Sweeter Life

by Tim Wynveen

  “Twelve hours. You’d think she’d be used to that by now.”

  “Come on. You weren’t at the hall. You weren’t with friends. And there’s that weirdness out by the pump.”

  “What weirdness? Ruby said the same thing.”

  “This morning Ernie Hicks found some kid dead as a doornail. According to Ernie, they found some drug paraphernalia and a suitcase. Could be an overdose, they think, but nobody knows this guy from Adam or how he got there. It’s so close to the house, and with you disappearing, Ruby got spooked. Who wouldn’t?”

  Cyrus closed his eyes a moment. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. The last thing I wanted was to worry anyone.”

  “Well here’s the thing, dummy. It doesn’t matter what you want. It’s what you do.”

  RUBY WATCHED ISABEL PARK beside the garage then dawdle over to the house. At the door she pulled her niece into her arms and said, “Here I am worrying about myself, and look at you, poor girl.”

  “Poor nothing,” she said, suffering the embrace for her aunt’s sake. Ruby had always shown far more affection than any of the Owens could return. The hugs and sympathy felt as sticky as flypaper to Isabel.

  Ruby stepped back then and ran her hand along the sleeve of Isabel’s jacket. “Did you see Clarence? Maybe you could tell him his coffee will be ready. There’s kuchen, too.”

  Isabel walked across the back lawn, her arms folded across the front of her cream suit as if that might help her hold on to her patience. (First Gerry, then Cyrus and now this—it was already past noon and she hadn’t managed a single bit of work yet, her “little job,” as Ruby called it.) She passed beneath the clothesline and walked over to the packing shed, with its conveyor belt and hoppers and stacks and stacks of corrugated cardboard. Everything was quiet now and covered with a fine layer of dust. No sign of her uncle on the packing floor or in the big walk-in cooler, so she headed over to the barn, the biggest building on the farm. Made of concrete blocks and a corrugated metal roof, almost two storeys high and 120 feet long, you might almost mistake it for a hockey rink. It had huge double doors along the south end, and at least three-quarters of it served as a garage for her uncle’s equipment: the tractors, the wagons, the sprayers, a couple of Model T’s he’d converted to flatbeds and used out in the orchard to carry the pickers and their baskets, their harnesses and their funny three-legged ladders.

  At the other end of the building, on the west side facing the house, there was another large sliding door that led to her uncle’s workshop. It was where he spent a good part of his winter welding, greasing, rebuilding, and sometimes doing nothing more important than feeding apple wood into the pot-bellied stove. There was a workbench and tools and a turquoise plastic radio as old as her memories. Beside the bench stood a vintage pop machine and a sofa with half the stuffing ripped out by mice. As a young girl, she used to sit there on summer nights, the crickets kicking up a fuss outside, the ball game on low, and listen to her father and uncle talk about weather and prices and what damn fools they had in the government. She loved the sound of those sloppy southern voices on the radio, like so much corn on the cob, and the three of them—father, daughter, uncle—lounging in the shed and sipping Coca-Cola.

  No sign of Clarence in the barn. She called his name and got no answer. Then she noticed him standing motionless on the far side of the house, inspecting the tree there. She crossed the yard again and moved up beside him. “You okay?” she asked, touching his shoulder.

  He turned slowly to look at her, his face drained of life. In a weary voice, he said, “Right as rain, Bel.” After a moment, he added, “This thing never did bear the way I hoped it would.”

  She knew what he was doing, what he was thinking. “Come on,” she said. “Ruby’s got coffee. She made kuchen.”

  He shook his head, remembering a skinny girl full of piss and vinegar, and a sad beautiful young boy, and how the three of them had walked to the back of the property that first winter together and cut shoots off a wild apple tree growing near the creek there. The fruit was of no commercial value, but he preferred it to a Mac or an Empire, the flesh soft and spicy, staining blood-red with each bite through the skin. They stored the shoots in the cooler all through that winter, safe and sound. And come spring they went out beside the house, knelt in the dirt, and he showed them how to graft those fragile buds onto the sturdy root stock. The delicate incision of the bark. The careful placement of the scion into the opening. The proper use of rubber tape and grafting compound. Izzy ran off a few weeks after that but didn’t run far, landing in the arms of an ignorant pig farmer. The whole thing left Clarence bitter—her wilfulness, Ruby’s sorrow, his own heartache that a pretty girl like that would waste herself on the likes of Gerry Muehlenburg.

  He glanced at her now, still a young woman but looking much older than her years. He tucked her arm under his and turned to look down the road. His voice hushed and full of distance, he said, “I know with Hank it was never easy, but your mother and father, well the times were different, they didn’t know. They were just so young, what did they know? Not like any of us were any help, either, my God. And then with you and the business with Gerry …”

  “The business?”

  “You know, getting married like that and how we thought you weren’t ready, when really it was most likely us, we weren’t ready. But you understood that, Bel. You always had a good head on your shoulders. A good heart. And heck, I know you’ve never had much use for me and Ruby, but at least you were never one to make folks pay for their mistakes.”

  “Come on, Clarence, you’re talking nonsense.”

  “Am I? I guess what I mean is I’ve always wanted … what I always thought was your folks maybe went at this family thing too early, and we came at it so late, and if only, if only me and Ruby and your folks, if only we had known, any of us, what in hell we were doing …”

  She tugged on his arm and said, “Come on, let’s go in.”

  He looked over to the barn, where swallows swooped in and out of the open doorway. Then he followed her dutifully around the corner to the porch.

  Isabel seldom ate sweets, but the smell of the apple kuchen, Cyrus’s favourite dessert, was irresistible. She cut three generous pieces and carried them to the table, where her aunt and uncle sat, looking as feeble and stricken as the folks at the seniors home where she volunteered two nights a week. She ate her cake without making a sound, watching the two of them mired in stunned silence. And with each bite of her dessert, she got more peeved. When she had finished, she pushed her empty plate to the side, took a scalding sip of coffee and said, “You’re acting like he’s dead. You’re acting like this is some horrible tragedy. Killed in a car accident, maimed for life. You should be thrilled. He actually sounded happy, you know that? This isn’t history repeating. It has nothing to do with Hank or me. He’s happy. You should be thrilled.”

  “Really,” Ruby said. “We should celebrate this? Look at your uncle. Are you happy to see him this way?”

  “No, I’m disappointed. Seems to me you’re both being selfish.”

  If there was one thing Ruby couldn’t abide, it was hearing someone criticize her husband. She primly folded her hands in front of her. “Is that what it is, selfish? I was wondering what this feeling was, Isabel. Here I was thinking we were heartbroken, and all along we’ve just been selfish. But I suppose you know all about that, don’t you, dear—being selfish, I mean—with your little job and fancy clothes and that poor husband of yours dragging himself to the Hilltop six days a week so he can get himself a hot lunch—”

  Ruby stopped dead, as if she’d been pierced by her own words. She actually covered her mouth with her hand to prevent any more venom from escaping. Clarence shook his head and looked down into his lap. And Isabel rose without a sound and walked out of the house. She realized well enough that her aunt and uncle had been through an awful lot these past few months. The operation and the never-ending worries. The way every little twinge and sniffle would take
on significance. And now, on top of everything, they had Cyrus’s foolishness to deal with. So it wasn’t Ruby’s outburst that bothered her (that was already forgiven) but the very real sense that they were all fragments of a vessel that had once been whole and that no amount of fussing could ever mend.

  SIX

  By the time Cyrus made it down to breakfast, another anxiety had taken hold of him. He sat opposite Ronnie and said, “Mr. Conger, I’ve been thinking.”

  Ronnie, who had been scribbling in a day planner, put down his pen and smiled. “Yes? What about, my friend? And please call me Ronnie. Everyone does.”

  “Well, the thing is, I’ve been wondering about an advance. I kind of left town unprepared. I need clothes, toothbrush, basically everything.”

  Ronnie didn’t miss a beat. He pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket and placed two hundred dollars on the table. When Cyrus didn’t take it, Ronnie raised an eyebrow and said, “Is that not sufficient?”

  “The thing is, Mr. Conger—”

  “Ronnie.”

  “Well the thing is I’m not sure. I mean, I’m sure it’s enough money, I’m just not sure about everything else. No one has heard me play, and I’d hate to start spending money I can’t pay back.”

  Ronnie bit his lip to keep from laughing. “You are a piece of work, young man. The fact is I stopped lending money to musicians long ago because a musician has never once paid me a penny in return. Over the years they have consumed my beer and whiskey and coffee without once offering to buy a round. They have read my newspapers and magazines. They have gobbled my mints and toffees. If I had a wife, I could be fairly certain that they would have had her any number of ways by now. So, no, do not by any means give thought to repayment. Think of this as a signing bonus, or danger pay or a retainer, if you will. That seems a fair return for your inconvenience if things do not work out. But if things do work out, as I’m sure they will, then for two months I won’t invest any money for you. All right? An advance. Is that fair?”

  With that, Ronnie pushed the money toward Cyrus’s side of the table. “Take it, my boy, go on a shopping spree and be back at twelve o’clock sharp. Sound checks are normally scheduled between four-thirty and six, but I’ve told Sonny and his troupe to show up at noon. That should be plenty of time for a rehearsal.”

  Ronnie rose to his feet and glided from the dining room. The sight of him striding away with his day planner clutched to his chest, all decked out in black save for the little white triangle of his T-shirt, made Cyrus think of a priest. Father Conger.

  THE CAMPENOLA ARMOURY and Agricultural Centre, shaped like an inverted water trough, was bounded on one side by the Canadian National freight yard and on the other by a harness-racing track. It was like a hundred other places in a hundred other towns across Ontario, Wilbury included, and Cyrus immediately felt more at ease.

  Ronnie pulled the Cadillac to the rear of the building, beside a dented Airstream trailer that looked like a silver dirigible losing gas. The trailer was hitched to a rusty Ford Fairlane. Beside the trailer stood a two-ton truck and a retooled school bus painted robin’s egg blue, flecks of the original orange showing through. An unsteady hand had painted “The Jimmy Waters Revival” on the sides.

  Outside the armoury, a man wearing cowboy boots was tossing a football into the air and catching it. Nearby, a brown-haired woman sat on a blanket, brushing a yappy little Pekingese. When she saw the Caddy, she waved. The man said, “Just in time, Arsey. Sonny’s having a shit-fit.”

  Ronnie hurried into the hall, and Cyrus followed him. Immediately his spirits sank. He had played his share of high school dances and small local clubs, and this didn’t seem much more elaborate than that. It was certainly nothing like the concerts he had been to in Hounslow, or the Grande Ballroom in Detroit.

  Out on the floor, pimply-faced kids in white shirts and grey flannel pants were busy setting up folding chairs. A stage—little more than a boxing ring without the ropes and turnbuckles and corner posts—had been set up at one end of the hall. A single roadie was up there connecting cords and cables, and each time he took a step, the spring in the canvas threatened to knock things over like so many dominoes. Meanwhile another man in a tweed cap worked down on the floor setting up a series of small speaker columns at each side of the stage. A bunch of curtains served as a backdrop, and at the front of the stage, two metal T-bars each held a few lights. Also at the front, pointing back toward the curtain, was a small spotlight with a tricoloured rotating disc. That’s where Ronnie stood, shouting orders and waving his arms about. Finally he turned to two guys off to the side of the hall—they looked to Cyrus like bouncers or bikers—and cupped his hands like a bullhorn. “Sonny, your new musician has arrived. Time to get to work.” Then he pointed at Cyrus, who tried to act cool when everyone looked in his direction.

  The two men sauntered across the hall and gave Cyrus the once-over. In the lead was a heavy-set man in his early fifties, wearing baggy jeans and a rumpled black sweatshirt with a Jack Daniel’s logo. The flab around his belly nearly obscured his belt buckle, and his eyes were more than a little bleary. The man—Cyrus assumed rightly that this was Sonny—shook his head and, without a hint of kindness, said, “Jesus wept. What did I tell you? He’s done it again. Conger doesn’t know his dick from his dry cleaning.”

  Cyrus extended his right hand. “My name is Cyrus Owen. My gear’s out in the car …” He dropped his hand to his side when no one responded.

  Sonny was more concerned with Cyrus’s left hand and was making no effort to hide his incredulity. “Do you know anything about music?” he asked with a weary exasperation.

  “Well,” Cyrus replied, uncertain how much was expected of him, “maybe not as much as you do, but I’d like to give it a try.”

  “Give it a try? This ain’t amateur hour, baby doll. You’d better be one shit-hot bass player or your ass is grass, and Conger’s, too. Now drag your gear in here and we’ll run through a few tunes while the crew is setting up. Hop to it.”

  Cyrus cast a nervous glance in Ronnie’s direction. “The thing is—”

  “Look, there’s no ‘thing.’ Just do what you’re told and we’ll all be happy as pigs in shit.”

  “But there is a thing. I’m a guitar player. Mr. Conger didn’t say anything about playing bass.”

  Sonny slumped. “Oh, Jesus Murphy. Con-ger!”

  Ronnie was already halfway over to them. “Good, good, good,” he called out. “You’ve all met. This is wonderful, is it not? I so love new beginnings.”

  Sonny laid his hand lightly on Ronnie’s shoulder. In the sing-song voice of feigned civility, he said, “Are you a total idiot? Cal was a bass player. What the hell am I supposed to do with this dickweed?”

  Ronnie smiled broadly and nodded his head. “I understand your consternation, Sonny, but you know, I see this as a tremendous opportunity for all of us, a chance to learn some flexibility in the face of life’s uncertainties. And let’s face it, the group had gotten a bit stale. You said yourself that the band would sound a hundred percent better without Cal, and you were right—he was a dear boy but admittedly a weak link. So now you’ve got your wish and more. You can cover the bass lines, just like you wanted all along. You won’t have Cal messing things up. And now we have young Cyrus here, who plays guitar like an angel. This is a step in the right direction, you can’t deny it.”

  Sonny spit on the floor, turned sharply on his heel and marched back across the hall with his entourage. If Cyrus had been nervous before, he was on the verge of tears now, petrified he would make a fool of himself.

  Ronnie clapped him on the shoulder and said, “That went better than I thought it would. And don’t worry about Sonny. His bark is worse than his bite.” Then he guided Cyrus over to a dolly beside the stage. Handing him the keys to the Caddy, he said, “I wouldn’t keep him waiting. He’s a stickler for punctuality.”

  Cyrus dragged the dolly outside, opened the trunk and hauled out his gear. When he turned arou
nd again, he saw a face staring at him from the Airstream. A moment later the door opened and a hulking man stepped uncertainly down from the trailer. He had long, unnaturally black hair swept back like a lion’s mane, a glistening black goatee, and eyes that were Robin Hood green. He wore a rumpled white linen suit. His feet were bare. He was holding the Pekingese Cyrus had seen earlier.

  “The new musician?” The man offered his free hand, which Cyrus promptly accepted. “Always a pleasure, you know, to have a new face remind us what we’re all about. The spirit, yes? The vital energy like a river that refreshes us and carries us to a higher place …”

  The man had a voice like a canyon, deep and reverberating. “You believe in signs, young man?”

  “Well—”

  “Of course you do. Who doesn’t? When your stomach growls, isn’t that a sign? When you yawn, when you’re thirsty—these, too, are signs. You follow stop signs and pay attention to the first sign of a cold. You head for the exit when there’s a fire and follow the highway signs to your favourite fast-food restaurant. Don’t tell me you don’t believe in signs.”

  “Well,” Cyrus conceded, “I guess I kind of do.”

  “Mmm-hmm. God gave us signs, too, rules to guide us in our life. Honour thy father and mother. I know your momma and your daddy have rules, and these are things we all must obey. As musicians we follow key signatures and notations, and what are these but signs to the glories that dwell in our hearts. Young Cal followed signs that led him away from us, just as you have now followed signs that have brought you into our circle, which is a very awkward way to say welcome to our little family. My name is Jimmy Waters, and I want you to know that whatever is your problem is my problem. Whatever is your fear is my fear. Do not hesitate to come to me. I am at your service. Our stories are here and forever more entwined.”

  They were standing so close together that the man’s sheer bulk was intimidating. Heat radiated from him, the air musky with perspiration and hair oil and black licorice. He nuzzled his chin into the dog’s fur, then looked off into the distance and said, “I remember, Lord, I still remember how it felt to stand where you are standin’ now, just there on the verge of mighty things, with all your music before you. Youth is what I mean, your age.” He shook his head at the wonder of it all. “Have you ever noticed that music is a one-way street? The first note of any song can lead us anywhere, you know, but only ever forward. Have you noticed that? Into the future. It is a young man’s game, you see. Ever forward, the young man’s game. Play a single note, any note, and no matter what it is, you will never wonder what may have preceded it but only what comes next. Play a note and you begin to hear the next one before it can even be shaped, already you are movin’ forward, ever forward.”