Ghosted (14 page)

INTRODUCING:

Sarah, Soon and Willy

and the Ghosts of Gauguin

Mason was sitting on the deck amongst the debris of nests, surrounded by dead baby birds, when Sarah showed up. She was carrying a beach towel. She didn’t say anything, just sat down next to him. Every so often a mourning swallow dove at Mason. He watched it coming, trying to stay steady. Eventually he turned to Sarah. “Why aren’t you at the lake?” he said.

She shrugged. “It got boring.”

“I’m having a rough day.”

“I can tell. It’s time to stand up now.” She helped him to his feet.

He looked at her. “Have you been crying?”

“No,” said Sarah. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

“My boots …”

“Don’t look down. Not just yet.” She led him into the kitchen and put a beer in his hand.

“Thanks.”

“I’m going to go clean that up, okay, before the others come home. Then we’ll go for a walk.”

Mason nodded.

Sarah was his favourite cousin, named after his mother. He’d gone out of his way to be nice to her in the past and today she was making up for it. He had a beer ready for her when she came back in.

“Thanks,” he said. “I lost it there for a moment.”

“No problem.” She took the beer. “That was pretty gruesome.” She tipped her head back and glugged half the bottle.

“Slow down there, cuz.”

She wiped her mouth. “You’re a fine one to talk.”

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

“In some provinces.” She finished the bottle. “I hear you broke up with Katya.”

“Come on,” said Mason. “Let’s take that walk.”

They got two more beers from the fridge and headed back outside, swallows diving at both of them. They walked alongside the paddocks, Warren and Zevon trotting along next to them. “Does Zevon like beer?” said Sarah.

“I’d assume so.”

She gave the horse a slurp, and laughed. “Can we go for a ride later?”

“Maybe.”

They walked through the trees for a while, came to a clearing, then a cliff that looked out over the pasture. “Check it out,” said Mason. “What does it remind you of?”

Sarah walked to the edge and peered down the steep slope. “The prize colt,” she said.

“Ha! I knew you’d know.” He took a swig of beer. Sarah did the same. They both looked down.

He just wanted to sleep, but couldn’t. It felt like someone was hollowing him out with a ladle, body and soul. He gasped and shook, like some feeble anti-hero in a comic book
—drugs not working! Must … correct … body chemistry … find a way to … survive …
For no clear reason he was rolling cocaine, tobacco and marijuana together, but kept spilling it all over his lap.
Must … roll… better!
Finally he made a smoke of sorts and lit it, the flame licking his cheek. He inhaled, and turned on the computer. It felt like there was someone crying in his chest
… Too low. Must get higher!
He cracked open a popper, inhaling deeply. Then another. For a brief but thankful moment, a faint high lifted through him. He clicked on the Internet icon, then his email. At that instant the marijuana, coke and amyl nitrite collided in his bloodstream—opposing mercenaries with the same damn purpose. Demons with demons …

    He awoke beneath the desk. His shirt was off, as was one shoe, but he was still wearing his sunglasses. He pulled himself up onto the chair. A message was open on his computer screen.

Mason found a cigarette, lit it, gagged, then hit Reply.

He clicked Send, looked for his other shoe, couldn’t find it, took off the one he was wearing, then stumbled over to the sink for a dozen glasses of water. He was only partly hydrated when another message came through.

Mason belted down three more glasses of water, took some Alka-Seltzer, brewed some coffee, forgot to pour it, lit another cigarette, gagged again, then typed out another response.

Mason turned off the computer, took off his sunglasses, then climbed the ladder to his bed.

The cod liver oil girl smiled down from the poster on the wall. The doctor finished reading and looked up at Mason. “It’s not very funny.”

“You asked for my first memory,” said Mason.

“I’m not sure it’s that either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I remember it: sitting in the lap of a woman, her blue dress …”

“Sure. But the rest of it—don’t get me wrong, it’s a clever device: the negation of these unspeakable thoughts in the mouth of a child who can’t talk—but it’s also very distancing.”

“You told me just to write!”

“Which you did. And I just read it.” She picked up the notebook and looked at it. “It’s very sad.”

“Okay. Enough already! Next time I’ll write a funny one!”

“Well, that’s just it: in person you distance yourself with humour. And yet, here …,” she turned the notebook to face him, “you found a way to bring sadness—all the sadness in the world—to your very first memory. What does that tell you?”

Mason glared at her. She stared back at him, waiting.

“I’m sad,” he finally said. “Is that what you want to hear?”

She shrugged slightly, in a way that made him crazy.

“My friend just killed herself!” It came out before he could stop it. “So—so I
should
be sad, don’t you think?”

The doctor blinked. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Mason took a breath, then nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“It must have been difficult to write this sober.” Dr. Francis tapped the notebook with a finger. Mason nodded. “That must have taken a lot of strength.”

His shame felt visible. He tried to make it look like anger, but she’d opened his file now. “Hmm …,” she said.

“What?”

She flipped the folder closed. “How are you sleeping?”

He stared at her. “Not well.”

“No. I can imagine not. Do you dream at all?”

“Yeah….” He looked at the desktop. “They’re pretty intense.”

“Coke dreams,” said the doctor.

“Coke dreams,” said Mason.

“How about, for next week, you write me one of those?” She
handed back “The Book of Sobriety.” “Have you thought of a better title?

“Not really.”

“Well, you can work on that, too.”

Mason got up to leave.

“Good luck, Mason. I’m sorry about your friend.”

“I
love
this place!” said the man sitting across from Mason. They were in Kensington Market, in a bar called This Place. A surfboard with the words
licence plate
scrawled across it was hanging from
the ceiling above their heads. On the wall were dozens of licence plates. He pointed to the one in the centre. It read
SRFBORED
. “I come here all the time.”

Mason nodded.

He was slight, with large eyes and olive skin. His head was shaved and he wore a purple T-shirt beneath a brown suit jacket. He smiled when the server approached and they both ordered a beer, then Mason asked for a double Jameson.

“Drinker,” said the man, as if taking a mental note.

“I’m Mason,” said Mason, and held out his hand.

“Soon,” said the man.

For a dodgy instant Mason thought the guy was declaring his unreadiness to shake hands. “That’s my name,” he said. They shook.

“Soon?”

“Soon Sahala—but I’m usually right on time.”

Mason nodded, as if it were a normal name and the guy hadn’t made a joke. The drinks arrived. “What can I do for you, Soon?”

“I’m interested in your business.”

“You mentioned that.”

“For a per—”

“A personal project. Yeah, I know.”

Soon pointed a finger at Mason as if to say
You got it, brother
. Mason drank his whisky, then said, “From your emails, it doesn’t seem like you need a ghostwriter.”

“Perhaps not.” He grinned. “I was thinking we could work on the note together.” Mason waited. “You know … the suicide note.”

“Most people don’t smile so much when they say that.”

“I like collaboration.”

Mason stared at him. He took out a cigarette, put it to his lips, then flicked it back out. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Art!” said Soon, with a grand sweep of his arm, as if they were drinking beer in the Louvre. “I’m talking about Art! And Death of course.”

As it turned out, Soon talked about Art and Death for a living. He taught a course by that name at the university. “I used to be a big deal,” he said, with only a hint of irony, “at least in the Toronto art scene. My forte was the filling of public space.”

He meant this more literally than Mason could have imagined. For one project he’d selected seventeen outdoor pools (drained for the fall season) and filled them each with something different: goldenrod, dental floss, cupcakes (the birds loved it), stuffed monkeys with Velcro paws, blueberry jam, paper clips, beer (that one caused some problems in the neighbourhood), baseball cards, Guatemalan worry dolls (picketed, for no apparent reason, by a suburban church group), cock rings (oddly,
not
picketed by a suburban church group), takeout menus, feathers, typewriters, taco shells and breath mints. He called it “Swim in This!” and filled the last one with water.

In a less ambitious project, Soon drove around the city at night with his headlights off and filmed people trying to get his attention. For a week he projected the film, entitled
Hey Buddy!
as a continuous loop on the side of the Manulife building.

Then there was “What God Sees,” a series of flat-roof murals, photographed via helicopter. The photos were placed in a bucket and lowered into a well before a live audience of six baffled onlookers.

“Then came the Pee-Wee project,” said Soon, a bit too seriously.
“That’s when things started going south—both artistically and personally.” He held his hand up like he didn’t want to talk about it.

Mason waited.

“That was a real bad time.”

Mason nodded.

“I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Okay then,” said Mason. “What can I do for you?”

“I told you,” said Soon, and glanced around the bar. “I’m looking for a collaborator.”

“Or an accomplice.”

“Call it what you will.” Soon put a leather-bound satchel on the table and pulled out a large file folder. “I want you to read everything in this folder and get back to me.”