Pleased to Meet You / The Sky is Falling Page 5

  Every single moment he was conscious of the empty seat.

  The next night was Sunday so he retrieved his messages from home. One was from the doctor, left on Friday afternoon. “Your test results are back. Everything looks good. Maybe you’d like to come in so we can talk again about the panic attacks.”

  David erased the message. He wasn’t having breathing difficulties anymore. It had been some kind of virus, he presumed. He was bothered more now by recurring bouts of diarrhea.

  He phoned Susan back. “Where were you?” she asked.

  “At a concert,” he lied.

  “A concert! That’s wonderful!”

  He heard a bird in the background and tried to picture his sister in her backyard halfway around the world. He hoped she didn’t detect any difference in the ambience from which he spoke. “Actually, I’m out and about a lot now. I’m volunteering for the Hospice Society.”

  “Oh. And what does that entail?”

  “At the moment, playing poker. I visited an old Finn a few times before he died. Now I’ve got Chucky.”

  Susan sighed. “That’s nice, David, but you know what I thought? I thought you’d gone out on a date.”

  Later he lay awake listening to the traffic on the wet highway, the muted laughter of his immediate neighbour’s TV. Every twenty minutes the ice machine in the hall exhaled and released a clatter of fresh cubes. The parking lot was filled with pickup trucks, the motel with men. They were construction workers and loggers, men more like Mr. Virtanen and Chucky than David. David was the only one wearing a jacket in the morning when he ordered his takeout coffee and bran muffin in the restaurant. The others wore T-shirts, or plaid shirts, and caps. They tucked into steak and eggs, knives in their fists. Men’s men. He admired how at ease they were in each other’s company. If they needed any other kind, they picked up the phone and ordered her. David had heard this too, through the motel wall.

  He got up to go to the bathroom again. Every time it embarrassed him to think of his sounds broadcast to his neighbour through the plumbing. Soon he could go back home. Tomorrow he’d pick up some Imodium.

  Back in bed, shivering now, he pulled the stiff spread over himself. His teeth moved like castanets. The man in the next room had bought himself a movie. Groans and huffing. David lay there sweating, trying to ignore the affront of the soundtrack.

  Baby, do it to me! Your cock is so-o big!

  Christ, he thought.

  Harder! Harder!

  Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack went the ice.

  In the middle of his tossing, his irritation, he realized what the matter was. Not asthma. Not panic attacks. Not HIV. He liked and respected women. Women’s ways, their company. He could barely live without it.

  Marilyn had been right.

  Day by day he was dying of the lack.

  “Now she’s a nice-looking girl,” Marilyn had said after the nurse had come and gone. “She speaks French, bakes bread. She grew up on Hornby Island. Her mother was a Québécoise hippie. She said she was twelve before she actually had a real pair of shoes on her feet. Her mother made sandals.”

  “Did she soften the leather with her teeth?”

  “I think she’s lovely. She’s single, can you believe it?”

  David asked, “What would you have done if I’d had an affair?”

  “I would have chopped you into bits.”

  “Then why are you doing this?”

  “There are a couple of things I want to make sure get done. Don’t let loyalty get in the way of your happiness, David.”

  “I find this all very painful. You’re obviously getting better.”

  “The rhodos? They need deadheading.”

  It wasn’t only David. She had a penchant for matchmaking. When a newcomer appeared on the scene it wasn’t long before Marilyn had ascertained his status and issued a strategic invitation, though her only successful match was Joanie Highcroft and Martin Abel. Marilyn had invited Joanie to one of their monthly folksinging Thursdays so that she could meet the new engineer in David’s office. The new engineer contributed a bottle of Scotch to the potluck and proceeded to drink most of it himself. “‘Stairway to Heaven’ is not actually a folk song,” Marilyn tried to tell him. Joanie left early with a headache. She staggered down the driveway cupping the sides of her head. Martin, their non-singing next door neighbour, was putting out his garbage and he offered her Tylenol. “Imagine what I go through every month,” he said, inviting her inside. They sort of knew each other anyway—it wasn’t that big a town.

  Marilyn, later: “Timing. Timing is everything. You see, Martin’s divorced now.”

  Late in May, David went back home. Some of the rhodos were still flashing their joie de vivre, but most had grown weary of the party. Next year, he thought. Next year I’ll be able to look at them.

  In the pile of junk mail inside the door was a reply from the Finnish embassy in Ottawa. He read it and, even before he had unpacked, duly phoned the hospital.

  “What a coincidence,” said the clerk, the one with the clipped dry manner he’d talked to before. “I was just going to call you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We have limited room here, Mr. Elton. Perhaps I didn’t explain that.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The freezer’s full.”

  “Well, I heard back,” said David. “He’s got a daughter.”

  “What did she say?”

  “They’ve located her. I’ve got her name and address.”

  “But Mr. Elton,” said the exasperated clerk, “I understood you were going to write her.”

  Dear Ms. Kuusela, you don’t know me, but . . . This letter may come as a shock to you, Ms.Kuusela. Ms.Kuusela, I’m writing you on behalf of the ... It took him several days to get the wording right.

  The reply came four weeks later. A single transparent page of Bic’d Finnish he couldn’t read. The very words were epic, some of the letters, the Us and Ms and Ns, as indistinguishable as one wave from another.

  Amazingly he found both a Finnish-English Dictionary and Teach Yourself Finnish at the library. He stood between the shelves flipping pages.

  Hauska Tutustua. Pleased to meet you.

  “David?”

  When he turned, a woman seized him. “David! It’s so good to see you!”

  Evidently he was acquainted with his embracer. Who was she? Peggy! Peggy Norman, from folksinging. He stiffened with shock. The last time he’d seen Peggy she and Marilyn were on the couch, leaning into each other, heads touching, harmonies spilling out. They were the only decent singers in the group. All last year Peggy and Bob had been away sailing around the world. They’d sent Marilyn a river of blue silk.

  Peggy released him. “I’m sorry, David. I’m so sorry.”

  He glanced down at the glossary so he wouldn’t have to meet her eye. Errikoissaastohinta. Special economy fare.

  “We miss you at folksinging.”

  “Marilyn especially, I’m sure.”

  “Bob left you a message a few weeks ago. Did you get it?”

  Peggy had come back. She’d gone away and she’d returned. Here she was, squeezing his arm. Oh God, David thought. Marilyn wasn’t. She really wasn’t.

  “Won’t you join us again? Even just once? I know it won’t be the same.”

  He put his free hand in his pocket, felt the thin envelope. “I’m volunteering for the Hospice Society now.”

  Tulevaisuudensuunnitelma. Future plan.

  “That must keep you busy. It’s a good cause.”

  “Yes it is.” David touched the smooth skin of the letter. “They have nobody.”

  Dear Mr. Elton,

  First excuse me for writing in Finnish. I speak a little English but my writing leaves something to desire. I was very surprised receiving your letter. Naturally I knew I had a father but my mother was a bitter woman and she refused to speak about him. When I saw the envelope I was thinking, who do I know in Canada?

  How good of you
for taking the trouble to contact me! I hope you will not mind doing me one more favour. I will be coming on 3 August in order to arrange my father’s affairs. I am flying to Victoria and will be taking a bus to Campbell River from there.

  Mr.Elton, I would really like to meet you, if you would be so kind.

  Gratefully,

  Armi Kuusela

  Ring Ring

  Hello? Hello Peeps. Mama it’s Peeps, Harrison tells her. Are you coming for Christmas, Peeps? Mama he’s coming for Christmas!

  Christ—days and days of cold rain, cold wind, cold—mas. A delicious frisson moves through her. She’s poaching on the sheet in bra and panties, spread-eagle so no part of her touches herself.

  Okay, bye Peeps.

  Harrison replaces the cordless in its cradle, climbs onto the bed, on top of her, and lies with his heavy rank head on her chest. Almost unbearable, the hot press of his body. The live toad of his heart pulses between them. This close would kill a toad, yet it’s she who’s dying—of heat and waiting, of boredom, of playing telephone in a hot room.

  Ring ring. He lifts his head to look at the phone. Clambers off. Hello? Hello Sam. Mama it’s Sam! When are you coming over? Now? Mama Sam’s coming over!

  If I took a shower. If the phone really rang while I was taking a shower.

  He wants to talk to you Mama. It’s Sam.

  He waggles the receiver in her face. Heat has her pinned to the bed. She can barely lift her arm. Hello Sam. I’m expecting a call. Could you phone back? She hands him the phone. Here Harrison, he says he’ll call you later.

  Her bathrobe has slipped from the plastic Ikea chair onto the floor in a faint. She sits on the edge of the bed staring at it. The mere thought of fabric touching her skin. It’ll be hotter on the balcony with the sun lasering down on the back of the building, on the glutted Dumpster in the alley, its contents turning to juice.

  Two drags, she thinks. Two drags or I’ll go crazy.

  Harrison has replaced the receiver again. He takes two dirty fingers, inserts one in each nostril. Grubs.

  Dumpster stench, fried chicken stench. She flicks the lighter, dully expecting the unmoving air to ignite. A moustache of perspiration sprouts as she sucks the hot smoke in. Below, Roto-Rooter slowly trolls the alley, crunching over diamonds. The balconies of the facing buildings expose themselves: bicycles, junked furniture, mops, buckets, toys, coolers, bleach bottles, mattresses, dead plants in plastic pots. Some are fringed with laundry. Rap music punches out.

  Harrison steps onto the balcony in his underpants, bare feet on concrete. Ow! He hops back inside.

  The phone rings. She fires the cigarette over the railing. Harrison, inside, has a head start. Don’t you answer it! she shouts.

  Ring. His hand hovers above it, feeling the sound.

  It’s my birthday Harrison. Do you have a present for me?

  Forgetting the phone, he dashes to the apple box in the living room where the toys live when they aren’t all over the apartment. Ring. She takes the key off the nail, steps out into the hall. The door shuts behind her. She looks up and down, clutching the robe. The neighbours are mostly muffled voices anyway, and cooking odours. Ring.

  Hello. She inflects it with boredom.

  Bella Pizza.

  Huh?

  You a calling Bella Pizza.

  Ha ha. You called me.

  What for you laughing? Pepperoni? Anchovy?

  I’ll hang up.

  You hang up. Plenty a people want a my pizza.

  Okay. Pepperoni. When should I pick it up?

  I deliver.

  Harrison calls from inside the apartment, Mama, Mama!

  I’ll pick it up. When’ll it be ready?

  Mama! He pounds on the locked door.

  She’s always ready.

  She opens the door on Harrison holding out a tangled wad of toilet paper in two hands. Happy Birthday Mama.

  Is this a present? She kneels on the carpet, probes the loose layers. Inside is a wooden block. Just what I always wanted. Do you feel like visiting Mrs. G?

  Ring ring! He dashes off. Ring ring!

  It’s here.

  He runs back and grabs the phone from her. Hello? Hello Mrs. G. Mama it’s Mrs. G! She wants me to come over!

  She has to call Mrs. G now. Every time she worries that Mrs. G will say no.

  On the phone, Mrs. G thanks her profusely, as though she is the recipient of the favour.

  When she gets out of the shower, Harrison is on his stomach, half swallowed by the futon couch, legs, thin and calicoed with bruises, sticking out.

  What are you doing?

  He squirms his way out, sits up cross-eyeing a finger. Too late, she sees the snag of light. He pops it in his mouth.

  I told you not to eat that stuff!

  Trees, stars, bells—glitter shapes unstuck from Christmas crafts buried in the carpet, resurfacing even now. Last time she vacuumed she put her hand to the nozzle and felt hot air blowing out.

  Outside is so much cooler. She feels guilty for keeping Harrison inside all morning, all day yesterday and most of the day before. She combs her wet hair as they walk the two blocks to the little stucco house with the chain-link fence. There’s a sign on the gate: Pick Up Dog Refuse. She and Harrison pass it on the way to the park and every time she puzzles over Refuse. If Mr. G is in the yard impaling garbage with a straightened hanger, or using a shovel to scoop shit off the verge, they go by without speaking. Mrs. G hollers to him in their language: Vincent-eee! If Mrs. G is outside she insists on running in for a treat for Harrison. Once she invited both of them in for something special she baked herself. Harrison shook his head. It’s dirty. It was poppyseed cake. Mrs. G laughed and laughed. Another day she said she’d be happy to have Harrison come over for a visit if his mother needed a break.

  She’s waiting for them at the gate. On a normal day Mrs. G wears loose cotton dresses and weird elastic knee socks that squeeze the flesh of her legs over the top. When she’s expecting Harrison she puts on a good dress with a belt, high heels and makeup, as though she has a date.

  Harrison! She waves.

  Without a backward glance, the child marches up the walk. Wave to Mama, says Mrs. G, pleased that he forgets her so easily. She waves too, then turns her back on the spectacle of the girl. Hair wet, black T-shirt with dirty bra straps showing. Spelled out in rhinestones: It’s Hard Being a Princess. On her skinny bottom she wears a miniskirt of camouflage material. God help them should there be another war.

  Wincenty, having watched the unsentimental parting from a slit in the drapes, opens the door wearing the face he puts on when he discovers a pit in his cherry soup. A ring in her nose! What is she? A pig?

  Harrison knows to take his shoes off. He struggles.

  Baba will help.

  No! The naked foot pops out of the too-small runner, almost throwing him off balance. He looks at her in surprise, then laughs the giddy head-thrown-back laugh of a drunk.

  He goes directly to her bedroom, to her closet, where he drops to his knees before the altar of the shoe rack. As though on stilts, he rises unsteadily onto the gold pumps, taking her hand for balance.

  Clop, clop, clop to the bathroom. She wipes the dirt off his face and hands with a damp cloth. Clop, clop, clop back. He perches on the padded stool before the mirror and selects a jar. She tells him what it’s for. Wrinkles. He opens the lid, inserts a finger, draws it down one cheek, then the other. Satisfied, he picks out a perfume. Oh, this is my favourite too. Her hand over his, she helps him spray his wrists. He notices her nail polish.

  First I trim your nails. Do a proper manicure.

  She fetches a sheet of stationery from the desk in the hall, cuts his nails so the tiny dun crescents land on the paper. Carefully, she folds it into a square and tucks it away in the drawer.

  He wants pink polish.

  Clear is the best for little boys. See? So shiny.

  Hands spread open on the table, he blows with her.

  Are you h
ungry?

  I want a necklace.

  Of course. She sets the box before him, letting him unlatch and open it. He likes the amber beads best and looks at her to tell him again what’s trapped inside. This is pollen. You know, dust from flowers. Here’s your little friend, Mr. Spider. Do you like cherries? I have cherries.

  How does Mr. Spider get out?

  He’s in the bead forever, but he’s happy.

  Why?

  Because you’re looking at him.

  Ring ring.

  Oh my goodness, says Mrs. G. There’s the phone.

  The lopsided rotation of the KFC bucket is something she’s taken for granted all her life, like the movement of the earth around the sun, but now it’s still. From where she stands at the bus stop, she can see the girl behind the counter, not statue stiff, wound down like the bucket, but paging through a magazine.

  The bus pulls up with a derisive hiss. She boards clutching her Baggie of change. The driver doesn’t look at her for the three stops it takes her to feed pennies into the fare box. Then someone else gets on and he waves her back. I need a transfer, she says. You have to pay the correct fare to get a transfer. He presses a lever and all her coins clatter down. Asshole, she mouths.

  Here, says a Native man, handing her his transfer as she passes.

  Oh cool. Thanks.

  She moves to the very back because she doesn’t want to sit with him. East Broadway sliding by, she squeezes handfuls of her hair so it won’t dry flat. Her thighs stick to the seat and every time the bus stops, her skin feels like it’s ripping off.

  A woman gets on with a lot of shopping. A song plays in her purse. She takes out a phone. Hello? I’m on the bus.

  A girl with ponytails and a Ouija board gets on. She says to the Native man, I don’t think it works in a moving vehicle.

  She’d so love a cellphone. This is what she’s thinking when her dream comes back.

  At Alma she gets off and waits for the Number 10.

  He opens the door and starts right up the stairs, leaving her standing there.