The guitar's once bright veneer had grown dull and somewhat tacky. There were shallow gouges across the front of the body, where Nathan's hands had strummed. The wood beneath was grey and dry, and fine splinters stood up out of the gouges. A layer of dust further dimmed the finish. A finer instrument, Leah knew, would be complex in its composition. This one was pasteboard and glue and ink and plastic, instead of inlays of exotic wood and mother of pearl. When she plucked its strings, it honked discordantly. Still, for all it had been discarded, it had once had life, had been the best and most unexpected present beneath a Christmas tree. It had once been played and loved. Had brought pleasure. For longer than was realistic, it had transcended its roots. It had become a finer instrument. In her imagination, if not in her study, it still was.
Leah shook her head, as if to dislodge the sadness that dwelt there.
Downstairs
, she told herself.
A drink
. She needed something straightforward. In the kitchen, she took the bottle of scotch off the hoosier cabinet, twisted the cap off, brought out a short glass. The ice cube
trays were frozen together, she pried the top one off with some difficulty, bent the sides back and forth till a few cubes popped up. She dropped a small handful into the glass and poured herself a sloppy two or three fingers of scotch, watched it tumble over the ice to the bottom of the glass, thought about the burn it left in her throat and down to her belly. Her mouth watered. She looked outside, through the kitchen window. The very thought of all that space unbound made her feel queasy. Even her own backyard, fenced and encircled by trees and lilac bushes though it was, felt too exposed. Especially in winter, no green canopy of leaves and lush branches to act as walls and ceiling. Just the austere, sere, severe black fingers of the maple tree, the gnarled claws of the de-leaved lilac bush, the humps of dirt-streaked snow, the barbecue she always forgot to park in the aluminum shed, the shed itself, brown and ugly, a monolith outside the kitchen window that made a frightful noise whenever the wind blew through the yard. She just couldn't. Even the thought of it was enough to bring back the beginnings of that prickling fear. She could feel the tingle at the back of her head, and all along her arms. Besides, it would be cold out there, the adirondack chairs covered with ice and a thin layer of snow, the ground frosty enough to freeze her feet if she stood in one place too long. Better to stay inside, she thought. She went to the back door and leaned her forehead against the glass, looked out on the darkened yard.
Over the fence, lights were on in the neighbours' kitchens. She could see them doing their dishes, clearing up after supper. She could see their mouths going, laughing, singing, talking, fighting. She could almost hear them, she thought, but then she knew that wasn't true. They were too far away. There was too much separating where she stood and where they were. She reached over and turned off the lamp. Dark kitchen, dark window, dark yard, She breathed against the window glass, fogged it and cleared it, breathing out, breathing in, over and over again. In her hand the ice cubes clinked against the tumbler, melted into the scotch, awaited the heat of her mouth. She closed her eyes a moment, opened them again, watched a man swat a woman with a tea towel, playfully she thought, though it was hard to tell without the sound of their laughter. Maybe their faces were creased in anger. She pushed off against the window with her forehead,
took a step away, tossed the scotch to the back of her throat with a practised flick of the wrist. Put the glass in the sink, turned on her heel and left the kitchen. It was early, but she climbed the stairs, climbed into bed, fell into sleep, and was gone.
* * *
Nathan sat on the library steps, his arms wrapped around his knees, his toes pointing out. What the hell happened to all my stuff ? He wondered. He further thought, who do I know who would know? And finally, he thought, who do I know?
* * *
Johnny Parker caught the barkeep's eye, lifted his hand, nodded. It set into motion an elaborate and age-old ritual, one Johnny Parker could say with confidence was among his favourites. It was right up there with the look he could share with any number of local musicians, a look that led to a tight cluster of guys and usually a girl or two out in an alcove or nook, some sheltered place. A look that led to much lighting and smoking and passing around of pipes and joints and other accoutrements, that led to tangential, hilarious, stuttering conversations punctuated with hard caught-laughing-in-church laughter and various asides and remarks and supplemental tales, and
what-was-I-going-to-say
s and
hang-on-just-a-minute-let-me-relight-this-fucker
s. He loved it, all of it. And loved too the even older ritual, also set in motion with a look, but this one a more private glance, though it could easily happen across a crowded bar, or even in that selfsame tight cluster smoking up in an alcove or alley. This look, though, was the one that led to wet kisses on the way home and the fast shedding of clothes once there. That was a pretty good ritual, too, he thought. He looked around the bar, there were plenty of girls tonight, some Johnny Parker had already kissed, some he wished he had and some he wouldn't if his career depended on it. Well, maybe then. Fuck, he hoped it never came to that, hoped he'd never have to choose. Anyhow. Where the fuck was Henry? Guy was never on time.
The bartender brought Johnny's drink, tequila and orange juice. Johnny nodded and slid a five across the damp bar, bringing the ritual to an end. Till next time. One sip in, Johnny felt a hand on his
shoulder. “Finally,” he said, not bothering to look up. “Thought you'd fucked off on me.”
“Never,” Henry said. “Damn near got killed by a bird, is all, on the way here. Weirdest thing. Came out of nowhere, swooped right down close over my head, then it went up to the window next door and went inside. Fucking wriggled right in the upstairs window. Damn. Weirdest thing, really.”
“Neighbour keeps it as a pet maybe,” Johnny said, swallowing his drink. “That or the birds are taking over the neighbourhood.” He raised his glass in Henry's direction. “Best of luck to you if that's the fucking case. You ever see that movie? Fucking creepy. Good thing you're not permanent there. James'll have his fucking hands full, that's certain.”
“Keith's,” Henry said, nodding at the bartender. “Anybody here?” he asked Johnny Parker.
“Nah,” Parker said, “not really. Pretty much what you'd expect.”
The bartender slid Henry's beer to him. “Three seventy-five,” she said chewing her gum, mouth slightly agape.
“Yeah,” Henry said, groping for change in his pocket. He hauled out a handful of loonies and toonies, put the right amount on the bar and slid it toward the gutter. He pulled a cigarette from Johnny Parker's pack, and fished a lighter from his leather jacket. “The hell,” said Johnny Parker. “I thought you knocked off those.”
“Meh,” said Henry. “I did, but that was before I started working on these jeezly songs. Bastards are smoking me. I need an outlet. So. I can always quit again, right? Nothing but time.”
Johnny Parker nodded, and lit a cigarette of his own. They smoked for a time in companionable silence, sipping their drinks, looking at girls, nudging each other now and again, nodding at friends and acquaintances, engaging in that careful language of head tilts and half waves, eyebrow expressions and shoulder shrugs that characterised all serious barroom conversations. The night wore on.
* * *
Leah shifted in her sleep, legs whistling against sheets. She was dreaming. In the dream were birds, clouds, houses and children holding hands. Like a crayoned memory from 1976. She and Nathan clasped their sweaty palms together and traipsed up the quiet suburban crescent. The big dog from across the street barked, its jaws huge and
snapping. Nathan tightened his grip on Leah's hand. “It's okay,” he said, “I'm right here with you.” She smiled, felt safe, but as they got closer to the house where the dog lived Nathan let his hand drop out of hers. “Nathan,” she tried to say, but her throat wouldn't open. He looked back at her as he walked through the grass alley between the houses, toward the chain link gate, behind which the dog slavered and snarled. “It's okay,” he said again, as he looked over his shoulder at Leah, small on the sidewalk. But clearly it wasn't, for the big dog reared up on its hind legs, reached its massive jaws over the fence and snapped Nathan up almost whole. As Leah watched her brother disappearing into the black jaws, she screamed his name over and over but it was no use. Her voice would go no louder than a whisper, and Nathan was gone for good.
* * *
“So the next thing I know,” Johnny Parker pronounced with all the careful precision of a man used to the havoc wrought by six or seven tequilas with orange juice, “the next thing I know, Leo up and disappears, too. Not too long after that, I start to hear sounds.”
“Sounds?” Henry looked up from the shape he was tracing in the wet left behind by his fifth beer. Neck, shoulders, hips, ass.
“Sounds,” Johnny Parker confirmed, slurping archly on his drink.
“What kind of sounds?” Henry asked, though he figured he knew.
“The kind of sounds that made me get up off my ass and go check it out for myself.”
“And?” Henry prodded. Johnny Parker wanted prodding. In Henry's experience prodding Johnny Parker made for, overall, much the better story. He seemed to need it to wind him up. And Henry, poor drunk Henry, was only too glad to oblige.
“So I go downstairs,” Johnny Parker says, “I go downstairs, and there's Sleepy Pete giving it to her at one end, and goddamn Leo getting it from her at the other.” He said it with a kind of admiration, though whether it was for Leo and Sleepy Pete, for the nameless woman, or for the whole fantastical situation itself wasn't entirely clear.
“Whoa,” Henry said. “No shit.”
“I shit you not, Henry, my man,” Johnny Parker said. “Absofuckinglutely unbefuckinglievable. I mean really unbelievable.
Believe what I tell you, my son, it was completely unbelievable.”
“I believe you,” Henry said, though he wasn't sure he did. Then again, it was entirely possible. In the weeks since Tina had left, it had occurred to Henry that everybody in Halifax and well, well beyond, was having sex but him. And not just sex. Absofuckinglutely unbefuckinglievable sex. Threesomes in downstairs dressing rooms at lousy two-bit bars. Illicit teenage sex in the bushes on the Common after school. Rollicking laughing sex, the kind that came easily, again and again, through the walls of James and Emily's house and kept Henry awake at night. Hell, for all he knew, from the house on the other side, he was hearing goddamn pigeons having sex. Yep, even the birds were doing it. Right there in front of him, and throwing it in his face.
He drained his beer bottle, replaced it noisily on the bar, and belched morosely.
“Jesus fuck, man,” Johnny Parker said, as if noticing Henry for the first time. “We've got to get you back out there. You need a woman, now, no fooling around.” He swept one arm grandly out from the bar. “What do you like, my son?” he asked, in a voice loudened by booze. “You can have anyone you want.”
Henry swallowed the name on the tip of his tongue. It didn't belong there, not anymore, so he chewed it and swallowed it up. He looked around the bar at the female flesh in varying states of display. Midriffs taut and not, all bared before him. Hips in low-cut jeans, their bones jutting out like sirens lounging on the rocks near shore, luring him to his death, his sweet, well-deserved death. He licked his lips, his mouth dry. Breasts bulged from tank tops in all their jiggly mystery, such silly mounds of flesh, but oh, they called his name, he heard them. Hair cascaded down shapely backs, framed between shoulder blades. Or stuck up in adorably tousled tufts, as if fresh from being fucked. He ached. He ached to his bones, to his boner, he ached. He looked at Johnny Parker, smiled miserably.
“There's no one good here,” he said. “Let's move. Gotta take a piss first, though.” He got up from the bar and sped to the bathroom, eyes on the floor, hands jammed down in his pockets.
* * *
Harold poked his beak through the bars of his cage and combed through Sandy's feathers, as if looking for something lost. Sandy rolled her eyes at first, but finally, she settled down and made small comfortable sounds as Harold performed his inventory. Headlights moved across the wall, illuminating the cages in a blaze of red. Sandy sighed and tucked her head under her wing while Harold fussed nearby.
* * *
Charlotte adjusted her cowboy hat over her left eye and winked at herself in the mirror. She heard her name being yelled through the bar. She rolled her eyes and slicked on some lip gloss. When she was good and ready she left the bathroom and moved toward the centre of the big, barn-like room. She climbed up on to the mechanical bull, and nodded at Javier to throw the switch. “YeeeeeeHAW,” she yelled, one hand on her hat.
* * *
“Because I've told you, like, a thousand times, you dillhole, that's why,” the girl said. She was standing in the pool of light on the path, her arms folded in a manner that didn't bode well for anyone who crossed her.
“Yeah well, I forgot,” the kid in the parka said, wiping his nose absently across the back of his hand.
“You forgot?” she said, her voice rising. Her hair was streaked with pink, her eyes shaded with bright blue. She seemed to shimmer and sparkle in the bright light. “You forgot?” she screeched. “That's how much I mean to you, you just forgot?”
The kid shifted from one foot to the other, looked down, looked up, looked bored. “Yo, like what do you want from me, yo?”
The girl stared at him, her blue-lined eyes going wide, then narrowing to slits. “From you?” she said. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
She walked away.
“Damn, man,” the kid said to her retreating back. “Damn.”