Shelby (29 page)

Finally, your artwork is a gift in every sense of the word. If you should want Fish-tail Pie returned, I would obviously understand. If you choose to let me keep it, I would cherish it always
.

My deepest repentance
,

Shelby M. Lewis

P. S. Not meant as an excuse but I was

really drunk
.

Humbled, I slipped the letter back into my binder, placed the pen between my teeth and leaned against the pull-out couch. My guts gurgled and I returned to the bathroom for perhaps the fifteenth time that day. While there I decreed to no longer deny any feelings, specifically ones of sexual frustration—even if Lucy insisted on remaining celibate. This didn't mean I was about to search elsewhere. Nor did it mean I would act physically on every (or any) impulse. The Suzanne debacle had been, if not a crime, a grave
faux pas
. Clearly, it was time to embrace my sexual self. Taking the pen from my mouth I wrote three spontaneous proverbs in small print on the bathroom wall below the one about opening fire in a Mac-Donald's restaurant:

If thou hath low self-esteem, do not love thy neighbour as thyself
.

If you think you know THE ANSWERS, shoot yourself in the head. If you miss, call me
.

Be nice
.

Later in the week, Lucy had the ironic and unfortunate task of having to orchestrate Frank's funeral. His mother, it was revealed, went insane in Ontario some years earlier and his Father, a longtime remarried priest in the Maritimes, had both verbally and legally disowned him. If he had friends, none stepped forward. I, too, was of little help, suggesting to Lucy that to put too much into the proceedings would be hypocritical. She ignored me, ordering flowers and the like.

As it turned out, the service was brief and sparsely attended; me accompanying Lucy while three other slovenly characters sat in different spots towards the back of the chapel. My first reaction to the emptiness was chuckling, but upon reflection I became haunted at this cavernous metaphor of Frank's soul. It soon became clear: the difference between Frank and me had nothing to do with our respective body shapes. Nay, the difference was Frank had never been liked.

Two or three minutes into the scripture reading a small squeak peeped out. Glancing at Lucy, I convulsed two or three times before breaking down into sobs so loud the priest twice had to stop his sermon, finishing only after Lucy had carried me distraught and wailing down the aisle and out into the fresh air. Swaddled in her arms, I knew—but because of hyperventilation could not explain to her—that my distress was in knowing Frank's attacks on my face and car were as indiscriminate as a tornado searching for a place to stop. The man was literally dying for attention—an absence that finally killed him. And what did I do when he called out to me from yonder field? I hid in yonder cave.

After the funeral and still outside, one of the men who had attended the service nervously and apologetically asked Lucy if Frank had ever mentioned the five hundred dollars he owed him. She said he hadn't and we all dispersed, me enmeshed and amazed by the mystery that allows a man to break down at the funeral of a man he loathes. Indeed, we are brothers after all.

Dropping Lucy at work and then returning home, I was both surprised and terrified by a phone call from Suzanne. Having received my letter, she said she accepted my apology. From there I suggested we meet just to see if we could somehow return to the way we were. Although skeptical, she concurred. Less than an hour later we were face-to-face over cheese pretzels at Granville Market.

Although it was evident some of the warmth between us had dissipated, Suzanne actually apologised for not having seen me for what I really was. Unfortunately, now seeing me for what I was, she felt compelled to admit she liked me less. She seemed sincere, however, in hoping the scratches on my face healed without scarring. Nervous, I did most of the talking.

“… and to cap it all off,” I continued, “I made the fatal error of combining deep depression with flagrant drunk-eness—a lethal combination for even the most pious people. Lot, for example, after taking on a belly full of wine, slept with his daughters and denied any knowledge of it whatsoever. Granted, there are writers who excel in such a state: Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Hemingway—although Hemingway put a bullet though his head—Bukowski, Fitzgerald, perhaps even you …”

“I don't drink,” she said, and we shared smiles as one would with an in-joke.

“How could you,” I asked, “and produce works of such calibre?”

She shrugged.

“I truly love
Fish-tail Pie
.”

“You can keep it,” she said softly. There was a pause until she recommended we leave. Standing up I continued talking.

“For what it's worth, Suzanne,” I said, “I'd like you to know that while attending a funeral for an old friend today—”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Thank you. I think he's happier.”

“Was he young?”

“Thirty-fiveish.”

“Sick?”

“Drugs.”

“Ooh.”

“Sad. But while there it came to me that when I hurt you, I hurt myself tenfold. For although I find you enchanting, and have since our initial meeting, there is another who has arrested my heart. So what was I doing making advances? Well, like my friend now embalmed, I was crying out for affections; but my actions were merely the twisted reflections of yearns unanswered. Being dishonest, I was blinded by your honesty. In short, my bad struck out to kill my good.”

Suzanne smiled. “You look tired.”

“Strenuous week,” I said.

“Take care of yourself,” she said as we stepped outside into a brisk breeze.

“Suzanne, do you think we could be again as we were?” I asked.

“Probably not,” she said, “but we know a little more now, so maybe something else'll come out of it.” She smiled, turned and walked away.

“I'm sorry,” I said. Without turning round, she threw up a hand and kept walking.

So haunted by loneliness that night, it seemed, not even sleep wanted to be around me.

“Excuse me?” I whispered around three-thirty A.M., pushing open Eric's door. There was no response. “Eric?”

“Hm?”

“You asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“REM?”

“What?”

“A deep sleep?”

“What do you want?”

“Um … I … How would you feel if I climbed in beside you?”

“
What
?”

“I need to hear you breathe.”

“Listen, Shel, whatever you … I'll stand by you. But straight up, I'm not your man.”

“Friendship, Eric. That's all. I need to be near to life. I need to embrace it. Exalt it. Believe in it. And I need you to know you can come to me for anything.”

“Great. How 'bout a quick blow job?”

“I meant of a spiritual nature.”

“I
know
. Left hand side. Don't yank the covers, no talking and don't touch me.”

I got into bed and lay staring at the blackness. “Thanks, Eric.”

“No prob, man. Go to sleep.”

“Can you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?”

“Life.”

“What?”

“Dancing. Listen.”

“This is getting kinda weird. Get out.”

“Really?”

“Look, shut up, man. It's all gonna be okay.”

“I don't want to die alone.”

“Well, do a murder-suicide thing.”

“I mean without being loved.”

“Oh geez.”

“And loving.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Do you love me, Eric?”

“Come on, man.”

“You can tell me.”

There was a pause. “I like you, okay?”

My heart trembled. There we lay, two heterosexual men, shrouded in darkness and religious taboo, inches apart in a warm bed. Why was I there? I knew that by confessing I
loved
him, which I did, I could blast open the social envelope, exposing a better world for all. “I … I like you, too,” I said.

“Come on, Shel, I got brutal cramps,” Lucy said at four twenty A.M. with her hair in disarray, her feet bare (red toenails) and a wrinkled pink T-shirt hanging over wrinkled black tights, me standing in her doorway.

“This won't take a minute … I just—”

“What's wrong with you?”

“Were you asleep?”

“It's five o'clock in the fuckin' morning.”

We stood staring. “Sure is wet out,” I said limply.

“Look, get in here. Five minutes. That's it.” She turned around, staggering slightly on her way to the couch, sat down and closed her eyes, one of them covered by the hand she was leaning on. I followed and sat down in the big chair a few feet away.

“Well, it's an assortment of things,” I said. “I can't seem to regulate my feelings; anger, sadness, love, fear, frustration, loneliness.”

Lucy opened her eyes, picked up her cigarette pack, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “This ain't about your prick again, is it?”

“You say that like I'm just another guy with a hormonal problem.”

“I'm just—”

“When are you going to
fuck
ing well see our meeting each other was predetermined!”

Lucy seemed stunned. “You swore.”

“Gran is
dead
. Frank is
dead
. I've abandoned my academic calling. You no longer have an interest in your vocation. I feel robotic. I feel furious. I feel yearning. We're nearing the end, you know.”

“What?”

“Can I quote Yeats?”

“You look tired.”

“Tired? I haven't slept in fifty-four hours.
Fifty
-four hours. Mere anarchy is loose around the world. The blood-dimmed tide! I don't even know what that is but I do know that everywhere innocence is drowned—take a look:
I
feel that. Young children are abused by the second. Old growth forests cut up for chopsticks. The best lack all conviction. I'm not saying I'm the best, but my heart has no conviction. I spin like a car in mud, messing up everything for miles around me. And politicians? Leaders? The riots in L.A. Earthquakes. Pestilence. There's no Four Horsemen, Lucy, it's a friggin' cavalry! That's the truth. The Gulf War. The Vancouver Stock Exchange. Tabloid television. Scandals of every type. All is rotten to the very core—and only the worst are full of passionate intensity. Saddam Hussein? Thank god for George Bush and the American people. They figure he was worse than Hitler, you know—”

“Have you been eating?”

“Rising Antichrists and—”

“I think you need some sleep—”

“Don't
patronize me
!”

“Listen to yourself!”

“I held a gun the other day, Lucy … ooh—just a little revolver … black, so small. And you know what?”

“You liked the feel of it.”

“How'd you—yes I did.”

“You need sleep.”

“It gave me a sense of calm, Lucy. Comfort and power as I cradled its tender shaft.”

“Fuck, Shel, it's the news. It makes everyone want to be a vigilante. Sometimes I wish I had a couple o' hand grenades in my bra when I dance. You know, send 'em flying to some corner o' the room.
Kaboom
—”

“This goes way beyond that, Lucy. What were the odds of you and I ending up in each other's arms?
Zero
. Heed the signs! I say we get a couple of plane tickets, head to the place most likely to survive a nuclear holocaust, take provisions—canned goods, weapons to blast out mutant beings that survive the radiation. Then we start having kids. Hundreds of them—”

“Shel?”

“We can't give up, Lucy. So even if Christ doesn't come down we'll repopulate the earth with loving, caring, tender human beings—”

“And cousins who'll have to
dork
each other and then what? A bunch o' mutant sadists more crazy than ever.”

“I never thought of that.”

“I'm joking, Shel. Jesus. I'm going to say this once—”

“On Gran's honor, Lucy, I vow to you that no one will ever harm you again.”

“Listen to me. You've blown a gasket. You need some R & R. You're over-stressed—”

“Look, Lucy.” I grinned, unzipping my Gortex jacket and pulling out Eric's revolver that I had stuffed partly down my corduroys.

“Jesus Christ, Shel.”

“I want to fill the walls full of plugs! Ha ha ha! I want to
scream
out my rage!”

“Is that thing loaded?”

“I don't know.”

“Give it to me.” I handed it to her. “Now listen. I need some sleep,” she said. “I got a migraine. I got my period. You come over here totin' a six-shooter, talking about nuclear holocausts. You either go to bed here or get the hell home.”

“I can't sleep with you, Lucy. I can't be trusted.”

“I trust you, Shel, okay?”

“Don't trust
anybody
! I could be Ted Bundy.”

“He's
dead
.”

“Were you there?”

She covered her eyes for a moment and then stood up, handing me her cigarette. “He's dead.” She kissed me on the forehead. “I'm going to bed. I'm taking the gun. And I'm betting we'll all be here and happy when the sun comes up.”

“But what's being planned in Communist Angola?”

Lucy walked away.

“I'm not leaving, Lucy.”

“I'm not asking you to,” she said, disappearing.

“Facts, Lucy, facts!” I yelled, her cigarette smoldering in my trembling hand. “Why'd you give me this cigarette?” There was no response. “I'll extinguish it if you don't answer!” I smudged it into the ashtray just as the light in Lucy's bedroom went out, darkening the front room. Her door closed. I was wet and scared. I crumpled to my knees, bent over and prayed for direction.