Ghosted (40 page)

It was dark when she came out again. The doctor was with her. The CN Tower was doing its thing—coloured lights dancing above the city. The doctor pointed at it and said something. The girl with green shoes smiled, then turned and headed up Spadina. The doctor crossed the street.

Beside Harvey’s was the entrance to a new subterranean restaurant: the Scatterhouse Grill. Inside, a gentleman in an ill-fitting tuxedo took her coat, then ushered her down the stairs.

He saw her come through the curtains, then stop and take in the room. It was an oddly decadent place—like a bordello mixed with a bistro—a bit of speakeasy, too. The waitresses moved quickly, trays held high. People were enjoying themselves, but it wasn’t too loud. Velvet curtains absorbed the racket, just the lilting sound of laughter left.

She spotted him, seated at a table near the bar, and smiled. He stood up.

“Hey there,” said Grace.

“Hey,” said Mason.

He opened his arms and they held each other.

“It’s good to see you.”

She sat down, glancing at the bar—or at the wall behind it. There was a fish tank in front of a large mirror. She turned to look at Mason. “This place is all right.”

“I’m surprised too,” he said.

“What are you drinking?”

He held up his glass. “Light beer. Harm reduction.”

“Live a little,” she said, and turned towards the waitress. “Gin and tonic for me.” Then back to him: “How was your trip?”

“Good,” he said. “I spent most of the time with my mum. We figured some things out.”

“Did you see Sarah?”

“Yeah. We can talk about that later. How about you?”

“Things are good, actually. And guess what? The girl with the green shoes—the one who swallows razor blades—her mother died.”

“That’s great.”

“It is! And look what she brought me.” She dug into her purse and took out a VHS box.
“Breathless
, the original French one. The tape’s not even in it. She just stole the box.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Isn’t it?”

The waitress came back with her drink and Grace addressed her: “Can you do me a favour? Can you find the proprietor and ask him to come over here.”

The waitress left. There was silence for a moment. They looked towards the bar. “How’s the book going?” said Grace.

“Almost done …,” said Mason.

She smiled at him. “That’s one more thing to celebrate.”

“But I think I’ll change the ending.”

“Your prerogative …” said the doctor.

A man walked up to the table.

“Nice place you got here,” said Mason. “You serving any hotdogs?”

The man said nothing.

“Actually,” said Grace. “Can you bring us a bottle of your finest
champagne? It’s my friend’s birthday.” She reached across the table and took Mason’s hand. “He’s thirty-one today.”

“And I just got word,” said Mason. “My buddy’s getting out of prison.” He looked at the proprietor. “I think he’ll like this place.”

The man turned and walked away.

“Is that true?” said Grace. “Is Chaz getting out?”

“Not for a while,” said Mason. “I wanted to see his face.”

“It looked kind of fishy.”

“That it did.”

She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

Mason sipped his beer, then got up and walked to the bar, still limping slightly. He sat down on a stool and looked at the fish—then through the water, and farther. He stayed like that for a while.

When he refocused he saw someone behind him in the mirror, aiming something at his back. There was a popping sound. He ducked and the cork hit the glass. Then it bounced into the fish tank.

On the other side was a room. Light shone through the window, refracting through the water. The floor was covered with empty food cans and water jugs. The shelves were almost bare. There were paintings on canvas, books and stacks of paper strewn around a laptop on the desk. There were bunks against the back wall. On the bottom one, holding the severed right hand of a woman, sat a very thin man.

He had a beard and long, straggly hair except on the crown of his head, where the flesh was dark and red. He looked like a
monk who, for a very long time, had been trapped in a forgotten space pod—or a moribund submarine.

When the fish scattered, the castaway looked up. There was a young man out there. That was not unusual
—everyone
was out there—but this one was looking in.

And now from behind the young man, a woman appeared, holding two glasses of champagne. She was laughing. The young man stood, so that his head rose above the water. The woman put her arm around him and said something. They had about them the toughness and grace of people who had saved each other. Clinking their glasses together, they turned towards the man in the room.

The man in the room rose, still holding the severed right hand.

Mason and Grace looked right through him.

He stood there for a while after they turned away. He watched the two of them dine—on the other side of the water, across the universe. Then he took a deep breath and two steps to his right. He hit the tape deck and picked up the bag. “Fire Lake” began to play.
Scratch, scratch. Piano and guitar. That strong, steady backbeat. Those first haunting lines
.

He moved to the desk and poured out some powder. Next to it, he placed the hand. It was lifeless, rotting. It meant something to him. The champagne cork bobbed in the water, as if attached to a lure. He did a line, then growled and howled—a sound of ecstatic suffering that no one would ever hear.

He sat down to write.

My love and thanks to the best editors a guy could ask for: Bob Stall, Jacqui Bishop, Kate Greenaway and the amazing Anne Collins.

My deepest gratitude to Mike Wasko, Samantha Haywood, Marci Denesiuk, Paul Quarrington, Lee Gowan, Scott Sellers, John Fraser, Anna Luengo, Ernest Hillen, Anne Perdue, Lisa Norton, Avril Benoit, L. Arthur English, my sisters Cassidy and Reilley, my brother Josh, and
This American Life
.

Thanks also to Warren Zevon, Ibi Kaslik, Charlie Locke, Janine Kobylka, Saskia Wolsak, Nick Wasko, Louise Dennys, Carol Off, Linden MacIntyre, Josh Knelman, Bruce Springsteen, Max Lenderman, Kirk Makin, Jason Gladue, Kylie Barker, Ron Eckel, Michael McRobb, Peter Smith, Marc Olimpo, Mark Sumner, Jeff Warren, Dianne Lococo, Irene Spadafora, Pearl Richard, Audrey Hadfield, Lynda Murtha, Eden Arabella, Shaun Bradley, Don Sedgwick, Alex Snider, Mary-Lou Zeitoun, Derek Finkle, William Morassutti, Farah Sharif, Lisa Neidrauer, Paul T. Brooks, Robert Hough, John Greenaway, Nancy Greenaway, the Greeneri Clan, the Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council, the Toronto Arts Council, the LCBO, Jennifer Connelly, CAMH, Big Steve, Dan and all the guys downstairs, the Bishops, the Stalls and, of course, the Bishop-Stalls.

SHAUGHNESSY BISHOP-STALL
’s first book was an account of the year he spent in deep cover, living with the homeless in Toronto’s Tent City.
Down to This: Squalor and Splendour in a Big-City Shantytown
was nominated for the 2005 Pearson Writers’ Trust of Canada Non-Fiction Prize, the Drainie-Taylor Biography Prize, the Trillium Award and the City of Toronto Book Award. The following year, Bishop-Stall was awarded the Knowlton Nash Journalism Fellowship at Massey College and also played the role of Jason—a bad-mannered, well-dressed journalist—on CBC-TV’s
The Newsroom
. He currently teaches writing at the University of Toronto’s School of Continuing Studies.
Ghosted
is his first novel.