Night in the World, page 20
The night’s warm and inviting. Justin sets up camp on the lowest part of the back deck. He takes a few slugs from the flask he rolled into his bedding, grapefruit juice with vodka to help him ease off Xanax.
Naomi visits once he’s lying down. “How is it?”
“Brilliant. You’re brilliant.” I love you, he wants to add, but doesn’t. Those words were part of a relationship now exploded, and might or might not return to them again.
Saying goodnight, she turns off the deck lights. Soon he becomes aware of the yard’s other occupants: birds cheeping, and a spotted cat who creeps onto the deck and freezes in surprise before trotting away.
In contrast to his dream, where the darkness felt suffocating, here there’s a sense of release. Overhead lies the Big Dipper, and a thin yellow moon gleams through the trees. Drifting clouds and the city’s murmur create a continual gentle motion, and like a child being swung in a cradle, his eyes glaze over.
During that first night outside he wakes often, but not from bad dreams. Each time things are a little different: the sky clears, the stars change positions, the moon sets. Once he’s woken by a cool stream of air blowing on his face, although the night remains warm. Puzzled, he feels his nose and chin: the cold’s still on his skin. It had felt like the breath from the ice when he drank the glass of juice.
At dawn a faint steam rises and the bedding feels damp. In a room nothing changes unless you change it, but outside, things always shift. Flow, movement — and no nightmares. Maybe he’s been the one exuding vapours? Maybe outside his stress actually goes somewhere instead of choking up the room.
Naomi’s suggestion is so successful that he continues backyard camping. After the first night his sleeps deepen, and even when he wakes up for a while in the small hours, he doesn’t mind, for the quality of the sleep itself has changed: it’s less like conking out, more like a draught of fresh water. Once on a trip to visit his in-laws in Calgary, he and Naomi went hiking in the Rocky Mountains and he stooped to drink with his hands from a stream, the only time in his life he’s not drunk water from a tap or bottle; the act felt casual in the moment, and he thought mostly about whether the stream was really safe or might be infected with beaver fever. Yet this memory has often come back to him over the years, like the echo of a much more formative experience. It comes back to him again on the deck.
After his move outside, life returns to something more normal at Baby Point. Naomi says she doesn’t know about their marriage, she needs time. He gives it to her, satisfied to prolong a decision while he weans himself off crystal by returning to his three-day routine and reducing the Day One dose. Perhaps they really will recover. Or perhaps this is the “new normal” fantasy that things will work out — like the new normal fantasies that the economy will recover and our government is working for our best interests, the cameras and drones and security are simply there for your safety. He doesn’t know; he just wants peace.
He works, he does bullshit. Sleeps outside and kicks junk entirely. Naomi orders cushions for the new sunroom’s custom banquette built by Casey. The cushions are coming from France. He sucks it up. Soon they’ll be able to enjoy their favourite space again.
It’s during this time that Oliver calls. His message says that he and his architect are discussing house plans, and he’s meeting with a few contractors to get estimates on the job. He wants to know about the timing of the money from the Oakville house sale and such. Justin tells Naomi about it over a glass of wine.
“Oliver and contractors, that’s bad news,” he says with a groan. “Apparently the entire place is getting rebuilt, and he’s got nothing to draw on but Mom’s money. He’ll be fucked if he doesn’t find the right person.”
“The inheritance probably seems like a fortune to him,” Naomi says.
“It is.” Justin sighs. “In a sane world, it would be plenty to build the simple kind of place Oliver wants. But it’s going to be tight.”
He remembers Oliver’s visits to Ace, his look of anxious desperation. Oliver knows as much about construction as he does about building a rocket. He’s a babe in the forest, a juicy target for any shady operator who’ll inflate the costs. Oliver needs guidance. But that would entail going to meet with these contractors himself, sparring with Oliver’s ignorance and insecurities, even going out to the island, and he doesn’t have the energy or will yet to take any of this on. Plus he hates the island.
He calls him. Oliver’s pissy, like he’s surprised to hear from him at all. Justin ignores that.
“It sounds like you’ve got things really organized,” he says. “I was thinking that I could take a look at those bids for you, when they come in. I’ve had to deal with a lot of them over the years. Know what to look for.”
“I imagine it’s straightforward,” Oliver says, oblivious to how utterly, stupendously daft this sounds. “The architect recommended a few people she’s worked with and knows.”
“Well, that’s good, but you’d be surprised at what can happen. Prices can be wildly different. Some guys are experts at hidden costs, all kinds of traps you have to be on the watch for. And things just get overlooked too. Not saying that your architect and her people aren’t professional, but building is complicated. You want to comb through what you’re buying carefully before the shovels hit the ground.”
Oliver doesn’t say anything for a moment. When he does, it’s to ask about the money from the house sale. He’s being brushed off.
“Silly little prick,” Justin mutters once they’ve hung up. Little brother deserves what he gets.
IT’S A SATURDAY MORNING of heavy skies, rain predicted. Naomi’s going to Pilates, Gwynn to a friend’s birthday party. After devouring blueberry pancakes, he and Gwynn have declared a Storm Watch. They sit at the dining table, their sticky plates pushed aside.
“I hope we do storm watches at Parrybourne,” says Gwynn.
Justin looks her. So does Naomi, who’s filling her water bottle at the sink, though she quickly hides it.
“Parrybourne?”
Gwynn’s hesitation is brief, her recovery impeccable. “I mean if I ever go there.”
“Is that so?”
Parrybourne is a Muskoka summer camp with a private-school price tag that Naomi once ludicrously suggested for Gwynn. He vetoed it outright.
Naomi turns off the tap. “I enrolled her for July,” she says, as casually as she might confirm with him a plan for tonight’s dinner. “I thought it would be good for Gwynn to have a change of scene this year.”
To get away from us, her face says.
To get away from you, he hears.
Without a word, he rises and descends into his study. The transaction’s easily located: ten grand removed from their joint savings, an account he doesn’t monitor closely. Five hundred and change left.
A deep quiet befalls him as he stares at the screen. That it has come to this: lies and manipulation for such petty decisions. He remembers Naomi’s mockery of him on the phone. This lack of trust is an illness, a disease between them.
He used to know better.
How many of his so-called neighbours send their brats to Parrybourne? To hang out with other rich kids taught tennis and yoga and photography by industry professionals. What bothers him about such a place isn’t just the price tag — it’s this aspiration toward a rotten symbol, a rotten dream: a royal, white-linened cult of superiority. What was he thinking? Hasn’t this proven its falseness again and again? Isn’t it so yesterday?
“I want the receipt right now,” he says, back upstairs.
“It’s in my files — why?”
Justin tells Gwynn to wait in Naomi’s car. When she’s out the door, he slams it shut.
“Because she’s not going. And you will be the one to tell her that.”
“She is going. She deserves it. I get to make decisions for her too.”
He advances. “So you lie? You get our daughter to lie? What bullshit were you going to feed me when she went?”
Instead of falling to her knees, Naomi glares at him defiantly. “I was going to tell you before, of course! If I’d asked first, you would have said no.”
He wants to slap her. Burning energy courses up his back. It takes huge willpower to speak calmly. “Junkie man here is still a man, dear, still a person. We decide things together.”
She starts to argue so he advances another step and she stops, eyes glittering.
“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You’re undermining us. No, this disrespect undoes us. He pauses, his breathing heavy. “You are ignorant and arrogant. Smart, I’ll give you that. Sometimes brilliant. But also treacherous in ways you refuse to fucking own. Maybe I’ve just been way too tolerant of you.” His words feel shattering. “That money is going to be put back in the account, and we are finished. Done.”
Naomi’s eyes widen. “Done?” she says, with an incredulous smirk. He might just go nuclear if he hears more so he turns and opens the door and steps outside.
Gwynn’s moony face is bent over her phone. He slides in the driver’s seat, snaps an answer to her question. They travel to their destination in silence. It’s one thing to refuse a wish, another to take away what’s been promised. He’ll be blamed for this.
WHEN THE CAB pulls up with the Kid, Justin’s sitting in the Audi’s passenger seat. He’s been there since returning from Gwynn’s friend’s. The Kid (Sherwin!) shuffles up the driveway thumbing his phone. Chunky with sadness, as usual. Practically bashes into the car and still doesn’t notice his boss.
Justin whistles.
“Hey Mr. Leveridge.” That soft, late-night radio voice. “You’re all ready.”
“I’m so ready.”
Opening the driver’s side door, the Kid slides in. He takes in the Audi’s stitched seats and eucalyptus finish. Sets his hands upon the leather wheel with chrome stripping.
“Uh, Sherwin? You can feel the pedals through those monster running shoes, right?”
“Yes, no problem.” Twenty-three and working two restaurant jobs and living at home. No idea why this intelligent, well-mannered kid is so boxed in. One of these days, Justin’ll learn the rest of his story.
“Thanks so much for calling me,” Sherwin says. Justin nods. Tells him to ensure his phone is off. Sherwin presses a button and the screen goes dark.
After a quick orientation to the car’s controls he starts the ignition, which turns over so effortlessly it’s beautiful, and they roll out of the driveway just like that. The house recedes, just like that.
They drive toward downtown. A few drops of rain spatter the windshield on the way, but otherwise, the morning stays dry. At Dupont and Spadina Justin directs them into a convenience store lot, tells Sherwin to wait, gets out. From the sidewalk he glances back at the car. Its colour is called “Cappuccino X.” How crass it looks against the stained parking lot, before a business where employees earn minimum wage. One of his own white-linen objects, evidence of his twisted dreams.
He picks up a free daily from a newspaper box. The café isn’t far from where he and Gwynn saw the play.
Baseball cap pulled low, Fluke sits near the back staring at his phone, wires sprouting from his ears. The paper’s set out already. Justin sets his own paper down with the money tucked inside, then picks up Fluke’s.
“Hang for a minute, man.”
“Why?”
Fluke lowers his voice. “’Cause you just arrived and I want to keep using this place.”
Justin pulls out a chair. Fluke’s safer than buying from Kurt. How careless that was! Kurt needs to believe that his boss is clean.
Fluke returns to his phone. He’s another oddball: athletically poised, despite the eruption of acne and circles under his eyes; he looks like a reject from a Russian ballet academy, and maybe he is. Justin idly scans the establishment. Behind the counter a dark, kohl-eyed woman with long black hair is arranging sweets inside the display case. Painted on the wall behind her in sepia tones is a rough outline of a map. Perhaps intended to connect to the café name, Arabia, or leftover from a former business, the map shows the notched edge of a continent, while in the parchment-coloured space beyond, an old-fashioned galleon in full sail presses through a wavy line toward him.
Justin approaches to buy a pastry. Smiling, the woman retrieves it with tongs and slips it into a paper sleeve. Pride in work. She looks his age, a mother and wife, and he’s sorry he can’t smile back. From him there will be no smiles today. He’s on the other side of the glass.
He drops a few coins into her tip bowl and leaves, pressing the newspaper under his arm.
At the corner he turns north, descends into an underpass and rises again, then enters the lot under the hydro towers where he parked that winter night. Clear sightlines and no security cameras, he remembered. Hiding in plain sight works best.
On someone’s trunk he opens the paper, crumbles a bit of the crystal into the pipe’s bowl, then strolls to the lot’s rank, littered perimeter and ignites.
When he yanks the car door open, Sherwin’s fallen asleep.
“Do we need to take you home to bed?”
The young man apologizes with such shame that Justin bitch-slaps him on the shoulder. Then sighs. “Did you close up last night?” he asks, attempting to sound jovial.
“No, but I stayed up late.”
“Online?”
“Yeah. And I couldn’t sleep.”
“Ah, so you’re pie-eyed. Turn left on Bathurst.”
They drive south, pass Bloor. “I never drank coffee until I started at Ace,” Sherwin says.
“Now you drink coffee more and more.”
He grins. “And still feel tired.”
“And have bad dreams.”
Sherwin smiles politely.
At the park Justin tells him to wait for his call. Then he passes through the familiar gates.
This is right, this is his territory. He’s more identified with this triangular zone defined by the park, Walnut Avenue and Ace’s location on Queen Street than anywhere. The Walnut apartment was the first place he ever lived on his own, before, during and well after he got Ace going, a flat so small you could practically fry an egg from the shower. Yet the parties! His narrow study was often occupied by a friend who needed it and he wasn’t bothered in the least by living that way, working like mad. He was joyful.
The park’s busy, people camped on the grass and benches with takeout food and picnic lunches. He descends the steep slope into the doggie-run bowl. Away from the main dog area there’s a patch of dense foliage. He sits down there screened on the hillside and gets out his dope.
One strong haul on the pipe, two. Smoke swirls into his lungs and his heart goes crazy. Retching, holding his chest, he slumps over. The ground tilts. He turns cold, breaks a sweat. He’s going to puke.
But the surging eases, drops down.
Suddenly — violently — he has to shit.
Clutching his gut, he starts up the slope. Won’t make it! The pressure —
Wedging himself within the brush as best he can, Justin drops his pants. A long sputtering fart . . . heralds the first spurt of a thick ooze that emerges convulsively, through stabbing contractions, and puddles hotly between his feet. His anus burns. With each racking expulsion he gasps, trembling and damp with sweat, his pulse throbbing in his ears.
Then stillness, and a weak but true sense of relief. The sounds of the park return: a bicycle ticking past on the path above, the huff of a dog. Human voices too, like the chatter of birds. He’s never thought of voices like that, yet with his eyes closed he can picture a forest. How long he squats there, feet and calves straining, he doesn’t know; the evacuation recurs in waves, his gut cramping to expel more waste into the poo pool. Then blinking rest, gentle clarity, and the next build up to a spasming burst.
At last his bowels quiet, and he searches for something with which to clean himself. Finding nothing he topples forward and crawls, gets onto one knee and pulls up one pant leg, switches sides, pushes himself up.
Sherwin drives him to a coffee shop where he uses the bathroom, tossing his soiled underwear in the garbage. He washes his face, buys water and drinks it immediately. Where to next? the Kid wants to know, but he’s out of ideas. They’re parked outside the coffee shop on Queen West. Barely one o’clock, and all he wants to do is crawl under his blanket on the deck.
He takes out his wallet, counts bills and passes them across. “You can head back to work. I’ll take it from here.”
“Thanks, boss. You sure you’re okay, boss?”
Justin nods, not meeting his eyes. The Kid’s kindness could make him weep.
When he’s gone, Justin seals the windows and locks the doors. He rests his head on the glass, still in the passenger seat, and watches people pass on the sidewalk.
How could Naomi have been so stupid? Lies. Hers and his. He refuses more lies.
He holds the lump of crystal against the light. Hard to see through tears. Wipe. You did your bum, now your face.
He focuses again: the crystal is opaque, a cloud to get lost in. Only the Black Rider knows how to navigate that space.
Pain in his chest. Heaviness creeping up his arm. He’s got Pain Creep.
Justin pinches and crumbles the lump into powder, elbows the door open and sweeps it into the gutter. Shut and re-lock. Possibly never leave this seat.
His eyes flutter closed. The sun’s out now, so much for the forecast. It’s bright on his retinas, a red black. Tears, gentle and warm. Let them come, the little streams, hot then cool on his skin. He listens. All around are voices, the voices of the people of the city. Do they know they’re really people of the forest? In their noise lies music waiting to take shape. He hears it in that woman’s goofy laugh, hears it . . . It just needs to be recognized, people need to know what they can do in order to try to do it. If only he had a giant mirror, one that revealed Beauty . . .
The voices fade and return. The pain blooms in his chest now, causing a sound in his throat. And the husbands, dancing with joy as they flew . . . A line from a fairy tale he used to read Gwynn. About birds coming home to their nests, was it? Or butterflies. But there’s no such flight for him, no making it to the other side — wherever, whatever, the other side is.
