The Antagonist (25 page)

And Kirsten had said, like any mother would, Honey, that’s not going to happen.

And the daughter, whose name was Gabrielle but who mysteriously had at some point managed to nickname herself Giddy, replied in that breathless, hysterical way of sobbing children, How is it not going to happen? I don’t see how it can’t. I hit Tyler with a block. I wanted to hit him. He smashed my tower and I wanted to hit him.

But even that hadn’t been the final nail exactly. The final nail was when she spoke with Beth about it, and Beth told her: Baby, this is good. We want her to be afraid of hell. We want her to be
terrified
.

It was like dominoes, Kirsten told me. Something happened in her head that was like dominoes.

She thought: No.

Then she thought: But, yes. Of course. Of course I want her to be afraid to go to Hell.

(No.)

But,
yes
. That’s how I was raised. To love Jesus. To fear Satan.

She remembered how she sobbed and rolled around on the floor of the dining hall at summer camp, while other kids performed variations of the same activity, howled and babbled on all sides. Ten-, eleven- and twelve-year-old disgusting sinners all. Hapless, helpless carriers of original sin, as rats once toted plague across Europe. Each of them panicking, Please Lord. Please Jesus. Oh my God. I can’t do this. The flames practically blistering their heels. Save me! What can I do? Name it, Jesus!

(Not my daughter.)

But,
yes
.

Yes, agreed Beth. You know how Satan works, baby, as well as I do. He lies in wait.

(Like my father. Patient. Abandoned.)

No, thought Kirsten.

But, yes, thought Kirsten.

The way she tells it, it went like that for a couple of months. But each No constituted another domino. The Yeses weren’t managing to set any of the dominoes upright again — the Yeses just stalled the dominoes’ inevitable toppling — and never for very long.

Meanwhile, Giddy started having nightmares. Giddy dreamed, one night, that she’d been crucified as Kirsten watched from the centre of the jeering crowd and waved a blasé bye-bye.

“And that was it,” Kirsten told me. “That was just freaking it.”

We sat together on the phone in silence for a while. I thought about my cell phone minutes ticking away. The call was costing me a fortune, but I didn’t want to use Gord’s landline in the kitchen. I was hiding in my room like a teenager so he wouldn’t know I was procrastinating again, talking on the phone to a girl.

“So,” I said after a moment or two. “That must’ve been pretty hard. I mean, it was hard for me, and I hadn’t even been raised with it. Truth be told, I kind of knew it was bullshit the whole time.”

“Yes,” said Kirsten. “I remember.”

This was the first thing she or I had said that was even close to an allusion to our breakup. I said nothing. She said nothing.

Then: “I think now it’s an addiction like any other,” Kirsten told me. “Carl taught me a lot about addiction when we were together. I think you can get addicted to stories the way you can to booze or drugs.”

“Stories,” I repeated.

“It all serves basically the same purpose, right? It gives you some kind of comfort, even when it doesn’t. Even when it’s tearing you apart, it still has the comfort of familiarity, at least. Carl used to tell us when he preached: Yes, my liver hurt and yes I threw up every morning and yes people wouldn’t come near me because I perspired pure vodka. But that first drink of the day — the ice cubes clinking into my favourite glass, that warm/cold swallow. Feeling my brain and my bones go loose with every sip. I just couldn’t give that up, he said. It made him feel secure the whole time it was wrecking him.”

“But I don’t understand what you mean about stories,” I said.

“It’s the same with our stories. Jesus loves us, Satan hates us. One is in heaven and one is in Hell, and throughout our entire lives we just kind of balance on a clothesline strung between the two and the slightest breeze could send us tumbling where we don’t want to go. Forever. It’s terrifying and it’s cruel and awful. But that’s the story that we grew up hearing and that’s the story that we know best and that’s the story that makes us feel secure.”

“That’s your story,” I said, “and you’re sticking to it.”

“It’s really hard to give that up, Rank. To go cold turkey.”

“I know,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course you know. Because you’ve done it.”

“No,” I said. “Because I haven’t.”

08/16/09, 10:04 p.m.

AND SO, WHAT A
coincidence. There sits Wade’s beloved with two of her friends, huddled together around a pitcher of Long Island ice tea at the closest table to the door, all the more easily to greet the Brothers of the Temple when they at last present their half-cocked selves at Goldfinger’s. Kyle is so disgusted with Wade, with this screamingly obvious set-up, he refuses to even look at him and simply heads to the bar with his hands in the air. Wade follows, laughing and protesting his innocence, but actually — you can tell — a little worried.

Emily sits there smiling like a sixties-era Mona Lisa. “Sit with us!” she calls to Rank and Adam. Rank casts an eye over Emily’s friends and thinks okay. Adam also doesn’t hesitate, maybe because he figures the university girls’ table will provide a nice little bulwark of decency against the bar’s progressively squalid atmosphere. Saturday night at Goldfinger’s is hitting its stride.

It had been crazy even in the line-up. They’d tried to greet Ivor upon their arrival, but he’d been too distracted by the necessity of repeatedly shoving a couple of guys — two nearly identical brothers, a shitfaced, belligerent Tweedledee and Tweedledum — from out of the doorway, which they kept trying to rush.

“I said get out of here before I murder you,” Ivor kept screaming.

“I know where you live! I am a human with human-being rights! And I know where you live!” Tweedledee was screaming in counterpoint. Tweedledum, meanwhile, was holding his gut and threatening to “blow chunks all over this shithole.”

Rank stepped out of line and helpfully grabbed Tweedledum by the back of the collar, propelling him into the back alley where he could blow chunks in relative peace. Tweedledee, meanwhile, had taken issue with Ivor’s gold chain. He had decided it was the stupidest, gayest, piece-of-shit gold chain he had ever seen and, furthermore, he wanted it.

“Gimme that fuckin thing,” he said, blearily swiping a flaccid hand toward Ivor’s lack of neck.

Rank was about to lay a hand on his shoulder when Ivor grabbed the tweedle by his jacket and wrenched him forward, about a centimetre from his own glaring nose.

“Buh,” remarked Tweedledee, twisting away, likely being baked by the heat pouring from Ivor’s boiling face.

“
You do not put your hands on me
.” Ivor spoke these words directly into Tweedledee’s mouth. He was sweating and panting to an extent that made his usual, workaday sweating and panting seem almost temperate — more typical of a senior’s cardio class. “
You do not put your hands on me because you will lose those hands, and you will lose the arms attached to those hands and that is when I fucking kill you, do you understand
.”

This was something of a new side to Ivor. Ivor had never been much of an orator when it came to bouncing drunks. He did not typically veer off into rhetorical flights of fancy beyond: “I said get the hell out,” punctuated with an inarguable shove.

“Ivor,” said Rank. “Need help?”

Ivor responded by shoving the tweedle hard into Rank’s chest.

“Whoa,” said Rank, stumbling.

“You can help
this
scumbag by getting him the shit away from me.”

But Tweedledee had already writhed away from Rank and was staggering off to find his bilious brother. Likely it was the nearness of Ivor’s breath that had finally wrung the fight out of him.

“Jesus
Christ
,” said Ivor, wiping his face on the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Just a onslaught of dicks tonight, Rank. You shoulda seen them going after each other on the dance floor. Broke a whole tray of glasses.”

“They were fighting
each other
?” said Rank.

“Well until I stepped in they were. Then I had the two little dirtbags all over me.”

Rank sighed. “You want me on the floor?” he asked at last. And didn’t bother to look over at the groan this offer provoked from Kyle.

Ivor did look over, however — then looked around himself as if in surprise, like Kyle’s groan had had the effect of an alarm clock. Then he wiped his face on his sleeve some more and smiled a slick, twitchy smile up at Rank. “No, no, no,” he hollered. He reached inside the coat check booth and took a long haul from a beer he’d been keeping on the counter. “No, no, no, it’s your night off. You have fun, Rank. It’s Christmas. You go on inside and have some fun.” Ivor was speaking so loud it made Rank flinch.

“Well — just . . . give a shout if you need me, okay?”

“I will,” Ivor yelled, bouncing his head around by way of agreement. His nose had begun to run a bit dramatically, so he put his T-shirt sleeve to use again. “I will, son,” he hollered as Rank was moving toward his friends.

“We thought you guys would never get here,” Emily tells them with unmistakable relief. Rank can only imagine the calibre of sexual invitation the girls have been fending off for however long they’ve been sitting here. At the same time, he is thinking what a complete and total pussy Wade is. Wade has obviously made it clear to his beloved in advance that she and her friends would be both welcome and expected. Kyle will never forgive him.

Neither Rank nor Adam, however, particularly gives a shit. On the other side of the table, Adam is busy shaking the hands of the other two girls, so Rank turns his attention to Emily.

“Hey you’ve got some kind of sparkly crap in your hair,” he observes by way of opening gambit.

“Yes,” says Emily. “It’s on my face too.” She gives him a three quarter profile and her face shimmers like fish scales.

“Nice!” enthuses Rank.

“Thank you,” says Emily, smiling her this-is-the-smile-I-give-everyone-whether-I-like-them-or-not smile.

Rank sets himself a task then. Rank decides to see if he can make her smile for real.

He asks Emily what she is studying, and Emily says art history.

“Really?” says Rank. “That’s awesome. I love art.”

“You do?” says Emily.

“Yep. The Impressionists. I like the Impressionists best.” Rank has recently rented a movie that had to do with the Impressionists. Adam recommended it to him kind of as a joke because it was an actual film about Paris in the twenties. Consider it a primer, said Adam.

“Like who?” says Emily, testing him.

“Monet,” says Rank, bullshitting happily. “Cézanne. You know, all the French guys.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for an art lover,” says Emily.

Rank allows himself to sulk slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m not surprised. A lot of people pre-judge me that way.”

He is gratified by the startled look this provokes in Emily. Of all the things she thinks about herself, he’s betting she never for the world would have believed herself closed-minded, a pre-judger of her fellow beings.

“No, no, no!” she exclaims. “It’s just that, you know, I thought you were a hockey player.”

“Sports and art aren’t mutually exclusive,” Rank hears himself saying. Oh, Rank is on fire. Rank is at that ideal point of inebriation, a kind of golden mean where the percentage of alcohol in the bloodstream produces just the right balance of confidence and eloquence. No doubt after one more swig the whole thing will go pear-shaped and Rank will default into slurring and grunting obscenities. Meanwhile, however, he cups Emily in his very palm.

“Hemingway, after all,” he adds, “was a boxer.”

He glances over and notices Adam is watching him with a wide, incredulous smile. Rank hasn’t seen Adam wear a smile like that for at least a couple of months, it seems. It makes him happy. Maybe all is forgiven — whatever it was that needed to be forgiven between them. He shoots his friend a grave, professorial nod, which causes Adam to cover his face abruptly, as if in a sneeze.

In a matter of seconds, Emily is leaning toward him, the drawn-on smile gone completely. Now, her pale lips are nicely parted and Rank understands that with her wild hair and shimmery face she is actually pretty hot. Conversation continues and Long Island ice tea is shared until a waitress comes to offer them a pitcher. Who knows how long they’ve been there at this point. The crowd roils on all sides, sometimes crushing against the backs of their chairs begrudgingly. Rank feels himself growing hoarse as the conversation wears on and he realizes he’s had to shout progressively louder with practically every sentence in order to penetrate the crowd-sound and music. Emily is cupping one ear to catch his pearls of wisdom as they drop. Adam meanwhile seems to be holding his end of the table up quite nicely, a girl on either side, bending toward him. Way to go, Grix, Rank tries to transmit psychically. We should thank Wade later on.

It’s at about this point when Kyle appears wearing a face like one of those Easter Island statues.

“Hi Kyle!” burbles Emily, who is deep into the Long Island ice tea at this point and has been magically endowed with personality and charisma as a result.

“Let’s go, you two,” says Kyle, ignoring her. “I got us a table.”

“We already have a table,” says Adam, and he gestures to the two empty chairs that he and Rank have dutifully slung their coats over to reserve them for Kyle and Wade.

Wade, Rank sees, stands behind Kyle with arms crossed: a full-bodied pout.

“I got us four chairs up at the bar,” says Kyle. “Lorna’s watching them for us.”

“Who wants to sit at the fucking bar?” says Rank. “It’s a zoo up there.”

“Come on,” says Kyle.

Rank has seen Kyle like this only a couple times before — all his politician’s polish and cultivated courtesy thrown completely to the wayside as a result of not getting his way. It’s always an amazing transformation when it happens — all the animation leaves his face, his eyes go so dull it’s as if they have filmed over like a zombie’s, and you find yourself seized by the conviction that at any moment he might fling himself to the ground and start squalling like a 155-pound two-year-old.

“Kyle,” says Adam. “We’ve got a great table right here.”

“I’ve got us four seats up at the bar,” repeats Kyle. “Come on. We’re going.”

“We’re going,”
Rank mimics, fake-sullen, causing Kyle’s Easter Island expression to contort into an actual scowl. “Wow,” remarks Rank at the sight of it. He glances over at Adam, who sits there looking as astonished as Rank feels. Their eyes meet. Psychic transmission:
Holy shit
. Kyle is beyond even being razzed.

But, press pause. They are drunk. They are peevish. They have been having fun with the ladies and have no desire to leave. They usually tolerate being pushed around by Kyle because that’s just Kyle, and most of time it’s friendly and well-meaning, if completely self-interested. But that kind of shit can pile up after a while. Both Rank and Adam are known to get quietly fed up from time to time, and avoid the Temple out of irritation with Kyle Jarvis’s magisterial approach to friendship. When by themselves, Rank and Adam’s running gag is to refer to Kyle euphemistically as “The Lord and Master.” It’s a joke, but one with a defensive edge.

Okay? We clear? And so to continue.

Wade is yelling over the crowd: “That’s what I told him, I told him like fuck, we’re lucky the girls saved us such an awesome table, let’s just get some drinks and sit down.”

Kyle starts shaking his head rapidly, like a furious dog, as if to shake off Wade’s insubordination.

“I can’t believe you guys. I just cannot believe you guys.”

“Dude,” says Rank, getting to his feet. The weary realization has set in that Kyle is going to require some big-time mollycoddling if the evening’s fun is to be salvaged.

“I go to all this trouble to set this up,” complains Kyle, “and you guys are like:
Yeah, whatever
.”

On the other side of the table, Adam says exactly the wrong thing.

“Oh come on, man, who gives a shit? It’s a drunk. We’ve been getting drunk together all year and we’ll get drunk together next semester. It’s not like we’re going off to war.”

Kyle looks over and his eyes seem to take on an extra layer of zombie-film. Rank intuitively steps in front of him to block his view of Adam.

“All he means,” says Rank, “is that this is not worth getting pissed about. We’re supposed to be out having fun together, right? That’s all. Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”

“No, it’s not a big deal,” says Kyle. “Nothing’s a big deal. Why don’t you just go tend bar or bounce drunks or something, Rank? You’d obviously rather be working. We’re not here five seconds and you’re asking Ivor for a shift. Okay, fine. If that’s all it means to you, whatever.”

Rank cannot believe the soap opera this is turning into. “Kyle,” he says, starting to laugh in his frustration. “We’re having some drinks. Relax.”

It’s funny to think that with the crowd and the music, they are all actually screaming at each other. If the bar was empty they’d sound like lunatics.

Kyle turns his blank eyes to Adam. “Are you guys coming or not?”

“
Kyle
,” says Rank, wilting with frustration. In the background, Wade throws up his hands.

“What’s the matter?” calls Emily, who has been watching them open-mouthed and hearing only every other word.

“Fuck it,” says Kyle, turning away. “I’m out of here.”

“Man, come
on
,” says Rank, reaching for him.

“No, fuck it man,” says Kyle again, assuming a final, tragic pose — the Deposed King. He pushes Rank’s hand away before it can land on his shoulder.

It’s all so stupid. It’s such a joke. Kyle’s pride is wounded. He’ll go home, stew all night, and the next day the guys will show up, apologize en masse, tease him a little until he allows himself just a hint of the old Jarvis twinkle, until finally they are laughing together and saying “fuck you” in the spirit in which it should be said among friends and Kyle is chasing them all around the room demanding hugs.

Rank follows him a couple of paces and reaches again to stop him from going. Kyle whirls around and bats Rank away using both hands.

“I’m warning you, Rank,” says Kyle.

“Kyle,” says Rank again, spreading his arms wide, thinking maybe he can just employ a little humour and fast-forward to the inevitable hugs-and-apologies segment of the evening. “
Brother
. Hey. Come on, bro. Where’s the love?”