Sweeter Life

by Tim Wynveen

  Hank looked out the side window at the fields of soybeans, trying to remember a time in his life when he’d been that naive. “My dreams were never like that,” he said.

  “Oh, right, when you were five you were already wishing for Brigitte Bardot and a fancy car.”

  “Well here’s the thing,” Hank said, his voice tight with strain, “it was never like that, any of it. Every wish I ever had was fucked. I think back, and I don’t remember much about those days. I remember Ma coming back from the hospital with Izzy, sort of. And I can remember holding Izzy, or maybe I just remember a snapshot of me in Ma’s photo album. Nothing about ice cream or pop, though. Nothing good …”

  His voice trailed off just when Cyrus was getting really interested. If he had any hopes about these few days together, it was that they might compare memories of growing up. Maybe talking about stuff would help Hank a bit. As the silence deepened, Cyrus said, “So what did you wish for?”

  Hank pushed the cigarette lighter in, then pulled it out, pushed it in, then pulled it out. Finally he said, “The first wish I can ever remember, I’d lie in the dark—and this was before we had the bunk beds, so you weren’t born yet—and I’d wish the old man was dead. I’d picture him falling out of a plane or a boat and just disappearing.”

  Cyrus drove in silence for a half mile or so, then said, “I can’t believe that’s true, Hank.”

  “Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just the way I remember it. But what difference does that make?”

  For lunch, Cyrus had planned on getting foot-long hotdogs at the town pier. But every favourite childhood spot had provided him with a heartache that day, so he decided to steer clear of the dock and head to Orchard Knoll. If he could count on anyone, it was Ruby.

  When he pulled into the driveway, she was outside on a stepladder, washing windows. Hank leaned out of the car and said, “Hey there, good-looking, you wanna come for a spin?”

  She climbed down from the ladder and walked toward them, her face full of unqualified happiness. And Cyrus thought what a noble calling it would be to walk through the world making people feel better. He jumped out of the car and gave her a bone-crushing hug, lifting her right off the ground and making her squeal.

  After they wrestled Hank out of the front seat and into the wheelchair, they pushed him up the ramp by the side door and into the kitchen. He looked around like he was in a dream. “This place,” he said, “you’ve changed it. The cupboards and everything, they’re new.”

  “Oh, Lord, no,” she chuckled. “I’ve been after Clarence to fix this place for almost twenty years. No, you’ve just forgotten, that’s all. It’s been a long, long time.”

  Cyrus looked from one to the other, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You mean he hasn’t been here since …”

  “I was sixteen,” Hank finished. “The summer before Burwash, I guess.”

  “Izzy doesn’t bring you out?”

  Ruby gave a gentle shrug of her shoulder and said, “It’s not like they haven’t been invited. Clarence built the ramp out there to make it easier. But you know that sister of yours. Likes to do things her own way.”

  She set about making them roast beef sandwiches and a pot of tea. When everything was ready, she joined them at the table. She reached out both hands, palms up, and invited the two brothers to lay a hand in hers. Then she smiled and said, “This is like the answer to a prayer, isn’t it?”

  Hank and Cyrus coughed nervously and brought their hands back to their laps. Cyrus said, “Where’s Clarence? It’s not like him to miss lunch.”

  Ruby swivelled in her chair to consult the clock. “He’s off on his afternoon jaunt. Goes downtown for a haircut on Thursdays, has lunch at Kresge’s counter and then plays a few games of snooker with Bake Brown.”

  Of all the surprises of the day, this was the most surprising to Cyrus. “Clarence in a pool hall? You’re joking.”

  “Not at all. Bake even got him onto the golf course this summer.”

  Both brothers laughed at the image of Clarence in plaid slacks and a peaked cap. This was a man whose life had two parts: work, which took up the bulk of the day; and non-work, which was preparation for the former. When he was tired or it was too dark to work, he’d have his nose stuck in a history book, or something equally dry. Occasionally he’d listen to a ball game on the radio, but that was the extent of his entertainment. He thought television was stupid, and movies a bore. Now he was whacking little white balls around acres of grass.

  Ruby waited for the brothers to work through their mirth. She was relieved that Clarence had shaken himself out of his doldrums. “When the doctor first told him to take it easy,” she said, “it was just the worst punishment, like he’d been asked to run naked through the streets of Wilbury. You know Clarence. He thought the orchard would go to ruin if he let up even a little. But he got a couple of Frank’s boys to help out, and now I think he’s finally starting to relax. Still likes to complain how useless he feels, but he doesn’t fool me a bit. Getting lazy as a pet coon.”

  She laughed then, a sound Cyrus had heard countless times in his life. Only now did he realize it was the same as his mother’s laugh: three distinct notes, a perfect rising arpeggio of the tonic, major third and fifth, the outline of a chord so sweet and without conflict that it was synonymous with resolution, what all music aspired to.

  They chatted pleasantly through lunch and agreed that the discovery of oil had tainted the marsh. You could smell the gas burning off. You could see the flares lighting up the night clouds. Worst of all, Ruby said, was the animosity it had created among the farmers. A matter of a couple hundred yards in some cases meant the difference between those who were oil rich and those who were dirt poor.

  As briefly as possible, Cyrus explained what he’d been up to the past while. At the mention of the band and the record he hoped to make, Ruby raised her eyebrows and smiled kindly but had nothing to say. Music didn’t seem like a real job to her. When Hank asked what kind of music it was, Cyrus shrugged and said, “It’s kind of weird. You’d have to hear it.” As if that were all the clarification needed.

  Ruby cleared the dishes and brought them each a bowl of applesauce. When they had finished slurping up the last of it, she said, “What about you, Hank? You’ve been awfully quiet. You know, ever since your trouble there, I’ve had to wonder what this world is coming to, that people could do something like that. And they’ve never found the people who did it?”

  “Well,” he said vaguely, “I never really got much of a look at ’em.”

  “It’s a crying shame is what it is.” She laid a hand on his gnarled fist. “We can thank God that Isabel came along when she did.”

  Hank shifted awkwardly in his chair and said, “It was real nice how much you came to the hospital, Ruby.”

  “Well, dear, it’s the least I could do.”

  Cyrus cocked his thumb at Hank. “It’s his fortieth this weekend.”

  “Goodness gracious, don’t I know. I was there in your kitchen when your mother’s water broke. Riley, of course, had chosen that day to drive into La Salle for some part he was missing. You know how he was. He’d been meaning to fix something for weeks and then, all of a sudden, he needed that part. It was me and Clarence who drove your mother to the hospital. Your dad didn’t show up till all the excitement was over.”

  She looked out the window, her features softening as she retrieved happy memories. “You were such a beautiful baby,” she said. “Rosy cheeks, lovely grey eyes like your mother’s. She had ideas about you modelling for the catalogue, but Riley nearly had a fit when he heard that.”

  Cyrus poked Hank in the shoulder. “Aw, idn’t he a pretty boy?”

  Ruby raised her eyebrows mischievously. “I wouldn’t talk there, mister. You were such a doll that everyone thought you were a girl.”

  Hank hooted at that, and Cyrus leaned toward Ruby, his face glowing with a bright idea. “You gotta come and help us celebrate tomorrow.”

  “We
ll,” she said, “Izzy has never really extended an invitation.”

  “I am, Ruby. You gotta be there.”

  “Oh, honey, I don’t know. It might just cause problems.”

  It was Hank who settled it. He slapped the table and said, “If there’s one thing the Owens know about, it’s problems, and this ain’t one of them. Don’t you worry about Iz. We can take care of her. You just be there.”

  The rest of the afternoon, the brothers drove around town pointing out the highlights to each other: the park where Hank felt up Amy Brousseau, the Landrys’ backyard where Cyrus smoked his first joint, Weber Produce where Hank had his first job after quitting school. At Three Links Hall, Cyrus tried to explain the significance of having a place to hang out with Janice and the others, and of the day he bought the Les Paul and discovered his future.

  By the time they returned to the house, Isabel was there. She had steaks marinating on the counter and beer in the fridge. She’d bought an expensive bottle of wine. When they walked in the door, she was sitting in the den with her feet up. She’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt and was sipping a tall gin and tonic.

  “If it isn’t the lords of leisure,” she said. “At least you could have washed the damn dishes.”

  Cyrus pecked the top of her head. “Sorry, Iz. We had a full itinerary. I’ll clean up after supper.”

  “Fair enough. So what kind of mischief did you get up to?”

  The brothers exchanged glances and in unison said, “Nothing much.”

  “That sounds scary. Should I call the cops for details?”

  “All very innocent,” Cyrus said. “We cruised around town showing each other the hot spots.”

  “Yeah,” Hank quipped. “He showed me his and I showed him mine.”

  Cyrus fetched beer for Hank and himself and said, “About tomorrow, Iz, did you have any plans?”

  “Not exactly. I have an open house until four. I thought we could maybe make a reservation at the Lobster Pot.”

  “Or,” he countered, “I could make supper here. That might be the easiest. Besides, how often do you get to experience my kitchen magic?”

  She took a sip of gin and, with an ice cube stuck in her cheek, said, “If it’s lethal, only once.”

  THE PEOPLE OF WILBURY liked to tell strangers that the town was on the same latitude as northern California; but anyone who had spent a few days in the area knew the axis of affinity was closer to the Deep South. The downtown neighbourhoods consisted of huge homes of brick and wood, with wide wraparound porches, the older streets lined with maple and chestnut, sycamore and catalpa. The town hall was a stately brick building with white columns and a spacious portico. Cyrus remembered his parents dragging the whole family there one night after supper. It was the middle of the polio scare, and half the families in town, edgy with fear, were lined up outside to get their kids the oral vaccine.

  What most set Wilbury in a southern light was the humidity and the heat and the lush vegetation. It was a place for growing things: the history of the town a history of farmers made wealthy by rich soil, good weather, ample water and a steady flow of hard-working immigrants. Tourism professionals had dubbed the area The Sun Parlour, but Cyrus always felt it should have been called The Sauna. Even so, an October heat wave was an unexpected bonus. And after driving around all day, he was content to sit in the backyard with Hank, drinking beer and splashing his feet in the plastic pool, while Izzy barbecued the steaks and foiled-wrapped packets of potatoes and onions.

  Hank seemed to be enjoying himself, too. He breathed deeply the balmy air, smacking his lips in anticipation of dinner. After he finished his second can of beer, he said, “No one asked what I wanted for my birthday.”

  Isabel turned to him with one hand on her hip, the other swinging a barbecue fork on its leather thong the way a cop might swing his billy club. “Maybe that’s because we know what you deserve.”

  Cyrus thought that was pretty funny. Tapping his forehead like Lieutenant Columbo, he said, “Presents … presents. Let me see, those would be the things we give to you but you never give to us, is that it?”

  Hank ignored the wisecracks and popped the top on another Schlitz. “A man turns forty,” he said, “you’d think his sibs’d spring for something special.”

  Isabel sashayed over, took a long pull on Hank’s beer and said, “Why do I get the feeling I’m being set up?”

  “I’m just trying to help you make this the best birthday I ever had.”

  “Oh, well, that means a lot to me.” She poked his belly with the prongs of the fork. “What’ll it be, fatso? What’s on your wish list?”

  He turned from Izzy to Cyrus and said, “You think I’m joking.”

  “No we don’t, do we, Cyrus?”

  “Right. Your wish is our command.”

  Hank nodded seriously. “Okay,” he said, “I wanna get laid.”

  Isabel looked around nervously to see if any neighbours were near. “Jesus, keep it to yourself, will you?”

  “I wanna get laid!” he repeated, this time more aggressively.

  When Cyrus hooted merrily, she turned on him. “Don’t be egging him on, stupid. This is partly your fault.”

  To which Hank and Cyrus both said, “Uh-oh.” When she followed their gaze, she saw the steak and potatoes engulfed in flames.

  THE BEAUTY OF A TRIAD was displayed most effectively during dinner. One moment the two brothers teased Izzy mercilessly; the next, Cyrus helped his sister hound Hank’s sorry hide. Just as often, Hank and Izzy took turns poking fun at Mr. Bigshot Musician. If there was one thing that bound the three together, it was this sense of fair play.

  Luckily the food had been plucked from the inferno without much damage. But then they were all so hungry, it scarcely would have mattered. Hank went at his meal with the grunting gusto that Isabel witnessed every night. When she caught Cyrus staring in fascination at his brother, she sniffed and said, “I’ve seen better manners in Gerry’s pig barns.”

  Hank put down his T-bone and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You got a problem with the way I eat?”

  “Not at all, Hank. It’s pure entertainment.”

  “Good,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t want you disappointed or nuthin’.”

  As promised, Cyrus did the dishes. When Izzy came in to help put things away, he said, “What do you think?”

  At first she thought he was talking about the job he had done on the dishes. She studied a plate for streaks. Then, in a flash, she understood what he meant. “Oh, Christ, I don’t even want to know about it.”

  “You gotta feel sorry for him. When was the last time he got any?”

  “Cyrus,” she whispered, “stop right there.”

  “No, listen, I’ve been thinking.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her into the den where they could talk more freely. “What would it hurt?”

  She shook her head. “Have you lost your mind? You going to just waltz a whore into my living room and introduce her to Hank? What about the neighbours? No, never mind that, what about the police? Prostitution is against the law, you know. Besides, I already got him something.”

  “Not what he wants, though.”

  “Cyrus, nobody gets what they want. Now drop it.”

  “Sure, sure, it was just a thought.”

  They went back outside and sat together on the patio for another hour or so, the fizz pretty much gone from the evening. Izzy had always been an early bird and started to fade about nine-thirty, especially when she’d had something to drink.

  Cyrus said, “Look a little bagged there, Iz. Another big day tomorrow. Why don’t you call it a night?”

  She kissed them each on the head and went inside. Cyrus kicked Hank’s chair and startled him from a trance. “Rise and shine, Casanova. The minute she’s asleep, we’re out of here.”

  That made Hank perk up. “Where we going?”

  “Paradise, daddy-o.”

  HOUNSLOW WAS A FORTY-MINUTE DRIVE from Wilbury, and they made i
t to the city before midnight. At the first stoplight, Cyrus turned to Hank and said, “I don’t know the first thing about this. What do we do now?”

  Hank rolled his eyes, clearly enjoying his greater wisdom in these matters. He mentioned an address and, after a number of wrong turns and detours, they found themselves on a gloomy dead-end street that faced a line of derelict factories. Their destination was a bungalow with asphalt siding and a picture window. The drapes were drawn, no cars out front. The only sign of life was a single string of winking Christmas lights.

  Cyrus parked the car at the curb and said, “You sure this is the place? It looks kinda homey.”

  “This is it. Just say we’re friends of Gordie Spinks.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Cyrus started the engine. He would have driven away, too, if Hank hadn’t yanked the key from the ignition and jammed it in his pocket. “Don’t get freaky on me, kid.”

  “Freaky is you wanting to mess with Spinks again. I say we get out of here and forget the whole thing.”

  “Well that ain’t gonna happen, ’cause I’m gonna get myself laid good and proper, even if I have to drag myself in there on my belly.”

  Cyrus stared at the dashboard as though he might will the car to start. He said, “You’re going to get us killed.”

  “No,” he said, waving his index finger in the air. “I’m going to get us laid. Don’t worry about Gordie. Our little problem got sorted out. Besides, he’s on my side.”

  “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

  Hank pushed him playfully. “Go on. And quit worrying.”

  Cyrus left Hank in the car and approached the house. He noticed that the lawn had been freshly mowed. Chrysanthemums bordered the sidewalk. Those simple details helped to stem his rising sense of dread.

  Before he could knock, a woman opened the door and said, “What can I do for you, sweetie pie? You look like you’re lost.”