The Garneau Block

by Todd Babiak

  Raymond laughed, and climbed on a sidewalk bench. Soon, a full-scale Halloween blizzard had blown in over the valley. For a million people, Raymond knew, this would be unwelcome. “Cowards!” he said. “Self-deniers. This is the north!” He danced on the bench and clapped his hands and screamed wildly into the wind. The wet snow blew into his mouth.

  In an old suit and a tweed overcoat, without a hat or gloves, Raymond recognized he would not last long in the blizzard. He walked to the steep edge of the valley for a last look at the city before the sky fell upon it. Raymond lifted his hands and conducted the wind and the snow, sang aloud in German, bounced and addressed the sky. Then, as the tops of his ears began to sting, Raymond slipped on a new patch of wet snow. He reached out for something to brace himself but there was nothing. Raymond slid, fell back, and tumbled down the hill.

  69

  groove is in the heart

  Steamer stood at the living room window of 11 Garneau, staring out at the blizzard and sighing. While he stared and sighed, Shirley attempted to finish an article about Christianity and Canadian politics in The Walrus. She really wanted a glass of red wine but she had grown to feel the sting of judgment from Steamer every time she partook.

  Again he sighed, and Shirley closed the magazine with a slap. “What is it, Steamer?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Steamer turned around. “Do you promise you won’t, I don’t know, judge me?”

  “Of course.”

  Steamer walked over and knelt before Shirley in his jeans and tank top. There was a thick scar on his right shoulder, from a baling accident when he was thirteen, and Shirley couldn’t help but focus on it. She wanted to run a finger along the scar, perhaps when Steamer was asleep some night.

  Slowly and tenderly, Steamer pulled off Shirley’s socks and investigated her feet. She lifted the magazine so he would not look at her and read any pleasure in her face. His hands were soft, for a hockey player who grew up on a farm, and they quivered slightly. Shirley closed her eyes as Steamer drew his thumbs along the top of her foot and said, to himself, as though he were chanting, “Navicular, medial cuneiform, intermediate cuneiform, lateral cuneiform, cuboid.” He took her toes in his fingers and Shirley worked hard to cloak a soft gasp. “Phalanges,” he whispered.

  Steamer slowly replaced her socks and lay on the floor.

  “So?”

  Shirley swallowed. “So what?”

  “Did I get them right?”

  Steamer had given her a cheat sheet, and Shirley was supposed to have been keeping track. “One hundred per cent,” she said.

  “I’m sure glad you don’t mind being my dummy. Before I start at Brigham Young, I want to know every bone and tendon and muscle by heart.”

  This pleased Shirley.

  Steamer looked up at the ceiling. “You know, I never trick-or-treated. My parents wouldn’t let me. They figured it was devilry, Halloween.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it is just about crops and pumpkin harvests.”

  “Did you ever dress up?”

  “Never.”

  Shirley looked at her watch. “Because it’s still Halloween for another three hours.”

  “I guess my parents wouldn’t need to know.”

  Shirley invited Steamer into the spare bedroom upstairs, where her daughter kept all the clothes she refused to wear any more. Since her daughter had inherited Raymond’s height and thickness, her high-school graduation dress, for example, was giant-sized. A perfect fit for Steamer, if he was interested.

  “I can’t dress up like a fairy.”

  Shirley held the pink dress up in front of him. “Why not?”

  “One of the guys’ll see me.”

  “It’s Halloween.”

  “Are you sure about this, Ms. Wong?”

  Shirley left Steamer alone in the spare room to try on the pink graduation dress. She heard the chiffon rustling before he opened the door. “Can you zip me up?”

  There was an old Green Giant costume downstairs, so Shirley modified it into Peter Pan. Steamer could be Tinkerbell.

  The lights were dim and the DJ had just started spinning a smash teen hip-hop hit from 1992 when they arrived at the Old Strathcona Business Association Halloween party. A crowd of monsters were gathered on the makeshift dance floor.

  Shirley went to the bar and bought a glass of wine for herself. Tinkerbell trailed close behind. “Can I get you anything, Steamer? A pop? Water?”

  After a few moments of deliberation in front of the cooler, Steamer said, “A beer.”

  “What?”

  “I want to try a cold one.”

  Shirley bought Steamer a Grasshopper and they sat at one of the only empty tables. They touched plastic glasses and drank. “If you become an alcoholic, remember, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I’ve been watching you, Ms. Wong. You have good morals, your own business, a nice house. The Lord hasn’t destroyed you for drinking liquor.”

  “The Lord hasn’t destroyed me yet, but he’s dallied with the idea.”

  Steamer’s first few sips were painful to behold. But as he reached the middle of the glass, he stopped puckering. A thin film appeared in front of his eyes, and he smiled. “I get it. I get it.”

  “Just take it easy, Steamer. Moderation is key.”

  “I’m not allowed to dance. But you know what, Ms. Wong? I want to dance.”

  Shirley nodded. “I bet even Jesus–”

  “Now,” he said, and pulled Shirley to the square in front of the DJ table. “Groove Is in the Heart” became “Love Hurts.” At first, they danced apart. But when everyone else moved in and embraced, Steamer looked around and stepped in to Shirley. “Is it all right?”

  “Of course.”

  Shirley placed Steamer’s hands on her waist, and she put her hands on his shoulders. The graduation dress had thin straps, thin enough that his scar was bare. She could feel that Steamer was shivering with fright or a related emotion. One of the Sugarbowl owners danced next to Shirley with his wife, and he dished her a naughty look.

  “Damn, Shirley,” said the co-owner of the Sugarbowl, just loud enough for her to hear.

  Without acknowledging the remark, Shirley led Steamer to the corner of the dance floor. She dragged her thumb along the scar on his shoulder. And then she did it again.

  70

  revolver

  Butch “Carlos” Cassidy leaned against the bar and yawned. Jonas, the Sundance Kid, waved at Butch from the dance floor and Butch made like he was shooting the Sundance Kid between the eyes.

  For the eighth or ninth time, a man–this one dressed up like a CIA agent–tried to pick up Carlos. Jonas could not read lips but he imagined Carlos saying, “No, no thank you. At the moment I’m marvellously in love.”

  For years, Jonas had questioned the motives of his friends who went to the Roost as a couple. A room filled with hundreds of inebriated and available men is designed to make attached people feel badly. You’ve either settled for an inferior partner or you’re the inferior partner.

  Somehow, Jonas felt neither inferior nor jealous. As he swayed to “Monster Mash,” he tried to will Carlos onto the dance floor. Then he realized it was dumb to stand four metres away from Carlos and gesture at him. Jonas quit the dance floor.

  “Is it always like this here?”

  Jonas looked around. The drinking, the dancing, the smooching. “Apart from the Halloween costumes, yes.”

  “I never liked nightclubs. Even when I was a kid.”

  “How come?”

  Carlos shrugged. “I prefer pubs. Or my house. Or just about anywhere, really.”

  “You’re a senior citizen.”

  “My dad says that.”

  A surf rock tune started up and Jonas wanted to shake his tight blue jeans. But a strange thing was happening to him. He was beginning to understand his partner’s discomfort. “You’re sure it isn’t a gay nightclub th
ing?”

  “Well…”

  “Would you like to leave?”

  Carlos shrugged again.

  “Be honest.”

  “I want to leave real bad, Jonas. Real bad.”

  Jonas crouched a little and performed his Paul Newman squint. “Kid, the next time I say, ‘Let’s go someplace like Bolivia,’ let’s go someplace like Bolivia.”

  “That’s from the movie!”

  “Good boy.”

  Carlos walked out of the Roost and into the blizzard.

  A giant black truck emerged from the storm. Jonas grabbed the back of Carlos’s shirt. “Butch has all the good lines but the Sundance Kid is better looking. Where should we go?”

  At the Mustang, Carlos insisted Jonas sit in the car while he wiped off the snow and scraped the windows. Jonas reached over to start the engine and eject the Limp Bizkit CD. He found the case inside the glovebox and slipped the album under his seat.

  Carlos got in and cranked up the defrost. It remained almost impossible to see. Jonas wiped the condensation from his window. “Should we maybe just call a taxi?”

  “If we do, it’ll take two hours.” Carlos put the Mustang in gear and proceeded slowly. South of Jasper Avenue, in complete whiteout, Carlos shook his head and turned into the Chateau Lacombe where he eased into the underground parking lot.

  Carlos removed a black bag from the trunk and led Jonas to the hotel lobby and elevator. In La Ronde, the revolving restaurant, the host bowed to them and apologized. The room was nearly empty. Food service had been cut off but they were welcome to have a drink.

  Jonas ordered an old-fashioned and Carlos asked for a coffee. They sat near the window and Carlos pulled a thin laptop computer out of his bag. “Are you checking e-mail? That’s awful, Butch.”

  “Can you speak Spanish?” Carlos peeked around from his computer. His face shone white and faintly blue.

  “Por supuesto,” said Jonas.

  “Yes or no?”

  Jonas didn’t want to lie or explain about the limitations of level-two Spanish so he pointed at the laptop. “The only thing more tactless than talking on a cellular phone on a date is opening up a computer.”

  “When do rehearsals for A Christmas Carol begin?”

  “Why, Carlos?”

  “Just when?”

  “The twelfth of November.” Jonas would be Bob Cratchit in this year’s Citadel production. The role didn’t bring out his best qualities but the money was good and he would be downtown, within walking distance of Chinatown restaurants, for almost two months.

  The server arrived with their drinks and it struck Jonas that he was beginning to favour comfort over adventure. Here he was, sipping a quiet drink in a revolving hotel restaurant on one of the wildest nights of the year. Later on, at his place or in Leduc, he and Carlos would romance one another like a married couple. Instead of starring in an experimental show at the Roxy, he was choosing to play off Scrooge. And he was thinking seriously about auditioning for a three-month dinner-theatre gig in January.

  “What’s happening to me, Carlos?”

  Carlos was lost behind the computer screen.

  “I’m becoming everything I thought I’d never be: a fussy bourgeois without the regular paycheque. I might as well start wearing khakis and subscribing to Martha Stewart Living.” Jonas rested his head in his arms. “At approximately 10:15 p.m., Halloween night, on the dance floor of the Roost, Jonas Pond became his father.”

  Carlos closed the computer with a click. “It’s done.”

  “I know. But you should have seen me fifteen years ago, baby. I was a star.”

  “No, I mean it’s done. Our trip is booked, but I left the hotels open. You can negotiate in Spanish so it’ll be cheaper. We leave for La Paz at 6:41 in the morning, November second.”

  Jonas leaned across the table and kissed Carlos on the cheek.

  “Don’t!” Carlos shoved Jonas away. He scanned the room to make sure no one saw, just as he always did when Jonas attempted a public acknowledgement of their relationship. The snow had dissipated somewhat and, through the window, the eastern half of the city revealed itself. Carlos pressed his forehead against the window. “Hey, someone’s trying to crawl up the slope of the valley.”

  The Sundance Kid took his old-fashioned standing up, in one gulp. Then, without alerting Butch Cassidy, he walked to the elevator and pressed the call button.

  71

  quietude

  In her favourite chair, surrounded by lit candles, Madison attempted to think. Not think while watching rap music videos or reading Les Misérables. Just think, in silence.

  It was torture.

  Does any woman, really, know herself well enough to enjoy the cacophony of her own thoughts? Piano teachers, maybe, and evangelical Christian housewives who volunteer a lot, but who else?

  Madison wanted to pick up the phone and call someone, anyone, in Montreal. She wanted to go upstairs and steal Garith for an hour, or browse the Web for strollers from Italy. Since finger-chewing was the only distractive indulgence she allowed herself, the skin around her nails was pink and peeled. Ravaged.

  A spot at the back of her skull grew hot. She reached back and touched the spot, and realized the silence was ruining her psychological equilibrium. By this time tomorrow she would be on antidepressants with the rest of her generation.

  Yet this aversion to quietude was not her fault. Since self-awareness had first crept in at twelve or thirteen, she had been bombarded by a socially sanctioned media blitz. Shutting it off, all at once, was like trying to kick a lifelong amphetamine habit.

  Twice in the past week Rajinder had knocked on her door, flowers in hand. And twice she had huddled in her favourite chair, unwilling to speak to him.

  The candles flickered as warm air blew through the ceiling vent, and Madison leaned forward. Would one of the candles go out? No. There would be no drama for her tonight. She rose, intending to walk across the street in her pajamas, knock on Rajinder’s door, and tackle him with kisses. Then she sat down again, picked up Les Misérables, and tossed it behind her chair.

  Madison blew out the candles and watched the afterglow. When it was gone, and darkness was complete, she regretted blowing out the candles. Now what?

  She was about to give up on thinking in silence, since it only inspired thinking in silence about thinking in silence, when there was a knock on her door. She hopped up out of her favourite chair, tripped on the ottoman, and fell into a wood-panelled wall. The light switch was easy to find, as she had rammed her cheek into it.

  “Maddy, let me in.”

  She sighed. It was Jonas, not Rajinder. “Coming.”

  At the top of the stairs, his cowboy poncho covered in wet snow, Jonas hugged her. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Where’s Carlos?”

  Jonas pulled back and leaned against the door. “Don’t ask. Just don’t ask about Carlos tonight, please.”

  “All right.”

  Jonas started downstairs. “The stupid hick. How dare he?”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “An old-fashioned, no ice.”

  “Beer, white wine, or vodka with some cranberry juice?”

  “Wine, then. Wine!” Jonas pulled off his poncho and tossed it in the corner. “You know, we were having such a nice night. I was worried about turning into white-picket-fence boy and then, then, he books us a trip to Bolivia. Wonderful, right? Wrong. He still thinks he’s straight.”

  As usual, Madison broke the cork while trying to extract it. So she pushed it into the bottle and strained the wine into Jonas’s glass through a J-cloth. “You’re sleeping together. Who cares if he…”

  “Hey. Hey, Madison. Didn’t I say no talking about Carlos?”

  “Actually, you said–”

  “Stop. And get dressed. We’re going back to the Roost.”

  Madison brought the wine and a glass of cranberry juice, and sat in the adjacent chair. “I’m not going to the Roost.”

>   “I need you, Maddy. I’m distraught.”

  “So I go with you to the Roost.”

  Jonas took a sip and leaned across the arm of the chair toward her. “Yes, yes.”

  “And you blow me off instantly, and run on to the dance floor.”

  “Sure, yep.”

  “Ten minutes later, you’re gone with some moustache.”

  Jonas crossed his fingers and closed his eyes tightly, clicked his heels together.

  “So why do you need me there?”

  “If I’m alone it looks like I’m just there to cruise. What kind of pathetic local celebrity do you take me for?”

  Madison swiped the remote control from the coffee table between the two chairs and turned on the music videos. Jonas began making sarcastic remarks about them and Madison realized–with another pulse of heat in the back of her head–she had been here before. In her silk pajama bottoms, velour housecoat, and bunny slippers. Jonas blabbing about male pattern baldness and the genetic errors who controlled the film industry.

  The heat intensified, itched, throbbed. Madison had been here before, so many times she could not remember specific instances. And she would be here again, eternally.

  If she didn’t do something now, on the cusp of her thirtieth birthday, Madison Weiss would leave this room but she would never leave this room.

  72

  a vision in the blizzard

  Raymond Terletsky reached out to Death. Death huffed and mist eased down out of his nose. His head was the head of a buffalo. It looked like Death wore blue jeans, a bandana, and cowboy boots, but Raymond couldn’t be sure. The snow had stopped falling but it was dark.

  Though Death did not speak, Raymond understood.

  If the professor stood up straight, he would fall back. If he tried to crawl forward he would slip again. His only hope was the hand of Death, a hand whiter than snow. “I guess you don’t have much in the way of blood. Do you, Death?”

  As he reached, and Death reached, Raymond received a vision of 10 Garneau. All of the architects and consultants had been wrong. He knew what the house would look and sound like. It was so simple, so obvious, so clear. He laughed and thanked Death, even though it was too late; like learning lottery numbers after the draw.