The Man Game (36 page)

So wild, tweeted Minna at the idea of what Silas was on about. She straightened her back; craven eyefuls of her bust; file under Kat's dreamlife.

I said, The facilities sure are on a wonked angle, don't you think?

We don't use
that
bathroom, said Silas.

I told you to use the one in the master bedroom, said Cedric.

I didn't hear you say that.

As I was saying, said Silas to Minna, the man game is a competition to see who leads.

Cedric was reading a magazine that featured teenage girls from the city dressed as ranch hands. He didn't so much gaze or study the magazine as adjudicate. When something about a scenario displeased him he thrashed to the next page.

You want to force your opponent to do your move.

So the points are a distinction, not the purpose, of the game? I asked.

What?

I mean in contrast to …, I said, and muttered the rest: In contrast to modern dance.

'The fuck? said Cedric, flapping the glossy pages of the magazine together in irritated disinterest. Modern fucking …? What? Who
are
you, Kat, who?

I'm here, I said.

Whose house is this? asked Minna.

It's mine, said Ken.

Why is it decorated like—old people style?

My granddad got pneumonia in the hospital after a bypass, and a couple years later my grandma died of cirrhosis. They left me the house. I kept the place because I always liked it here.

Who keeps it so clean? I asked.

Silas tossed his head this way and that, said: Mothers, sisters, girlfriends.

Ken said: We don't drink either, so.

Cedric said to me: I drink. I drink constantly. Name a combination I drink it. Powerjuice with vodka. Vodka with rum. Rum with champagne. Champagne with grapefruits.

So who lives here? said Minna, ignoring him. Just you, Ken?

I also live here till I get my life together, said Silas.

Ken picked his nose in front of everybody as he read the liner notes on the back of a twelve-inch record cover. The title was: I
Heart
Airplane Noise.

Are we listening to airplane noise right now? I asked.

I bought it at the flea market.

Cedric said: What you are looking at, guests, is two poor folks. These boys are netting single-digit incomes. Silas is
hoping to parlay the man game into a lucrative endorsement contract with a major carbonated energy juice brand.

That's right, said Silas, presumably in-joking. First I have to invent Powerjuice, he said, and after that become its spokesperson.

Spokes
man
, Silas. You
can
call yourself a spokesman. No one's going to think you're sexist for calling yourself a man.

Silas didn't answer.

Until he can stuff his mattress with filthy lucre, Cedric added, he sleeps in Ken's room. Ken, I should add for purposes of clarification, sleeps in the master bedroom.

The man game?

It's called that.

I'm sorry, baby, Cedric said to me not Minna, no women allowed.

Gazing away away, away from it all, I noticed handprints on the ceiling.

Of the two, Silas, the taller bigger hairier one, seemed denser on first impression. Ken, though smarter, was more insane. They treated each other like brothers, ones who trusted each other, whose rivalry was based on an unbreakable bond.

You can't fool a brother. Brothers can't be lied to. You can't hide from the facts a life, eh. You can't hide from your family,
Sammy
. No matter how far across the country you go, even to the farthest reaches a humanity, living among the lowest most base filth a humankind, he said.

Dunbar sat crossed at the knee, smoking, and without so much as a pause to take a breath (so it always seemed to Sammy), he began to describe in arduous detail a stalwart father and an aged, ailing mother. Millicent Erwagen, born 1816, a healthy child in her youth until her own father died of a wild rash, then she herself became weak, easily fainted, and indeed the mother Sammy knew growing up was always prostrate and dying, had been now going on thirty years or more. Dunbar rattled off the problems. He never doubted her
condition. Never mind the cracking, seeping blisters, he said, the humorous pallor of her dry dusty skin, the dizzy spells, the loneliness, her dying wish, need I remind you, is to set eyes on her baby Sammy one more time before she leaves this earth. Lord, her baby boy who won't get up the pluck to answer pleading telegrams. No reply. What did you do with the letters? And your personal manservant, added Dunbar, is the mailman.

Sammy was swaddled in a Hudson's Bay blanket to keep him warm while he sat in his wheeled chair. His face was all by itself atop the wool cocoon, exactly as the tipplers in New West' had promised. A head without a body. His brother's wife Molly had vanished after their first greeting three hours ago, and there'd been no sign of her since then. Dunbar looked at the bottom of his empty tumbler, rolling one final drop of scotch along the edge, back and forth, until it seemed to vanish. He said: I'm absolutely mortified by your state a affairs. Where's your wife anyhow? What kind a society is this where your wife's not present?

Sammy let him jaw on for a while longer. He knew his brother. What a mouth. There was no regaining these wasted minutes. Playing dead was the best you could hope for. Sammy was in no mood. He didn't tolerate unexpected guests, family least of all.

How dare you conceal all your misfortunes from me?

My wife is on important business, and I have some a my own that needs attending, if you please.

What kind a important business does a wife have? Tending to her cripple, I should think. It's as dark as midnight out there, by god. Brother you don't know this city at night. Everywhere I looked, Chinamen. Hopeless starving Chinee on every corner, with pigtails and yellow eyes and fangs. Like wildcats. Not entirely human. Savage life on your streets. I witnessed it. You don't see the hunger in their eyes, Sammy. Stuck in your chair. It smells of them. This is no place for an unaccompanied lady, and—

When Dunbar paused for a breath, Sammy said: We don't have room for you. You'll have to find somewhere else to stay to-night.

Dunbar relit his cigar. It had the acidic coal-black smell of legendary Ontario tobacco, slave-picked. Father Erwagen sent Dunbar cigars. He sent Sammy telegrams. Dunbar clacked shut the lighter and regarded its silver case. Molly had bought it for Sammy as a first wedding anniversary gift. Engraved on one side was the word
olam
and on the other side
Samuel & Molly
. I had no intention of staying with you, Dunbar said. I made other arrangements a course. In advance. Won't you answer any a my questions?

I sincerely doubt it, brother.

Stubborn as ever. I can't see how this outpost could be sensitive to the needs a your dear young bride, said Dunbar. Ladies need to socialize with other ladies, don't you agree? Her health, I trust that she's doing well in the climate. Although in Spain, their winters still have the cold and damp.

She's not
from
Spain.

Dunbar pretended not to hear, fetched a tidbit on his tongue, dabbed it away on the ashtray, said: You know, after the in
i
tial shock, I'm not saddened to see you. I've always known fate was against you. Didn't I tell you when you were just my little bratty brother that you were destined for punishment?

But
you
were the punishment, Dunbar. That was always going to be my destiny around you.

So long as you cut yourself off from your family you'll continue to be
pun
ished. I know what your situation is, Sammy. I can help turn you around. Take you home, first, and see your ailing Mother, see your
family
, get some rest. Clean you up, let you grow your moustache back. I'm sure the paralyzed part a you is temporary. I'm certain. It hasn't affected your vitals has it? Whatever has you numb—. If we take you to see Dr. Billings you're certain to make a full recovery. The doctors
here
aren't aware a the newest advancements in medicine. You live here in this little hell in your condition with a wife who—, and the Chinaman within
spit
-ting distance, and all these ailments?
I don't understand you. Why won't you at least speak your mind? Don't be a coward. I'm your brother for God's sake. Come to your senses.

If I had anything to say to you I would.

What aboot
ai
ling Mother?

Sammy whisked the issue away silently.

I'm going to tell Father.

It's not your place to interfere, Sammy said.

It is my place, brat, absolutely my place. You're still such a brat, aren't you?

Sammy's face was unmoved.

I'm your brother.

You've tried to be my
father
, said Sammy, but I don't remember you ever tried to be my brother.

Then, as if a rhetorical fog was cleared, the grandfather clock chimed eight—hours had passed and Sammy was still facing down the intrusion of his brother. Not another moment went by before Sammy heard the one-armed drunk outside on the street singing in the woods, probably on his route lighting the lamps. Dunbar's demeanour quickly changed. No longer was he impatient. Now he was ready to go. The bell chiming had the effect of rousing him to his feet, and as quickly to the door. Instead of shaking hands, the brothers merely regarded the other with disgust.

Good night, brother, said Dunbar.

Sammy blinked.

Clough's voice, even through the shut door, was the loudest frog of all the nights' choir, and running behind schedule to light the lamps. He was, among so many other things, never on time. Without another parting word between them, Sammy watched Dunbar turn his houndstooth collar up against his cheek as he stepped quickly down the porch then along the planks to the street and, in a run, disappear. It was dark but the temperature was unexpectedly warm for January. A purple cloud had descended across the city over dinner
and, once bundled, started to warmly fog it up. The weather couldn't have been better for the night's man game, thought Sammy with some dismay. He and Toronto waited awhile longer, on the porch, to finish a smoke.

Right to send him from home, said Toronto. He not your brother.

I only wish I'd known that as a boy, said Sammy.

Dunbar didn't know where to run. He ran, that's all. A lot of pride, no money, where did that take him on these vile streets in these ruined shoes? He'd have to book himself into some flea-bitten hotel over a saloon and sleep to the sound of billiard balls clacking like skulls. Where was he going? He lost his bearings and was out of his mind with fear even before hearing the gun blast through the trees with a flash that briefly exposed a wide logging path only two yards from his left foot, where he saw an Indian man soar down the incline towards him and around a corner into the trees and the po-lice following in hot pursuit, yelling ahead to Dunbar: Where'd he go, buddy? Where'd he go, eh?

What? What? He went—

They ran into the forest yelling: Halt, it's the po-lice, halt.

Halt.

He stood there in rigid worry. He lost track of time. Eventually he heard the police thrashing their way back to the road, gasping for breath. When they reached the edge of the woods, Dunbar saw they had the Indian worse for wear.

Thanks, buddy, said the po-lice and tipped his hat to Dunbar as he and his partner dragged the perp down the road to the city jail. He killed a man, the po-lice said, broad daylight. Poor Siwash, I don't blame him. A cuckold. They held the murderer under the armpits.

A crime a passion, hollered the broken Indian.

The po-lice turned back to Dunbar and said: Say, are you hurt?

I'm new to town. I don't know where to get some rest.

Take this road down three blocks, turn left you'll see a house with this bright red lantern. That's Wood's. Peggy will set you up.

Thank you.

The Indian's head was hanging back; then, after further beatings, it slopped to one side, bleeding, and rolled down towards his chest as the po-lice dragged him along.