This All Happened (7 page)

Daphne had confessed to eating things in grocery stores. She will not buy an orange before she pokes her finger through one to taste it. Lydia says she does the same with peaches.

Lydia had asked Max for a light. And for a second I am jealous. But also, in as brief a moment, I am assured she is committed. I realize jealousy knows no bound. That I could think of a moment when Lydia and Max were sexual.

What I love of Lydia is that her head is full of new, unfinished thought. No complete ideas, always renovating opinion. She has conviction, yet she can be converted, if she believes your evidence.

Daphne tells us a story of a horse she had as a child that got into the grain grain that hadnt been watered.

Daphne: I had to pull that mare off the ground. And walk it around Brigus. The field arcing up and the sky bending down, tugging this horse around to save it.

I'm going to use this detail in the novel.

Talking about the past, Max says. It's like sewing a fabric and pushing the needle through two thicknesses, through both sides of the cloth. His father, Noel Wareham, is going blind. When Max visits, his dad asks him to thread all the needles.

27      Snow is melting under mounds like sudden child pee. Bold shadows thrown onto things, firm and sure of themselves.

The southside hills wear a mist that makes them look gigantic. Patches of snow in the dips. Fog and the sea beyond. I like watching weather work in the distance.

28      I lay a tray of frozen chicken in the fridge to thaw. I am a fervent believer in letting nature do work for you. And conserving energy. I've left a casserole dish to soak in the sink overnight, so it's easy to clean now. I am a patient man.

The harbour a cold deep marble blue, blue of blood in the veins, starved of oxygen, water so cold and dense the oxygen is squeezed out, the blue of hydrogen.

I walk to the library. I choose microfiche film of newspapers from March, 1914. Knowing what the news will be. That the preliminary reports are optimistic. There are hints to the disaster. A novelist uses foreshadow. Whereas a newspaper's reports are never infused with such prophecy. The sealers are missing. Now the sealers are dead. On a day like today.

29      Oliver Squires invites me to play snooker. I'm so surprised that I agree. He'll meet me there at nine.

It's hard to talk around a snooker table. It's five dollars an hour, so we spend about two dollars of time just talking. Oliver holding his pint carefully, the blue tip of his pool cue leaning on his shoulder. He says, I called Maisie but she's out. Hadnt heard from her. I see her walking to her car and she calls out, she's friendly, but I'm low-key. And she pounces on this. She's had a hard day, not a second to call me. About Una.

Oliver says, I know youre Maisie's friend, but I appreciate your listening.

Maisie, when she found Oliver low-key, started to yell. Why dont you go fuck yourself. That's what she yelled. I dont want to have to deal with that kind of attitude.

Me: I'm thinking how lucky I am. This morning I was served a peeled banana and coffee in bed. A nice lingering kiss. And Lydia called me to say I never did tell you, but it's great that you paid off your student loan.

Oliver: I never did get that kind of appreciation.

She's upset at you.

Maisie's upset it didnt work out.

She's upset about the rumours.

I can't stop rumours.

Me: Let's call her now.

You think so?

Yes, let's do it.

Oliver calls and says hi, expectantly. I'm leaning against the wall, holding our pints. He says, Maisie, do you think we'll get along okay? Youve forgiven me?

He nods at me.

How am I? Well, I'm just startled at the ferocity of your anger.

No, no, no, I mouth, and spill the pints. But by now the phone is a foot away from Oliver's ear and even then you can hear her.

30      Oliver Squires, Lydia says, is a cynic. Yet he's a purveyor of honesty. He has a way of using phrases that are not cliche but are found in phrase books, a conversational gambol using more intelligent cliches. He likes the word peccadillos. He uses words like malfeasance and anomie and confesses to lacking secular connections.

Lydia: He has a wicked tongue. If you hurt him he will betray you.

Me: I left him still pacing the snooker table. Bewildered that Maisie has left him. And then, almost in the same breath, he's perplexed that the Canadiens can't seem to score goals in March. There is no variation in the weight he puts on problems.

Lydia: Men are like that.

31      Sometimes, to be squeezed shoulder to shoulder in a kitchen party, the frenetic energy of bodies, the physical pull and tug and unanimous decision to be frenzied and fun and enjoy being incarnate. Earl Quigley is back from a conference in Santa Fe, and he is telling me about the true size of the universe. This is the man Lydia spent four years of her life with. I've had a few, so I can relax and almost pretend I am Lydia. There is something enjoyable in being Lydia in her past life, something revealing. Then Iris interrupts to say the caplin are so small these days and they used to come in June but now they roll in July. Maisie Pye, who has decided to appear and I'm glad of that, says Random House is interested and Wilf Jardine is being encouraged to play an original. Wilf is drinking tequila, lime soda, and ice. He says, you know how they say there's a fork in the woods or you walk down the road less travelled or you can't see the woods for the trees. Well I'm saying I just went bombing down the road and never saw any woods at all.

By two the party dwindles to a fortress of stalwarts in my kitchen. I have begged Lydia not to go but she has a meeting in the morning, so I kiss her goodnight and she is sharing a cab with Maisie Pye and Craig Regular. I have watched her look at Craig Regular all night and, because he is so tall, her look can be mistaken for admiration. I return to Earl's attention. Earl is on the phone to Casino taxi, ordering rye whisky.

There are just the four of us left―Earl, Max, Iris, and me―with this twenty-six-ouncer of rye and excuse me I must piss in the garden oh what a night the double daylight breaking over Cabot Tower.

While I'm pissing Iris sits on the steps. She says an old boyfriend of hers, a marine biologist, buried a dolphin under a rose bush. This boyfriend used to bring her flowers he'd stolen from cemeteries.

I wake at noon on the living-room couch. Upstairs in my bedroom Earl and Max are snoring hard. Iris makes me a hot cup of tea with lots of canned milk and two slices of toast with butter.

April

1
Lydia had spilled wax on the sleeve of her astrakhan. She lays the coat on the floor, takes a piece of butcher paper, and irons it to the sleeve. Kneeling over the coat, sun shining branches into solids and shadows over her head. The wax melts into the butcher paper, the grease of an animal.

2        There has been an absence of wind for more than a day. How rested the trees look, the harbour. Like horses. Patient horses.

We meet Maisie down at Alex and Max's opening. Maisie is staring into the pupil of Alex's eye. The pupil dilates. Flaccid, Maisie says, should be pronounced flax-sed. And, turning to the wall of bums, says, The only two descriptions are for a penis or for prose.

She shows us a copy of the letter she sent to Michael Ondaatje. Do you think he gets many letters?

Lydia: A hundred a year.

That many?

They won't be as good as this, Maisie, but he's read all over the world.

Me: Yeah. He's bound to get a lot of mail.

Maisie's depressed by her first royalty cheque. She sold 214 books. In the letter she says to Ondaatje: My mother has a lot of friends.

She is trying to figure out how many strangers have bought her book.

We walk to the bums and try to pick out mine. There are twelve plaster moulds of bums hanging on the wall. Lydia points out mine. I see Wilf Jardine studying them, and then I know Wilf's bum is up on the wall too. It is right beside my own.

Wilf stares at his own bum. It has a taut carriage. He is sucking on a hard candy. He holds his elbow and wrist in a gay posture. He is oblivious to this.

Some tight ass on you, Wilf.

Yours is pretty nice too, Gabe.

Which is it?

Isnt it this one?

And Wilf picks out his own bum. Or is it.

3        Supper at Max's. He's blanched and roasted an entire seal carcass that his father, Noel, has sent him from Arnold's Cove. We all stare at the beast. Even Daphne.

The seal's massive, coffee-brown, steaming torso dominates the table. It's daunting to approach it with a knife.

I've never had anything but flipper pie, Lydia says.

The rib cage has thin strips of meat and the flippers are tender. It's a boiled dinner: turnip, carrot, potato, cabbage, and pease pudding. Max is delighted. He grew up sealing, and he has a set of sealing tools: a sculping knife, which separates carcass from pelt, and a flensing knife, which is used on the pelt to carve blubber from fur.

4        I study the city with binoculars. The southside hills have gone grey overnight. Like a black dog will go white around the mouth as he gets older. The toes, the tip of tail. As if the cold exhalations of winter freeze the fur white. I think it's a frost in the scalp of the hill and the sun is shining deep into it.

The wet trims on all the mansard roofs glint like shining gifts, like metal boxes that hold new hardware. Fresh hinges. Uncollected garbage. A mattress sags against a boarding house. Broken vinyl siding exposes styrofoam and the faded paint on rotting clapboard. Inside a window two men sunk in a floral couch roll cigarettes while an astonished parakeet swings in its cage. Children toss a bicycle tire over cold telephone wires. A man in a wool cap pedals up the street with a towering load of bent aluminum balanced over his front wheel, secured with rough yellow rope. He exhales over the aluminum and his breath looks like aluminum vapour.

The aluminum flashes in the sun, and the streets are bone dry. Thirsty streets, salt stinging the sidewalks. When dogs begin to hunker down and chew their paws.

I open the window and smell boiling fat. A slow, glacial grease slips down the sidewalk from the backs of fish-and-chips shops. Liquid copper slides out of the eavestroughs on Gower Street United. Staining the sidewalk green.

A light dry snow wafting. With the shadows sitting under their objects.

Mere description.

5        Max stalks around the snooker table, analyzing percentages. His forearms toned from constant heavy carpentry work. He has an exquisite long shot. The quiet green acre of snooker cloth. He is reverting to a former life. He has made money shooting pool. He wipes the palms of his hands on the stubble of his scalp. His jeans have a hole worn in the back pocket that reveals a corner of his black wallet.

His firm bridge on the nap. The puny pool tables have an eerie blue cloth in comparison, and it seems classy to pot balls that have no numbers.

6        Remembering how Max had said, The body is the only motor that doesnt make noise. And these furnaces of heat inside us (he points to his rib cage) if we didnt give off heat, it would seem magical for a body to be warm. All the senses are quite mysterious inventions. Max once lost his sense of smell for a few weeks after a roofing truss fell on his head.

Max: Name me the things you love about Lydia.

Her face. She has a face like a beautiful shoehorn.

Max: I wouldnt tell her that.

She laughs from her solar plexus.

Yes.

Lydia is always right and I am always wrong.

That's something to love.

It allows us to step away from argument.

What else.

She has tremendous legs, legs that will serve her well when she's ninety.

Gabe, I got to tell you.

No. I know You think I'm being unkind. Okay. I made cabbage rolls and soup and she picked out the cinnamon and the cardamom. She nailed seven distinct ingredients. And she makes these little movements of her hands to remind me to flick off all the lights.

Max: That's good. When mannerisms annoy, you know youre in trouble.

She's animated, Max. I've been seeing her for almost two years now.

Max: She says she's been seeing you just over a year.

Well, that's true. I was going out with Lydia for six months before she started going out with me.

Max: That's pretty funny. But aint it the way.

7        First iceberg of the year, drifting across the mouth of the harbour. Lydia had said, Let's play cards this Easter. Okay, I said. Nickel ante and five dollars to the table. Lydia: And the most you can raise is the Lord.

This morning I had Una up to blow eggs through pinholes. I blew my cheeks purple on the first one. Una, brandishing a brush, ready to dive on the egg, says, You sure it's empty?

Yes.

Maybe we should crack it open first and check.

8        Got home this morning and the sky was turning blue. Out with Max and Maisie. Where's Lydia, they say, and I explain she's rehearsing lines with Wilf. We end up at the after-hours boozecan, avoiding fights with a guy who wants to shove something up someone else's ass.

We tackle Max in the street until he has to tell halted taxis that it's okay, just horsing around. Wilf passes us and nods.

Fiction writers, he says. Theyre a tough crowd.

Where's Lydia?

Left her with Craig Regular, he says.

We pick up Alex at the foot of Solomon's Lane. She is fresh from the Ship, wearing a long yellow trenchcoat. She has a bunch of carnations and daisies she stole from a vase, and she's slipping them into my jacket pocket. It's a free-booze night, some ceremony, some stand on principle, and everyone who is anyone is out crawling the mild, wet streets, a bit like Dublin folded into a Paris. Europe of the twenties, when everyone is walking home with a person they shouldnt be walking with, people going home with the wrong people for one night only. Alex leans into me and we kiss against the coarse clapboard of a house (I scrape my knuckles).

Max and Maisie say, Break it up. Maisie in particular is rough with me.

Goodbye, Alex.

She slips another flower in my pocket.

And Maisie and Max haul me away.

Max walks me home. He knows which route will save us valuable steps.

9        Lydia is flipping through her old journals. In a lemon cardigan, polka-dot blue shirt, and dark green tights. I'm drunk in love with her.

I ask Lydia if she's ever lied to me. Yes. But only small things.

I confess kissing Alex and Lydia admits she kissed Craig Regular at about the same time. It's as if our confessions balance; we're stunned at the reciprocity, and we both seem renewed. Or a blurring factor, like glaucoma, has been peeled away. We drive out to Goat Cove, where a crowd has convened. A boil-up in a sheltered, stony beach on the Atlantic. I find a purple starfish for Una. She puts him back in a rock pool. It's cold but sunny. We play frisbee and climb the waterfall and eat roasted bananas. Max boils the kettle. The adults loafing about the fire, keeping warm. Max hasnt said anything about our night. He has brought his rusty Christmas tree to burn in the fire. We listen to the pull and suck of the water's ebb, remembering our mother's bellies. The tree sizzles then ignites like a lantern mantle. We are all remembering gentler times as the tide claws at stones. We all want, for a moment, to return to some simpler existence, when we were all together. Or perhaps before we were together.

10      I'm at Lydia's sketching when Daphne drops in. Lydia's not home. Daphne asks if Lydia will ever have a baby. I say, If we get married, that'll be a sign. Daphne: I can't imagine being with a man and not having children with him.

I say, Congratulations.

I draw Daphne, but I've made her mouth haggard. She says, What if I put my hand over my mouth?

I draw the hand, but you still see the mouth, so I colour it like a red glove.

Looks like I'm just about to give head, Daphne says.

She says a client down at emergency declined her service. Said it'd be too hard to work around a woman who's pregnant.

Daphne: I've been pregnant all of one month and people know.

11      Lydia spent the afternoon with Craig Regular. He asked her if she's in love. Craig's been in Seattle designing software and attending Shambhala conferences. I knew she was with him because there are two Buddhist books on the table.

He asked: Are you more in love than youve ever been in your life?

I think: What an asshole. What a shit disturber.

Lydia: I thought I'd been in love with Earl, but Craig says no one can love Earl. He says he loves the guy, but Earl's not into growth. Earl has his ego and his research and that's it. Who can grow with him? He's not interested.

Lydia thought this very interesting. But Craig likes you, she says, the feel he gets off you.

I'm sure the fucker does.

I ask what she thinks of Buddhism and what he's doing.

I wonder about the meditation, of avoiding thoughts that come to you. Perhaps, she says, it's important to look at those thoughts. Craig believes meditation allows him to understand his own processes, how he does things.

Me: I need less of that. I'm in the moment so often that I need to become more oblivious of the self. I dont need the meditative encouragement.

What I do meditate on is their kiss. When I think of their kiss, how it happened by the washrooms at the Grapevine, that Daphne probably saw it, it drives me away from Lydia. It makes me think of leaving this claustrophobic city.

12      A fresh dump of winter. Moose are caught in snow up to their necks in Bird Cove. Men on snow machines try beating a path out for them, but they have nowhere to go. The moose are bawling.

Iris and Helmut have gone to look at them. Helmut has never seen a moose. While they are gone Max calls to say there's a bull moose standing in Bannerman Park. I drive over. The moose is gobbling the pussy willows and frozen ruffage.

Helmut returns disappointed. Iris: The moose got free before we arrived.

I tell them about the moose they missed in the park.

Stories. As soon as I try to write one down, it floats away from me. Trying to get a bit of eggshell out of the mixing bowl. It scoots off and wants to be something else.

13      We wake up to the sound of rain driving back the snow.

For lunch I make cheese-and-asparagus sandwiches. Lydia has made a cake. I ask what kind of cake it is. She says, It was a cake I had on the plane from Halifax. I've had it in my mind now for a week.

Youre trying to make an airplane cake?

It was good.

14      I love my binoculars. Watching a rollerblader tack down Signal Hill Road. Then I see that it's Craig Regular. Cars brake, weave around him, using up a lot of gas on the brake and accelerate. Craig wears an orange traffic vest. He's zipping, dipsy-doodling, turning down Battery Road. He has no idea I am watching him. I am two miles from him. I would love to see a car smack into him. But he is too swift. He zooms by the last saltbox in St John's, down past the yellow guardrail, and straight to his door. I hadnt realized I can see his house.

I turn to a coast guard vessel, to read its name on the bow, but can't steady the binoculars my excited heartbeat is moving them a fraction.

15      I confess to Maisie that I have no imagination, that I have a methodical nature. It's easier to write down the present than to be present in the past.

She says, If Oliver had told me he'd slept with another woman, it might be different. But the fact is, he hid it.

Even if he'd slept with someone his own age, a peer, with the same interests, she could understand it.

Maisie: I mean, I'm not going to be the only person he could fall in love with.

Maisie says she and Oliver had friends who agreed to have affairs, as long as they didnt last and they didnt have to tell each other, but the husband got involved, long term, and eventually they divorced.

Maisie: It's the deceit that's killing me. What ever happens with Lydia, dont pull an Oliver Squires.

And what precisely is an Oliver Squires?

Lining up someone before you leave.

You might be better off telling that to Lydia.

16      Iris's cactus is blooming pink. Laundry today. Read the
National Enquirer.
The tabloids are good because often the actorsdont look their best; theyre caught in unflattering poses coming out of limos or washrooms where theyve sneezed or done a line. They look tired, startled, worn.