The City Still Breathing (14 page)

The streets and faces and places swim in front of Slim. They're at Top Hat with the skids, at the Cotton Club with the mods, at the Marymount stairs with the potheads, at the pizza place outside the mall with the scenesters, the smeared bus shelters on Lisgar with the rest. He sees her down an alley, catches her perfume on the breeze, hears her laugh, but every time he looks she's gone. They're everywhere and Francie's nowhere.

Finally, they find some punk kids from school having a snowball fight in the cement square outside the government buildings, one of them saying, ‘Yeah, I seen her at the Nash earlier.'

‘When?'

‘Coupla hours ago. Said she was headed to the Bin to see some shitty blues band.'

‘The Bin – thanks.'

And they're off, cutting through Memorial, and Slim's just about to make the break across Brady when Heck grabs him and pulls him back into the shadows of the trees at the edge of the park.

‘What?'

Heck pointing across the way – a yellow Beetle in the parking lot behind the arena. They just watch, not saying anything for a few minutes. Heck finally coughs like he's been holding his breath the whole time. ‘You think he's in there?'

‘I dunno – maybe.'

‘What time is it?'

Slim looks down at his watch. A minute to midnight. A minute to midnight the last time he checked too. ‘I dunno. Must be almost two in the morning.' The piece of shit broken. A moonwatch – bullshit – even the gold plating had long since scratched away showing the metal underneath. Reminding him this is who and where you are – cheap, Slim, a big cheap fake. Slim Slider not even your real name. ‘Look, I'm gonna go cut back through the alley and work my way back over to Elgin.'

‘Okay, cool, let's go.'

‘Nope. We split here.'

Heck blinking, hurt. ‘Why?'

‘Cause I said so.' Cause they can both feel the shit is about to get deeper. ‘Cause you're slowing me down.' Cause I don't want you to get hurt – he doesn't say it, makes it easy for both of them, and Heck doesn't say so either, but for once he gets it, and he looks relieved.

Heck walks slowly to a park bench and sits down. ‘I'll just … sit here for a bit – you can shout if you need me.'

Slim flashes a smile, one he almost feels. ‘Captain Barfbag to the rescue.'

And there they are, awkward like that for a minute, and then without thinking Slim takes off the watch and tosses it to Heck, who catches it like it's the Holy fuckin Grail.

‘Wowsers, man. This is your watch – your dad gave it to you.'

He looks down at his wrist, the pale skin there, the line where the strap bit in – only taking it off to shower all these years. Slim Novak or Slim Slider – the same Slim. ‘Van didn't give it to me,' he laughs, and it's the first real thing that's happened all day. ‘He left it behind. Like he did with everything.' Even left his name behind like a husk of snakeskin.

And before anything can take the cruel beautiful truth of that away, he spins hard and walks off, closing the distance.

13

N
ormando is staring at the ceiling above the bed by the time the moon sneaks in through the shutters. Pat's breath whistles through her nose and Norm rolls to look at her. Hair snaking in grey drifts across her pillow, creased forehead let loose with sleep – some kind of peace.

His eyes trace the line of her neck, down to her shoulder and beyond, the nightstand and the black-bordered picture frame, turned facedown. He knows the photograph – the white flash of teeth in the smile of the young boy there, the miner's helmet sinking low over his ears.

When he worked late, some nights he would sneak into the boy's room and ease onto the end of the mattress, knowing the boy was only pretending, that he'd heard the truck pull in, the latch on the front door. Normando would whisper a story about the damned mine – how he found a cockroach in his lunch pail or the time Ristimaki lost one of his boots down a pit and had to jump around on one leg like an arsehole. Normando jumping around the room to demonstrate, light on his toes and shushing the boy's laughter so's not to wake Pat.

The boy liked to hear the one about the time he saved the two Italians from a cave-in. Went back down because he counted two short and moved the rocks all by himself. Nobody believed he could've done it. The boy loved that Normando would show him how big the rocks were with his hands and each time the rocks would get a little bigger. The boy would tease him about this because he remembered. Because he listened.

Normando slides his skinny old bow legs out from under the sheets, pads off down the hall, Pat whistling through her nose like a kettle behind him.

14

I
t's not even 2 a.m. when the amp blows and it's not because they're playing too loud but because their equipment's so old. Moony Bedard turns to the rest of the guys to see if they want to keep going acoustic, but the drummer Lepine says, ‘My hemorrhoids hurt and I wanna go home.' Half done murdering a Franglais cover of ‘The Thrill Is Gone' and the evening's over.

The house music comes on to cover for them, but the twenty or so people who turned up for the gig barely register the changeover. Moony packs up the bass and by the time they've got the van loaded Stef is already asleep in the passenger side. They all stand on the pavement looking at each other, Lepine dancing from one foot to the other trying to stay warm, Felix with his hands in his pockets and Stef, drooling, face pressed against the glass in the background. Moony says, ‘Well,' and the other guys say, ‘Well,' and they all nod a bit more and then Moony says, ‘Well,' again, but with more finality.

After the van takes off, Moony heads back inside, making straight for the bar and giving Foisey the nod. The bartender slides a rum and coke across, saying, ‘This's the last of your rider. Sorry, Moony.'

He turns and leans against the bar, pulling off his ball cap and running a hand over the smooth dome of his skull.
Le thrill est parti
. Only a handful of people left but the place is still smoky as hell. In the old days someone would've already been up to buy him a drink. He thinks about going to talk to the cute brunette in the denim jacket who seemed to be paying attention most of the night. Then a cheer comes up from the table of mouthbreathers who kept requesting Slayer covers and he just feels sick instead.

The men's room has indoor plumbing but you wouldn't know it from the smell. He goes to the last urinal and stands with his hands on his hips, dangling, waiting for the release. A poster right at eye level,
BayBay Roi
, a younger version of himself with more hair and a darker moustache looking back at him. All of them, Stef, Lepine and Felix, looking so goddamn happy.
Ten Year Reunion
.

Some reunion. Stef's voice was shit, couldn't hit the high notes, Felix kept losing his place and Lepine … well, he was as bad as ever. They all had to be dragged out for this pretty much kicking and screaming and Moony doesn't know why he bothered. They used to get one, maybe two, hundred on a good night. Have all their fans died? Maybe just gone senile.

A stall door bangs open and some other old bastard, wiping his hands on his pants, takes one look at Moony. ‘Didn't you fuckers have a ten-year reunion ten years ago?'

‘You gonna wash your hands, Lo?'

Lorenzo flicks his fingers at him, like he's flinging shit, and stands with his big grin while Moony tries to piss. ‘Y'know, we were gonna have a reunion too – but I called around and found out Marco died. Heart attack. Hadn't talked to him in years.'

‘You could never play worth shit anyway.' Moony grunts, a few drops. ‘Emilia was talkin in class again today.'

‘Oh yeah?' Lorenzo sits on the counter next to the sink, getting comfortable. ‘You goin to Fitzroy's later?'

‘That damn rasta still runnin the speakeasy?' Grunt, drip drip.

‘People still have after-parties, don't they?'

‘Guess I gotta celebrate the end of BayBay Roi somewhere, eh?' Grunt, a trickle.

The door swings open and one of the mouthbreathers comes in, his pants already unbuckled, ready to scoop himself into any available drain. With the entire row free, he staggers all the way down right next to Moony, immediately letting loose a stream of hot light beer. He looks at Moony, concentrating and then recognizing.

‘Hey, you should learn some Slayer.'

He laughs at his own joke, but Moony doesn't even hear him. The boy has shown him the way and he follows him down the drain with a sigh.
Le thrill est gone loin de moi
.

Coming through the underpass onto Riverside. Lorenzo kicking at the slush, Moony watching for dark shapes that might want to steal his empty wallet.

‘I should go home, gotta teach tomorrow.'

‘Fuck those little snot-nosed primary schoolers – at least have one drink. Lotta the old crowd'll be around. Just like old times.'

Old times. Sun coming up, booze still flowing like Onaping Falls, bodies piled like some trench in World War Whatever.

‘Don't think I could survive a night of old times.'

‘One drink, s'all I'm sayin. So where's that fucker Lepine and the rest of your goons?'

‘Home with the families.'

‘Sellouts, eh?'

‘Where you should be, with your daughter.'

‘What daughter?' And he laughs like being a bad parent is funny.

They stop at an old red-brick place – sagging fence, curling shingles. Moony looks at the dark windows. ‘You sure Fitzroy's still doin it?'

‘Lights were never on. C'mon.'

They walk down the gravel laneway and push through the overgrown hedge into the backyard. Lorenzo bangs on the tin door off the back of the house and they wait in the cold. Green, black and yellow of the Jamaican flag on the porch roof waving in the night air.

‘Lo, maybe we should – '

The tin door shrieks open and Moony slips in the slush and falls back on his ass. Some large woman peers down at them, deep voice booming out, ‘Who's comin for dinner?'

‘Natty dreadlocks.' Lorenzo pulling Moony up. ‘Fuck's sake, Nora, scared the shit outta us.'

Nora holds the door open for them and then wanders off into the dark of the house, muttering. The only light is leaking up the basement steps and Moony can feel the rumble of bass beat through his feet.

A small crowd is gathered in the basement, dancing, sitting on sofas, yelling over the music coming out of the eight-foot speakers. Moony recognizes a few faces – the bartender from the Frood, couple of guys from other bands, that drunk McGowan who is always in on every party.

Lorenzo drags him up to the makeshift bar – planks of wood laid across some old barrels. Fitzroy, six feet of skinny black muscle, rag over one shoulder, flashes them a gold tooth. Moony leans in. ‘Ginger beer.'

A cup of green liquid slides across. ‘T'ree dolla.'

Moony digs a handful of change out of his pocket, the last of his cash. ‘Good to see some things don't change.'

He leaves Lorenzo yakking at Fitzroy and wanders off sipping his ginger beer. First the heat of spice, then the acid burn of overproof rum. Over by the furnace, a cafeteria table is laid out with an assortment of bowls and hot plates brimming with colours and smells. Moony pats his stiff round gut and grabs a plate, starts loading up.

‘You gotta try the okra,' says someone scooping a blob of green vegetables onto his plate. He turns to see the brunette from the bar. Younger this close. Her eyes. ‘And the fried plantain – so good.' Her lips. ‘Here – coco bread's my favourite.' Her hands.

He opens his mouth to say something but the best he can do is ‘Thanks.'

‘Enjoy,' she says, swirling off into some other part of the party.

He takes a bite of the soft bread, the bit where her fingers let go. Lorenzo wanders up, drinking from a Red Stripe in either hand. ‘You're old enough to be her ancestor.'

Out on the back step, passing the bottle of rum between them, the only sound Lorenzo sighing periodically and shaking his head. At the end of the lawn, the creek rushes on, dark and silent. A few dozen sighs in, Lorenzo stands, drains the bottle and throws it on the ground.

‘Well, this party's done.' Saying it like a royal decree, and then another sigh. ‘Let's go – I got a coupla malts back at my place. We can grab a quick one before I work.'

‘You're gonna work like this?'

‘Yeah. I should be there already. But I'll just sneak in the back. Let's have that drink first.'

‘Naw, I should be gettin back.'

‘C'mon, man.' The guilt trip in full force. ‘One for the road.'

‘Go home, Lo.'

‘Aw, you asshole – what'm I gonna do?' Standing there feeling sorry for himself and it just makes Moony want to smack him.

‘What're you doin, lad?' The other man shrugging. ‘You got a good kid there – y'know that?'

‘Yeah.' But he's not thinking about Emilia at all. ‘Her mother left me.'

‘I know.'

‘Left me with fuckin shit.'

‘She left both of you, Lo.'

‘Yeah.' But he doesn't get it. ‘I'm just fucked up, y'know. I was at the station cleaning when they brought that body in today – y'know, the one on the news. That kinda shit fucks you up, y'know?'

Moony nods because that's all Lorenzo wants, another free pass, another chance to share his masterpiece of pain.

‘I miss her.' A sigh. ‘That bitch.'

Another sigh, like all the breath leaving him, and Lorenzo staggers off, crashing through the hedge and gone, singing off-key and fading down the street.

It's enough to make you sick, because people are what they are, no matter how many chances you give them. Nobody really changes. Nobody really knows who they are to begin with.

Maybe he'll talk to her tomorrow after class. Take her aside. Talk to the principal too. Those things can get messy, though. Lots of paperwork. Lots. Messy to get involved.

Moony picks up the bottle and puts it in the trash bin off the steps, then sits back down to watch the creek. Keeping his eyes on it like he's waiting for something that'll just never get there.

Then she's sitting there. He didn't hear her, the door, anything. One second she wasn't there beside him and then,
pop
, she just was. She's got a cigarette wedged in her lips (her lips) and she's searching the pockets of her jacket, hands (her hands) working the buttons, and finally turning to him with this pouty look in her eyes (her eyes). He pulls a pack of matches from his own pocket, picked up at some old gig.

‘Thanks,' she says, taking them, and he wonders if matches can go bad like milk or human potential, but the first one goes up in a puff of flame and he catches a whiff of mint. She squints as she takes a long drag, throwing back her head for the exhale, passes him the cigarette. Him smoking for the first time in a decade.

‘It true you gotta suffer to play the blues?' Her voice almost a whisper, but the words feel so loud out here.

‘It helps.' He passes the cigarette back.

She holds the cigarette up to her face, staring down the mouth of the ember. ‘If I could sing I'd sing the blues for weeks and weeks and forever.' She laughs but it's a flat dead sound. ‘I got so much blue in me I'm an ocean.'

‘Which one?'

‘What?'

‘Which ocean?'

‘I dunno.' She laughs again, but this time it's not the most depressing sound in the world. ‘Which one's the bluest?'

He shrugs. Her next to him, her leg touching his leg. She's not smoking anymore, and he's watching the cigarette in her hand burning down like some kind of fuse. He can smell the menthol and he can smell her hair and he's suddenly drunk, more drunk than he's ever been.

All it takes is for him to turn his head to the left, to lean, and his mouth is on her mouth. His lips on her lips. A burning inside him. A burning on him.

He pulls back, slapping the hole the cigarette made through his shirt, the burn on his skin. One look from her and he knows it was an accident. She didn't mean it, didn't mean any of it.

‘Francie?'

They both turn at the sound of the new voice. Some boy standing just inside the hedge. In a T-shirt, shaking with cold or anger. Something – a camera on a strap around his neck. The girl doesn't move away from Moony, doesn't say anything, just looks at the boy. She flicks the cigarette away, only the white bone of filter left. Moony watches it bounce across the snow – a starter's pistol and then everyone's moving.

The girl taking off the denim jacket, rolling it carefully into a ball. Crunch of crust on the snow, the boy walking toward them. Moony swaying to his feet.

Bang – First of July flashbulb rocketship boy's fist in his mouth and Moony's suddenly looking at the stars and wondering how standing up can feel so much like lying down.

When he sits up, she's gone. The boy is looking down at Moony, holding the balled-up denim jacket.

‘You creep.' Twisting the jacket in his hands, trying to squeeze some kind of warmth out of it. ‘You sleazebag. You perv. The fuck's your problem?' This kid spitting in his face, Moony thinking, He's going to hit me again. But he doesn't. Not with his fists. Talking to him like he's the snot-nosed kid, the one who should know better. ‘The fuck you think you are?' And he doesn't know what he thinks. ‘Answer me.' But his mouth's full of everything but words. ‘Fuckin nothin, that's what.' That's what. Then, like another fist in his mouth, ‘Used to be her fuckin music teacher.' Then the boy's back through the hedge and Moony's alone.