Sweeter Life (29 page)

Cyrus shook his head. “This is nice the way it is,” he said. “Just the three of us. I’ll visit her tomorrow.” Then he stared into his lap, a sense of shame washing over him. The mere mention of his brother had sounded like a judgment. Cyrus had failed at everything so far, even the most basic requirements of love and duty. It was shocking how little he had thought about any of them.

They went into the living room, and because Ruby’s concern was so palpable, he began to tell them about the curious path he had taken, only slightly guilty that he made the travel sound more exotic, the work more meaningful, his life more noble and decisive. The whole point of the story was to allay their fears. In the end, though, a life in the music business was not a tale they could relate to, and he was relieved when they pulled out the photo albums.

He loved the older shots in particular, the ones taken before or shortly after he was born, of Clarence and Ruby standing in front of their ’48 Ford pickup or making cider with the windfalls, of everyone posed together on the front steps at a family do. The photos of his parents were almost too much to bear. He set aside two of them—one of his father in dress pants and a sleeveless undershirt, doing chin-ups on a tree branch; and one of Cyrus and his mother on the garden swing. What the photos didn’t show was the feel of his father’s strong back or the sound of his mother’s singing.

He held the two photos in the air and said, “Mind if I take these? I don’t have any pictures of them.” And that confession, more than the photos themselves, brought a lump to his throat.

Clarence picked up another snapshot, from the last time Cyrus had visited. It was a picture of Eura and Cyrus standing beside the Ford Fairlane. “What about your friend?”

Cyrus looked down at his shoes until he had summoned his courage. “In a way,” he said, “that’s why I’m here. We’ve had some trouble.”

He had expected the usual reaction, the “Hank reflex” that everyone showed at the first sign of a problem, an emotional distance that might properly be called self-preservation. Instead, they leaned forward, their faces warm with concern. He said, “She needs help. Her teeth, she’s being poisoned, I think. And the pain. The dentist we went to, we just don’t have the money. That’s why I came back for the guitar. I had to pawn my other one. Everything’s a real mess.”

Ruby and Clarence exchanged glances. Then Ruby said, “You know, Cyrus, I’m upset you would wait so long to ask for help. Don’t you know you can always turn to us?”

“I didn’t want to,” he said.

Clarence shook his head in disbelief. “You Owens are something else. Never had a pot to piss in and still too proud to ask for help. When your folks were having trouble with Hank there, me and Ruby offered to help pay for counselling, you know, a psychiatrist even, but Riley, what a stubborn fool he was. And then after your folks died, we offered Isabel our home and our support, and she turned her nose up. Even after she moved out, we offered to pay for her education, but no sir, she wanted nothing to do with
us. And here you are, your friend suffering who knows what, and you’re too goddamned stubborn to come ask for help. What in God’s name is wrong with you people?”

Cyrus looked across the room at the grandfather clock, at Ruby’s table of knick-knacks. “Thing is, me and Izzy actually used to sit in the barn and talk about how nice it would be to live here with you two. But everything changed when Mom and Dad died. I don’t know, I guess Izzy was too old, already a person maybe.”

“She was just a girl,” Ruby countered.

“Yeah, well, I know now how she must have felt. And it’s just like you said, Clarence. But when you come from a family of losers, the last thing you want to admit is that you’re a loser, too, you know?”

Ruby crossed the room and sat beside him on the sofa. “You’re not a loser, honey. Don’t ever say that.”

NEXT MORNING
, Ruby handed him a cheque for a thousand dollars. He looked at it soberly, solemnly, and said, “I don’t need this much.”

“Then buy yourself something nice.”

And suddenly he remembered another day, another cheque, and the consequences that followed. He wondered if every life had recurring themes, identifiable riffs. Did everyone hear their lives changing key, changing tempo, moving inexorably to the bridge?

After a quick breakfast he headed downtown to see Isabel’s new office, a modern glass building of irregular shapes and open spaces and improbable potted plants. He spotted her immediately. She was walking briskly, holding a stack of files; but the minute she set eyes on him, a calm came over her, like a studio musician when the take is over, her smile a mixture of happiness and surprise and, more than anything, relief.

She dragged him to her private office and closed the door. The last time she’d seen him he’d been on top of the world, strutting like a peacock; and she had wanted to strangle him. What she saw now, however, gave her no satisfaction. “Look at you,” she said. “You’re a wreck.”

“You, on the other hand, look like a million bucks. Clarence says you’re a big wheel.”

She moved behind her desk. “Someone in this family had to make something of themselves. Christ, you look like a bum. Don’t you ever clean yourself up?”

“I had a shower just this morning, in fact. But look at you, eh? Madame Rockefeller.”

She leaned back in her chair, studying him. “I thought that woman of yours would whip you into shape. You two still an item?”

“We’re together, yeah. That’s why I’m here. Eura needs an operation, and I came to see if I could borrow some money till we get back on our feet.” When Isabel opened a desk drawer and pulled out a cigarette, he said, “Still haven’t given up the cancer sticks, I see.”

“It’s the giving up I’ve given up.” She took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke straight at the ceiling. Looking at him again, she said, “I’m sorry to hear about your friend. Of course I’ll help. How much do you need?”

“Ruby already gave me a thousand. That’s plenty.”

She reached into her desk again, pulled out an expensive-looking fountain pen and wrote a cheque for a thousand dollars. “Give Ruby her money back,” she said. “It’s time we started looking after ourselves.”

He tucked her cheque into his shirt pocket and patted it a few times for safekeeping. “So what’s the latest from Hank?”

She tossed him her house keys. “Go see for yourself.”

He sat up sharply, wondering why Ruby hadn’t mentioned this. But then, of course, she had—he had simply misunderstood. He shook his head and said, “I never thought the parole board would give him a break.”

“Third time lucky, I guess. I drive him to Hounslow once a week to meet with his case officer, and he lives with me.”

“You’ve got more nerve than I do.”

“He’s a pussycat, really. When he’s ready, he’ll get his own place.”

CYRUS LET HIMSELF IN
through the front door. There was no sign of his brother in the living room, so he tiptoed over to the den, where he could hear the television. Sure enough, Hank was in his wheelchair, within arm’s reach of the set and watching the noon news. He was glassy-eyed and unshaven, his hair pulled back in a ponytail. The initials on his cheeks had faded a bit
but were still legible. The unmistakable aroma of marijuana hung in the air.

Without turning, Hank said, “You’d never make a good thief, bro.”

“Yeah, well, Izzy warned you, that’s why.” He leaned against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest. “She’d be royally pissed if she knew you were smoking up like this on parole.”

“A little recreational weed. Give me a break. How’d you like to be stuck here watching TV all day?”

“You’re on parole, dickhead. They’ll throw you back in prison. And what about Iz? Haven’t you messed up enough for one lifetime?”

“Nice to see you, too, little brother.”

Cyrus opened the back door and stood there swinging a tea towel above his head until the air cleared a bit. That was enough to change the mood, too. When he sat down, they started over.

Hank gave Cyrus the up-and-down and, settling back in his wheelchair, said, “I wouldn’t be pointing too many fingers if I were you, little brother. All that sex and drugs and rock and roll, you’re looking a little worn out.”

Hank had always been sensitive to bullshit, so Cyrus didn’t bother to embellish the truth. He described as clearly as he could the dismal nature of his life after Jim, the pathetic slide down the musical food chain so that, at bars like the Laredo, he was playing music he hated for people he despised and making next to nothing for the privilege. They had no money in the bank. No apartment. Just the few clothes in their suitcase. A beat-up car that was on its last legs. “If it wasn’t for Eura,” he said, “I’d have nothing.”

Hank looked at him with an air of indifference. “Don’t be whining to me, kiddo. You don’t know what nothing is till you’ve been in my shoes.”

Cyrus nodded. No matter how bad your situation might be, there was always someone in worse shape, and in his life that someone had always been Hank. “What about you?” he said. “Got any plans?”

“I got things I’m working on.”

“Such as …”

“Things. You know.”

“Things as in a job? A wife? What?”

“Opportunities.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes with exasperation, then got up to make them some
coffee. Opening cupboard after cupboard with growing bewilderment, he said, “There’s nothing here. What do you eat?”

“Iz stops for takeout on the way home. I eat the leftovers the next day.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Well there you go. The thing I miss most on the road is real food: Ruby’s desserts, the way Mom used to bake chicken, remember? Eura, too. Sometimes she talks about the meals her mother used to make, and it’s like torture, so she drags me to these restaurants we can’t afford. But man—” he shook his head again “—I’d never live this way if I had a house. What in hell is she up to?”

“Hey, I’m the same. Food, it’s just fuel as far as I’m concerned. Gimme a pill I’d be just as happy.”

It was one of the great mysteries to Cyrus how three people born of the same flesh could have so little in common. True, there were uncountable disparities between an only child and a third child. And Cyrus had been the only sibling to benefit from the gentle influence of Clarence and Ruby. Still, he was amazed the Owens could share so little.

Cyrus hauled his brother out for some fresh air and a bite to eat. On their way back they were approached by Gordie Spinks astride a great hulking Harley. Gordie had a long red beard and shoulder-length hair topped with a Nazi helmet. Metal studs spelled out “Satan’s Wrath” on the back of his leather jacket, which he left open to make room for his belly.

“Hey there, Hoho,” he said in a raspy voice, “what’s the verdict?”

Hank lazily scanned the street as if he needed to look at something a bit more interesting. “I’m thinking about it,” he said.

Gordie tugged on the chinstrap of his helmet and said, “Tell you what. Don’t be thinking too long is my advice.” Then he roared away.

Cyrus didn’t say anything until they were back inside the house and sitting comfortably in the den. He clasped his hands behind his head and, in a voice of weary sarcasm, said, “So, let me get this straight, these ‘opportunities’ you were talking about, they involve Gordie Spinks? Are you out of your mind? You shouldn’t even be talking to someone like that.”

“Who else am I gonna talk to? You see the Chamber of Commerce asking me to lunch? You see anybody offering me a job?”

Cyrus went limp with disbelief. “To begin with,” he said, “you’ve got it
backward, the way you get everything backward.
You
find the job, the job doesn’t find you. And what, you’re surprised the Chamber of Commerce isn’t interested in you? Why would they be?”

“So I’m stuck with Gordie.”

“Only because that’s the easy thing to do.”

“You don’t know Gordie.”

“I know him well enough to know you’re screwed if you start playing his kind of game.”

Hank looked away. “It’s not what you think.”

Cyrus pulled the wheelchair around so they were sitting knee-to-knee. “Okay, never mind what I think. Why don’t you tell me what it is.”

“It’s too complicated.”

“Try me.”

Hank looked out the window at cold sky the colour of an eggshell and said, “I needed to clean up a few things when I got out. Gordie helped me, and now I’m paying him back. Piddly-ass shit. You know.”

“What, like dealing?”

“No, Jesus, what do you take me for? It’s just a couple of favours, then he’ll be off my back. Don’t sweat it.”

Cyrus laughed bitterly. “You’ve got a real talent there, Hank. Every time you open your mouth I hear famous last words.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, you fuck off and listen to
my
famous last words. You do anything that hurts Izzy, and I swear I’ll never forgive you. And let’s face it, without me and Iz and the Mitchells there isn’t a single person on this planet who cares whether you live or die.”

“Yeah, well,” Hank said, “your caring means a helluva lot to me …”

Twenty minutes later Isabel came home and found the two of them sitting gloomily at opposite sides of the room, watching
Jeopardy
. “Whoa,” she said, “this is a cheery group.”

She had a bag of Chinese food, four aluminum dishes with cardboard lids, which she set around the dining room table. There were spareribs and chicken balls with sauces sticky as cough syrup, fried rice, stir-fried vegetables and fortune cookies. She opened a bottle of white wine and
poured herself a glass. Then she fetched plates and cutlery from the kitchen and began to help herself.

Cyrus was the first to move. He poured himself some wine and popped a chicken ball into his mouth. While he chewed, he nodded toward the den where Hank was still hunched in front of the television. In a half whisper, he said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

She cleared her throat and then wiped her mouth with a serviette. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you. This music business of yours seems to be getting the better of you.”

“It’s Hank, I mean.”

“I know what you mean, Cy. I wasn’t born yesterday. I smell the pot in his hair. I’ve seen the people he meets. I know, I know, I know.” She shot a fierce look at the den and then back at her plate. “But what am I going to do, kick him out? His case worker, Jesus, the guy is a case all right. So no help there. What am I going to do?”