Speak to the Earth (3 page)

Iris Troupe was a slender energetic woman with dark intelligent eyes and a razor wit. Most of the time she gave minimal attention to her appearance beyond cleanliness and tidiness, having formed the opinion long ago that most men were afraid of smart, strong-willed women, and having vowed that she’d be damned if she would deck out her body and be placid. No one in range of her voice was ever in doubt about what Iris thought about an issue. Norm had admired her mind and her sense of humour — he had once told her that he found brainy women sexy — but guys like Norm, Iris knew, didn’t come along too often, and rather than wait around for one, she had a life to live and a son to raise.

Both she and Bryan were grateful on more than one occasion that she did not have to raise Bryan alone: her brother Jimmy was what Iris called a godsend. When the bungalow became a B&B, it was Jimmy who had done the work, interpreting Iris’s freehand plans and drawings. Bryan had helped — which meant standing around, holding things, fetching tools and getting in Jimmy’s way as he sawed and hammered spruce studs or put up drywall, whistling country-western laments and smoking unfiltered cigarettes.

In his late thirties, Bryan’s uncle was a small dark quick-tempered man with a body hardened by a lifetime of rugged work. In a world that still valued larger men in both the romantic and economic spheres, Jimmy Lormer compensated for his size by strength and mental toughness — an attitude that had pushed him into more than a few fights in his youth. Having left school long before he was qualified for any kind of diploma, he was aware that all he had to offer an employer was honesty and a day’s work.

About a year ago Jimmy had moved in with them. He had been laid off by
MFI
and lost his house when he got too far behind in his mortgage. He had stained the siding on the bungalow, painted every room inside and found things to fix. Jimmy could not sit still. Bryan thought he was a workaholic until one night, when Jimmy was out at the hotel “blowing the suds off a few,” Iris explained that he was too proud to sit around and live off somebody else.

“We’re not somebody else. We’re his relatives,” Bryan had protested. “And he isn’t living off us. He doesn’t have a job right now.”

“That’s how he feels, though,” Iris had answered. “He can’t help it. He won’t even let me lend him money. If he isn’t working, he feels useless.”

After a dinner of sausages and beans, and after Bryan had finished his chores, he sneaked into the kitchen, hoping Jimmy and his mother weren’t within earshot. The nine-o’clock
news was on TV, and Bryan could hear them in the family room arguing good-naturedly about a report on the B.C. government granting tree farm licences to multinational corporations. Bryan picked up the phone, held his breath, punched three numbers and paused.

He put the phone down, exhaling with an audible whoosh. Maybe a glass of milk first. No, he had to grab the chance while there was no one else in the kitchen. The last thing he wanted was an audience. Once again he ran over the dialogue he had composed in his mind. Then, remembering to breathe normally, he pressed the buttons that made up Ellen’s number and clamped his eyes shut.

“Hello?”

“Oh, uh, hi. Um, I was just wondering if you were, you know, serious on the bus today? About studying together?”

“Who is this?”

“Oh, damn! I mean, hello, Mrs Thomson. Is Ellen there?”

“Who’s calling, please?”

Remembering just in time that Iris had given the Thomsons a verbal beating at the parents’ meeting, Bryan said, “It’s a friend from school.”

“One moment, please.”

When Ellen came on the line, Bryan rushed ahead. “Hi, it’s Bryan. I —”

“Oh, hi. How are you?”

“Fine. Um, I was wondering —”

“So, did you think about my suggestion?”

“Your—”

“You know. About studying together?”

Wondering how much studying anyone could get done with someone who wouldn’t let him finish a sentence, Bryan tried again. “Yeah, that’s why I —”

“How about tomorrow after school?”

“Sure. Um—”

“Great. See you then. Gotta go.”

Bryan returned to his room and looked at himself in the mirror. “You smooth dude,” he said to his image. Then he laughed.

L
ike a gladiator of ancient times or a medieval knight errant Bryan Troupe prepared himself for battle. His armaments: soaps, creams and lotions; floss, brushes, swabs and his uncle’s safety razor. The field: the tiny bathroom of the Troupe bungalow, pulsing with rock music from a portable radio. His foe: his body, which seemed anxious to betray him at every turn. If his vigil was not constant, white flakes might break loose from his scalp and snow his hair or speckle his shoulders; a booger might peek maliciously from a nostril; malodorous liquid would seep from his armpits; dirt would collect secretly under his fingernails and between his toes. Each morning before school Bryan conducted a desperate rearguard campaign against the temple of his own flesh. Never did he feel completely successful.

But this evening he was going to Ellen Thomson’s for the first time and he planned to flog his enemy into total submission. In the shower, he turned slowly under a jet of scalding water. With a shampoo-conditioner that
smelled like apples and peaches and guaranteed an end to dandruff, he washed his hair three times, then shut off the water. He soaped up a rough washcloth and, beginning at his hairline, vigorously punished his skin, pausing to assault his ears, advancing downwards to chafe his armpits, attack his crotch, buttocks, legs, and grind loose skin from the depressions in his feet and between his toes. Under the shower again, the foam slid off his body and swirled down the drain. Bryan repeated the process.

By the time he pulled back the shower curtain, he was as pink, overheated and squeaky-clean as he had ever been in his life. The steam in the bathroom was so thick he could barely see. With his damp palm he squeegeed a small circle on the mirror and examined his upper lip. Today was the day he would remove from there the few downy blond hairs that made him look like a kid. Besides, if he ever was lucky enough to kiss Ellen, he didn’t want to tickle her.

Using Jimmy’s shaving brush and mug, Bryan worked up enough lather to shave a camel and applied the thick, creamy soap to his skin. When he was finished, his mouth had disappeared, his nostrils were clogged, and he couldn’t breathe. He sneezed, blowing foam all over the mirror, his chest and the vanity top. He took a deep breath and dragged the razor over his upper lip. In two modest strokes, he was done.

And there was a gash under his nostril leaking bright arterial blood.

“Damn!” He ripped a piece of toilet paper from the
roll and stuck it to the offending wound. Before the mirror again, Bryan inspected his nostrils and ear holes for foreign particles. Finding none, he plugged in the hair dryer and attempted to bring order to his thick ginger hair. By the time he had given up in disgust, he realized that he was sweating heavily. The temperature in the steamy bathroom must have touched forty degrees. Fifteen minutes later he stepped out of the shower again, chilled to the bone.

Bryan dabbed another bit of toilet paper on his wound, then extracted a metre of dental floss from the plastic container. Pulling back his lips like a crazed ape, he began to floss, jamming the minty thread between his teeth, working it back and forth and yanking it out again, occasionally flicking bits of food onto the mirror. He then brushed his teeth. Twice. He swirled mouthwash around, gargled and spat into the sink.

The last stage of the battle had been reached. Bryan pulled the cap off a bottle of deodorant and, raising his arm like a victorious warrior, pumped a spray of fragrant liquid into his hairy armpit. For good measure, he pumped again. The bottle emitted a light farting noise. It was empty.

“Damn!” said the knight for the second time. He sneaked into his mother’s bedroom and searched among the few bottles and jars on her dresser until he found an anti-perspirant stick with a wildflower depicted on the front. He applied a thick layer to his unprotected armpit, added some to the sprayed side, added more to the first
side. He went into his room, flapping his arms to dry the sticky varnish. Then he dressed, taking twenty minutes to create the impression that he had tossed on his clothing on the way out the door. He took a long, deep breath and wished himself luck.

As Bryan left the house, Jimmy yelled, “Lookin’ good, nephew. She’ll love ya. Especially the toilet paper on your lip!”

W
hen Bryan bounded into the kitchen for breakfast one Saturday morning a week or so later, Jimmy was dishing out three portions of his famous Eggs James — a concoction of scrambled eggs, onions and tomatoes that looked like a modern painting on the plate. Iris was pouring coffee.

“Mom,” Bryan said as he took his seat, “could you do me a small tiny little favour?”

Iris gathered her hair together at the nape of her neck and clipped a plastic barrette around it. “Sure,” she said, throwing her arms out wide. “But first you have to tell me how you like my new T-shirt.”

On the front of her bright green shirt “
ORCA SOUND RAINFOREST
” was embossed in darker green on a white conifer.

“It’s nice, Mom, except that the colours are a bit mixed up. Most of the trees around here are green. What’s it all about?”

“A few of us around town have formed a committee
to try and convince the provincial government to declare Orca Sound a natural preserve. You know, so we can protect the old-growth rainforest. Some of the animals and plants here are unique in the world. Did you know that?”

“That’s real nice, Mom. Now about —”

“I’d like to hear what the big logging companies like MFI will have to say about your committee,” Jimmy said, his mouth full of eggs and toast.

“Who gives a damn
what
MFI thinks,” Iris shot back.

“Um, before you guys start your daily argument, could I get any answer, Mom?”

Iris smiled. “Sorry. What’s the favour?”

“Could you look over the essay I wrote for Richmond?”

“Ah, the I-failed-the-test-so-I-had-to-write-an-essay essay?’ Jimmy said.

“Uncle, you’re going to be wearing these eggs if you don’t watch it. And, yes, that’s the essay. Anyway, Mom, can you check the spelling and grammar and stuff? Don’t change any of the facts, even if you don’t agree with them, okay? Richmond’s husband works for MFI and she thinks the company walks on water.”

“So does the company. Okay, leave it in the family room.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

The kitchen door banged open and Walter shambled in, kicked off his rubber boots, poured himself a coffee and sat down.

Walter was a Nootka who lived with an ancient Irish setter named Dog in a trailer next to Norm’s Bed ‘n Breakfast. Before Jimmy had moved in, Walter had done odd jobs for Iris — a convenient but embarrassing state of affairs because Walter would not let Iris pay him. He had adopted her and Bryan and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

“Eggs, Walter?” Jimmy asked, pushing the bowl in Walter’s direction without waiting for a reply.

“Don’t want to put you to no trouble.”

“No trouble, old friend,” Iris said.

The ritual now performed, Walter silently ate. Over second cups of coffee, as Jimmy filled the kitchen with cigarette smoke, Walter commented, “Got some tourists on board today.”

In his late fifties, Walter had spent most of his life on the sea or in the bush, so that the skin on his craggy face and calloused hands was leathery and dark. He was tall, heavy and arthritic and, as Iris once said not unkindly, he moved in slow motion. Walter owned an old fishing boat, and when necessity caught him by the throat or when a spirit moved him, he would put to sea. Sometimes he would hire out as a water taxi, when people could find him; sometimes he trapped crabs until he had enough money for a while, then quit until it ran out; and sometimes, when the whales were migrating — in March and October especially — he’d take tourists out to see them.

“That’s good,” Iris said. “Nice day for it. Looking for
whales, are they?”

“Yep. Got six people this time.”

Walter was a man with a profound belief in silence. It was not unusual for him to come into the house, sit down with Iris and watch TV for an hour, then say “Gotta be goin’” and shuffle out the door, those three words having been the sum total of his oral communication. Nor did he take a head-on run at a topic when he did have something to say.

A few minutes and several sips of coffee later he added, “Lotta work, six people.”

“Sounds like you could use a little help today,” Jimmy suggested, looking at Bryan, who sometimes helped Walter out when his arthritis stiffened his fingers so much it made handling and baiting the crab traps difficult.

Bryan took the hint. “I wouldn’t mind going along, if you’ve got the room. I’ve never seen whales close up.”

Walter nodded to no one in particular. “Always got room for my best crabber.”

“Do you have room for two?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes and said to his sister, “Ain’t romance wonderful?”

“Mind your own beeswax,” Bryan said when Iris giggled.

“Pretty big boat,” Walter said.

Bryan figured he was probably the only person in Nootka Harbour who had not, at some time of his or her life,
taken a trip out into the deep blue waters of the sound to see the greys, humpbacks or orcas. On the interest scale, whales ranked up there with watching paint dry or taking a walk to White’s General Store to try on gloves. Twice a year tourists flooded into town from across Canada, the U.S. and even from Europe, to study the leviathans migrating north or south.

Now, here he was, blinking in the late-morning sun as he helped Walter get his weather-beaten but well-cared-for boat ready for just such a trip, looking forward to a day on the water with Ellen. As the customers — three middle-aged German couples decked out in new parkas and matching watch caps and hiking boots — climbed on board, Ellen swooped onto the dock on her mountain bike, dismounted, and locked it to the lamp post. Bryan introduced her to Walter, who grunted a greeting and fired up the diesel.