Sweeter Life (22 page)

The night before the sessions began, Ronnie asked Cyrus to drop by his hotel room. “I suppose you have already surmised what I’m about to say, my friend, but frankly, it looks as though this project will have to take wing for now without your fine talents.” The boy stared sullenly at the carpet. Ronnie squeezed his shoulder. “What this means, Cyrus, is that the rest of the week is yours. Perhaps there is something you’ve been meaning to do. Visit the family, see the sights. Eura, too, is at loose ends. I have already offered the use of the Fairlane should she wish to travel somewhere. Possibly you two could work something out in that regard.”

Eura called Cyrus shortly after that and asked him to drop by so they could make plans.

“You’re inviting me in?”

“To talk, yes.”

He noticed immediately how tidy her room was—both beds were made, no clothing anywhere. She’d done something to soften the lighting, too. She wore the same bathrobe he’d seen the other day, her hair still wet from the shower. With a wave of her hand, she indicated he could sit on the bed. She remained standing by the television set.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked.

“Well, Buffalo—this is a fine place to leave us.” She took a deep breath and looked across the room to the door, as if having second thoughts. Finally she said, “It is not such a bad idea, I think, that we could maybe go somewhere, the two of us. We have had some practice already.…”

Her voice trailed off. She pulled her robe more tightly around her. It was his turn to open up. “I think you already know how I feel,” he said. “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Because I am afraid of that. Maybe you will think I am crazy. Maybe you will not like me anymore.”

“Maybe I already think you’re crazy. Maybe I
don’t
like you.”

She stepped forward and laid her palm on the top of his head, as though
that might tell her something about him she did not already know. Before he could grab her hand and pull her close, she moved away and disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later she returned, carrying the white cotton cloth he had seen before, and spread it on the empty bed. From her closet she removed a small brocade bag, about the size of a purse; from inside it she took several vials of coloured liquid, a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and a plastic case filled with silver pins. She sat opposite him and said, “I do not know where to begin.”

He looked at the paraphernalia beside her, then back to her face. “Why don’t you just start talking. Maybe that’ll lead you to the beginning.”

She smiled that Cyrus could say something so wise. Summoning her courage, she said, “The first thing I must tell you is that I am married to a man I will love all my life.”

Cyrus lay back on the bed and closed his eyes as she spoke of her husband, of their apartment near the university where he taught botany, of their two cats, and their windowsills thick with cyclamen and African violet. Of the tanks that ended everything.

“He’s still there?”

“I can only hope. I miss him more for every day I have been here.”

“You could go back.”

“No. Not possible.”

“And he can’t come here?”

“No one has seen him for months. They have taken him where they take all enemies of the state.”

“And that is …”

“I don’t want to think.”

The more she talked, the lonelier he felt. Every word moved her another step away from him. All his boyish fantasies melted under the heat of her deep love for her husband. He had thought that he might one day take away her loneliness and pain, but he would be lost in the enormity of her suffering.

When she had stopped talking, he sat up and said, “You’re telling me this so that we can travel together and I won’t act stupid.”

“This is a reason,” she replied. “Also, for me, so I do not act stupid. And maybe because I need help, and fate is saying I should trust you.”

That she would rely on him more than the others lifted his spirits. “Are you in trouble?”

She rocked her head from side to side, weighing the question. “Not in the way that you think. I need to ask a favour, and I need you to not think badly of me. I need you to be as kind and gentle as I know you are and to please not make judgment.” Without another word, she opened her robe just enough to reveal her neck, a bit of breastbone and another portion of the tattoo. The vine rose in a sensuous line from the top of her breasts and circled the base of her throat. From there it spiralled up the left side of her neck and got lost in her hair. It was this last bit he had seen before. He recognized the plant from his years on the farm.

“Nightshade,” he said.

“Belladonna, yes. His name for me, his ‘beautiful lady.’ He knew everything to know about flowers. Same family as potatoes and tomatoes.”

She pulled her robe tightly around her again, then slid beside him, hugging his arm. He looked at the pins, the coloured vials, and said, “You did all that?”

In response she turned and pulled up her hair. The tattoo did not in fact circle her neck but stopped roughly under each ear. The final bits of leaf and flower lacked the definition of the rest. “You see,” she said, “how I cannot reach. I am making a mess.”

He touched one of the berries, a spot on her neck he would have thought impossible for her to reach. He felt an overwhelming desire to kiss each berry and flower and follow that vine wherever it would lead. Instead, he backed away and said, “It must hurt.”

“Some parts are worse than others. I am used to the pain by now. But I am so slow. To look in a mirror and do this makes me want to scream.”

It was then he understood what she was asking. “You want
me
to stick pins in you?”

She shifted a short distance away, the better to look into his face. “This is what I do. When Sonny and the others are jamming at the hall or shooting their pool or playing cards, I am here. It takes me very long to do even one flower, so I must work at it every day. If we travel, you must see me do this, that is all. And maybe, sometime, if it is not asking too much, you could help
with these places I cannot reach. It is not so hard, Cyrus. I can show you. Just ink on a pin.”

He turned to the blank screen of the television, but he already had all the sad news he could handle for one night. Staring at his hands instead, he said, “I guess the big question is why? Why do you do it?”

She rose to her feet as though he had touched a sensitive spot. “Why do you play music? Why do others paint pictures and write novels? It is how we make sense of time.”

THE NEXT MORNING
, a Saturday, they set off in the Ford. Eura insisted they go to Wilbury. “If we could go to my home, I would take you there,” she said. “We can’t, so we go to yours.”

Cyrus knew it was the right thing to do—let everyone see he was happy, healthy and alive—but he wasn’t sure he had the strength just now to answer their questions. Eura was adamant, however, and by midday they were on the outskirts of Wilbury. He pointed out landmarks. He tuned in the local radio station. And little by little he warmed to the idea of showing Eura his roots. He was amazed, too, how different everything seemed. It wasn’t that the town had changed, but that he could see it more clearly.

He still had a key to the Three Links Hall, so he headed there first, figuring they could flop for a bit while he made a few calls and figured out a plan. To his surprise, the band’s gear was gone, the furniture, too. It had never occurred to him that everyone would pack it in after he left. Eura waited patiently while he worked out the puzzle.

He knew that Isabel worked on Saturdays, so they got back in the car and headed downtown. He pointed out the Vogue Theatre, and the greasy spoon where he and his friends congregated after school or rehearsal. At Demeter Real Estate, he took two steps into the room and stopped: not only was Izzy not at her desk, but her desk was gone. So were her filing cabinets and the framed print of kids skating on a frozen pond.

Larry Bell looked up and said, “Hey, Cyrus, long time no see. How’s the gee-tar comin’?”

“Okay, I guess. Where’s my sister?”

“Come again?”

“Isabel. Where is she? Where’s her stuff?”

Larry scratched his head and laughed awkwardly. “Jesus, Cy, she hasn’t worked here in a while. She’s at Regal now.”

He drove farther down the main street, turned the corner at Woolworth’s and parked in front of Regal Real Estate. He was relieved to see Isabel’s familiar belongings inside. Nellie Griswald was bent over the drawer of a filing cabinet when he walked in. “Hello, Mrs. Griswald.”

“Cyrus? How are you doing? You just missed her. She goes home for lunch these days. How’s the music?”

“It’s good,” he said. “Real good.”

Then he ran back out to the car and flopped in the seat. “Just missed her,” he said, feeling oddly elated, as though it had all become a game, an elaborate chase. “Drive out this way,” he said, pointing to the west. “We’ll catch her at the farm.”

They passed the water tower, the train station, and the farmers’ co-operative. He pointed out the gravel pit on the Fourth Concession, and on the Fifth, the acres of greenhouses that belonged to Mike Delvecchio, the richest man in town. When they turned onto the Seventh, he had another and even bigger shock. Regal Real Estate signs were tacked to fence posts along Izzy and Gerry’s farm, announcing it was for sale.

Cyrus told Eura to pull into the driveway. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He walked around the house, peering in the windows. The place was empty. Not a stick of furniture. Back in the car he held his head in both hands. “It’s like a bad dream,” he said.

A moment later Eura touched his arm. “Someone is behind us.”

He turned to look out the back window and felt an immediate wave of relief sweep over him.

ISABEL HAD PLANNED
to go home for lunch but instead had a burger at A&W. Lorrie Buxton, another agent at Regal, had shown the farm recently and had forgotten to put the key back in the mailbox, so Isabel had offered to do it for her. She wanted to look around and make sure everything was okay, knowing from experience that some agents could be real slobs.

Isabel was pleased to find another car in the driveway. She parked
behind it and took a moment to check her look in the mirror and slip into performance mode, all energy and twinkle. When she was ready, she got out of the car and walked slowly toward the house, as if to illustrate that countryside like this demanded a slower pace, an appreciation of earth and sky. She approached on the driver’s side, smiling her most benevolent smile. But the minute she noticed Cyrus in the passenger seat, her heart lurched. To go months without seeing him, and then to come upon him suddenly, in a strange car with an older woman—older than Isabel, even—was a shock.

He opened the door and stepped onto the driveway. Isabel said, “If it isn’t the prodigal brother.”

He looked at the house, the barn, the road. “What’s going on, Iz?”

“It’s been an interesting few months.”

They followed her back to town and the little bungalow she now called home. The short drive allowed her to calm down, remind herself that Cyrus was a man now. She would try not to judge or jump to conclusions.

At the house, Cyrus made the introductions. Isabel said, “Del Conte, is that Italian?” And the woman laughed and said, “For some it is. For me it is a foolishness. A stage name.”

“So you’re a performer like Cyrus.”

Eura touched Cy’s arm. “He is an artist. I am a clown.”

“Don’t believe it, Iz. When she dances, it’s like ballet or something.”

Isabel put water on for tea and set out a few stale biscuits and a couple of apples, cored and quartered. She called Nellie and said she wouldn’t be in till Monday. When everything was ready and they were seated around her kitchen table, she turned to Cyrus and said, “So fill me in. You left in kind of a hurry.”

True to form, he kept his explanation brief. He managed to hook up with the Jimmy Waters Revival, he said, the right place at the right time. They had travelled to a new town almost every day, mostly in the States. Great bunch of people. It was hard to explain what kind of show it was.

He looked to Eura for help, and she nodded at Isabel and said, “It is not what you think, this wild music and people you see on TV. Someday he will maybe go off on his own to be young and reckless. The Jimmy Waters Revival will not hold him long. But for now he is safe.”

Soon enough it was Isabel’s turn to explain about Sheldon Demeter, the farm, the divorce.

Cyrus listened carefully, the skin around his eyes going all crinkly, as if he were hearing about some gruesome medical procedure. “Wow,” he said, “that is such a kick in the head. What are you going to do?”

“Do?” She spread her arms out. “You’re looking at it, Cyrus. The good life.”

Her answer seemed to catch him by surprise. He looked down at the table and back up again. “What about Clarence and Ruby? How are they taking it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Okay, I guess. Ruby’s saying her prayers. Which reminds me. We should let them know you’re here. You are staying awhile, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure how welcome I’ll be out there.”

“Stay here,” Izzy said automatically. “Eura can have the spare room. You can have the sofa in the den.”

“I hate to be a bother, Iz. Maybe a motel or something.”

“Your sister,” Eura said, “is worried. Can you not see? You should spend some time here with her. Besides, I have seen enough hotel rooms for a while. If she is kind enough to ask, we should be smart enough to accept.”

Isabel wasn’t sure what the relationship was between these two, but her brother could do worse, she figured, even with the difference in age, even with the foreign accent and the bit of tattoo on her neck.

RUBY INSISTED THEY COME FOR DINNER
, and Isabel took everyone in the Buick, first driving out to the marsh so they could give Eura a glimpse of the farm they used to own. With Cyrus fidgeting in the back, Izzy described how the early settlers had built a dike (what was now the Marsh Road) then drained the land and set to farming it. She caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and said, “Wait till you hear the latest. A company in the States sent geologists up here to do some tests. People think there’s oil out there.”