Shelby (22 page)

Lucy grinned. “Don't let that crap bug ya! That's your path. Embrace it.”

“Oh, wonderful. Hello, path.”

“We're
all
lost! Doctors. Priests.
Library
workers. I'm a psychic without powers. Even those poets you love. Hell, bein' lost, that's where we get the poetry.”

“Give me that bottle!” I yelled. Lucy laughed and handed it to me. I took a swig and belched. “There is no poetry in
my
struggle.”

“We're babes of the mystery, man.”

“Yes, but who really
feels
that?”

“So you were bullshitting when you said the great thing about Whitman and Blake and those guys is they celebrate the uncelebrated?”

“I certainly was not! Did I say that?”

“You're drunk.”

“You are! And no, I don't believe every teensy-weensy thing is poetry. Neither are some big things. Top forty music? No. Figure skating?
No
. Hitler? I cannot and will not accept that bastard being compared to Angie Dickinson.”

“Don't you mean
Emily
?”

“And I tell you now! Poetry is a divinely inspired art form slaughtered by ambiguity. At best I'd say Hitler's actions were prose. Genocidal tendencies have very little rhythm—I'll bet he couldn't tango to save his life.” I burped. Lucy laughed and I yearned to kiss her. I took another swig from the bottle.

“Shel, it's this simple. Some people deliver babies. Some people drive trucks.”

“I feel all giddy,” I said with a giggle. “Speaking of Germans, Suzanne's art class at Emily Carr has an exhibition on all week that I wouldn't mind missing.”

“You mean seeing?”

I lay down on the quilt. “Skinheads frighten me.”

“What?”

“Hey, do you want to see her show?”

“Yeah, sure. When?” she asked, taking a bite from her slice of bread.

I shrugged and closed my eyes. “Say you love me a hundred times even if you don't.”

“You love me a hundred times even if you don't.”

My insides went gooey. “Thanks,” I said, eyes closing.

“Let's go tonight,” she said, “I'm not workin'.”

“Me neither …”

Later that afternoon, after my nap, Lucy and I walked to Granville Island and took in the exhibition. All bias aside, Suzanne's work was to both of us the most accomplished of all. Seeing
Fish-tail
for the second time, I was even more impressed, and planned to ask Suzanne at our next get-together if she'd consider selling it. There were also some splendid ceramic pots with Indian motifs by someone with an unpronounceable name and a set of appealing impressionistic figurines entitled
Bondage
. Other than that, as much as I abhor those who judge art, I'd have to say the creations were
dégoûtant
. The worst piece was a blob of formless clay in a brown glaze called
Life's Turmoil
. When I mentioned to Lucy it should have been titled
Used Pampers
, we giggled for fifteen minutes. In fact, most of the show had us laughing.

On the walk home we detoured to the Bread Garden and stuffed ourselves with cheesecake and cafe au laits while men in khaki pants stared at Lucy and me in wonder. In other words, “Why is she with you?” Finally, when one handsome bronzed man in a turtleneck glanced at her and then me, I glared back with a subtle yet confident smirk that said: “Figure it out, dunce, or I'll be with your woman next.” His eyes scampered to the floor. My boney chest puffed with pride.

Lucy and I slept together that night. There was no sex. There was not even a mention of sex. Nonetheless, I felt adored by the woman; I was her confidant. Moreover, I was getting cosmologically comfortable—a burgeoning Thoreau for the 90s, if you will (with a sprinkle of Hemingway thrown in); rejecting social expectations by quitting school, journeying into manhood by facing my father. So I was unsure of my calling? What was Jesus doing at twenty? Hardly changing the world.

I awoke around six A.M., my right arm tingling beneath the weight of Lucy's head. Shaking off the numbness, I lifted the blind and peeked eastward. The sun was rising without fanfare; that same eternal ball of fire that rose over Mesopotamia and the first sedentary civilizations some ten thousand years earlier; that same endless ache of heat that hung above upright footprints in Olduvai Gorge three and a half million years before that; that same life-sustaining star that had overseen every torrid love affair since time began. And there was Lucy and I, stumbling yes, yet nonetheless mapping a new blueprint of avant-garde chastity for young lovers to follow in the disease-plagued, turbulent and uncertain years that lay ahead.

Floating my hand onto Lucy's belly, I stroked her gently. She didn't recoil so I moved in closer and nudged my erection against her leg, my heart against her back. Without opening her eyes, Lucy rolled over and embraced me. Our bodies moved in time and then stopped. My penis throbbed and I contemplated a tug at her panties, thereby initiating the potential for penetration. I didn't, though.

After a morning of quiet wonder, I left Lucy's apartment with a sense of connection; if we weren't lovers by strict definition, we were nonetheless hinting, with nary a word, at that inevitablity. I drove home in control of my genitals, surrendered yet strong, beaming and assured. I slammed the car door with a little more
oomph
than usual. The day called for it. I didn't bother to lock up.

It was just below the steps of Eric's apartment that I first heard the phone ring. I broke into a sprint. It rang twice more as I fumbled in search of the correct key. My third choice got me in. I slammed the door, tumbled over the pull-out couch and rolled to the phone à la James Bond.

“Hello?” I said, panting, laughing.

“Shel, it's Dad.”

“Oh … hello,” I said cautiously, fearing a lecture. We hadn't spoken since he'd lied about the beer in the shed. I decided right then to let bygones be bygones.

There was a pause. “It's Gran,” he said.

XV

She who lives out all of her days has had a long life

—
Lao Tsu

It was good to see Derek and Kristine as a unit when they picked me up at the Kelowna airport; death, it would seem, had reconciled them. Our reunion was mildly teary. The utter dread I felt upon hearing the news of Gran's death, however, had dissipated. I felt curiously numb.

Barely a word was spoken on the drive to Revelstoke; I sat quietly in the back seat, reminiscing, sensing Gran's presence (memory, perhaps) as I associated more than ever with crab-grass and trees and other objects of nature that don't give a damn about death. For, indeed, the lake was still filled with water and the rolling hills still rolled; even downtown Revelstoke hadn't changed, the main street looking more uneventful than ever. And then we were home.

Stepping into the kitchen, the first thing I saw was Uncle Larry and Dad sitting at the table, silent, Dad smoking, Larry glancing around like a child. Mom was pouring a cup of coffee. She stopped and we stared. It was unspoken that we were closer than anyone to Gran. Embracing, I felt the wetness from her eyes seep through my cotton shirt and onto my shoulder. I pushed my hand lovingly on the back of her neck and felt a tear of my own trickling down my cheek. I had no idea what I should or could offer. What difference would it make? She pulled away and with a beat-up Kleenex blew her nose as mothers do. Her puffy eyes glanced at me as if to say, “Ain't life a swift kick to the groin?” I smiled back as if to say “Yeah, I reckon it is.” Then with an about-face that bordered on the schizophrenic, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, opened them, sniffed, wiped her eyes, smiled again and said:

“Enough tears, Mom would hate this!”

Mom was back at her post as platoon leader—a thankless job if I'd ever seen one. If my rank had been any higher than private, I would have ordered her to take a week of R & R. She deserved it.

Dad and Uncle Larry, meanwhile, remained slumped and downcast at the kitchen table. When I reached out and hugged Dad, his odour of sweat and cigarettes and generic cologne catapulted me back to cuddling on his lap as a child,
Hockey Night in Canada
blaring in the foreground. Taking a step back, I figured he must be an expert on death; when he was seven, his mother died of cancer; when he was eleven, his younger brother was hit by a bread truck; and his father—the man who told me masturbation was the equivalent of pulling God's hair—passed away ten years ago.

As for Larry, well, he had God.

The evening's last light coasted effortlessly into darkness and despite the pain that surrounded us all, our collective grief seemed to somehow lessen the individual ache. We even shared a few laughs.

Just before midnight Larry, huffing and sniffing, returned from the washroom and sat down next to me.

“Hair-raising, isn't it?” he said quietly.

I glanced over and smiled, for the first time in memory aware of a bond between us. “I don't know what to feel,” I said. “I keep expecting her to walk through the door.”

“No,” he said, “I mean the afterlife.”

“Scary?”

“Well … facts are facts, eh?”

“What?”

“Look, first off, let me just say I ain't
God
—never have been, never will be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm just saying that, well, according to, say … Luke 13:5—you know that one?”

“No.”

“Ah, there's a bunch of them—anyway, it doesn't look good for her down the main stretch.”

I glanced at Dad who was leaning over the newspaper with Derek and Kristine, then at Mom who was pouring a cup of coffee.

“Eleven down is aardvark,” Kristine said.

My insides rattled. “What doesn't look good for her?”

“Come on, Shelby. The Man wears the robe. The gavel's gotta come down.”

“Larry … um … you're not saying that Gran's going to hell, are you?”

“Two A's,” Derek said.

“Of course
I'm
not saying that. I'm saying the scriptures say that.”

I became tense. “Let me get this right. You're saying that Gran, because she never took Jesus Christ as saviour by
name
, she's going to be in Hell for eternity.”

“It's in God's hands.”

“That's the God you believe in?”

“It's in the scripture.”

“But you believe that? You believe that this compassionate God is sending Gran to Hell.”

“Does it matter what I think?” he asked.

“I want to know what you think!”

Mom glanced up. “What's going on?”

“Larry's telling me Gran's going to burn in hell.”

“I am merely a messenger of the word, Peg,” he said.

“This is an outrage!” I shrieked.

“Take it easy, Shelby!” Dad barked.

“Take it
easy
? I want to know what he thinks! If he thinks Gran is going to Hell he should come out and say it!”

“Shelby,” Larry said, “I have no control over these things.”

“Have you ever even said a prayer for Gran, Larry?”

“I've talked to her many a time about her worldly ways.”

“I don't want to know
that
! I want to know if you've ever said a prayer for her! Or do you only pray for your own life?”

“Let he who has ears hear,” he said defiantly.

I felt frenzied. “You think she's burning in Hell, don't you?”

“Blessed are those who will be persecuted in His name, for
theirs
is the kingdom of God.”

“Persecuted?” I said, standing up. He sat staring, grinning.

“Sit down, Shel,” Dad said.

“Did you hear what he said?” I screamed.

“Come on, Larry,” Dad said, “smarten up.”

“I'm only speaking the truth, Ed,” he said, turning towards Dad. “You know as well as I do she wasn't one to—”

Right then I punched Larry square in the face with a closed fist. His head snapped back and then flung forward, grimaced expression moving towards shock. He seemed temporarily paralysed in his chair. I, too, was stunned. I had never struck a person before. “Oh, god,” I recall thinking, “what have I done?” And then seeing Larry sitting there, eyes all a-flutter, I panicked and punched him again. Dad tackled me to the ground as Larry's nose poured blood. He staggered to his feet.

“For your glory, Lord!” he cried, wobbly-legged, his white shirt speckled crimson, his eyes glazed like a dog with cataracts.

I lay pinned, staring, shaking. Had divine inspired sentences off the tongue of a man I did not respect loaded my right hand with fury, or was I attacking the words of the devil?

“
Burn
!” he screamed at me, staggering out of the room, blood everywhere. “Burn! Burn! Burn!”

On the one hand, I would imagine it's always troublesome to justify punching a relative in the face. On the other hand (being my bruised right one), I believe in my heart he deserved it. In what must have been a Hell in itself, Gran had to live within walking distance of the man for thirty years. Moreover, one who compulsively talks about persecution would seem to want to be hit eventually. Now he was. As for me, a lack of remorse was disconcerting; but more disconcerting was the unpremeditated outburst. What would I have done had I been carrying a revolver or even a dinner knife?

Repeated attempts at reconciliation over the phone proved fruitless. Eventually everyone went to bed and I found myself standing on Gran's doorstep, contemplating knocking. A gust of wind slipped up the back of my shirt. I shivered and turned the knob, slowly pushing the door open. The kitchen table was bare and Gran's chair was as empty as I'd ever seen it.

“Hello?” I whispered, glancing cautiously around the silent room. From the watercolour paintings and the worn shag carpet to the firewood and the musty couch, all was as it had always been. I don't know why that surprised me, Gran had been dead for less than a day. I suppose I half expected her to suddenly stomp through the door and yell, “Well, I'll be damned, Shel, I thought you were back in Vancouver!”