Authors: Guy Vanderhaeghe
Someone, I don’t know who, proffers a glass and I take it. This is a mistake. It is Everett’s party punch, a hot cider pungent with cloves. However, I dutifully drink it. Victoria leaves my side and I am free to hunt for some more acceptable libation. I find a bottle of Scotch in the kitchen and pour myself a stiff shot, which I sample. Appreciating its honest taste (it is obviously liquor; I hate intoxicants that disguise their purpose with palatability), I carry it back to the living-room.
A very pretty, matronly young woman sidles up to me. She is one of those kind people who move through parties like wraiths, intent on making late arrivals comfortable. We talk desultorily about the party, agreeing it is wonderful and expressing admiration for our host and hostess. The young woman, who is called Ann, admits to being a lawyer. I admit to being a naval architect. She asks me what I am doing on the prairies if I am a naval architect. This is a difficult question. I know nothing about naval architects and cannot even guess what they might be doing on the prairies.
“Perspectives,” I say darkly.
She looks at me curiously and then dips away, heading for an errant husband. Several minutes later I am sure they are talking about me, so I duck back to the kitchen and pour myself another Scotch.
Helen finds me in her kitchen. She is hunting for olives.
“Ed,” she asks, “have you seen a jar of olives?” She shows me how big with her hands. Someone has turned on the stereo and I sense a slight vibration in the floor, which means people are dancing in the living-room.
“No,” I reply. “I can’t see anything. I’m loaded,” I confess.
Helen looks at me doubtfully. Helen and Everett don’t really approve of drinking – that’s why they discourage consumption by serving hot cider at parties. She smiles weakly and gives up olives in favour of employment. “How’s the job search?” she asks politely while she rummages in the fridge.
“Nothing yet.”
“Everett and I have our ears cocked,” she says. “If we hear of anything you’ll be the first to know.” Then she hurries out of the kitchen carrying a jar of gherkins.
“Hey, you silly bitch,” I yell, “those aren’t olives, those are
gherkins!”
I wander unsteadily back to the living-room. Someone has put a waltz on the stereo and my wife and Howard are revolving slowly and serenely in the limited available space. I notice that he has insinuated his leg between my wife’s thighs. I take a good belt and appraise them. They make a handsome couple. I salute them with my glass but they do not see, and so my world-weary and cavalier gesture is lost on them.
A man and a woman at my left shoulder are talking about Chile and Chilean refugees. It seems that she is in charge of some and is having problems with them. They’re divided by old political enmities; they won’t learn English; one of them insists on driving without a valid operator’s licence. Their voices, earnest and shrill, blend and separate, separate and blend. I watch my wife, skilfully led, glide and turn, turn and glide. Howard’s face floats above her head, an impassive mask of content.
The wall clock above the sofa tells me it is only ten o’clock. One year is separated from the next by two hours. However, they pass quickly because I have the great good fortune to get involved in a political argument. I know nothing about politics, but then neither do any of the people I am arguing with. I’ve always found that a really lively argument depends on the ignorance of the combatants. The more ignorant the disputants, the more heated the debate. This one warms nicely. In no time several people have denounced me as a neo-fascist. Their lack of objectivity pleases me no end. I stand beaming and swaying on my feet. Occasionally I retreat to the kitchen to fill my glass and they follow, hurling statistics and analogies at my back.
It is only at twelve o’clock that I realize the extent of the animosity I have created by this performance. One woman genuinely hates me. She refuses a friendly New Year’s buss. I plead that politics should not stand in the way of fraternity.
“You must have learned all this stupid, egotistical individualism from Ayn Rand,” she blurts out.
“Who?”
“The writer, Ayn Rand.”
“I thought you were referring to the corporation,” I say.
She calls me an ass-hole and marches away. Even in my drunken stupor I perceive that her unfriendly judgement is shared by all people within hearing distance. I find myself talking loudly and violently, attempting to justify myself. Helen is wending her way across the living-room toward me. She takes me by the elbow.
“Ed,” she says, “you look a little the worse for wear. I have some coffee in the kitchen.”
Obediently I allow myself to be led away. Helen pours me a cup of coffee and sits me down in the breakfast nook. I am genuinely contrite and embarrassed.
“Look, Helen,” I say. “I apologize. I had too much to drink. I’d better go. Will you tell Victoria I’m ready to leave?”
“Victoria went out to get some ice,” she says uneasily.
“How the hell can she get ice? She doesn’t drive.”
“She went with Howard.”
“Oh … okay. I’ll wait.”
Helen leaves me alone to ponder my sins. But I don’t dwell on my sins; I dwell on Victoria’s and Howard’s. I feel my head, searching for the nascent bumps of cuckoldry. It is an unpleasant joke. Finally I get up, fortify myself with another drink, find my coat and boots, and go outside to wait for the young lovers. Snow is still falling in an unsettling blur. The New Year greets us with a storm.
I do not have long to wait. A car creeps cautiously up the street, its headlights gleaming. It stops at the far curb. I hear car doors slamming and then laughter. Howard and Victoria run lightly across the road. He seems to be chasing her, at least that is the impression I receive from her high-pitched squeals of delight. They start up the walk before they notice me. I stand, or imagine I stand, perfectly immobile and menacing.
“Hi, Howie,” I say. “How’s tricks?”
“Ed,” Howard says, pausing. He sends me a curt nod.
“We went for ice,” Victoria explains. She holds up the bag for proof.
“Is that right, Howie?” I ask, turning my attention to the home-breaker. I am uncertain whether I am creating this scene merely to discomfort Howard, whom I don’t like, or because I am jealous. Perhaps a bit of both.
“The name is Howard, Ed.”
“The name is Edward, Howard.”
Howard coughs and shuffles his feet. He is smiling faintly. “Well, Ed,” he says, “what’s the problem?”
“The problem, Howie, is my wife. The problem is cuckoldry. Likewise the incredible amount of hostility I feel toward you this minute. Now, you’re the psychologist, Howie, what’s the answer to my hostility?”
Howard shrugs. The smile which appears frozen on his face is wrenched askew with anger.
“No answer? Well, here’s my prescription. I’m sure I’d feel much better if I bopped your beanie, Bozo,” I say. Then I begin to do something very stupid. In this kind of weather I’m taking off my coat.
“Stop this,” Victoria says. “Ed, stop it right now!”
Under this threat of violence Howard puffs himself up. He seems to expand in the night; he becomes protective and paternal. Even his voice deepens; it plumbs the lower registers. “I’ll take care of this, Victoria,” he says gruffly.
“Quit acting like children,” she storms. “Stop it!”
Poor Victoria. Two wilful men, rutting stags in the stilly night.
Somehow my right arm seems to have got tangled in my coat sleeve. Since I’m drunk, my attempt to extricate myself occupies all my attention. Suddenly the left side of my face goes numb and I find myself flat on my back. Howie towers over me.
“You son of a bitch,” I mumble,
“that
is not cricket.” I try to kick him in the family jewels from where I lie. I am unsuccessful.
Howard is suddenly the perfect gentleman. He graciously allows me to get to my feet. Then he ungraciously knocks me down again. This time the force of his blow spins me around and I make a one-point landing on my nose. Howie is proving more than I bargained for. At this point I find myself wishing I had a pipe wrench in my pocket.
“Had enough?” Howie asks. The rooster crowing on the dunghill.
I hear Victoria. “Of course he’s had enough. What’s the matter with you? He’s drunk. Do you want to kill him?”
“The thought had entered my mind.”
“Just you let me get my arm loose, you son of a bitch,” I say. “We’ll see who kills who.” I
have
had enough, but of course I can’t admit it.
“Be my guest.”
Somehow I tear off my coat. Howard is standing waiting, bouncing up on his toes, weaving his head. I feel slightly dizzy trying to focus on his frenetic motion. “Come on,” Howard urges me. “Come on.”
I lower my head and charge at his midriff. A punch on the back of the neck pops my tongue out of my mouth like a released spring. I pitch head first into the snow. A knee digs into my back, pinning me, and punches begin to rain down on the back of my head. The best I can hope for in a moment of lucidity is that Howard will break a hand on my skull.
My wife saves me. I hear her screaming and, resourceful girl that she is, she hauls Howie off my back by the hair. He curses her; she shouts; they argue. I lie on the snow and pant.
I hear the front door open, and I see my host silhouetted in the door-frame.
“Jesus Christ,” Everett yells, “what’s going on out here?”
I roll on my back in time to see Howard beating a retreat to his car. My tigress has put him on the run. He is definitely piqued. The car roars into life and swerves into the street. I get to my feet and yell insults at his tail-lights.
“Victoria, is that you?” Everett asks uncertainly.
She sobs a yes.
“Come on in. You’re upset.”
She shakes her head no.
“Do you want to talk to Helen?”
“No.”
Everett goes back into the house nonplussed. It strikes me what a remarkable couple we are.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to shake the snow off my sweater. “In five years of marriage you’ve never done anything nicer. I appreciate it.”
“Shut up.”
“Have you seen my coat?” I begin to stumble around searching for my traitorous garment.
“Here.” She helps me into it. I check my pockets. “I suspect I’ve lost the car keys,” I say.
“I’m not surprised.” Victoria has calmed down and is drying her eyes on her coat sleeves. “A good thing too, you’re too drunk to drive. We’ll walk to Albert Street. They run buses late on New Year’s Eve for drunks like you.”
I fall into step with her. I’m shivering with cold but I know better than to complain. I light a cigarette and wince when the smoke sears a cut on the inside of my mouth. I gingerly test a loosened tooth with my tongue.
“You were very brave,” I say. I am so touched by her act of loyalty, I take her hand. She does not refuse it.
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It seems to me you made some kind of decision back there.”
“A perfect stranger might have done the same.”
I allow that this is true.
“I don’t regret anything,” Victoria says. “I don’t regret what happened between Howard and me; I don’t regret helping you.”
“Tibetan women often have two husbands,” I say.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, stopping under a street-light.
“I won’t interfere any more.”
“I don’t think you understand,” she says, resuming walking. We enter a deserted street, silent and white. No cars have passed here in hours, the snow is untracked.
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” I say hopefully, “a night for resolutions.”
“You can’t change, Ed.” Her loss of faith in me shocks me.
I recover my balance. “I could,” I maintain. “I feel ready now. I think I’ve learned something. Honestly.”
“Ed,” she says, shaking her head.
“I resolve,” I say solemnly, “to find a job.”
“Ed, no.”
“I resolve to tell the truth.”
Victoria actually reaches up and attempts to stifle my words with her mittened hands. I struggle. I realize that, unaccountably, I am crying. “I resolve to treat you differently,” I manage to say. But as I say it, I know that I am not capable of any of this. I am a man descending and I should not make promises that I cannot keep, not to her – of all people.
“Ed,” she says firmly, “I think that’s enough. There’s no point any more.”
She is right. We walk on silently. Injuries so old could likely not be healed. Not by me. The snow seems to fall faster and faster.
Sam, Soren, and Ed
A
PUBLIC
park on a weekday is a sobering place. From Monday to Friday, before they are lost in an anonymous surge of weekend pleasure-seekers, the truly representative figures of Western decadence are revealed. On the placid green expanses of lawn these humans jut up, sinister as icebergs, indicators (I am moved to think) of the mass of gluttony, lechery, sloth and violence which lurks below the surface of society.
I don’t, of course, presume to except myself from that company. I’ve been a regular here throughout this muggy summer. Most afternoons I can be found planted on one of the bright-blue benches whose inconveniently spaced slats pinch my fat ass. Unemployed for longer than I care to remember, I come here to spend the day in as pleasant a manner as possible. That means eyeing the nymphets who scoot by, jiggling provocatively in the pursuit of frisbees.
And eating. At the moment I am gnawing a chicken leg embalmed in the Colonel’s twenty-seven secret herbs and spices, and swigging a Coke. When that’s finished I’ll top off with two Oh Henrys which have dissolved in their wrappers from the heat.
I’m not the only degenerate dotting the landscape either, although the park almost always empties by four-thirty. Fifty yards away a teen-age couple – he no more than fifteen, she barely having crossed into puberty – lie in a spot of shade rubbing their fevered groins together, lost in the sensations of an open-mouthed, tongue-entangled, gullet-probing kiss. Even at this considerable distance I can hear the rasp of stiff denim on stiff denim and their zippers metallically zinging in unison. In a way I wish them good luck in their striving. It is hard to accept that such effort and persistence could go unrewarded.
The guy by the drinking-fountain is, however, another story and not an object for benevolent glances. On him I’ve kept a wary eye. For the past hour, shirtless and barefooted, he has practised some arcane martial art. He has slashed, punched, stabbed and kicked the air, crushing imaginary windpipes, rupturing imaginary spleens, squashing imaginary testicles, and deviating imaginary septums. An extra-Y-chromosome type if I ever saw one, and tattooed for good measure. A powder keg capable of exploding at anything an overweight, sparsely bearded man with weak eyesight like me might say or do, however amiable and unprovoking.
If that character had the courtesy to get lost I might be able to completely relax and enjoy my afternoon. Behind me I sense the silken movement of the river as I smell its effluvium, a piquant mix of algae and industrial waste. Its counterpart in movement is the traffic on Spadina Crescent which winds in front of me. Fragmented by shrubs and elms it is a pattern of hot light, flickering chrome and flashing glass. Paradoxically peaceful, I find. My preferences run to urban jungles.
I check the time. It is a quarter to five and the runners from the YWCA are late. I never miss them if I can help it.
Now please don’t get me wrong. My interest in these ladies is not lascivious. How could it be? The women are deadly serious about this business of running and make no concessions to spectators. They make their appearance attired in baggy grey pants stained with unsightly blotches of sweat, or in unflattering cotton shorts and shoes pounded shapeless and grimy from many hard miles on the asphalt. Unlike the sweet young things that wiggle voluptuously down the via dolorosa to health and beauty in satiny track suits that cling erotically to their nubile frames, these women clip along with a choppy, economical stride that efficiently devours distance. They are training for the city’s annual twelve-and-a-half-mile run along the river bank.
I recognize the strength of the dedication and the determination that propels them mile after boring mile. Good God, I admire it. With a chicken leg in one hand and a Coke in the other, I salute them even in their absence. Hail to thee Marys full of grace.
And right on cue they appear. Suddenly, through the screen of trees I spot the leader of the pack, the she-wolf herself. As always, it is the tough little breastless redhead with stringy thighs who labours first up the grade from under the Broadway Bridge. Another runner appears and then another. As they top the rise their faces go momentarily slack with relief, thankful that this terrible straining against gravity has at last subsided. Seeing their faces dissolve with the release of tension makes me associate all this sweaty effort with sex. But that is not really accurate or correct. Perhaps it is merely bewildered and lost they look, like dazed survivors of some catastrophic wreck. It is, however, only a matter of seconds before my heroines recover their composure and stride, and press formidably on.
The solitary front runners and high achievers fly past and the field is claimed by knots of women who shuffle along huddled together in groups of five or six for mutual encouragement and support. They straggle by, gaping mouths a mute plea for oxygen, wisps of hair plastered to flushed cheeks, arms shining with a patina of honest sweat. Brave girls!
And last of all come the stragglers, the beginners, the fatties, the pigeon-toed camp followers of that other regiment of women. These are the ones I really wait for, to see safely on their way. I
do
worry about these women. I sometimes imagine them reeling, lurching from sunstroke, and finally crashing to the pavement without anyone to spring to their aid. The old girls with blue rinses, knobby knees and a visible circuitry of veins in relief on their calves; the stenographers with secretary’s spread; the overweight teen-age girls blooming with acne who run to fashion their bodies into objects worthy of the witless adoration of future Prince Charmings – these are the sheep which comprise my fold and I am their shepherd. If not as good-looking or athletic as one of those young blond studs who man ski patrols, I am, I believe, as dedicated.
My eyes study these tail-enders, alert for signs of danger or imminent collapse, and in doing so come to rest on one woman. About her there is something troublingly familiar, although this shouldn’t be, because I am convinced she is a novice runner, a new addition to the daily procession. In any case, I don’t recognize the running garb – white tennis shorts and a cheerful yellow T-shirt.
This woman gives every indication of being in rough shape. Having just finished the climb from under the bridge, she is trying to walk the tightness out of her calves. As she limps along, one hand on her hip, one working on her rib cage trying to squeeze out a stitch, her head hangs down so that a fall of hair obscures her face. But there is something about her – the strong body, the generous, ungirlish proportions – that strikes a resonance of familiarity in me.
She throws her head back and begins to run again, her arms pumping awkwardly at her sides, her legs moving jerkily. It is Victoria. My wife. Or rather, more correctly, my estranged wife. The woman whom I haven’t set eyes on in four months. The woman who hangs up when I call. The woman who wants a divorce
right now and no more funny business
.
And does she look awful! Her face has curdled to an alarming hue, the grape-purple of strangulation victims – except where she has gone ashy white about the eyes and mouth. In this thirty-degree-plus heat, my wife’s brains must be frying in her obstinate head. My duty is clear. I slip off the bench, drumstick in hand, and hustle out to intercept her before she does herself irreparable damage.
Victoria obviously doesn’t recognize her hubby. The man whom she once kept so spruce and neat is clad in wrinkles and food stains. I’ve laid on a few more pounds of lard and grown a scruffy fringe of hair on my hoggish jowls since last we acrimoniously parted. When Victoria finally realizes that this stranger is bearing down on her with obvious intent, she veers away sharply to avoid attack or an obscene proposition. Consequently, I’m forced to break into a ridiculous trot to pursue her.
“Victoria,” I call cheerfully, identifying myself as a friendly, “it’s me. It’s Ed, dear.”
Victoria is so exhausted her face is incapable of registering surprise, or even dismay at my condition. Apparently even the usages of common civility are beyond her wasted powers. This from a woman with whom I shared bed and board for six years: “Ed? Get the hell away from me. What the hell are you doing following me, spying on me? Get lost.”
“Victoria,” I cajole her, refusing to answer her preposterous accusations. “Darling. If you could only see yourself. Stop this nonsense. You’re risking heat stroke.”
How the hell does she do it in these temperatures? Twenty yards and already my pores are leaking buckets of water and quantities of vital salts and minerals.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Go away,” she gasps, plodding puritanically along. Rule the flesh.
“I’m not being ridiculous. Every year there’s a rash of high-school football players dropping dead all over Dixie from heat stroke. It’s a fact.”
“Benny,” she says, her breath catching raggedly, “told me not to talk to you. So I’m not.”
“The body has to be trained for this,” I explain. “You have to build your tolerance for this stuff.” Tangentially I add, “And tell that shyster Benny to jam a statute book up his ass the next time you see him.”
“Only a mile further,” she grunts to herself, studiously ignoring me. She lowers her head bullishly and ploughs forward.
“All right,” I say sternly, all bristly authority. “If you won’t stop this, I’ll have to stop you for your own good.”
A desperate, harrowed look crosses her face. “I’m finishing,” she announces through clenched teeth. “Unlike some people I know, I don’t quit on things.”
“I suppose that remark is supposed to reduce me to jelly?” I comment acidly. An unfortunate choice of words. I note that I
do
tend to quiver when in full, precipitous flight as I am now.
“Take that remark however you wish. I’m not in charge of your limited conscience any longer. Thank God.”
Lulled by her righteousness, Victoria seems to slow slightly. I speed up and make a grab for her arm. But she is an elusive girl; she weaves trickily, steps on the gas and spunkily spurts a few steps out of my reach.
“Touch me,” she warns hoarsely, “and I’ll scream. I’ll yell rape, you son of a bitch.”
So that’s it. Marital brinkmanship. As so often with us, this has become a test of wills. But she doesn’t frighten me off. Victoria was never one (unlike me) who wished to call attention to herself. She could never, in all our long married life, tolerate public scenes. Still, she is a worthy opponent, a tough cookie. Centuries of flinty Scottish feistiness are distilled in her being. She is industrious, self-reliant and persevering. A proper helpmate on the stony road of life.
This escapade is taking its toll. I puff as I pursue her. She squeaks a barely audible, definitely feeble “Rape!” that is not meant to be heard by anyone. It is merely to serve me as a warning.
Throwing all caution to the winds I lunge and catch hold of her wrist.
“Help!” she fairly bellows. So much for theory and past experience. This is not the Victoria I knew. She struggles and tugs ferociously on the end of my arm. I find myself forced to shuffle along with an apologetic, schoolboyish grin pasted on my mug, striving to achieve the right effect – the quintessence of harmlessness.
“Help me! Help somebody!”
“Shut up, for Christ’s sake.
Jesus
.” I nod encouragingly to a passing motorist whose face darkens suspiciously behind the windshield. “What the hell are you doing? Do you want to be arrested for public mischief?” I mutter to my wife.
Then she does it. “Rape!”
I am seriously considering letting the silly bitch go when I sense his presence. It is as if he dropped out of the sky, although he must have watched the entire farce from the wings, only awaiting his cue. I manage a half-turn to face him, and then Mr. Kung Fu from the park hits the arm to which Victoria is attached with one of those tricky Oriental chops. Just the kind of snappy blow that makes the arm go dead and lodges a locus of electric pain in the neck.
Victoria is released. She sprints away without a backward glance, leaving me to face the belligerent music. This is
not
like the woman I recall. Surely she has an obligation to explain?
Meanwhile my attacker has squared off and assumed an appropriately menacing stance from which to launch a devastating offensive. His hands revolve slowly in front of his body.
How do you handle a character like this? A man who has spent interminable hours in some seedy, smelly gymnasium devoting his time to preparing for just such a moment as this, when, without fear of judicial reprisal, and in good conscience, he can cripple another human being for life.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say lamely.
He doesn’t answer me.
“You better not hit me again,” I tactfully warn him, “unless you want to get slapped with a lawsuit that’ll bleed you white.” This sort of approach sometimes works with the cretinous types.
He takes a step towards me. I find myself thinking very hard. The inevitable question arises. What would Sam Waters do in such a situation? I have a good idea what Sam would do, but I know equally well that I am incapable of imitation.
My one arm is still relatively useless, although the numbness is being replaced with pins and needles of breathtaking pain. I extend my good arm to fend off my assailant, only to discover that I am pointing my forgotten drumstick, dagger-like, at his black heart.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you, jerk-off artist?” he demands. “How come you were bothering the lady?”
Perhaps it is an indication of the incorrigibility of human nature. Even in such disastrous circumstances ol’ Adam rears his cynical, ugly head. The unregenerate, childish Ed cannot help himself. “That was no lady, mister,” I blurt out. “
That was my wife
!” Old dogs cannot be taught new tricks, and old jokes, I find, are still the best.
I brace my porcine pan for a two-knuckle punch when … lo and behold, a police cruiser creeps to the curb to investigate this contretemps. At the sight of the long arm of the law manifestly before him, my friend grows suddenly pacific. It appears that they are on a first-name basis. Evidently he will do no snitching; this gorilla wants nothing whatsoever to do with the boys in blue. When
I
am asked whether he is bothering me, I give him a long, hard look, long and hard enough to make him squirm, before I sarcastically pronounce him “one of nature’s noblemen.”