Falling Under (14 page)

“Just using me as arm-candy then,” Hugo says with a nod that almost dislodges his enormous hat.

“Sure,” I say.

“And my hot lips,” he says.

Bernadette, on her way down the hallway, gives a great whoop of laughter and I stand there feeling my cheeks get hot. “You didn’t tell me he was funny,” she says, and then whoops again as he leans over and gives me a big, loud, messy

smooch.

6

Faith meets us on Jarvis Street, across from my father’s building. She looks anxious and I wonder if it’s about Bernadette or the neighborhood, which used to be one of the worst in the city.

I hadn’t bargained on sharing the paradox that is my father with anyone besides Hugo and Bernadette tonight, but she’s here and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Hellos and introductions are made and we head inside.

The elevator has got to be fifty years old and looks from the outside like a broom closet. The hallway is a vi- sion of brown and beige made dull by years of traffic, kitchen grease, and cigarette smoke. It’s easy to envision the decades worth of Toronto’s down-but-not-quite-out trudg- ing along, wearing the garish red carpet down to thread at the center.

It’s lucky I’m not trying to make a good impression. I glance over at Hugo and raise my eyebrows. “Lotta history in this building,” he says.

“Yep.”

“I like it.”

Bernadette gives me a wink. She likes him.

I press the button and we wait. With much whining and clunking, the elevator arrives. I open the outer door, pull the grate open, and Hugo, Bernadette and Faith step in ahead of me. I squeeze in, leaving room for Hugo’s hat. I shut the gate, and send out a prayer to the elevator gods that we don’t get stuck between floors today.

More whirs and clunks and we begin to ascend.

Faith looks at the ceiling and flinches at every thunk and hiss. I’m tempted to tell her about the time I spent an hour stuck between floors with my (drunk) father, but I don’t.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “We’ll make it out alive.” “Oh, I’m not worried,” she says, and lifts her chin.

Sure.

“It’s never plummeted to the basement or anything,” I add. “And if it did, we’re only going to the eighth floor, so we’d probably be fine.”

“Right,” she says. Is it me, or does she look a tad green? “Mara,” Bernadette says.

Faith has never brought out the best in me.

I shut up, and we make it to the eighth floor alive. The elevator does stop a foot too low and we have to step up to get out. This hallway smells like cooked cabbage and incense. I wrinkle my nose and wish that Dad would move.

“By the way, don’t give my father any money,” I say as we walk toward his door.

“Why would I?” Faith asks.

“He’s going to ask for money?” Hugo says. “Not exactly.”

“Put it this way,” Bernadette says, “by the end of the night you could own a time-share in Cancun or Florida.”

“Or Siberia,” I add.

“Maybe I want a time-share in Cancun,” Hugo says. “Not with my dad you don’t.”

“And don’t play poker with him either,” Bernadette says. “Or blackjack—”

“Or Trivial Pursuit—” “Or bridge—” “Monopoly—” “Risk—”

“Okay, I got it. No investing, no cards, no games,” Hugo says.

“Exactly,” I say.

“Anything else?” he says.

“Sink or swim?” Bernadette says, and then knocks on the door.

“Okay, thanks.” Hugo takes a deep breath.

Faith stands close to Bernadette. Strains of “La Bamba” come through the door. I take pity on Hugo and put a hand on his arm.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “he’s really quite pleasant.” “Good.”

“At least he was earlier.”

Finally we try the door, find it unlocked, and let our- selves in.

The party is happening. It’s more than a get-together, and the theme is more than Mexican, or even Spanish. In among people dressed as bullfighters, flamenco dancers, and a couple of Zorros are women in grass skirts, three belly dancers, and... oh dear...a mime.

Unfortunately, the guy in the Miami Vice getup is Dad. Yep, it’s Dad and it’s a damned shame he’s doing disco moves to “La Bamba.”

The shabbiness of the apartment is disguised by a thick layer of ersatz Mexican and not-so-Mexican decorations, in- cluding streamers, a huge crepe palm tree and posters of beaches. Beer bottles are being served with umbrellas in them and there’s a table piled with coconuts, pineapples, salsa and corn chips.

“Don’t eat the corn chips,” I say in a low voice to Bernadette, Faith and Hugo.

“Why not?” Hugo asks.

“Dad bought six cases of them on sale at Honest Ed’s,” I say, “five years ago.”

Bernadette winces. Faith shudders.

“He was going to resell them, but he lost his enthusiasm.” Dad catches sight of us and boogies over.

“Sweetheart!” he says, and kisses my cheek. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hola! Arriba! Cómo estás?” he says. “I’m fine, good.”

I introduce Hugo and Dad takes his hand and pumps his arm before giving Bernadette a hug.

“Still playing for the losing team?” he asks her, and then chortles at his own joke. I look down at the parquet floor. Bernadette laughs and punches Dad on the arm.

“My team’s doing just fine,” she says, and then intro- duces him to Faith.

“You too?” he asks.

Bernadette shoots a panicked look at me. “Me too what?” Faith asks.

“Never mind, Faith,” I say. “Just an old . . . football joke, right, Dad?” I grab his arm and squeeze.

“Oh,” Faith says. “No, I get it. I wouldn’t say our team is losing, would you, Bernadette?”

“Ah, no,” Bee says, and then swallows. “No, our team is... better than ever.”

Faith ducks her head and Bernadette blushes. The sparks are flying, God help us all.

“Well, well... excellent!” Dad says. “Come in then.

Drink! Dance! Cha-cha-cha!”

Bernadette and Faith wander off to get beer/umbrella mixes while Hugo follows me into the kitchen and watches me forage in the fridge for something nonalcoholic.

“Listen,” I say, “I’m sure you want a beer, so go ahead and get one.”

“You sure? I’ll come right back.”

“Go,” I say, and then poke my head back into the fridge. Miraculously, I find a bottle of juice. I crack it open, shut the fridge, turn around and come face to face with Dad’s girl-

friend, Shauna. “Oh! Hey,” I say.

“Hello there, my dear,” she says.

She pulls me toward her and I narrowly miss her custom- ary kiss on the mouth before I’m crushed in a hug. “Lovely to see you.”

“Mmhm,” I mumble, and disentangle myself. “You too.” As always, she looks good, but with a haziness in her wide blue eyes that makes people mistake her for ditzy, drunk, or both. Though her attachment to my dad might

suggest otherwise, she is neither.

“Your haircut is tres chic!” she chirps, changing the subject.

I’m starting to think that the uglier a haircut is, the more chic people find it.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Have you seen your father yet?” “Yeah, on the way in.”

Shauna does a quick swivel, checking over her shoulder and making her shiny brown curls bounce around her shoul- ders. “I think this time he’s really better,” she says. “He’s

been good for weeks now, and the counselor says—” She breaks off as Dad enters the kitchen.

“How do you like your old man’s moves?” he asks. “Interesting,” I say. “That’s . . . what, Mexican? South

American?”

“It’s a fusion.”

“Ah ha,” I say. “Now I see.”

When Hugo returns I’m so grateful I want to leap into his arms. Two cocktail umbrellas are lodged in his hair and I raise my eyebrows. He gives me a sheepish grin and points to the mime.

Introductions are made and Shauna gives me very unsub- tle, meaningful looks of approval and inquiry. As if I’d tell her anything.

“So we’re moving to Puerto Vallarta!” Dad says. “Yeah, you mentioned that,” I say.

“What are you moving for?” Hugo asks. I’m afraid to hear the answer.

“To begin a new life!” Dad says. Right. New life #584.

“New life, hunh?” I say. “Does the new life have a job attached to it?”

“Let’s be positive, dear,” Shauna says.

“Actually,” Dad says, puffing out his chest, “I’ve been offered a job at a posh resort.”

“Sounds nice,” Hugo says. “What’s the position?” “Customer relations,” Dad says.

“Bartending?” I ask, accustomed to my father’s euphemisms.

Hugo looks from me to Dad and raises his eyebrows. He probably thinks I’m being a bitch, but I have ample reason to worry about Dad working in a bar. I have ample reason to worry about Dad, period.

“Well, sweetheart, you’ll be happy to hear that I’ll be

managing
the bar,” he says.

Ah ha.

“And I’m going with him,” Shauna says. “While your father’s working, I’m finally going to finish my novel.”

“She can write it on the beach!” Dad says. “Ah,” I say.

Shauna has been working on this “novel” for the past five years. “Be happy for us!” Dad says. “It’s going to be great.” I hate when this happens. Hugo puts a hand on my shoul-

der and squeezes.

“Of course,” I say. “Excuse me, I need to get something to eat.”

Hugo catches up with me at the food table and stops me as I’m about to eat one of the corn chips.

“Shit! Gross!” I say, dropping the chip onto the table. “How could I forget? Typical.”

Hugo puts a hand on my arm. “Sorry,” I say. “And thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I actually tasted one earlier,” he says. “On purpose?”

He grins. “Yeah, just to see.” “And?”

He shakes his head and grimaces.

“Not good,” he says. “Possibly life threatening.”

I feel a smile cracking my lips.

“So you owe me big time,” he says, then takes my hand and leads me over to Faith and Bernadette.

We mingle, chat, pick at the food. Faith dazzles us all with her merengue.

Dad corners Hugo while I’m getting the life story of the belly dancer, and I hope Hugo remembers our warnings.

We’re getting ready to leave when Dad puts an arm around my shoulder and takes me aside.

“Thanks for coming, sweetheart,” he says. “No problem, Dad.”

“Can you keep a secret?” “What is it?”

“Listen,” he says, and puts both hands on my shoulders. “I need you to be happy for me, kiddo.”

“Sure, Dad.”

“I need your support. I haven’t told anyone else, but this job... well this job is just a stepping stone to what I’m really planning to do.”

Uh oh. “Which is?”

“I’m going to build an importing business. A huge business! We’ll have offices in Mexico and Canada—I’ll be a jet-setter! You see, I met this guy.. .”

And it goes on. He talks right in my face, breathing sour tequila breath and staring at me with eyes that hardly blink. “Dad,” I say, finally managing to break in, “have you talked to Dr. Tower about this? Have you... are you taking

your pills?”

He takes two deep breaths, in, out, in, out.

“Have some faith,” he says when the breathing exercise is done. “For once could you have some faith!”

“I do, but—”

“I thought you’d be excited,” he says. “You of all people know the potential I have, the people skills and the business savvy! I’ve just never had the opportunity. And I’ve been sabotaged in the past. But this... this is going to be GREAT. It’s going to be HUGE!”

“Okay, Dad, that’s good but—”

“I thought you’d be proud,” he says. Eyes wide and forehead crumpled, he looks like he’s five and someone stole his lollipop.

I put my arms around him and pull him into a hug so I don’t have to smell the alcohol on his breath, or look at him while I lie.

“I am proud of you, Dad.” “Really?”

“Of course.”

“Oh good,” he says and sighs happily into my shoulder. “I knew you would be.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and hold him close. “Don’t forget,” he says, “it’s a secret.”

“I know, I know.”

I look around the room on my way out. The party is still going, but it doesn’t seem festive to me. None of these people, with the possible exception of Shauna, are true friends of my dad. They’re people he’s met in bars and then charmed and bullshitted. They think he’s on the brink of something big and that he’ll be bringing them along.

They won’t be here tomorrow, next week or whenever it is that he admits to himself that his latest dream has no substance and that he’s out of control. Again. They won’t be here, except those who show up looking for their “seed money.” And I will stand at the door and repel them one way or another, because the money will be gone.

Even Shauna leaves him when it gets bad. She reasons, lectures, cries, then gives the ultimatum . . . and walks out.

She calls it tough love. I call it abandonment.
I
will be here.

I will be here and I will pour tequila down the sink and drag Dad back to treatment and shove pills down his throat and listen to the sad, sad story of his life, and feel mine drain out.

Again.

6

Out on the sidewalk, Bernadette and Faith hold hands. Jarvis Street is famous for prostitutes after dark, so it shouldn’t be a surprise when some idiot pulls up and asks them how much it would cost him to join in.

Bernadette looks ready to surge forward and pummel him, and Hugo steps toward the car too, but Faith and I both say, “No, thank you” at the same time and pull our angry dates backward.

“Fucking freaks!” the guy hollers and roars away. “Limp-dick, pea-brain misogynist!” Bernadette shouts. “Bee,” I say, and grab her by the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

We make our way to Hugo’s car and I sigh with relief as he shuts the passenger door.

We drop the still-fuming Bernadette and Faith off at Seven West, a three-story all-night bar and occasional lesbian haunt, where they will likely be necking in an attic corner until the wee hours.

Once we’re alone, driving back to my house, Hugo says, “This is supposed to be a secret, but your dad says he’s going into importing.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I look at Hugo, who reaches out to squeeze my hand, eyes twinkling. I choose to laugh because, really, things could be a lot worse.