by Ron Corbett
His body was like nothing I had seen before. There were dark blue pockmarks on his legs that looked like the ridges of fresh-cut metal holes before they are ground down. On his back were large red welts and more unfiled holes. On his chest were dozens and dozens of crisscrossing cuts.
“My Lord, Guillaume, how did this happen?”
“Bunch of ways. Don’t worry about it.”
“Was it during that war you were talking about?”
“During. Right after. Depends who you ask.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“You can if you want.”
“I don’t want. I did that once. Talked a man’s ear right off telling him all about it. Didn’t help me any. And I know it didn’t help him.”
“How could you know a thing like that?”
“Because he came to me once and apologized for not being able to help me. The day before I left his hospital. He came and apologized. This was a man who had four university degrees on his wall, each one saying he had learned to be a helpful man. I think I broke his heart.”
I held Guillaume that night until I thought my bones would snap, a pressure so intense it scared me, as though something inside me might rupture and I would die. A need to hold another person, to couple, like I had never experienced before. Was it love? Was it fear? You would think I would know by now.
. . .
Dr. Mackenzie was worried right from the start. As soon as I told him about Guillaume, our sessions changed. He began to talk about the addictive personality and how it manifests itself in different ways but is never anything different. Drunk on this, drunk on that, doesn’t make any difference. Addiction is always addiction, even though it has a pecking order, with shelter drunks at the bottom and coke-sniffing CEOs at the top. But an addict is an addict. Don’t ever be fooled.
After several sessions like that, I confronted him.
“This is about Guillaume, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know that much about him, Lucy.”
“I know he has a good heart. I know he is a good man.”
“He is an addict. He has stopped going to the meetings.”
“I have never seen him drink. He knows what he is doing. He is not a stupid man.”
“You know what you are saying right now, Lucy?”
“I do.”
“And you think he is worth the risk?”
“I do.”
Dr. Mackenzie looked at me for a long time after I said that, assessing me, not even trying to hide what he was doing. No other therapist ever did that. Most liked to keep the conversation moving. Therapists working on billable hours are no fans of silence. When he started again it was all about co-dependence, and after a few moments of that, I asked him, “Can there ever be something that completes you in a good way?”
“I’m not sure there is. You should never be that dependent.”
“What about religion? Isn’t that a way to complete a person in a good way?
“You should have gone to university, Lucy. Have you ever considered it?”
“Please, Dr. Mackenzie, I’m serious.”
“Well, yes, religion would be a way to complete a person in a good way. You’re right about that. And it is a natural desire to want to belong, to have companionship and shared beliefs. But for the addict, this natural desire is twisted and out of balance.”
“It becomes an obsession.”
“Yes. That would be a good way of describing it.”
“Every saint was obsessed.”
“Lucy, where are you going with this?”
“It is the reason I stay with Guillaume. Why I need him. You must see it.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“You just said it. Saints are like addicts. Drug-zonked, crazy addicts, but we don’t call them drug-zonked, crazy addicts. We call them saints. That’s because they know what they’re doing.”
“I’m still not following.”
“If I know what I’m doing I can’t be an addict. Self-awareness changes addiction into something else. Something good.”
Dr. Mackenzie nodded but didn’t ask the question. Leaned back in his chair, stroked his beard, and said it for me:
“Faith.”
. . .
Tommy was out of town most of that summer, and it was after Labour Day before I heard from him again. He came to the McDonald’s. Drunk. Cranked. Right to my cash register. Pushing people out of his way to get there, and then he yelled, “Fuck, it’s true. Someone told me you were working at a McDonald’s but I didn’t fuckin’ believe him. I said he was a lying fuck, for only in my fantasies have I seen sweet, sweet Lucy in a uniform. Very becoming, darliiin.”
It’s hard to describe how Tommy Bangles looks exactly, his physical appearance, because most people never move off his face. Couldn’t tell you how tall he was or what pants he was wearing because they just keep staring at his face. He has long hair that turned grey in his twenties. A big Roman nose. Two front teeth made of solid gold. And last time I knew him, fifteen teardrop tattoos running down his cheeks. Not a tear for every person he killed. Tommy only inked the men and women he respected.
“Tommy, I’m working. Please don’t do this.”
“I would have preferred a nurse’s uniform.”
“Tommy, please don’t make a scene.”
“A scene? What are you talking about?”
And he started laughing. A sneering, mean-spirited laugh that must have changed course and backed up on him on account of how mean-spirited it was, because suddenly he was hacking and spitting out snot, pushing his long grey hair away from his face.
“Sir, is everything all right?”
Mr. Rodriguez. Standing right beside me. Jesus.
“I’m good,” said Tommy, and he grabbed some napkins from a dispenser. Spit a ball of snot into them. Bunched up the paper and threw it on the floor.
“Sir, you can’t throw garbage on the floor!”
Tommy looked around before saying, “I don’t see any garbage cans.”
“I don’t see how that—”
“If you don’t give me a fuckin’ garbage can, it’s rather on you, Pedro.”
“Sir, there are children here. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
Oh shit.
“I told you I was feeling all right. Didn’t you just hear me say I was feeling all right?”
“Yes I did, but—”
“So why would you ask me again?”
“I just thought—”
“Just thought I was lying to you? Or maybe you thought I was a man who says things he doesn’t mean, like some fuckin’ Indian begging for change on the street, is that what you thought, Pedro?”
“Tommy, nobody said that,” I almost screamed at him.
“Pedro here said it.”
“His name is not Pedro, Tommy. He’s my boss. Please.”
“Do you think I care what his fuckin’ name is? Or that he’s your fuckin’ boss?”
I turned to look at Mr. Rodriguez, and the expression on his face was sad to see. Tommy was already laughing at him. There was fear there, but mostly confusion, my boss no longer sure of his next move, wondering what sort of creature stood before him, how Tommy had been sired and raised and imagining the worst, some Gothic horror brought to life and just come marching through the front door of his McDonald’s. Terror was washing through his body. Causing his arms and legs to tremor. A thing so noticeable it looked like he was convulsing.
I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “I can handle this, Mr. Rodriguez. I promise you. This man will be leaving right away.”
My boss turned to me with a helpless look on his face, but then some sort of decision must have been made because he suddenly gave a firm nod of his head, turned, and strolled past the fr
yers and microwaves to his office. Walking as though in no hurry. Making a precise right turn at his office, going inside, and closing the door behind him.
“Why are you hanging around with shits like that?” said Tommy. “Wait till I tell him it’s true. You’re working at a fuckin’ McDonald’s.”
“Why do you care, Tommy? Why does he care?”
“I have no fuckin’ idea, Lucy. This is between you and him. I just know he needs to see you.”
“Tell him I’ll come when the doctor says I can. When he thinks I’m strong enough.”
“He’ll want that doctor to feel that way real soon, Lucy.”
“I hear you, Tommy.”
“Real, real soon, darliiin.”
“Message delivered. Please, cut me some slack here, Tommy. Do you want something to eat? My treat.”
And Tommy Bangles stood there weaving on his feet, a line of people behind him trying to avoid eye contact, a confused, young boy’s look coming to his face for a second before he yelled.
“Have you ever seen me eat this shit, Lucy? Ever? A Big-fuckin’-Mac? Honestly darliiin, you are losing your fuckin’ mind.”
. . .
I tried to put it out of my mind. I was stalling for time. Stretching it out and hoping the answer would come to me. I had begun to think Guillaume was going to be part of any answer, although I didn’t see how yet, and of course I feel bad about what happened and where we are now. I should have told him right then. It seems obvious looking back, but it didn’t seem obvious then, and by then I had begun to live for Guillaume. The only part of my day that did not seem drab or threatening, too hot or too cold, too rushed or too slow.
If I did not have Guillaume I would have had nothing in my life but a McDonald’s uniform and $179 in a chequing account. Not enough clothes to fill out a carry-on suitcase. My home would have been a sublet apartment with three side windows looking out on an identical building twelve feet away. No other windows. No horizon. No way of tracking the sun.
To get out of that apartment, we used to go for long walks through Springfield, cutting through the French Line, walking beside the canals, over the Champlain Bridge, sometimes all the way to the unincorporated townships the other side of the river. During those walks it was easy to pretend I had slipped away from everything that was going wrong in my life. Guillaume is from Springfield and loves the outdoors. He grew up in Britannia Heights, not much better than the Nosoto Projects but surrounded by hardwood forests, quarries, a six-mile-long escarpment looking out over the Springfield River. He is as good in the bush as any guide I knew up north. He joined the army when he was eighteen and that makes a lot of sense to me. I don’t understand why he left. He won’t talk about it.
That’s not true. He has never brought it up, and I have never asked.
We would stop for a picnic when we went on those walks, Guillaume bringing a red woollen blanket for us to sit on that was so old the fabric was no longer coarse but the texture of a shammy rag. We made love many times on that blanket. Moving it after our picnic to a dark spot in the forest Guillaume had found, a spot often covered with pine needles, a hidden furrow that deer probably used for a bed during the winter. Afterward, I would fall asleep in his arms. Middle of the day. A sound, dreamless sleep. Only time I ever did that. I tell you — and I am not making it up — there were days back then when I thought everything was going to be all right.
. . .
I got the phone call I had been dreading about a month after Tommy came to the McDonald’s. After I had returned from work one night. While I was still pouring water into a coffee pot. A sense of timing so perfect I stood in the kitchen and tried to remember what cars had been parked on the street when I walked in. Wondering if I had missed something.
“Hello, Luce.”
Only one person ever called me that.There was a catch in my throat even I heard when I answered.
“Hello, Sean.”
“It’s been a while.”
“It has.”
“You good?”
“I’m good. Good enough, you know.”
“Yeah, that’s what people tell me. Good enough. Course, it’s a bit strange, people telling me this and you not telling me this. That part doesn’t seem so good to me.”
“Sean, I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry about how everything ended. I’m sorry about a lot of things. But I report to a PO now. Where I’ve been and all. How can I come and see you?”
“Who’s the PO?”
“Why do you want—”
“Maybe I can cut you some slack there. Is it Dagenais?”
It was Dagenais. No way I was telling him that. Last thing I needed was to have my PO stomped in an alley somewhere, Sean Morrissey walking around thinking he’d just done me a favour.
“That’s really kind of you, but, honestly, the guy hasn’t been a problem. I’m going to the meetings again. I’m working steady. There’s nothing to report.”
“Those bastards report whatever they want, Luce. You know that. You’re being foolish if you don’t let me help you there.”
“Sean, I’m good. And I’m sorry for not coming down to see you by now. Tommy dropped by to see me and—”
“Yeah, Tommy says he was pretty clear about the message he gave you. I don’t understand why I’m phoning you, Luce. Why haven’t you come to see me?”
“Sean, this is starting to stress me out. Why do you need to see me?”
There was silence when I asked the question. Complete silence. As though Sean Morrissey were phoning from some vacuous space no one else was allowed to enter, a world that held nothing but Sean Morrissey’s voice. My heart skipped a beat right then, gathering the strength it knew was going to be needed.
“You been talking to any doctors, Luce? As part of your recovery?” he finally said.
“I . . . I go to the meetings. I’m in therapy. Yes, I see a doctor. Don’t you think I should?”
“Your little swim over the Falls. Yes, that was quite something, Luce. Never heard of anyone doing that before.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. But because of my little swim over the Falls, as you call it, yeah, I’m in therapy. It’s not the first time, Sean. You know that.”
“I know. But last time, you were sleeping with me, girl. Not so much now, right?”
“What difference does that make? I promise you, on everything that is—”
“Save it, Luce. You’re embarrassing yourself. You need to come and see me. We have unfinished business.”
And there it was. The words I had hoped never to hear. Never hear if I could just start over, be a good girl, do unto others, recite the pledge.
“Unfinished business?”
“Stop it, Luce.”
“You want a final scene? That doesn’t sound like you, Sean. Why would you want—”
His voice turned cruel and angry. Like a bad drunk poked awake. “Fuck off and listen, Lucy. People are worried about you. I don’t need the fuckin’ headaches. You get your ass down here or Tommy will bring it in for me.”
Then there was a click, and I was left standing in my kitchen for several minutes like an idiot wondering what to do next, the phone in my hand, water pouring over the lip of my coffee pot. The silence in my apartment was complete and total. As though Sean Morrissey had just blown everything in my life away.
. . .
I should have run right then. That night. As far from Springfield as possible. At the very least, I should have warned Guillaume. That part seems so unfair to me — he’s a good man. He loves me. Loves our daughter. There are things in the past that trouble him, and because of this it seems an extra cruel thing I have done — given him more ghosts. And never told him.
I was not thinking clearly. In my defence, I was not thinking clearly. I even remember laughing at the next thing that happened, telling myself it never rains but it pou
rs. One of Johnny’s favourite expressions. I tried to see the humour in the situation, blaming it on my mother, a woman I do not remember and have seen only in a photo, a group photo at that, taken in some tavern, my mother standing next to Johnny and looking nothing like me. A short woman with a big chest. Broad face. Although you can see, in the glow of her intoxicated eyes, a bit of my future.
She met Johnny Whiteduck in a bar in High River and stayed with him four years, leaving just before I turned two. According to her sister, another woman I have never met, she died during a bad storm on the Francis River, drowned when her boat capsized. Her body was never recovered. My aunt phoned to tell Johnny this, at the band office in Kes’. I was there and I heard Johnny ask if there were papers he needed to sign, then thank my aunt for calling, and hang up. That was the last time I ever heard my mother’s name. So I’m being silly when I say she is to blame for what happened next.
Although, on another level, you could argue my entire life has been little more than a subconscious tip of the hat to dear old Mom. Certainly, I remember the story Johnny often told, when he was drunk and boastful and there were people in our house gathered for one of his parties, and someone asked about me — where I came from, I suppose. About how my mother should have had a dozen children, but no one could get Gabrielle Laframboise pregnant except him. No one except Johnny. Johnny the man. A one-time miracle child courtesy of Johnny Whiteduck. Lucy: Come out here, I want you to meet some people.
I knew the story. And for more than a decade, I behaved just like my mother. Until the day I became her.
. . .
Dr. Mackenzie didn’t know what to say. The only time I saw him look confused.
“Eleven weeks?”
“Yes.”
He wrote the number in his portfolio. Put a notation beside it.
“How long have you known?”
“I had the doctor’s appointment yesterday. I’ve known for a few weeks.”
“What does Guillaume think?”
“I haven’t told him.”
“When will you do that?”
