.
Nine.
Whatever.
Then in an attempt to recover from his emotional vulnerability, Oliver went back to talking about the closet. From there the conversation became refreshingly banal: so and so needs to water their lawn, best weed killers, laying out concrete walkways, interlocking bricks, spray guns, paint, interest rates in the eighties, and subjects that caused Felicia to yawn with gratitude.
When they got back to the house, Army was taking coins from a boy at least five years older than him. Felicia stood at the garage entrance and waited because she knew her very presence would kill any remaining energy in the garage.
Oliver, instead of chasing the last of the teenagers away, got the hose and watered the lawn and rinsed his truck, or more accurately, he stood outside holding the hose in the dark for close to an hour.
* * *
+
Felicia unpacked the groceries into the fridge.
Did Oliver talk to you about the utilities last week? Felicia asked her son. She couldn’t understand why the landlord complained about the utilities when he wasted so much money watering the lawn. She understood how Europeans took pride in gardens but ridiculous.
Did he?
Maybe, yeah.
Army was at the kitchen table counting his money again. He counted it several times that night. He turned the Queen’s face on the bills all in one direction. He smelled the bills, arranged them in denominations, then each denomination from crisp to crinkled. It couldn’t fit in his wallet, even without the coins.
And what did you say? Felicia closed the fridge door.
Army shrugged. I think I made more money than you today.
For the last time, take that money off the table mat, Felicia said. She knew money to be a dirty thing.
He swept the coins onto the table cloth. You want me to buy you something? Anything you want, you just say it.
Off the table completely, Felicia said.
She had forgotten to buy bread. She was right in the grocery store and bought everything else except what she went in for. Tomorrow she’d have to wake up early to fry bake.
I don’t want you getting involved in any adult conversations with him, Felicia said quietly. She could never be sure how much they heard upstairs. And don’t let out our business.
You know his ex-wife called the cops on him.
Felicia knew more about this man’s divorce than she knew about World War II but she didn’t know that.
He told you?
Heather.
Felicia didn’t want to ask why, but she wanted to know more. She waited. She made a sound that might be interpreted as curious.
He cut up her clothes. Told her they didn’t fit her anyway. There was more but, you know, I was concentratin’ on dollar dollar bill y’all.
The man just talking, talking his business, Felicia said. You don’t have to ask a thing.
You should see if you can get him to tell you his bank PIN.
Felicia smiled. She was raising a white-collar criminal. She touched his hair. He cut his own as well. She preferred it when it curled as large as bubbles but she was losing the power to tell him how to cut it.
Army twisted his head away. He said, No, really, how much do you think he’s worth?
Apart from this house, they knew Oliver had inherited another where he was renting upper and lower portions to different families, either because he was the eldest male child or because he was voted most likely to need a handout. His sisters married well—construction types with massive houses in Vaughan. His brother worked for a developer in Phoenix and had no intention of returning to Canada.
Let your hair grow out a little, Felicia said.
Can’t. Gotta be the change you want to see. You still have the old Ebonys? I need some more styles.
Far as I see is only two haircut you does give people.
I give them what they want. Business 101. Black style. White style. Done. I cut thirty-one people today.
And how much you charging them?
Half price for your first cut or if you bring somebody.
So if somebody bring somebody for the first time then you working for free.
Mom, Army tapped his temple. Mom. You must think I’m some kind of idiot.
I just posing a hypothetical situation.
I thought of that. I ain’ running no amateur operation here. This is a business, Mom. This is profitable. Cash rules everything around me. CREAM. Git da money.
Felicia held up her hands in surrender, though he hadn’t actually answered her. She unpacked cans into the cupboard.
He laid a bill on the counter as he walked up to his room. I just busting out everywhere with money. That’s for dinner. Buy yourself something nice, pretty lady.
Army
Extension
Army raised the garage door at ten in the morning, expecting a throng of customers, the guys he had to turn back yesterday, but only Hendrix, the kid from upstairs, was outside, poking a straw into an anthill.
You want a haircut? Army asked although he had cut the boy’s hair yesterday.
I don’t have any money, Hendrix said.
Well, go get some.
Don’t have none. I could give you some ants if you want.
Army sighed. He stood at the edge of the garage on the heels of his flattened trainers, his hair-cutting shoes, holding his wrists and staring beyond Hendrix into the street. He hadn’t worn a shirt in days. He had downplayed the obvious problem with his business. Sure, he had chosen Monday, July 4, as the grand opening in the spirit of big-business American entrepreneurship, advertised with a flyer on every porch for blocks, incentivized with the half-price offers, even pimpified the garage into lounge cum music shop, but people simply didn’t need haircuts every day.
Hendrix placed the straw in the mailbox and clapped his hands clean on his thighs.
What were you doing to that girl yesterday? Army asked.
It was her game, Hendrix said. He explained the rules. It was called Divorce. First they get married. Then the man shouts at the woman. What do I have to say? Hendrix had asked her. Doesn’t matter. Just shout. She asks for a divorce. He asked why but she said he wasn’t supposed to ask why. His dad asked why, Hendrix told her. He still asks why. You’re not supposed to ask why. So they get divorced. They pretend to sign papers. They divide up the assets. She wanted half the ants. He refused. If I have to give you half my ants then I want half your Barbie. She refused. She said they had to get married again if he wanted to keep the ants. So he has to propose. Then they get re-married. Then they get divorced and fight about dividing the ants. Then they get re-remarried and re-redivorced. And when she wasn’t paying attention, Hendrix took her doll by the leg and stood it in the anthill.
Reliving the trauma of playing with a girl caused Hendrix to frown.
She had it coming, Army said.
Hendrix’s expression eased. Do you want to play upstairs?
Army shook his head. The house the two families shared was a split-level with a sunken two-car garage. Felicia’s half held her car or Army’s barbershop, depending on the time of day, while Oliver’s half held the remnants of his former life as a married man. To the right of the garage were stairs leading up to Oliver’s home. Felicia’s entrance was through the garage. Her kitchen and living room were below ground and a bathroom and two bedrooms were above ground, facing the backyard. At the front of the house, there was a balcony off Oliver’s living room. Also on that floor was a kitchen and bathroom, and on the uppermost level of the house, three bedrooms: Oliver kept the master for himself, gave Heather the second biggest room, and Hendrix the smallest one. Why does Heather get the big room? Hendrix had asked
, emboldened by Army’s advice (Your dad must, legally speaking, provide equally for you, was Army’s counsel). Because she’s a girl, Oliver answered. I want the big room, Hendrix said. Do you want to be a girl? Oliver said. No. Then stop whining. Ordinarily there’d be free flow throughout the house. But because Oliver was renting half (and basically sending half that money to his ex-wife in Massachusetts), he inserted a door between the two households, a black door so in the dark it looked like a portal but felt like a smack.
Hendrix sat on the swivel barstool Army had repurposed. Army, he said, if your dad’s a millionaire, how come you’re living in our basement?
Army continued gazing into the summer street. That’s a bougie question, soldier, he said without intonation whatsoever in his voice, eyes, face.
What’s bougie?
Bourgeois.
What’s bourgeois?
Bougie.
Maybe your dad’s a truck driver or something. Heather thinks you just make up stuff because you don’t know.
Who knows more about my dad, Heather or me?
It’s not just Heather.
Is that right? Army turned away from the street. He swatted at a fly and caught sight of his lats or ribs rippling in the repurposed mirror.
Because if he had a million dollars he’d have to give you and your mom half a million, like my dad.
Your dad doesn’t have money for a haircut.
That’s because he had to give my mom half of everything.
How much?
I dunno. Half.
Army clasped his wrists again.
Did it ever occur to you, soldierbwoy, that I might be making my own million through this humble enterprise? Almost daily he had visions of himself engaged in one of the following: sunglasses, boardrooms, beepers, pagers, airport lounges, complicated drinks but always brown, firing quivering-lipped skinny blond men in tight suits. Yachts, not so much. To be sure, he liked nice things—gold chains, shoes, track suits, hats with sports logos.
You can’t make a million dollars cutting hair. You’d have to cut like a million people.
Army blared a gameshow-fail sound. He had attempted to invite nearly a million to the opening—Oliver’s siblings, in-laws, nephews, nieces, first and second cousins, unverifiable cousins, pets—but he suspected the word never reached the half of them.
