The Garneau Block (8 page)

 

21

louis chopin of armstrong crescent

T
oward the end of the Monday Introductory Philosophy class, Raymond Terletsky questioned his motives. Earlier that morning, he had received an e-mail from Claudia Santino; the department had decided not to cancel his Death in Philosophy seminar. In a gushing fit of animation and fellow-feeling, he sent a message to his five seminar students. If any of them was interested, he wanted to take a class field trip to the World Waterpark at West Edmonton Mall tomorrow. They would meet in the lobby at ten in the morning.

An hour after sending the message, as his survey students debated whether or not a modified version of Plato's Republic would be better than Canada's constitutional monarchy, he stared at the back wall of the classroom and wondered: Did he truly see any philosophical value in sliding down the Sky Screamer? Or had his guilt over the unpleasant episode with Charlene the massage therapist already faded, leaving only an
impish desire to see his female seminar students in bikinis?

“But the guys we elect are crap,” one of the survey students said, while chewing gum. “At least a philosopher king would be smart.”

A nearby woman with purple hair snuffed at the words guys and kings. “Yeah, but what if
she
went mental? What if
she
woke up mental one morning and decided to bomb China? Then we'd all end up dead. Thanks, philosopher
queen
.”

Raymond glanced at his watch as the debate continued. He worried, briefly, for the collective intellectual power of this generation. Then he questioned his motives again. Nay, his sanity. It wasn't healthy to drive past hookers on his way to buy pickles. It wasn't healthy to fantasize about Claudia Santino and to make subtle suggestions to his massage therapist, not when he had a beautiful and utterly supportive wife. As the class ended and the students filed out into the bright hallways, Raymond considered Purple Hair's warning. What
about
waking up mental one day?

Back in his office, he flipped through the yellow pages until he found a list of psychologists. Most of them were downtown, a short
LRT
ride away, so he chose one at random: K. L. Fisketjon and Associates. The woman who answered the phone was jolly. “You know, we had a cancellation this afternoon at one. Are you free?”

Raymond was free.

“Your name and address?”

In the next few seconds, a variety of events took place inside Raymond's skull. He didn't understand the process, which is why the fields of philosophy and psychology exist. But he was startled by his answer. “Louis Chopin.”

“Okay, Mr. Chopin. Your address?”

“Thirteen…Armstrong Crescent.”

“Wow,” said the scheduling secretary. “Your name and address, together, are a jazz singer. And Chopin, too. You sure sound famous.”

“Everyone seems to notice that.”

Raymond took lunch, a donair, in Hub Mall. As the sweet yogurt sauce dripped out of the aluminum foil and down his wrist, he watched the women pass. So many of them on their cellular phones, having inane conversations. Presumably with thug boyfriends. If they only knew how well a certain fifty-four-year-old philosophy professor could treat them, how carefully.

In Hub, he made an effort to look down at the newspaper instead of at young women. As usual, he read every word in the obituary pages. From a philosophy of death point of view, the contemporary funeral ritual was fascinating. The last paper Raymond had published, in a journal out of Malta, had been about the hierarchy of funerals.

Family and friends gather so they can be introspective together in the glow of the body, so they can use the body as a means of communication and a social trophy. It is a special day for the family and friends of the corpse, whose names are in the obituary section of the newspaper. They are principal mourners, surrounded by peripheral acquaintances. Pretenders. Even in their exalted position, principals will stand over the dead body and wonder about their dry cleaning, remember a gag from the rerun of
Seinfeld
that had been on television as they changed into their black suits that morning.

Eloquent and typically self-concerned members of the principal group will offer to say a few words in tribute to the corpse, tell some lighthearted anecdote about that time the corpse spilled coffee on the dog. Members of the audience will laugh before the corpse and afterward, over a table of date squares and caffeinated refreshments, they will compliment the speaker for delivering an entertaining eulogy.

Raymond had bought several hundred copies of the Maltese journal to send to colleagues across North America and Europe. Only two sent notes of congratulation, and they were largely personal. About his two children, how they must be grown up by now.

At a quarter to one, Raymond started down into the
LRT
station. The chance of receiving a fine was more remote than being slapped across the face by the schizophrenic woman playing the ukelele, but Raymond bought a ticket. At five to one, in front of the Western Canadian Bank tower, Raymond decided he didn't need a psychologist after all. He feared it would be an uncomfortable and expensive experience. The jovial secretary would attempt to locate Louis Chopin of Armstrong Crescent, and she would fail.

Raymond continued to the City Centre Mall, where he browsed the clothing and accessories at Urban. This is where the wealthiest and most fashionable of his students shopped. Complicated music played out of the public address system. A man with a black Mohawk, wearing ripped jeans and a blazer that looked as though it had been vandalized by spray paint artists, asked if he was shopping for himself or his son.

“My son,” said Raymond. “Of course.”

 

22

spaceship sounds

O
ne of these days, before she actually gave birth, Madison would have to tell David and Abby about their impending grandparenthood. The thought struck her as she waited in the rain at a long, long red light on her way to the clinic. Keeping the pregnancy from her parents made her feel like a mischievous teenager, a shoplifter. A lonesome shoplifter.

Madison had borrowed her father's Yukon Denali for the afternoon. Perched above the rest of traffic in the puffball of imaginary convenience, she usually ducked whenever she saw someone she knew. But as Madison pictured her child in the backseat, protected by all this weight and leather, she saw how the automobile companies created demand. Bring on a meteor strike or a jihad or a dinosaur attack or World War
III
, she thought. Junior and I can bivvy in.

The cellular phone on its cradle began to ring. Its tone, to her dismay, was “Born to Be Wild.” Assuming it was one of her father's friends hoping to meet up and be exceedingly right-wing sometime soon, Madison ignored it. Then the phone rang again. And again.

She pulled into a gas station. “Hello, David Weiss's phone.”

“Why weren't you picking up?” Her father cleared his throat. “I've been calling.”

“You need me to grab something for you, Dad?”

“Nah. How's the old girl running?”

“The Yukon? Fine, I guess.” Madison turned off the engine. “Do you need groceries?”

“Not really.”

“So why did you call? I left the house five minutes ago.”

“Can't a father call his daughter just to talk once in a while?”

“We ate breakfast together. And I don't like talking on the phone and driving. It's dangerous and I look like a goof.”

David Weiss sighed. “The old girl runs like a dream though, doesn't she?”

“Not my dream. And stop calling it an old girl. It's a 2003.”

“Oh, don't get all David Suzuki on me. Buy your own hybrid, you want one so damn much. They aren't cheap, you know. And what if it blows up, with that big weird battery? It's not like we're gonna
run out of oil
around here, right? Right? You haven't heard that, have you?”

“I'm gonna go, okay Dad?”

“Don't worry about filling her up. I'll take care of that.”

“Thanks.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

“Love you. Bye. Love you, sweetie. Say bye to Maddy, Garith. Woof woof. I ruh you. I ruh you ro ruch.”

In the waiting room at the clinic, Madison chose from among five 2002
Maclean's
magazines and looked at the words in an article about Leonard Cohen's son without actually reading.

She doubted the machine would hear the baby's heart over the insistent hammering of her own. Reaching twelve weeks in her pregnancy meant it was actually going to happen. Soon, too
soon, Madison would be a mother. A mother. The thought sent a jolt through her so potent that she pressed a thumb through Adam Cohen's neck.

When the nurse called her name, Madison surveyed the room. Maybe someone else wanted to go first? Large woman with a beard in the Old Navy shirt? Terrified teenager with her parents? Anyone?

In the examination room, Madison looked at the illustrated chart. According to the full-colour drawing, at this stage in her pregnancy the baby resembled a naked mole rat. There was a knock and without waiting for a response Dr. Stevens opened the door.

On Canada Day, Madison had run into Dr. Stevens at a bar downtown. There, out of her white doctor coat, Dr. Stevens was known as Cecile. They hugged and reminisced about that party Madison had hosted in grade eleven while her parents were in Italy. Burned carpet downstairs, that couple no one recognized having sex in the bathroom–with the door open. Where you living now? Yep, same basement.

At the clinic, there was no Cecile. Dr. Stevens said hello, asked if Madison was still throwing up regularly, and told her to lie down. Madison pulled her shirt up and pushed her skirt down while Dr. Stevens put clear goo on the Doppler.

“Any questions for me?”

Abby had suffered uterine rupture when Madison was born. Both of them had almost died in labour. At her last visit, Dr. Stevens had assured Madison that it wasn't a concern. “If I was at risk for uterine rupture, how would I know?”

“Shhh, just a second.” Dr. Stevens was hunting around with her machine. “Hear that? That's gas.” Then, a whooshing spaceship sound came out of the speakers. “There it is. Can you hear that?”

“What is it?”

“The heartbeat.”

Without giving it much thought, Madison started crying. The whooshing spaceship sound faded.

Dr. Stevens smiled and pulled the machine off Madison's stomach.

“Wait.” Madison sobbed. “Can I hear some more?”

“Once you start crying, it's really hard to hear. But next month it'll be easier.”

“With uterine rupture…”

“Please don't worry about that.” Dr. Stevens wiped the goo off Madison's stomach, sat in an old metal chair and crossed her legs. “It's a freak thing. And we're far better equipped to handle emergencies like that now. Worrying about it is way more dangerous than the risk of having a rupture.”

Madison wiped her eyes. “So how's your husband?”

“Oh, he's great.” Dr. Stevens shook her head and laughed as she started into an amusing story about her man and his friends going on a fishing trip in August. None of them had ever fished, of course, being a bunch of spoiled rich kids. The rain, a bear, no toilets.

Madison had wanted to be a spoiled rich kid so badly, and she hoped her own child would be spoiled and rich someday. As Dr. Stevens spoke, Madison decided to concentrate on the
dryness of the woman's light brown hair. It was so dry, and her ankles were so puffy. Gloriously, there was a pimple on Dr. Stevens's forehead and another one on her chin.

In the clinic parking lot, the rain was fierce and cool. Madison walked slowly and deliberately as the big drops splashed down on her face. As she stepped into her father's Yukon, completely soaked, “Born to Be Wild” began to play. “David Weiss's phone.”

“Your dad gave me the number. He also let me talk to Garith. You know what Garith said?”

“It's two in the afternoon on a Monday, Jonas. What are you doing up?”

“Planning a reconnaissance mission. You in or what?”

“I'm feeling sorry for myself, and the last time you planned an adventure you got drunk and pushed me down and the cops came. Leave me alone.”

“Borrow the tank or your mom's Civic and take it to the soaps tonight. Recon!”

And with that, Jonas hung up.

 

23

leduc, leduc

L
acumseh and his braves planned an attack on Fort Edmonton in the opening segment of the soap. The natives
wanted to move from bloody colonialism to merely depressing post-colonialism, and felt they couldn't wait 180 years for the poorly dressed palefaces in arts faculties to help them along. Only half the audience in the Varscona Theatre thought this was funny. Behind Madison, Raymond Terletsky clapped and said, “Yes, yes, too much. Way too much!”

When Madison turned around, Shirley Wong just shrugged.

In the end, the attack was thwarted by sex. The country wife of the Chief Factor had fallen in love with Lacumseh. She convinced him it would be a boneheaded idea to attack the fort because a bigger army would come down the river and kill everyone. Most importantly, if Lacumseh started a war, the country wife vowed not to come to his teepee anymore.

Somehow, everything ended with a Viennese waltz competition.

After the show, as planned, Madison spied on Carlos. She followed him across Calgary Trail to the Next Act, where he sat in a corner booth by himself. Still in his Lacumseh costume, Jonas met Madison on the sidewalk. Inside, Carlos checked his watch a few times. He ordered one beer and drank it quickly. Then, without warning, he left the bar.

Jonas and Madison ducked behind a Dumpster. Madison ran down the avenue and fetched the Yukon. She pulled up in front of Jonas, who gestured wildly. He jumped into the
SUV
. “He's in a black Mustang, headed south. Floor it!”

It was late on a Monday night, and Calgary Trail was deserted. They caught up to Carlos at a set of street lights near a Superstore.

“Stay a few car lengths behind him, so he doesn't get wise.”

“All right, Starsky.”

The Mustang passed the big-box circus of South Edmonton Common, anchored by the gigantic blue-and-yellow
IKEA
, and sped up. “Faster.” Jonas bounced in his seat. “We're gonna lose him.”

Madison sped up, even though she was already twenty kilometres over the speed limit. “What are you going to do when you find out where he lives?”

“Stalk him right back. I mean, he's going to all this trouble. Maybe he's psychotic but maybe he's the exquisite man I've been looking for to settle down with, raise a brood.”

“Raise a brood?”

“Go to church on Sundays, join a community league. Get a garden going, put a block parent sign up in my window. Get into a book club and start watching
Dr. Phil
.”

Madison tried to imagine Jonas doing all these things, and to her surprise it worked. “Why don't
we
get married and you can help me raise my brood. It'll be a marriage of convenience, with the odd neck massage, like in Hollywood.”

Jonas swallowed and looked down at his hands for a moment. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Madison realized she had said them in a tone that was entirely too sincere. She wanted to drive the Yukon off the highway and into a bluff of spruce trees. They passed the Nisku industrial park and the airport in silence.

“By which I mean to say I hate you,” she said, finally.

This was atmosphere tonic. Jonas smiled. “No, it is I who hate you, you awful bitch, and I intend to hate your child with equal…” The Mustang began to slow down for the turnoff
into Leduc. Jonas reached over and grabbed Madison by the arm. “Leduc! Leduc!”

The Mustang drove past the McDonald's and the Safeway and the car dealership, through the main intersection in Leduc. Madison followed Carlos until he reached an intersection on the south end of the park surrounding the Civic Centre. The Mustang turned right.

Near the Leduc Golf and Country Club, the Mustang turned into a crescent of large houses facing a reservoir. There were Buicks about.

“We've driven into the seventies,” said Jonas.

“Your stalker is rich.” Madison turned off the lights.

Carlos pulled into a driveway and the garage door opened, revealing a space filled with snowmobiles, red all-terrain vehicles, and an extensive collection of tools. Parked next to the Mustang was a large truck with four tires in the back: duallies. Carlos took a sports bag from the trunk of the Mustang and dropped it on the garage floor as the automatic door closed behind him.

“All that's missing is a poster of Heather Locklear in a pink bikini.” Jonas sat back in his seat and shook his head.

“Maybe he's house-sitting.”

“Our boy's practically a Texan.”

They sat in the Yukon for several minutes, watching the lights go on and off. Eventually, Jonas opened the door and stepped out. He sneaked up to the house and peered into the front window. A flock of something, perhaps bats, whispered through the trees and over the Yukon. Madison searched the radio until she found the French classical station on
FM
. This
was the sort of music they sold at mothers' fairs, brain music for babies, so Madison turned it up.

As Jonas slouched to the Yukon, along the sidewalk, “Born to Be Wild” began to play on the cellular phone, interrupting the purity of Isaac Stern doing Schubert. Madison picked it up and imagined, once again, Jonas as a father. Then, fatherlessness in general.

Instead of saying hello she smacked herself in the head with the phone, turned it off, and tossed the warm bundle of silver on to Garith's backseat bed.