Ten minutes went by; not a sound from my dad’s room, not a peep, I didn’t know what they were doing in there but I started to get self-conscious, the nurses looking at me as they went by. So I went wandering around the halls. There was lots of sunlight streaming in, canned music, all very up. But when I turned the corner, I heard a groan coming from behind a door, a really awful, end-of-the-world groan, like only a crazy person who didn’t care what anybody thought of them would make. It was so raw, like watching an animal being born and it scared the bejesus out of me. I hurried back to my dad’s room. I didn’t wait, nothing, I just burst in the door.
My mother was sitting on the bed, holding his hand, and I heard him say, “I just don’t have the confidence any more.” Then he saw me standing there and this expression of impatience and irritation came over his face. He just closed right up.
“Just a minute,” he said, like I was a moron, like I’d turned up at a wedding with jam and cat hair all over my face. “Your mother will be right there.”
I went back out into the hall, considerably offended. When I get pissed off like that, I get this sensation in my body, a sort of metallic hollowness, and I can’t get rid of it unless I complain about it to the person who made me feel like that. But with my dad—he was from the old school, in case I haven’t mentioned it—he didn’t figure it was my place to talk back. So you never really got to have it out with him. It just left you sick with rage and planning to stick him with a pitchfork.
I glared at a nurse who looked at me. Even my posturechanged. I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. It felt sort of familiar. Then I remembered why. It was the way I stood in the hall when I got kicked out of class for being an asshole. Same exact way.
“Oh yeah, that’s what he’s like,” I thought to myself. “For a second there, I thought I actually missed him.”
A few minutes later my mother fluttered out, all anxious and smiley and trying to make everything all right.
“He’s not feeling well,” she said. I snorted. I shouldn’t have but I did. It was partly to punish her for not taking my side, for not getting it. I went right in.
My father was lying in bed in blue pyjamas. His face was grey, his hands folded across his chest like a stiff. Naturally he said nothing about kicking me out a moment earlier. ‘Sorry’ would have done the trick, I would have melted with surprise; I would have melted with gratitude, too, because it would have freed me from feeling like I had a belt around my chest.
He asked me about school, about a test I’d knocked out of the park the week before, math no less.
“There was this isosceles triangle problem but there was a mistake in it. Like in the typing. So instead of solving it, I proved that you couldn’t solve it.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “That’s good. That’s very good.”
He wasn’t listening to a fucking word I said, a dummy could see that, and I got instantly pissed off at myself for letting him play me like a sucker again, me coming up there thinking he’d be glad to see me and all. But no, he was just putting up with me, as usual.
“It’s been nice to see you,” I said.
We shook hands. I went back out into the hall. My mother was out there, smoking a cigarette.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
I laughed.
“Don’t be like that,” she snapped. “It’s so unattractive.”
I waited a couple of beats. I could feel my face distorting. Like the muscles were moving it as if they had a mind of their own.
“Yeah, well don’t feel compelled to bring me next time,” I said.
I called up a whole mess of people that night. Part of me was ready for them to say, “A party? At your place? Now why the fuck would I go to a party at your place?” But it didn’t go like that, not at all. My mother was right. People like being invited places, even by an asshole, not that I was one, but if they’ve got a choice, they’d rather not go than not be invited. It sort of gained momentum, this ringing people up, and by the end I was really speedy, like it was a race or something. I had so much juice I even called up a few people I hadn’t intended to invite. What the hell, I thought, it’s a party, but really it was just an excuse to keep at it. I kept making the same joke over and over, like it just occurred to me.
“Hi Leonard,” I’d say, “not that I expect anybody to come, but I’m having a little party,” and then I’d laugh like I’d never said it before. Which was fine until I accidentally called him back.
“You already said that,” he said.
Most guys would have let it go but not Leonard. He was a little bit exact for my comfort.
I saved the girls for the end. I called up Susan Fairley first, she had a fierce crush on me, a one-way crush I might add, but I knew she’d come. I called Adrienne Mustard, the doctor’s daughter, and told her to bring Mary-Anne Parker. Then the Bishop Strachan girls, Jane Martin and Rodent and Jamie Porter, who would let you do a lot if you could just get her alone. And that went so well, I started to call the tougher cases, those pretty Catholic girls, Pamela Mathews and Anna Christie and Cynthia Macdonald, who was so beautiful she scared me. Somebody asked me if they should tell Daphne Gunn and I said sure, why not.
On the night of the party, Friday, I came home right after school. My mother had done everything, natch. She was whirling around the house like it was her party.
“I’ve got the potato chips, pretzels, Coke, orange pop, dip, I know you don’t like it but some kids do.”
“What are the green things?” I asked.
“Don’t be negative. They’re pickles. You don’t have to eat them.”
“I can smell them from here.”
“Then go stand somewhere else. Gosh, I forgot the party hats.”
My face nearly fell off.
“I’m kidding,” she said softly, like it offended her I could even think that.
“You better relax, Simon,” my brother said. “This is supposed to be a party.”
I went upstairs and left her to it. I took a shower, dried my hair under her hairnet, something that made it just right. Sort of puffy but in a natural way. I mean no one was going to mistake me for Troy Donahue but I knew that going in. I put on a pair of crisp black slacks, a shirt and a blue sweater. Brought out my eyes, my mother always said. I put on the old man’s deodorant,Old Spice, but I already had my shirt on, so I had to undo a couple of buttons and squeeze it in there. I was worried about wrecking my hair by moving around too much. I brushed my teeth, gargled till I gagged.
“Jesus, Simon,” Harper said through the bathroom door, “What the fuck’s going on in there?”
I heard my mother yell from downstairs where she was not minding her own business.
“Harper. Language.”
“Oh yeah,” he said over the balcony, “like he’s never heard those words before.”
“That’s not the point,” she said. Not mad or anything. Just sure.
He let it go, which was good because he had about one more smart-ass remark left before she got pissed off.
A couple of pals turned up before the official beginning. They were all dressed up, you could smell them, soap and deodorant and shampoo. We were all pretty excited and being around each other, what with a whole party ahead of us, it was intoxicating. But right through this, like out of nowhere, I had the weirdest thought, the kind that makes you think you belong in a booby hatch. I imagined my mother walking into my bedroom, all drained of colour, and saying, “Something terrible has happened to your father, you have to cancel the party.”
I dream this shit up just to torture myself. Sometimes I think it’s because I’ve got bad, black flecks in my blood and every so often they pass through my brain. I read a story once about a guy whose wife was having a baby. He was right there in the delivery room with her, and all he could think of was the Nazis throwing babies into ovens. And I remember thinking, that’s fucked up,boy, that’s really fucked up. There’s a million other things that guy ought to be thinking about.
So there I was, the party’s just starting and I’m thinking about Nazis and babies and my dad dying. Fortunately some more people turned up at the door.
My mother disappeared like she’d promised and left me with the whole downstairs.
Around nine-thirty I looked around and I realized that even if nobody else came, I was still home free. There must have been a vacuum that Friday night, and everybody decided to do one thing, like those lemmings all deciding every ten years or so to throw themselves off a cliff. People hung around in the kitchen, in the living room, even in the foyer. They went to the fridge, they took stuff, they acted like they’d been there a hundred times before. It was great. In fact, I had to flush a couple of them out of the basement. They were getting ready for something serious down there.
There was this guy from New York, he was a boarder at school. Usually those guys are all queers, everybody knows that, but this guy was sort of cool, he had wonderful shirts, pink ones and yellow ones, he wore them under his school blazer. Come to think of it, he looked like one of those guys who reads Playboy, you know, What kind of man reads Playboy? He had that kind of sophistication. He asked me if I’d let him play the records. It’d give him something to do besides sitting on the couch, looking like a goof. Course he got to meet everybody that way, everybody being an expert on what you should play at a party.
Dorian Bradshaw and some of the guys from the Catholic school hung around in the driveway, leaning against the old man’s car and drinking. Just as long as they didn’t get into a fight, I didn’t care. Some of those guys, I’ll tell you, they can go berserko. One of them grabbed a spray can once at a partyand wrote his name on the bedroom wall. Like in a complete stranger’s house. It wasn’t real hard to figure out who did it. Anyway, I didn’t want any of that shit at my party, so when they came back in, reeking, I kept an eye on them.
Harper mostly stayed up in his room. He had kind of an outbreak with his skin, it wasn’t his fault, I mean he didn’t eat chocolate or anything but it made him a little shy. One time he came down and made toast. I asked him if he wanted to hang around.
“No,” he said. “Thanks anyway. Not really my scene.”
She was wearing a blue, sparkly dress with little cotton straps on her shoulders. And a lot of eye make-up. From a certain angle, she looked sort of Asian. I heard her tell somebody this famous folk singer had written a song for her. I figured that was bullshit but there was enough to her you couldn’t be completely sure. I mean if you saw her in a Hollywood restaurant, you’d probably really envy her.
Pretty full of herself. Kept throwing these quick little looks around the room to see who was watching her. She came with a guy named Mitch. I didn’t invite him, he’s just one of those guys figures he’s welcome everywhere. And he usually is. Cowboy good looks, pale blue eyes (like a Siberian husky) and white teeth, quite a hit with the girls, on first impression anyway. He caught me staring at her. I dropped my glance too late. I didn’t want him to think I was a loser, pining after somebody else’s date.
I drifted around the living room to see how the party was doing. I ran into Daphne Gunn. She was the one who dropped me for playing spin the bottle with her best friend while she was in the hospital with a broken leg. That’s what she said anyway. I knew it was bullshit. She just liked somebody else better, this guy, Danny Lang. In fact she probably put her friend up to it. Weird how much I missed her once she was gone. I walked around like a sick dog for a couple of days, maybe even a week. I even burst into tears one day in my mother’s bathroom because it occurred to me, just like that, out of the blue, that I couldn’t ride my bike over to Daphne’s house any more. I mean that’s what was so haunting about it, this thing that I used to do all the time I couldn’t do any more.
Anyway. She came with her new boyfriend, a guy with a funny-shaped head. To be fair he wasn’t a goof. Just sort of extraneous.
“Who’s Mr Cylinder Head?” I asked.
“He’s my new boyfriend.”
“Son of a gun,” I said, meaning I’m not sure what.
She introduced him. I didn’t want him feeling superior or anything, just because he had her and I didn’t, so I played my cards very carefully. I waited till I’d said something especially funny and then I split. I’ve got an exquisite sense of timing. I really know how to do that stuff.
There was a ton of people by now. I saw George Hara smoking a cigarette by the fireplace. He was wearing a cardigan with a shirt under it buttoned up at the collar. Very square. I guess he really didn’t go out very much. Nobody dressed like that in my part of town. The English guy didn’t come, which was all right because I’d have had to pay a lot of attention to him on account of him not knowing anybody. But I don’t know. I always feel responsible for everybody having a good time. It’s probably bullshit. I mean according to me it’s amazing they get their shoes tied without me around.
Four girls sat on the floor, their kilts pushed between their knees. They asked me to sit with them but I was too restless. I’d chat a bit here and there but then I’d move on. I had the damnedest sensation of looking for something, of waiting for something to happen. So I’d get to the end of the room and then I’d turn around and go through the whole works again.
I went upstairs. I heard my mother talking to a couple of kids just outside the bathroom. But she was doing a good job so I left them alone. It’s a great ace up your sleeve, having a mother people like. It makes you look better. Then I remembered the couple in the basement, I wondered if they’d snuck back there.
I went downstairs. I opened the basement door and you’ll never guess what I saw. I saw the girl in the sparkly dress; only she wasn’t with Mitch, she was with some other guy, a prefect at my school, she had her head turned up and she was kissing him on the mouth, I could see her lower jaw moving. They broke apart when they saw me. I went back upstairs sort of shocked.
In a little while she came into the kitchen. I could feel her looking at me as she worked her way across the room. I opened the refrigerator and pretended to peer in. Then she was standing beside me. I could smell her.
“You remind me of somebody,” she said.
“Oh yes?”
“What does your father do?”
“He’s a stockbroker.”
“That sounds pretty interesting.” I looked at her blankly.
Somebody spilled a drink on the floor. I frowned.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “Somebody’ll clean it up.”
“Are you a model or something?” I asked.
“Only in the summer. The rest of the time I’m just like you.”
I doubt that, I thought.
“That’s a nice haircut.” I said. “What does your dad do?”
“My father works in the movies,” she said.
“Oh yeah?”
“He knows everybody.”
“Does he know Kenny Withers?”
“Probably. Who’s Kenny Withers?”
“He’s a friend of mine. He lives down the street. He collects stamps.”
She looked at me coolly.
“That’s very funny.” She waited a moment. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.” I was sorry as soon as I said it.
“I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet she’s just not here tonight. I’ll bet you’re a two-timer.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Scarlet Duke.”
“Is that your real name?”
“You want to see some ID?” She reached around to a cloth purse that hung from her bare shoulder.
“No, no.”
“Here,” she said. “Smell that.” She put a wrist under my nose. I could see a little blue vein.
“It’s Boucheron. Very expensive.” She looked at me. “Nice eh?”
“Yes, very nice.”
“$110 a bottle.”
“How did you get here, Scarlet?”
“The guy I came with is a friend of the guy who lives here.”
“Your boyfrien
d?”
“He’s not really my boyfriend.”
“I live here.”
She looked startled. Very cool to have so much effect on her.
“You live here?”
“Yes.”
“By yourself?”
“No, with my mother. And my father. I got a brother too.” Mitch came over. His blond hair that fell just so over his forehead.
“Cool party,” he said.
Scarlet looked at a small gold watch on her wrist. “I have to go. My father will have a bird.” She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.” I could smell her perfume again. “Think about me sometime,” she said. And then they left.
I cleaned up the spilt drink. Somebody got loose in the pantry and opened a can of corn. Spilled it too. Somebody turned on the TV but I unplugged it. You can’t have a TV on at a party. Rosemary Shank was sick in the bathroom. She always did that, got drunk and got a guy to look after her. But really, the party was a hit, little clusters of people sitting on the floor, the lights off, a candle here and there, everybody talking. I wondered why I’d never had one before.
And that girl. After the party was over, I sat for a little while in the living room. It was sort of like a battlefield the day after: half-empty glasses of coke, one with a cigarette butt in it, coagulated pieces of pizza, which tasted pretty good. Records out of their covers, a cushion squashed down on the chesterfield. And then that girl. I saw her chin moving when she kissed that guy; they must have been really going at it. The skin all soft under her chin. She was really something.
Lost Between Houses Page 2
