The Garneau Block (23 page)

 

66

suburbia

R
ajinder Chana gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his jaw clenched. Next to him, Madison dabbed at her eyes with a red handkerchief.

In the back, Jonas slouched and the leather squeaked. Was it a character flaw, Jonas wondered, to
enjoy
romantic tension? It was tangible, chewy even; he wanted the ride to go on forever.

Driving south, with the smell of cut lumber in the air, Rajinder sneezed. Then he took in a long breath and said, “On the night Benjamin Perlitz was killed, I was at a Fringe play about the addictive nature of pornography.”

Jonas remembered sitting in the beer tent that night with Madison and a few actors. At one point in the evening, during
someone's drunken soliloquy, he had seen Rajinder–the young Indian man from across the street–pass with a program. “I saw you there.”

“Benjamin had not planned to enter his own house. He had planned to enter mine.”

“What do you mean?” Madison turned to him.

“Benjamin Perlitz had planned to shoot
me
that night. When he crossed the street to his own house, he had only meant to wait and watch through the front window until I returned. Of course, he wasn't blameless. Benjamin was verbally abusive with Jeanne and threatened to shoot her if she tried to escape with Katie. The police arrived after she sneaked a call with her cellular phone. Shortly thereafter, he went berserk.”

Jonas slid to the middle of the back seat and leaned in between Rajinder and Madison. “Because you stopped lending him gambling money?”

“A couple of months after Jeanne sent Benjamin away, I became…a comfort to her. Somehow he discovered this. Through Katie, I believe.”

“You were sleeping with Jeanne?” Madison's voice registered somewhere between fascination and horror.

Rajinder didn't answer for several blocks. In a small but sure voice, passing some strip malls, he said, “For a time.”

“When did it end?”

“Long before Benjamin arrived with his rifle.”

Madison shook her head. “How on earth did you keep it out of the newspaper?”

“Police discretion.”

This inspired another long silence. In almost any other circumstance, Jonas would have slapped Rajinder on the arm and called him a dog. Nay, a dawg. But it didn't seem appropriate. The Mercedes motor was quiet, even when Rajinder accelerated, which added to the gloom. They passed the retail giants and fast-food outlets of South Edmonton Common, and Jonas realized he had forgotten to eat that morning. A nasty mood and low-level catatonic state of hypoglycemia could hit at any time, despite his present state of glee. “Hey, you guys think Jeanne'll serve snacks?”

Neither of them offered a thought.

“Potato chips? Watermelon?”

In the deep south of the city, the Summerside neighbourhood sat under several shades of grey. The wind galloped across the prairie and lashed the left side of the car as they waited at the stoplight. When the lights changed, Rajinder turned past the old country cemetery and into the flat subdivision of massive wooden houses.

“Those baby carrots, even? It's my own fault, I guess, for sleeping in. Not that I have anything to eat at my place. There's cereal but no milk. Well, actually, there is some milk. Do you guys have this problem? I have expired milk, way expired, and I know I should pour it down the sink but something–some mystifying inner force–tells me to leave it in the fridge. Leave it till next time.”

No response.

“Hello?”

Madison pulled the sun visor down and inspected herself in the mirror. With the handkerchief, she dabbed underneath her eyes, then looked out the passenger window. A pink foam
had formed along the banks of the artificial lake. Leaves, Tim Hortons cups, and refuse from Kentucky Fried Chicken bobbed on the small waves.

“Listen, you two. If it'll cheer you up, I'll jump in that smelly lake right now.
Right now.
I heard from a guy that a poodle swam in there last fall and it died. Even if that's true, I don't care. It means nothing to me, nothing. Because I love you guys. I love yez. You're my favourites and I hate to see this sorrow. I just hate to see it.”

Rajinder pulled up in front of Jeanne's sister's house, a three-storey cream-coloured Cape Cod with two tiny birch trees planted in front. The trees looked so thin and forlorn, Jonas figured they needed hugs. He hopped out of the back seat and proceeded to embrace the first one. It was small so he had to bend low to get under the pokey branches. To his distress, both Rajinder and Madison ignored him.

The front door opened and Katie, in a winter jacket and rubber boots, ran out. Madison went down on both knees to hug the girl, who launched into a stream-of-consciousness speech about Halloween, her new school, finger painting, a kitten named Chris, and the distinct possibility that by this time next year she would have a trampoline.

Katie finished her speech, said hello to Jonas and Rajinder, and yanked Madison by the hand. Jeanne stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of jeans and a black sweater, her blonde hair tied up in a bun. Makeup did not hide the dark shadows under her eyes.

Jeanne and Madison hugged. Jonas insisted Rajinder go next because he wanted to study the interplay between the former
lovers. They hugged as well, but not warmly. It was as though they were both worried about the other's hands being sticky.

“You look
amazing
,” said Jonas, as he hurried in for his own hug. He picked Jeanne up into the air for a moment and as she went limp with discomfort he placed her back down on the entrance rug.

 

67

the wild things

J
eanne invited Rajinder and Madison to sit on the puffy leather couch facing the fireplace and Katie's overflowing toy box. Her new My Little Pony lay on the laminate floor, next to a pile of wrapping paper. They listened to Katie describe the situation at her Montessori kindergarten while wearing a Darth Vader voice-changing mask.

“We play with wood mostly,” said Katie, in the voice of James Earl Jones.

Even though this ranked in the top-five most uncomfortable moments of her life, Madison couldn't stop smiling at Katie. For the first time in her four months of pregnancy, Madison felt thrilled to be having a child. A girl, hopefully, with red hair and brown eyes.

And if Rajinder wasn't comfortable with that, she just had to stop caring about him. Now or as soon as possible.

It helped that he had slept with Jeanne. It helped that he had been disingenuous about the Let's Fix It project. He wanted to Fix It because he had, from a certain point of view, caused It.

“We did a pond study last week.” Katie nodded her Vader head. “My teacher's name is Mrs. Allen. Lots of the bugs we saw were dead.”

Jeanne stood up from her own puffy chair and held a hand out for Katie. “That's great, honey. Now it's time for you to go upstairs and play.”

“No.” Still in the Darth Vader mask, Katie ran around the coffee table and hopped up on the couch next to Madison.

“
Yes
, Katie.”

She took Madison's hand and squeezed it in hers. “No!”

“Once the adults are finished talking, Madison will come up and play with you.”

Katie turned and looked for confirmation with her Vader eyes. “Really?”

“I absolutely promise,” said Madison.

The four-year-old pulled off the mask, took her My Little Pony and a copy of
Where the Wild Things Are
, and started up the stairs. She stopped halfway and looked down. “You better not take forever.”

Madison shook her head. “I won't be long.”

The door closed upstairs and Jeanne sighed. “Can I get anyone a drink? Beer, wine, tea, juice?”

There was a plate of California rolls on the granite countertop. Jonas sat on a stool and dipped one into a mixture of wasabi and soy. “Your sister got any Scotch?”

Jeanne started around to the open kitchen. “She does, in fact, and no one ever drinks it. Want some?”

“Do I!”

Madison wanted to take this opportunity to say something to Rajinder. Yet she wasn't sure she could articulate it. So instead of speaking, Madison turned and punched Rajinder in the shoulder. Then she wound up and punched him again. “I am sorry, Madison,” he said, rubbing the spot.

Jeanne returned to the living room with her own glass of Scotch. No doubt she had heard and perhaps seen the blows Madison had delivered. Smelling of imitation crabmeat, Jonas plopped down beside Madison on the couch and took a long sip of Scotch.

“So,” said Jonas. “It's been ages. How are things, Jeanne?”

She took a long time to answer, which pointed to the absurdity of Jonas's question. “Shitty, all things considered. You?”

“Can't complain, can't complain.”

Madison slid forward on the couch. “Katie seems to be doing all right.”

“She still has the nightmares, but yeah. She's doing pretty well.”

“Was she in the bedroom when…”

Jeanne nodded.

“I'm so sorry. We all are. It's probably an obvious and annoying thing to say.”

Jeanne nodded again.

“Did you receive the letter from the university?” said Rajinder.

“I did. Thanks for forwarding it on.”

Rajinder looked at Madison and at Jonas, and used his hands to indicate this was a team effort. “As a community, we have been searching for ways to save the Garneau Block from annexation and ultimate destruction. After some research and a lot of creative thinking on the part of Raymond Terletsky, we have decided to aim for a cultural designation.”

“What does that mean?”

“We're not positive yet. Raymond Terletsky and I met with some local architects, a museum consultant, and the guest composer at the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra. As a matter of fact, Jeanne,” Rajinder leaned back in the couch, as though he were seeking shelter, “we are here to discuss an important matter with you, something we hope you will agree is the best solution for everyone. I would like to buy your house.
We
would like to buy your house, and transform it into a sort of…a very special place.”

Jeanne shook her head and took a sip of Scotch. “I don't get it.”

“A museum but not a museum,” said Jonas. “A site of Edmonton's mythic power.”

“I still don't get it.”

“There's probably gonna be some buffalo.” Jonas made a sweeping gesture with his glass of Scotch, and the ice tinkled. “Right, gang?”

“Yes, buffalo,” said Rajinder, with a faint scowl.

At that moment, Madison understood that 10 Garneau would never be anything special. This plan was boyish and
egotistical and silly. Jeanne looked at Madison and lifted an eyebrow. “Is this a joke?”

Madison shook her head.

“I'm not selling my house to you, Rajinder. Not ever. I'm selling my house to the university so they can level it.”

“Wait a moment, Jeanne. Let us explain.”

“You want me to agree to something that is good for you, not me. I don't want Katie growing up with a big
something
on the site of her father's death. How will she ever forget if the house is a big monument to…to what did you say? Mystic power? Buffaloes?”

“Yeah,
mythic
power,” said Jonas.

“The best thing for us is to forget that life and forget that house.”

“It will not work, Jeanne,” said Rajinder. “Believe me. You will never forget. You must not try to forget.”

Jeanne finished her glass of Scotch in one gulp. “Get out, all of you.”

There were no buts. Neither Rajinder nor Jonas tried to convince her. On their way out the door, Jeanne hugged Madison again and gave her the phone number so they could get together another time, with Katie.

As Rajinder backed the car out of the driveway, Jeanne Perlitz stood in the doorway. Madison turned in the passenger seat and watched her as they drove away.

 

68

the screening room

R
aymond Terletsky had read through the proposals from the architects and consultants several times, searching for a perfect distillation of the city's mythic power. He wasn't disappointed or deterred, but none of the proposals quite did the job. Raymond didn't know exactly what he wanted, but he would not compromise or proceed with a mediocre museum. The future of 10 Garneau was there, somewhere, flickering on the edge of the professor's vision.

As the prairie sky blackened outside the thirty-eighth-floor windows, Raymond likened the sensation to that name you can almost remember. That taste you can almost recognize. The smell in the wind that takes you back to…where?

Raymond understood and heard and even tasted the future of 10 Garneau, but he couldn't yet see it. The architects' and consultants' proposals swirled through his mind as he walked on the treadmill behind his desk. A tower of goodness. The pyramid of northern urbanity. An underground system of caves with a portal on the Garneau Block, leading to five hundred small rooms–the room of immigration, the room of skate-boarding, the room of dead-language scholarship.

And the “haunted” house, stacked with scurvy and speakeasies, the recent horrors of sprawl, unregulated exhaust pipes, chamber opera, homoerotic paintings of shirtless Germans,
grizzly bears and dinosaurs and local flowers, the Triads, black gold, rhubarb jam, Wop May and Lois Hole and Joe Shoctor, native rebellions and agricultural mishaps.

Raymond was not worried about Jeanne's refusal to sell. Soon Jeanne Perlitz and all other skeptics would kneel before the majesty of 10 Garneau.

The performance poet stood in Raymond's doorway. She had shaved her head bald, and carried a transparent garbage bag full of white feathers. “You're not going to a Halloween party tonight?”

Raymond stepped off the treadmill. “I'm not big on parties at the moment.”

“Neither is the boss.”

“Is he still here?”

“In the screening room. He's been watching sad French movies and eating ice-cream sandwiches all day. When I checked on him this afternoon, he'd already been through
Les Enfants du paradis
twice and he was putting
Un Coeur en hiver
into the projector. I think I saw that Juliette Binoche film,
Bleu
, on the floor.”

“Yipes.” Raymond turned off the treadmill. “I know what it's like to have one's heart ripped out of one's chest, chewed and stomped and soiled with refuse and, ultimately, forgotten in a ditch.”

“Right. Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Maybe so.”

The performance poet lifted her bag of white feathers and started down the hall toward the elevators. “Happy Halloween.”

Raymond wiped the thin layer of perspiration from his forehead and walked to the screening room. In the hallway, he
could hear the echoes of symphonic music from
Bleu
. Inside, Rajinder Chana sat in the middle chair. The performance poet had been right about the ice-cream sandwiches. Wrappers littered the adjacent seats.

Instead of standing in front of Rajinder, Raymond sneaked up behind him. On the screen, Juliette Binoche was alone in a Paris apartment. Her husband and child were dead. Raymond wanted to comfort his friend but it had to be perfect. He considered various options and then, satisfied he had discovered the right one, proceeded to mess up Rajinder's hair and say, “You old scamp, eh? Scamp!”

The professional arts philanthropist did not respond.

So Raymond spoke.

“I'm a loser. Really, the definition of a loser in the industrialized world. But I've managed to crawl a few feet out of loser-dom to do something noble. Thanks to you, Rajinder. Of all people, I'm shocked that you–you–would allow the word ‘No' to deter you from saving the Garneau Block. That you would allow a secret pregnancy to ruin your relationship with Madison Weiss.”

Raymond raised his voice. He felt a conclusive sentence coming on. “I want you to turn off the movie and come outside with me, so we can scheme our dazzling futures with the women we love. Let's go!
Allons-y
!”

There was a small cooler next to Rajinder. He reached over, opened the lid, and pulled out a fresh ice-cream sandwich. With both hands, Rajinder unwrapped the ice-cream sandwich and began eating it without a word, a nod, or any other acknowledgement of Raymond's presence.

Raymond retraced his steps to the door of the screening room. He turned and waited for a moment of cinematic silence. It seemed important that he say something memorable. So he said, “Remember, Rajinder. Halloween is a time for…feeling better than…you feel now.”

On Jasper Avenue, in the chill air, goblins and zombies and Dick Cheneys stood in front of the New City nightclub smoking cigarettes. Raymond didn't want to go back to his tiny bedroom at the Weisses' so he walked south to the crest of the river valley.

A light snow began to fall. In an instant, the snow transformed from light to heavy and the wind whipped around him. He could no longer see across the valley, and the glow of the street lights turned pale and dim.

Raymond laughed, and climbed on a sidewalk bench. Soon, a full-scale Halloween blizzard had blown in over the valley. For a million people, Raymond knew, this would be unwelcome. “Cowards!” he said. “Self-deniers. This is the north!” He danced on the bench and clapped his hands and screamed wildly into the wind. The wet snow blew into his mouth.

In an old suit and a tweed overcoat, without a hat or gloves, Raymond recognized he would not last long in the blizzard. He walked to the steep edge of the valley for a last look at the city before the sky fell upon it. Raymond lifted his hands and conducted the wind and the snow, sang aloud in German, bounced and addressed the sky. Then, as the tops of his ears began to sting, Raymond slipped on a new patch of wet snow. He reached out for something to brace himself but there was nothing. Raymond slid, fell back, and tumbled down the hill.