The Garneau Block

by Todd Babiak

  Fatigue hung over them, along with confusion and alarm. For the moment, however, no one seemed willing to give up. So Raymond took out his African cave art notepad and pen, and they began to design the labyrinth of their collective dream.

  60

  the second first date

  He didn’t complain, but it was clear Rajinder did not enjoy being blindfolded. Thanks to Madison’s poor leading skills, he had already grazed a tree with his shoulder. And only at the last second did she avoid slamming his fingers in the door of the Yukon Denali.

  The closest parking spot at the Muttart Conservatory–three linked glass pyramids in the river valley–was far from the entrance. In her haste Madison had forgotten to put a coat on Rajinder after she had blindfolded him. By the time they reached the glass pyramids, he was shivering in his suit.

  Madison opened the door and led him into the entrance corridor.

  “Where are we?” he said. “Let me guess.”

  The central courtyard was decorated with curtains and flowers, and lit with candles. Madison led Rajinder to the right, into the tropical pyramid.

  The automatic doors opened and a heavy blast of warm, moist air enveloped them. “The Malabar Coast,” said Rajinder, with a smile. “You have taken me to India.”

  “Bingo.”

  Madison had wondered about the ethical ramifications of maxing her VISA to book their second first date, a private dinner in the centre courtyard of the Muttart Conservatory. Was it indecent, given the situation in sub-Saharan Africa, to spend hundreds of dollars on one night? Was it a thick move, given her salary and the hungry little being in her uterus?

  She removed Rajinder’s blindfold and he rubbed his eyes. “I have driven by this place one thousand times but I have never been inside.” He took Madison’s hands. “What a lovely surprise.”

  Together they walked up the concrete path, among the variegated snakeplant and pineapple flower. The lighting inside the pyramid was soft. Outside, in the valley, the sun had set and a few stars twinkled in the darkening sky.

  Rajinder stopped under the Chinese fan palm, next to a pond with a trickling fountain. He looked down at the white and orange and gold fishes, their mouths opening and closing at the water surface as if to say, “Oh?”

  And without much in the way of preparation, Rajinder put his arms around Madison and kissed her. While the fishes continued with their “Oh?” routine, Madison and Rajinder kissed and paused to smile at one another and almost speak, and then they kissed some more.

  Madison had waited so long for a kiss that, in the midst of it, she was nearly overcome with the need to shove Rajinder into the bromeliads and devour him. Time passed, five or fifty minutes, enough for Madison to explore every square millimetre of Rajinder’s face and neck, and the soft vicinities of both ears.

  “We only have the conservatory for two hours. We should probably eat.”

  “There is food as well? I thought this was our date.”

  “We still have a prime rib dinner, and three more pyramids to investigate.”

  “Tell me one has cactus. I have a special affnity for cactus.”

  “Rajinder, one has cactus.”

  “May God refrain from striking me.”

  Madison licked the salt off her lips and swallowed. “I didn’t have much choice. It was Cornish game hen or prime rib. I figured…”

  “Every Alberta boy loves the prime rib.”

  They started back around the concrete path, strolling past the red powderpuff and the strange crown of the queen sago palm. Ginger and gardenia and a sausage tree, the collection of orchids. It was, Madison decided, the closest she had ever come to being in a Dr. Seuss book.

  Near the doors, Rajinder stopped her. “I have a secret to tell.”

  “Yes?”

  “On the night of our last first date, I looked into your suite and saw you dancing and becoming intimate with a monkey toy.”

  Madison jumped behind a frond. “I knew it! I knew you saw.”

  “It filled my heart with…I do not know the word.”

  “Fear? Disgust? Confusion? Balsamic vinegar?”

  “You know that part in a romantic concerto when the music slowly rises and rises and finally reaches a culmination?”

  Madison did not know, not really, but she emerged from behind the frond and nodded.

  “That is what filled my heart.”

  “So it was good stuff.”

  “Much better than the best balsamic vinegar.”

  A man in a black suit and a woman in a black dress stood waiting for them in the central courtyard. Behind them lay food on heating trays and a bottle of red wine. As they approached the table, the gentleman server hurried over to pull Madison’s chair away from the table.

  They sat, and the woman brought each of them a small bowl of mixed greens in vinaigrette. Rajinder said, in a whisper, “Are we allowed to talk?”

  “I think so,” said Madison.

  “This whole complex is ours? All four pyramids?”

  “For two hours, yes. Even the washrooms.”

  Madison hadn’t been able to shake the heavy feeling in her legs since Rajinder used the word secret. Now that they had kissed, now that it was clear they were on an actual date with romantic connotations, now that Madison was certain she wasn’t imagining all of this, she would have to tell Rajinder about her situation.

  “This is perfect,” he said, between forkfuls of salad. “This is the sort of night you look back on, from the distant future, when you are an old man, and say: ‘I was very happy then.’”

  Since the truth about her situation had waited this long, Madison decided to set it aside for another couple of hours. Tomorrow, or the next day. Or maybe the day after that.

  61

  northlands

  The Jesters were down 4–1 in the final minutes of the third period. Thanks to a wily left-winger who seemed destined for the NHL millionaire’s club, the Bonnyville Pontiacs went ahead early in the game. Shirley Wong was not the type to abandon her team, but the Jesters couldn’t possibly penetrate the Pontiacs’ ultra-conservative defence. Even so, she blew her horn and rang her bell, and cheered every time Steamer’s stick touched the puck.

  In the final minute of play, most of the remaining fans began to stand and stretch, grab their jackets and programs, and start up the tinny stairs of the Agricom. At the buzzer Shirley clapped, blew her horn, and rang her bell. Then she flopped back in her seat.

  Exhausted.

  Steamer had asked Shirley to wait for him. Since the guys would be going out to get wasted and pick fights, Steamer had hoped they could get a pizza and rent a movie or something.

  Now that Shirley knew all there was to know about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and now that Steamer knew all there was to know about Raymond’s flirtation with infidelity, they had become something like friends. Two days earlier, Shirley had baked a triple chocolate cake to celebrate Steamer’s eighteenth birthday. Neither Patch nor any of the other players showed up for the party so they ate half a cake together and Steamer got about as drunk as a devout Mormon can get: on cocoa.

  But this curiously satisfying relationship with an eighteen-year-old boy had only heightened Shirley’s general sense of loss and fatigue. It was sad and strange and probably wrong to look forward to pizza and a movie, maybe a walk in the river valley, with Steamer from Cardston.

  Shirley picked herself up and started walking to the LRT station near Rexall Place. The Oilers were also playing tonight, so the parking lots were jammed with cars and trucks. Even though she had vowed to punish professional hockey players with her indifference–Raymond and the Oilers had both abandoned her–Shirley read the sports columns as though they were pornographic essays. She had a few minutes so she walked around to the Gretzky statue, felt wistful, and returned to the LRT station to see Steamer waving.

  “Sorry you had to witness that, Shirley.”

  “Nah, you did great.”

  “That numb
er twenty-seven they got. He’s the real thing.”

  “I saw Patch line him up a couple of times.”

  Steamer started into the LRT station and down the stairs. “That boy’s way too fast for Patch.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and passed the busker, an elderly woman with an accordion. Steamer placed a couple of toonies in the woman’s hat.

  “Really enjoyable music, ma’am. Thanks.”

  The woman nodded and played a little faster as Shirley and Steamer continued through the turnstiles and toward the escalator. On the platform, a group of teenage boys in sweat-suits and early attempts at facial hair smoked and cackled. Loser kids, thought Shirley, and then she was disappointed with herself for thinking so.

  Steamer dropped his bag. “Hey, we heard you up there in the stands. Coach even said so. He said you’re our number-one fan and that we need to get some T-shirts printed up.”

  “Number-one fan.” This too made Shirley sad. She turned and looked south, to the autumnal concrete wretchedness of Northlands Park, and sighed. What was sadder? She imagined a small, elderly man in thick glasses, wearing a bow tie, and standing with his hands clasped in front of an empty restaurant at 7:30 p.m., candles lit on each table, waiting for customers who will never arrive.

  “You all right, Shirley?”

  “Of course.”

  “I sure like your jacket.” Steamer touched her arm. “I never saw pink suede before. It goes good with jeans.”

  Shirley smiled. “You don’t have to cheer me up, Steamer. It’s just one of those times. You know.”

  “I think you’re lonesome. Is it bad to say that?”

  The train arrived from the north, and the teenagers in their sweatsuits stood over the safety line so the recorded announcement woman would warn them to stay back.

  The Oilers game was still on, so there was plenty of room on the train. Steamer and Shirley sat on a south-facing bench together, with the hockey bag under their feet.

  “I hope it ain’t bad to say it, Shirley. And I just notice because I’m lonesome too. Takes one to know one, you know?”

  Shirley nodded. Somehow, she couldn’t summon the energy to tell Steamer to stop talking.

  “Have you seen Napoleon Dynamite?”

  Shirley shook her head.

  “We should rent that. It’s my favourite movie because it’s awesome even though there’s no sex or swears or gunplay. Would that be all right?”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s your favourite pizza? If we get my favourite movie, we’ll get your favourite pizza.”

  On the train, confronted with the question of her favourite pizza, Shirley understood what was wrong. She was depressed. On the night Benjamin Perlitz died, weakened by the NHL players’ strike and hints of her husband’s adulterousness, Shirley had been wounded.

  Finding it too difficult to open your mouth when someone asks a question like “What’s your favourite pizza?” was probably the textbook definition of depression.

  “Thin-crust veggie.”

  Steamer slapped his leg. “Thin-crust veggie it is, then.”

  The train stopped at Commonwealth Stadium and the kids in sweatsuits got off. Shirley wondered if they were planning to steal a car or abuse a cat. It had to be one of the two. Shirley also wondered if it was possible to pull oneself out of a depression without resorting to pharmaceuticals.

  “Shirley, can I tell you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “I know, in my heart, that I won’t make it to the show.”

  “Don’t say that, Steamer.”

  “When you see a kid like number twenty-seven and you know you could never catch him, not in a million years, you better pay attention to that message God is sending.”

  Shirley nodded as gently as she could manage.

  “So I decided what I’m gonna do. Do you like feet?”

  “I suppose. As much as the next person.”

  “I like them a lot, so I’m going to be a doctor of the feet. What’s that called again?”

  “A podiatrist.”

  “I’m gonna be a podiatrist.”

  “That’s terrific, Steamer.”

  “So I was wondering if, after our pizza is done tonight, I could examine you.”

  “Well…”

  “I know I’m not a podiatrist yet, but it might be good for me to know what I’m getting into.”

  The train pulled into Churchill Station and the last man on their car disembarked. Avoiding eye contact with Steamer, Shirley looked down and considered her feet.

  62

  amigo, amiga

  No matter how many times Madison showed him how to hold it, and to use his wrist instead of his arm, and shift his weight on to his right leg, Jonas could not throw a Frisbee.

  He gave the Frisbee thing one final try and watched it sail high up in the air, turn sharply to the right, and fall at the base of a barbecue pit near the Hawrelak Park washrooms. Then he began making a giant pile of leaves under a nearby grove of balsam poplars.

  Jonas worked quickly. The hill was of an admirable size when Madison returned with the Frisbee.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We must accept that I simply cannot throw a Frisbee. Next time let’s make it a Nerf football, yes? Yes. Good. Now, back up a few paces and run and jump and land in these leaves. It’ll be a gas.”

  “Jonas.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a pregnant girl. I can’t do that sort of thing.”

  “Pish posh. These are pillowy leaves.”

  “You go first.”

  Jonas was never a go first kind of guy. When he was a child, growing up in Beverly, he had made an art out of convincing the other boys to go first. This was a particularly important skill between grades eight and eleven, in the summertime, when the boys in his neighbourhood took the bus to Borden Park pool, waited until dark, and hopped the fence. His powers of persuasion, which he came to think of as Jonas Mind Tricks, allowed him to see nearly every boy from M. E. LaZerte High School in wet underwear. His own “chlorine allergy” kept him safe and dry in the lifeguard throne, flashlight in hand.

  The pillowiness of the leaf pile was potent. Jonas was certain. So, contrary to his nature, he zipped his windbreaker and backed up. “Ready?”

  Madison dished a thumbs-up. “Give ’er.”

  It wasn’t until Jonas reached the foot of the pile that he realized running was unnecessary. Even though his brain understood that jumping, at this point, was foolish, Jonas jumped. He turned in the air, and went horizontal. In the air, flying backwards, Jonas had time to scold himself for going first. Jonas had time to think this was the last image he would see of the world: forests leading up to the deliciously expensive homes in Windsor Park.

  He landed, with a thud, on his back, only his legs cushioned by the leaves. Once Jonas got his breath, and once Madison stopped laughing and assured him he hadn’t fractured his coccyx, they lay together in the bed of leaves looking up at the purple bank of late afternoon cloud that had installed itself over the city.

  “What are you going to be for Halloween?”

  “Carlos and I are going to be Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

  “Who’s who?”

  “I’m Sundance, obviously. Why don’t you think for a second before you ask such moronic questions?”

  “Has Carlos come to terms with his gayness yet?”

  “When we’re alone, in a house or in the middle of a deserted expanse of grassland, sure. It’s Freddie Mercury time. Around other human beings, no. According to that Carlos, we’re brothers. He actually refers to me as bro.”

  “I cannot imagine you as a bro.”

  “You know what he bought me last weekend?”

  “A promise ring?”

  “A snowmobiling suit. For snowmobiling. He has two snowmobiles, and calls them sleds. When the snow falls, and Carlos can’t wait, we’re going to go sleddin’.”

  “‘Things fall apart; t
he centre cannot hold.’”

  “Have you told Rajinder about the bun in ye olde oven yet?”

  Madison pounded the leaves on either side of her. “I was going to. About fifty times. But I always chicken out.”

  “Don’t you think he’s going to figure it out soon, when you start wearing maternity pants?”

  Madison buried her face in the leaves. “I’m a coward.”

  “What are you going to be for Halloween?”

  “A big fat lady who hates herself.”

  “Be Buddha.”

  “No.”

  “Santa? President Ulysses S. Grant? Late-career Elvis? Aretha Franklin? You better hurry up and decide, girl.”

  Madison got up, extended a hand to Jonas, then tossed the Frisbee into the wind, and caught it herself. “Rajinder and I are going to see Jeanne and Katie tomorrow morning.”

  Jonas cleaned the bits of leaves and earth off Madison’s face. He wondered how she didn’t worry about pimples, putting all those tiny pore-clogging grains of dirt directly on her cheeks. “Can I come?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I thought we were going to be three amigos. Three best chums.”

  “I’m an amiga, aren’t I?”

  “If there’s even one boy in the crowd, it’s amigos. Sexist? Maybe. But you’ve completely excluded me.”

  “You’ve got Carlos.”

  Jonas turned and marched toward the stairs leading up and out of Hawrelak Park. The notion that Carlos, an ur-redneck from Leduc, could compare with her sophisticated Indian millionaire with the cute nose was preposterous. Insulting. Behind him, he could hear Madison talking to herself and jogging to catch up. He took the stairs slowly and waited on the sidewalk at the top, the traffic rumbling by.

  Madison caught her breath. “We could go on double dates.”

  “You don’t understand. A little while ago it was just you and me. Now there’s this baby coming, and Rajinder and my pretends-he’s-not-gay boyfriend, the whole save-the-neighbourhood thing. If it doesn’t work, and it probably won’t, we’ll move away from each other and meet for soft drinks once a week. Then the baby’ll come and there’ll be less time, and all your friends’ll be baby obsessed like you, and we’ll just talk on the phone. About your baby. Then we’ll begin to forget. Other priorities, breeder birthday parties, et cetera. Then we’ll see each other from afar in Save On Foods and quietly agree to avoid meeting so we won’t hold each other up. Then–”