Believing Cedric (26 page)

Cedric, teeth gritted, took three quick steps toward Nathan, crumpled the front of his priceless second-hand shirt into his fist, pulled him closer, and slapped him across the face. Lightly. No sound, no damage. But a clear message nonetheless. No one interjected, said a word, even moved.

Then something odd happened. Blinking hard, Mr. Johnson gave his head a shake and began looking around the room, hungrily taking in the details, as if trying to figure out exactly where he was. Once he was satisfied, he faced Nathan again, unclenching his shirt. “So. Guess the
big slap's
already taken place then.” He stroked the crinkles in the fabric on Nathan's chest, trying to smooth them over.

The music was still blaring.

“And what was your name again, kid? Gnat or something like that. Nate?
Nathan
,” he said, ostensibly answering himself. “Nathan.” He nodded, looking around again, this time as if slightly embarrassed. “Well, Nathan. If only you knew how much that little slap I gave you, way back when, is gonna cost . . . in my life.” He shook his head. “How much it's gonna change things for me.” His brow was now creased, his posture dispirited. It was unsettling how instantly his rage had evaporated. Nathan wasn't sure if this meant more violence was about to be doled out. He took an uneasy step back.

People shifted, looked around at one another.

Melissa appeared beside Nathan. “You okay?” she asked him.

“Yeah, sure. Sure, fine.”

She gave a sheepish glance at her father, “Dad . . .” she began, in a voice barely audible above the electric guitars.

“
Oh
, Melissa,” Cedric said, “don't you worry. I'll get what I deserve. You just wait and see.”

“What?” Melissa, squinting, looked around the room, not really knowing how to proceed. She was clearly in the wrong here, but her father was reacting to that wrong in the wrongest way he could.

“I mean,” Cedric swallowed, “don't you . . . get it? I . . . I am not a great man.” He pointed a quick finger at Melissa. “But you, I think you judge me like I should be, and . . .” He threw up his hands, at a loss. Then, to everyone's surprise, he stepped forward, toward his daughter, who stiffened as if getting ready to be thrown across the room. Cedric reached out and clasped on to Melissa's right arm, grinning, then awkwardly patted her in a plainly unpractised attempt to be affectionate. After that, he turned on his heels and walked out, stopping just before the hallway to right the vase that had tipped over onto the carpet there. It was a trendy melange of dried-and-dyed reeds and seedpods, which he stuffed back into the hole haphazardly before continuing on.

Now everyone looked to Melissa's mother, Julie, waiting for her to speak, to officially break up the party, usher everyone out the front doors, call the police: whatever she felt most appropriate. But she was too busy staring at her daughter, who was busy staring back. There seemed to be a kind of nonverbal exchange taking place, which didn't concern how much trouble she was in or even about that evening or the party at all. It was something else, something bigger. And Nathan would swear it was as if an offering were being made, an alliance, a pact.

Nathan shifted, cracked one of his knuckles.

And still no one had turned off the music.

I discovered them first with my hands

then explored them in slow light

lines of down floating along her skin

a dark mist, threaded fog

Gossamer body hair

finely patterned and

pointing in directions as limply

as wind-bent grass

It spilled from her navel

seeped from her jawline

swirled her forearms

I watched it all thirstily

never telling

stealing glances on café patios

in parasol shade

hoarding the details

the velvet shimmer

These markings on a creature

both consummate and elusive

wavering between aloof and skittish

like the tracks and traces of an animal

never seen, never taken

An untouchable pelage

touched

It was the first time Melissa had ever been to the seaside, let alone lived on one. Everything she looked at was a surprise, or bizarre, seemed to have sprouted directly from the pages of an implausible science fiction novel. She was most taken with the tidal pools, stepping out among the green anemones and their orifices of filament tentacles, the tiny sculpins invisible in their camouflage, shore crabs scuttling into recesses, limbs tucking tight, the hiss of seagrapes. She liked the tracks and traces in the wet sand that adjoined the pools, the life that had ventured out of them. And the purple, orange, and maroon starfish that clung to the rocks in expressive positions, their reaching arms, shrugging shoulders, hanging heads, splayed out on the barnacle-sprinkled surfaces like sailors having just crawled onto land from a shipwreck, limp and exhausted, reduced to ragged stickmen.

Emily had asked to sit on the rooftop outside, a request that somewhat confused the waitress seating her. It wasn't a nice day, a bit cool, mostly cloudy, and considering the time, the early afternoon lull between the lunch rush and dinner rush, she would most likely be the only person sitting there: a tall woman, robust and broad-shouldered, dressed in black, the solitary living shape amid two long rows of plastic chairs and weatherproof tables. To the waitress, it had seemed like such a bad idea that she'd asked twice if she really,
really
wanted to sit outside, pointing out the available tables everywhere else, in every corner of the dining room, where she would be able to blend quietly into the stylish decor, the post-postmodern lighting, the contemporary paintings on the walls as large and appealing to look into as windows. But Emily insisted. She had her reasons.

Pulling the plastic of her chair legs over the wooden planks, she ordered a drink, wanting a glass of wine but opting for an orange juice instead, thinking of her quartet's recital in a few hours. And oh, she'd said to the waitress before she'd slipped off to the bar, giving her a heads-up, she was waiting for someone.

She sipped her orange juice and played with her watch for a quarter of an hour. She'd been early, and Cedric was late. Though consciously late. It was the way he had been the last couple weeks, trying, in his own losing way, to play the game. She knew that he was probably somewhere close by, waiting in his car, parked and pretending to listen to the news or to a classical piece on the
CBC
(something he wouldn't have been caught dead doing only seven months ago), nodding his head in time to the movement, miming interest. All in an attempt to come across not quite as desperate as he really was.

His letter had appeared in her mailbox on Friday, late morning, as if brought by the postman, though wasn't stamped.

Emily,

Okay. You're right. I know we're not a perfect match. I know there's a lot of things I'm not. Not a violinist or composer, not a poet. In fact I'm really just a normal everyday guy. But I'm also a man that's developed this incredible need for you. And it's the first time in my life that I've felt it like this.

Since we spoke, I can't sleep, can't work, can't pull myself out of bed, only because of the thought (just the thought) of not having you, there, in some way. Everything suddenly looks so plain, feels so lost and empty.

I've never written a letter like this before either. (I don't think I've ever written a letter.) So please. I just want to talk. Please. At Remy's, 3:00, Sunday. Meet me there?

Please.

C

Ironically, it was one of the few things she liked about him, the fact that he wasn't a passionate man, wasn't a poet. She'd had her lion's share of fervid lovers, even married one, and they were never, in Emily's experience, quite what they were cracked up to be.

Emily Pereda had (according to her father) married too late and (according to her mother) divorced too early. Her marriage had lasted five years in total, but they were five years that had taken their toll, left her exhausted, etched unsightly lines around her mouth and the corners of her eyes.

They'd formally met at a wedding, though she'd heard of him before, even listened to him play once. Most of the musicians in the city knew of most of the other musicians in the city—just the way it was. She'd heard his name, Shane, listed off as someone that other people had played with, and she recalled that he was purported to be a solid musician, that he specialized in early music, and that he was rumoured to be good in bed. However, at the wedding in question, she hadn't found his playing to be all that much to write home about, and while sharing a tepid bottle of house wine after their set, she'd gotten into an argument with him about how smug he'd seemed concerning his performance. When they'd finally fallen quiet, it wasn't clear who'd won, so she'd offered to continue the discussion at his place, provided he had better wine, of course. Shane hesitated a long while, plainly baffled, before agreeing.

In the months that followed she found his tactics endearing, though never quite in the way he'd probably intended them to be. She felt like she was seeing him, as an impartial onlooker, considering most of his acts and gestures as being premeditated, what he perceived
she
would perceive as being winning and romantic. He would ask about the front yard of her childhood, go to her recitals to clap loudly from the back, and lift her heavy hair to kiss the nape of her neck. When walking past cedars or junipers, he would pluck a sprig from a branch, mulch it in his fingers, smell it, and hold them out to her as an offer to do the same. She rarely did, trying to smile in a manner that reflected she was seeing this all for what it really was; though he usually seemed to take it at face value, as an indication that she was genuinely impressed. She considered herself lucky that he'd never produced a red rose, as she wouldn't have been able to stop herself from laughing out loud.

She remembers the way he once knocked on her door with two snifters and a bottle of brandy, led her into the washroom, undressed her while filling the bathtub, helped her into it, and methodically washed her down, soaping every contour of her body, bit by bit, paying particular attention to her hands, pinching slippery suds into the weblike skin at the base of her fingers. The brandy was excellent. His method of shampooing was not. She remembers going over to his apartment, which was adorned with the bohemian intellectual standards, art prints advertising the museums they were bought in, ancient maps with galleons stencilled onto the seas and bobbing along curled and linear waves, and a self-assembled pinewood bookshelf that was teetering with volumes of Russian classics and selected works of philosophy that he'd probably never read or even paged through but had nevertheless arranged in alphabetical order, as if for quick reference; Dostoevsky, Kant, Nietzsche, Pushkin, Tolstoy. She would stand in his living room, snickering to herself, looking through his trinkets and
CD
s, a wineglass cradled to her chest, while he buzzed in the kitchen cooking a brightly coloured meal, cool jazz on the stereo, Chet Baker or Jimmy Giuffre, after having rushed around lighting candles as soon as she'd taken her shoes off at the door.

When Shane had proposed, she considered it for three minutes of thick silence, considered the long hours she had spent alone on Friday nights, how eager he was to please, then accepted with a shrug. “Sure.”

Emily had never wanted children, ever, even when she was sixteen years old and full of pipe dreams and idyllic futures, when she could have fabricated idyllic offspring jumping through sprinklers on an idyllic lawn in front of an idyllic house. She hadn't. Instead she'd abhorred everything about kids for as long as she could remember. And it baffled her that, in this opinion, she was the exception and not the rule.

To start with, she hated parents, how mothers were, at first, only capable of talking in numbers: “I was in labour for eighteen hours,” “he was seven pounds, three ounces,” “she drinks 120 cc now,” “he wakes up at three and then again at seven,” “he knows four words so far,” “grade one,” “top two readers in the class,” “95 per cent.” And she hated how fathers were always on the sidelines, boasting in what was deemed to be a more objective manner, injecting words like “gifted,” “advanced,” and “precocious.” Emily sometimes wanted to see a bar graph comparing “presumed future prodigies” to “actual prodigies that had surfaced from said presumptions.” She was confident there was a considerable disparity between the two.

Beyond the parents, there were the creatures themselves; dirty, smelly, noisy, selfish, chaotic, thankless, and, most importantly in Emily's view, dumb. They moved through stages that were all somehow equally disagreeable, from oozing diapers to drool and vomit, grunts and whines to ear-splitting tantrums, bruised knees and scratched elbows to mild concussions, barking orders to cold demands. And then, the clincher: at the moment that their blooming sexuality brings with it a swarm of new and disturbing worries to keep you up, again, all hours of the night, when they begin to display the rudiments of an adult mind where they might finally, finally have the ability to say something that could, potentially, waver on the line of interesting, of having the vague semblance of human dialogue, at that precise and potentially earth-shattering moment, they suddenly hate you. Only to blame you for their problems via your neglectful parenting and lack of nurturing understanding forthwith. And all of that for just hundreds of thousands of dollars and a few decades of your time. “Sure,” she'd said to Shane, capping off her rant, which he was hearing for the first time in a motel room on their six-month anniversary. “Sounds fantastic. Best of luck finding a surrogate wife.” She left to take a walk.

She imagined Shane behind her, grinning at the closed door, sure that she would eventually change her mind. She was, after all, a woman. It was natural for her to want children, a given almost. She'd come around. He probably would've bet on it.