Sweeter Life

by Tim Wynveen

  Cyrus was afraid to mention his visit with Hank, and that fear coloured all his thoughts, stilled his tongue. He watched her stare into the shadows of the restaurant. Whether she was walking down the street or dancing across the stage or, like now, lifting a wineglass to her lips, she seemed weightless. And yet, if someone had asked him, Cyrus would have said she was heavier than anyone he’d ever met. She had a sense of gravity, an aura so complex that she appeared at times to be the only live-action figure in an otherwise cartoonish world.

  When the waiter arrived with their food, Eura was drawn from her reverie. She leaned across the table and took Cyrus’s hand in hers. “I am not sometimes the best company,” she said.

  He shrugged in what he hoped was a sophisticated manner and looked down at his pale fingers entwined with hers, which were rough and ruddy. She didn’t flinch or make an effort to avoid the little rounded nub that marred his left hand, and he was happy about that. Janice was the only one, aside from family, who had been totally cool about it.

  To make up for being so distracted, she began to tell him about her job as a masseuse with the Little Circus, how they had come to America, and about the night she and Alexander sought asylum in the United States. “We left Detroit in a taxi,” she said, “and talked this man into driving us to a very ugly place called Muskegon. Alexander knew people there. This is something I will never forget.”

  “Weird place to go.”

  “It was not for long. Four nights until we decide what to do. These friends, Katarina and Barbara—what is the word, spinsters?—they too were ugly. Back home, you know, you would see these women everywhere, potato faces, but never like this, with bleached hair, with curlers and makeup and so tight capri pants. At first I would have nothing to do with them. They seemed foolish. But they were only trying to live their new life. It was not so long before I was listening to their stories and laughing at their jokes and accepting their kindness like they were family. And they taught me also the second greatness of America: bourbon, which is something that even Jimmy Waters understands. Other than music, it is the only talent Americans have, I think.”

  She laughed. “These women, their hair was piled like so—” she held her hands above her head “—and covered with, I don’t know how to call them, glittery nets. They drank and smoked too much and owned a bar, KayBee’s, beside the docks. It was never busy, only five or six people in the days we were there. But then, you know, from all I could see, this town was made only for ghosts. Most of the stores had closed or burned down. Broken pavement, windows covered with plywood. Outside we saw almost no one, so it was hard to think who would come to this bar. But the sisters said when a freighter came in, the town was very busy and their bar was the hot place. Pickled herring, you could get, goulash and bread. The wall behind the jukebox, a big wall like so—” she waved the length of the restaurant “—was covered with postcards from sailors. Liverpool, Gdansk, Lisbon. These women were loved very much, I think.”

  She poked at her food awhile, then laughed ruefully. “Four days Alexander stayed drunk, feeding quarters into the jukebox, the same Tony Bennett song over and over till I could kill him. Every day I bought the Detroit Free Press and asked Katarina to tell me about home. It is very sad, you know, the way the tanks can roll in and everything suddenly is over as if nothing had before ever existed. These women, though, were not interested anymore. They were Americans, and when they had had enough of us, they drove us to Chicago where we declared our wish to defect.”

  She touched his cheek, letting her hand fall again to cover his. “But this story makes me tired. Tell me about your family. They are musicians, too?”

  “No,” he said, “not likely. They’re farmers is all. Pretty boring.”

  His words surprised her. “I believe more that farmers are brave. It is a mystery to me how men and women build their lives on something so risky as weather. Joining a circus or playing music, this is logical compared to such a gamble. And yet look what comes. It is a beautiful thing, I think, to take such risk for so much good. I have nothing but praise for farmers.” She ran her thumb along the top of his hand, her gaze dreamy, as though she were remembering all the noble farmers she had ever known.

  Not wanting her to drift away from him again, he said, “My uncle has an apple orchard on a ridge north of the marsh, and one of my favourite things was to go out at night and climb into one of the trees. September was the best time, still kind of warm, and I’d lie there in the branches and listen. The canning factory in town ran night and day that time of year, and I could lie there in my tree and hear the tractors and trucks rolling into town from the fields, the air full of pickles or tomato sauce or canned peaches. I always think about that when I hear of people who live beside steel mills or sulphur mines. I guess I should feel kind of lucky.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, I do. But I’ve been unlucky, too.” He let his gaze drift about the room. They were the only diners. Everyone else had moved into the small bar to watch the hockey playoffs. Finally, he turned back to her and said, “I keep thinking about my aunt and uncle. I lived with them after my folks died, and they were real good to me, especially Clarence. He’s a great guy, bought my first guitar. But I think about him sometimes and it bugs me.”

  She smoothed the hair off his forehead. “I am sure he did his best …”

  “Well, that’s just it. I owe him a lot, and you know, he was real sick awhile ago. Had a cancer operation. And I just wonder why he stays there in Wilbury, doing the same thing every day on the same stupid farm he was born on. You know? He and Ruby haven’t been anywhere. They just get up and do what they’ve always done like they don’t know any better …”

  She nodded her head. “I have a friend back home, a writer. He has published three novels, and they are very political and smart. The critics say he is maybe a genius. But it is not easy for him. He has no wife, no children. I have seen him go days without eating. One day I asked how his new book was coming, and he shook his head and said, ‘It is shit. The whole thing is shit. Do not even talk to me about it.’ So, I changed the subject. Six months later I asked again, and again he said, ‘All shit. I am completely useless.’ I reminded him of the times I had seen him at his typewriter, laughing, waving his arms. ‘Six months you have worked,’ I said. ‘Twelve-hour days. Surely it is better. There is progress.’ And he looked at me and said, ‘Progress, sure. It gets better. For a while it is almost good. Almost. And then, boom, it is shit again, and I must rewrite it from the beginning.’ ” She raised an eyebrow at Cyrus. “Maybe this is the same as your uncle. Maybe he, too, is an artist.”

  THEY TOOK THEIR TIME returning to Fenton, stopping on dark stretches of country road to look at the stars. When they reached the hotel it was past midnight, the lobby deserted. On the seventh floor she led him down the hall past his own room. His pulse was pounding. He imagined the two of them rolling on her bed and how he would trail kisses down the dizzying path of her tattoo. Instead she stopped at room 704 and knocked softly. Right away they were ushered into the smoke and babble, the press of many bodies.

  “Tea?” Adrian asked.

  Kerry handed him a joint. “He’ll need something stronger after a night on the town with D.C.”

  Eura slapped Kerry playfully across the back of his head and found a square of floor space where she drew her knees up to her chin and waited for Adrian to serve her.

  “Here you go, my dear,” he said, handing her one of his special cups, a delicate fluted Belleek that had belonged to his mother and travelled with him now in a special padded case. “Give up your cares and rest awhile.”

  Ronnie, who was sitting atop the chest of drawers, lifted his tin of milk in greeting. “Let me take a moment, Cyrus, to tell you—and I’m sure I speak for all here—how glad we are that you have come by for a drop of Welsh hospitality. If anyone required proof that you have become one of us, to my mind your appearance here seals it. You are now, for sure and certain, a full-fledged m
ember of the Jimmy Waters Revival.”

  Cyrus found a spot beside Tony Two Poops, who was washing down vitamin C with mouthfuls of Southern Comfort. When offered the bottle, Cyrus took a swig, then a second. On the other side of him, in a rumpled heap, was Tommy Mac, who opened Cyrus a can of McEwan’s ale and, with a nod toward Eura, said, “Tha’s a right cunt, tha’ one.”

  Two Poops winked. “Our Tommy boy’s had a few too many, I think.”

  “Aye,” Tom growled. “A few too menna, but not enough too menna.”

  A joint the size of a Cuban cigar drifted by, and Cyrus took a hit and passed it on. Two Poops said, “I guess you’ll be wanting to put your name on the list.”

  Cyrus furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

  “For Eura. You’ll have to get on the list. She giving you the flat rate?”

  Cyrus took a sip of McEwan’s but found it a hard mouthful to swallow. A quick glance about the room offered no evidence that he was being teased. “The list,” he repeated.

  “Yeah. My turn tomorrow. Got a disc problem that’s killer.”

  Cyrus leaned against the wall, comprehension slowly dawning. “And you’ve got an appointment with Eura.”

  “Wasn’t for her I’d never be able to stand up.”

  “And she charges you a flat rate. For a massage.”

  “Between you and me, it’s worth twice the price.”

  Cyrus closed his eyes and smiled. He saw the Airstream, the bedroom window, Eura’s head and shoulders. He heard Jim groaning with pleasure. She was a masseuse.

  When he looked across the room again, she had already slipped away; he had missed his chance to continue their night together. Even so, he was satisfied with the progress made. Questions had been answered, doubts allayed, doors opened.

  He finished his beer, then another, and was one of the last to leave the party. That night he dreamed about his father, the same dream he’d been having for years. They’re running side by side along the Marsh Road, a beautiful night, the moon shining so brightly it casts shadows on the ground. In real life his father had been an effortless runner, and Cyrus normally struggled to keep up. In the dream, however, they both glide peacefully through the darkness, as if they have wings on their feet. Cyrus is talking calmly, his gaze focused straight ahead. Then, without explanation, his father stops running, and Cyrus sails down the road like a summer wind.

  THIRTEEN

  Ruby took Janice to the United Church and suggested they sit in the balcony where the organ sounded most ethereal and the light from the stained glass windows seemed most uplifting. Although she normally sat by herself, she was glad the girl had come. It made her feel needed again.

  Janice followed along as best she could, but found it odd to be in a church, and to be there with a woman she hardly knew. They were surrounded by friends and neighbours, yet she felt as if she had dropped into a primitive culture. She couldn’t imagine anyone taking these rituals seriously, as bewildering to her as face paint, a bone in the nose, a communal bowl of phlegm. Even so, there was something pleasant about sitting in this church with Ruby. Partly it was the fact that Janice could sense a bit of Cyrus in the old woman—the same blue eyes, the same smell of Camay soap—partly it was the sense that Janice was doing something worthwhile, cheering up a sweet old lady. She was enough of a good girl to understand the beauty in that.

  When the service ended, they stood outside and let their eyes adjust to the sunshine. Down the block a couple of leather-necked farmers sat in front of the town hall, eating sunflower seeds. A robin sang in a nearby tree. Ruby said, “It was a boring sermon. And they sang all the wrong songs. I should have taken you somewhere else.”

  “You play the field?”

  “Well, I guess technically I am United. But Reverend Jansen’s not my favourite. So I generally go where the spirit moves me. This was a mistake. I don’t know what I could have been thinking.”

  The next week they tried the Baptists, and Janice knew right away it was more to her liking. The energetic hymns, all that vigorous dunking, the white robes afloat in the pool of water—here at least she could see why people might get excited about this Jesus business.

  But it wasn’t until the third week that Janice saw the light. She and Ruby attended a mass at Saint Michael’s. It was a cold blustery day, the wind snatching the hem of her skirt as they climbed the steps to the church. They opened the door and there, just inside by the candles and the fountain, was a statue of the Virgin Mary bending over the body of Christ. Janice stood transfixed, the light coming from behind her, the wind swirling around her, the incense and the organ and the softly tinted light speaking to her in a voice she had never heard. She knew without a doubt that this was it, that she would come back again and again, that she had, in the most unlikely place, found a way forward.

  CLARENCE CAME IN FROM THE ORCHARD and hung his hat on the peg above his workbench. Although he normally rested on Sundays, he’d been out collecting leaf samples, which he spread on the bench. Everything was running early this year. The buds had already started to open, showing silver-green mouse ears. He pulled out his magnifying glass and adjusted his gooseneck lamp. After several minutes he’d seen all he needed. Red mites. This week he and Frank would have to use the oil spray.

  He opened a cola and flopped on the old sofa. It was a cool, damp morning, but he was perspiring. And he was winded, which happened a lot when the humidity was high. Another result of his operation, he figured.

  As he closed his eyes and waited for his breathing to return to normal, he thought about Cyrus—an ache like a phantom limb. The two of them had never talked much, and Clarence wasn’t the kind for horseplay and games, but he really missed their Saturdays in the orchard, the two of them establishing a physical rhythm, doing what was required. March was the last time they’d worked side by side, cutting out winter damage and pausing at the end of each row to drink a cup of hot tea from a Thermos.

  He had tried to pass on to Cyrus a love of pruning—that you cut something back to make it stronger, that you halted its fruitless yearning to increase its yield—and had tried to apply the same lessons to his own life. He believed in limits. He had always found strength in his losses. But some losses cut deeper than others. He’d be the first to admit he had never gotten over the death of Riley Owen. Those feelings were too complicated for a simple man to unravel, a crazy knot of grief and guilt and jealousy that had maybe left its mark on Cyrus, too, driving him away for good. But where to begin in puzzling it out? The glove? The girl? The grave?

  He remembered clearly the day the Donahue sisters showed up at high school. Their father, Jim, a doctor from Waterford, had just moved to town to set up practice. He had an enormous handlebar moustache and round wire-rimmed glasses in the fashion of Teddy Roosevelt, and dressed always in a black suit. As Jim walked his daughters to the front door of Wilbury High that first day, a girl on each arm, he seemed ready to burst with pride. And rightly so. His daughters, Ruby and Catherine, were the most beautiful girls Clarence had ever seen.

  Ruby was the first-born, and had she been an only child, she would have captured the heart of every boy in town. But Catherine, three years younger, was not only more beautiful but more spirited than Ruby, who had a serious and retiring nature. In the presence of Catherine Donahue, few could resist the chase. Certainly not Clarence.

  He was handsome, strong and intelligent. His father was reeve of the county and one of the most successful farmers in the region. It seemed only natural that the two families, the Mitchells and the Donahues, would become friendly; and naturally enough, Clarence tried everything in his power to make Catherine love him. He fought battles for her, ran touchdowns for her, talked till he was blue in the face, and still he failed to produce a spark. She saw him as a friend and nothing more. Since she treated all the boys that way, Clarence wasn’t too concerned. He went off to college with the belief she would one day come to her senses and understand he was the right man for her. But then the war sta
rted, and Clarence enlisted in the air force right after graduation, despite the deferment offered farm boys. By the end of 1940, he was stationed in Devon, where he worked in the ground crew of the air base, his knowledge of all things mechanical saving him from combat.

  As it turned out, it was young Riley Owen who fired Catherine’s imagination, dirt-poor Riley with the lovable spirit of a dreamer but the laughable dream of playing for the Detroit Tigers. Halfway through his first year in Toledo, he came home with a busted knee. He was on crutches until Labour Day and talking about joining the war effort as soon as he was well enough. But then he met Catherine at a church picnic. In the weeks that followed, they were seen around town together or sitting on the Donahues’ wide front veranda, ignoring the disapproving looks of her parents. One month later, and a week before he was to report for basic training, they caught everyone by surprise and eloped. Clarence heard the news in letters from his folks: about the marriage, about Riley’s return to the farm and his deferment and, eight months later, about the birth of Hank.

  Clarence loved them both, but when he returned from overseas, it killed him to see them together. It killed him to see Riley failing to measure up to all that Catherine deserved, farming not by choice but by default, falling deeper and deeper into debt and further and further behind, growing angry and sullen and unlovable. It also killed Clarence to see Catherine suffering, to watch her lose her bloom and her spirit. And this, too: it killed him these past few years to watch Cyrus, how there were moments the two faces, Riley’s and Catherine’s, would fade in and out of focus like those stupid 3-D pictures of Jesus on the cross. The whole thing, really, from start to finish, it just killed him. When he closed his eyes sometimes, he could feel it like a great big hole inside him where his heart used to be.