Blasted (38 page)

From afar I heard Blue's voice. “Gil? Are you all right?”

The weight on top of me grunted, shifted, and revealed itself to be Gil. “Oh, for God's sake. Blue?” he called out. “Blue? She's back. And she's a
mess
.”

Showered and wrapped in a blanket, clutching a cup of some herbal concoction Gil insisted I drink, I wondered how to answer Blue's question.

“The date. Ah. Yes. Well, it went well, I think. What I remember of it, at least. I mean, I wasn't there for a good portion of it.” A memory of Jason's face, miserable and almost brutal. “Judith looked beautiful as usual; they're having wedding problems. And, well, I'm going to bed, thanks for the tea.” I started to get up and got tangled in my blanket.

“You sit right back down. I was awakened from my beauty sleep at one in the morning by Jason calling to find out where you were. Seems you had abandoned him at some bar. You will sit
there
,” Blue pointed to the couch, “and remain there until you have answered all of my questions.”

“What happened?” Gil asked.

“We went to a vegan restaurant.” My legs gave out and I sat back down, a tragic expression on my face.

“What is
wrong
with you?” Blue snapped.

“Didn't you have a nice time? You must have, not getting back till the next night, with fuck-knots in your hair,” Gil put in.

I groaned, and pulled the blanket over my head. By dint of much pestering they got some semblance of the story out of me: the dinner, the drinks, the more drinks, my sojourn in the men's bathroom and finding Jason had left the bar.

“You actually spent hours in the men's bathroom?”

“I wouldn't say
hours
…”

“And then he left you to roam the streets alone, drunk out of your mind? That's terrible,” Gil said.

“No, I went and found him. And then…”

“He kicked you out and sent you back here for us to deal with?

Remind me to thank him the next time I see him,” Blue said with a sour face. Gil hit him on the arm. “I mean, I'm so glad you're all right.”

“No, I spent the night with him.”

“I knew it!” Gil cried.

“And left without saying goodbye.”

“Cold,” Blue said.

“And then spent my last money on a bottle of Jameson's, drank it all, went to a donut hole and ate and drank to my heart's content and then realized I
didn't have a cent on me
,” I continued, peering at them with one bloodshot eye.

“What? Did they put you in back to peel potatoes?”

“No. Izzie was there, and she shoved my face in her armpit and then threw me on the floor, so they gave me everything on the house.”

Blue stood up stiffly. “And I am Queen Victoria, The Great White Mother Across the Sea.”

“It's true,” I said.

“Who's Izzie?” Gil asked. Blue sat back down.

“And then it stopped raining and I decided to come back home.” I thought again of Jason. “And I have crotch-burn. Oh, God, I can't ever face him again.”

“Well, you won't have to. He called here this morning and said he's leaving town,” said Blue. “Going back out West.”

“Oh.” I lowered my head.

Silence reigned for some moments.

“You're sure he's gone?” I asked.

“Yes,” Blue said. “That must have been some date.” Then Gil started to laugh. I stared at him incredulously.

“Well. I am glad my pain and all the pain I've caused Jason amuse you.” Blue started making a weird sniffling noise. He was laughing too. “I should have known I'd get no sympathy from you two. Jeez.”

Next morning found me curled on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket and reeking of booze. Brendan was visiting; he and Blue sat opposite me drinking coffee.

“She's been like this since last night,” Blue said to Brendan, then turned to me. “You know, Ruby, you might consider getting some exercise. If all you do is lie around feeling sorry for yourself, it's no wonder you…”

“Exercise?” I repeated suspiciously.

“Yes, you know. The movement of the body so as to increase the heart and respiration rate?”

“What, you mean,
on purpose
?”

“It's a beautiful day out there – getting crisper, lovely,” Brendan put in. “I'm on my way to High Park. Come along with me.”

I had never been to High Park before, despite my years in Toronto. We entered through pretentious gates on a wide, paved path. It was a golden day, the sun slanting through the trees. People were everywhere: cyclists ringing bells; matched pairs of yuppies with stunned Golden Retrievers; huge-eyed adolescents sucking on lollipops; a group of New Age Singles being led on a species-of-oak tour by some robed swami; Brendan and me.

Brendan soon turned off the main thoroughfare into a small wood. After a few remarks about the history of the park, he fell silent. We walked. Ravines and hills gave way to fields, some tamed with paths and gardens, others quite wild. If it hadn't been for the fact that we kept passing people, and coming upon the odd vestige like abandoned condoms on the paths, I would have been able to forget that we were in the city. I breathed in the musty, dusty, leaf-tinged scent of late summer, grew warm with walking, was lulled by the regular thump of my feet on the hollow ground, the coolness of the woods, the heat of the sunny, open places.

I hadn't exchanged a word with Brendan for at least half an hour, and looked at his face to see if I'd been rude. He was humming softly to himself, his small, broad-bridged nose practically quivering with the scents on the air. His blue eyes darted restlessly, his hair swept back from his forehead. He sensed my gaze and smiled, showing his crooked, stained teeth, one eye-tooth missing. He'd once told me that he'd lost it in a street fight back in Wales when he was seventeen. Over a girl, I think it was. As we walked along he would stop suddenly, now and again, to grasp a stem of some blowsy flower or drying grass; he'd stroke it then toss it away. He prodded shiny bits of broken glass with his boot, kicked aside a crushed can, an abandoned hypodermic needle. Or he'd reach out and caress the peeling bark on a tree as we passed.

We emerged from a twisting path through some oaks, into a field almost blinding with sun. The land sloped away down a violently steep hill. We had been climbing upwards in the woods, so gradually I hadn't even noticed, and now stood on top of a high ridge gazing downward like kings. Children ran screaming up and down the slope, rolling crazily down and down, until with exhausted shrieks they flopped like brightly coloured fishes at the bottom, gasping on their backs or tummies. Then, suddenly, they'd spring to their feet and clamber up the hill to do it again. Parents strolled about with younger children in sacks; couples held hands, some getting hot and heavy under distant trees. I looked over at Brendan and laughed; I spread my arms like wings, and started running down the hill, gaining momentum, until my legs overtook one another and I rolled the rest of the way like a tumbleweed, bruised and dizzy and delighted.

I landed in a patch of strange plants, tall thick-stalked creatures with pods like taut, palely fuzzy green tongues tasting the air. I touched one – gingerly, I picked and peeled it. Inside were sticky, downy feather-like things, and for a moment I sickened myself imagining I had peeled the shell off the egg of some unborn vegetal birdlet. Brendan approached, having strolled down the hill; still gathering my breath, I held both hands up to him, cupping the ruined pod.

“Milkweed,” he said.

“Ah,” I said, trying to look wise. The down stuck to my palms. I scrubbed them on the grass and clambered to my feet.

We walked slowly along the verge of the open place, where tall grasses and more strange plants grew, Brendan pointing out things I hadn't even noticed and telling me their names. Some of his paintings were giant, gorgeously grotesque figurations of plants, a fleshy stalk, the head of a flower depicted with ferocious sensuality and clarity. He could paint a human body, a red flower, a teacup with the same degree of unsentimental heat; his paintings made me see those things differently, with passion.

As we walked a flash of intense orange caught at the corner of my vision. I peered through the brush. Sure enough, orange glowed from within the grassy stems, surrounded by heart-shaped green leaves, all eaten to lace. I stepped closer. Bright globes drooped from green stems as if lit from within, jolly cheerful rounded things. On my knees now, I took one in my hand. It felt papery, cool; I'd almost expected it to burn me, it was so like a lantern. Orange as a lollipop, translucent and ribbed. I lowered my head and sniffed – there should be a scent of oranges – stuck out my tongue and touched the globe with the tip. Plant, that's all. A shadow fell over me: Brendan. I blushed, hoping he hadn't seen.

“Tongue,” he murmured, staring at me in that impersonal way I remembered from when I'd modeled for him, “tongue.” I'd always found it a little unnerving, how he'd stare, even into my eyes, but flatly, intently, not seeing or responding as one normally does to another human being. He crouched next to me. “Would you do that again?”

“Brendan,” I groaned, then, stuck out my tongue.

“No. Not like that. You're tensing it; it was out further.”

“Well, of course I'm tensing it, I'm embarrassed as hell.” I looked around to see if anyone was watching.

“It was out, like this…” he stuck his coffee-stained tongue out alarmingly far; the end of it quivered.

I started to laugh – a familiar feeling stole over me. There's a kind of pleasure in modeling, a passive acceptance of the way the painter is seeing you; Brendan's passion communicated itself and something much larger than myself took possession, as if I could feel him seeing me, feel what he wanted to convey with his work. This doesn't always happen, of course – the little creeps at the Ontario College of Art and Design just communicated their contempt for my sagging tits – but with Brendan I felt like I was channeling something that only he had the power to see, me and my ridiculous tongue.

“You look terrible,” Gil informed me the next morning when I emerged from my room.

“I didn't sleep.” I went to the kitchen to make tea.

“Why not?” Gil asked.

“Probably because I didn't have anything to drink,” I answered, putting the kettle on with a clatter.

“Really?” He stared at me.

“Well, yeah,” I said, annoyance and embarrassment rising in me. “In case you haven't noticed, it features pretty regularly in my life.”

“But…” He paused.

“But what?”

“Nothing,” he said. I glared at him. “Brendan left you a message,” he changed the subject. “He said he wanted to discuss your
tongue
.”

I called Brendan back, and he offered me a modeling gig. I knew from his tone that this would be a big one. His voice vibrated with suppressed excitement. “That was it, when I saw you,” he said. “I've been looking for the link between pieces for my October show, and that's it – the familiar, hidden, taboo, grotesque flesh, the
colours
! – almost blue, glistening veins – ”

“Alright, alright,” I interrupted, “don't let praise of my transcendent beauty go to my head.”

I hung up the phone and flung my arms around Gil's neck.

“What?”

“I'm in work!”

CHAPTER 26

Night number two with no booze: shaky, horrible, and irritable. My skin crawled; I kept turning the bedside light on, expecting to see maggots, lay scratching, wanting to scream. Wretched images played out in the shifting shadows – every person who'd hurt me, every hurtful thing I'd done – scary things, sickening things, things that in the light of day didn't even matter, all paraded before me in a nauseating endless line. I fantasized about pouring whole bottles of raw spirits down my throat: scotch, bourbon, vodka, anything. I refused to admit why I was feeling this way.
I
didn't have that sort of problem. Just tonight, I thought, just get through this night; that's what they say, right? – one day at a time, one everlasting horrible night at a time, keep going like that and maybe you'll make it through.

And in the weeks that followed, I began the strangest modeling sessions with Brendan that I could remember.

It soon became apparent that I was physically incapable of keeping my tongue out for the periods of time he needed. In fact, in the first session I didn't think I'd be able to keep my tongue out at all. I arrived at his studio strangely nervous, breathless from the climb up the stairs. He was on top of a ladder.

“You're leaning at a perilous angle,” I said, dropping the bag containing my bathrobe and thermos on the floor.

“What?” he yelled, leaning out even further.

“You're… oh, never mind.”

“Could you get up there for a moment so I can… Damn!” He was trying to position a light bulb on a shaky scaffolding of metal poles he'd fastened together by coat-hanger wire. The clamp wouldn't hold, and the thing kept drooping.