Toby (4 page)

“What’s happening?”

“No misunderstandings, that’s what’s happening here. I adore black people, basically, is the message.”

Bruce held up his left hand and began counting down from five. There was just enough time for Toby to mention Candidate Isidore one last time and to sign off. Toby Ménard, Century News, Montreal.

The camera came down from Bruce’s shoulder, which usually signalled relief. This morning Toby felt like he had jumped a fence and landed in a backyard full of angry, and very hungry, boars.

“Motherfucker,” said Bruce.

“I really don’t know what to say,” said Candidate Isidore. “It was certainly a unique experience, Mr. Ménard.”

“Call me Toby, please.”

“Why in hell would I do that?”

The handler, who appeared to have drawn a fake mole on her cheek, leaned on a tree and said, as she dialled a number, “I’m sure it’s already on the Web.” She placed the phone to her ear. “Hey. There’s a situation in Montreal. We can own it if we’re quick.”

Toby thanked Candidate Isidore and apologized, apologized some more, told him about his father and the fire—heroism—and the sleeplessness and the NyQuil and the hypoglycemia. The candidate and his handler made halting eye contact and walked away.

At the van, Bruce continued to cuss and laugh sarcastically as he loaded up. He climbed into the driver’s seat and sat, quiet and alone, for a full minute before unlocking the passenger door.

“I regret that, Bruce.”

“They’re firing people for nothing these days. For pimples.”

“No one’s going to be fired.”

“I should have aborted the interview.”

“Nonsense.”

“They’ll shoot the messenger. They always shoot the fucking messenger.”

“I pulled it together at the end.”

“You like black people?”

“I’m not feeling well, you see. My father—”

“Please stop talking.” Bruce’s hands shook as he turned the key. “Please just stop.”

“Take me to the Montreal General.”

“I’m taking you back to the station.”

“You’ve seen what I’m capable of.”

“Do I want to get in more shit than I’m already in?”

“Take me to the hospital. Now.”

“I never liked you.”

“Now.”

The waiting room was equipped with a large-screen television tuned to CNN. Canada’s federal election was not the top story, or any story at all. Five patients in monochromatic robes and pyjamas sat in mismatched furniture, watching the progress of a runaway bride who had stolen a white cube van and blown through a border stop into Mexico. American and Mexican officials were struggling to figure out what to do with her, and CNN presenters were struggling to avoid repeating themselves. A helicopter followed her progress into the state of Chihuahua. Toby watched for several minutes, pleasantly hypnotized. A nurse passed, and he inquired about his father.

He passed through a decontamination corridor, where a sign instructed him to wash his hands and apply antibacterial goo. Inside the warm room, Edward looked up from a gossip magazine whose pages he had been turning with his elbows. There was a clarity in his gaze that Toby associated with hangover mornings. His legs were covered in gauze from his knees down, and the random assortment of wraps on his arms, hands, chest, and head suggested an irresolute Halloween costume. “Karen’s out getting chocolate milk.”

“And you?”

“I’m not so much for chocolate milk.”

“You know what I mean, Dad.”

Edward turned to a painting of a pond, several ducks. A watery scene for the burned. The room was lightly perfumed. With his gauzy mitt, he pointed to a modest bouquet filled with autumn colours. “From your mom this morning. I woke up and there they were.”

“Pretty.”

“Did the cops ask you anything?”

“I didn’t know what to say. Maybe you could tell me what to tell them.”

Edward closed his eyes, and they remained closed long enough that Toby thought his father was drifting off. His girlfriend chattered on a shelf above the door. Alicia McIntyre, Century News, Montreal. Edward opened his eyes and gestured upward with his chin, but Toby did not want to turn around and see her. He didn’t want to see his burned father. He wanted to be in his bed, in the darkness, for six to nineteen months.

“Can you help me to the toilet?”

“Now?”

“Please.”

“All the way? Right to the toilet?”

Edward placed his mitts together.

“There’s a nurse in the hallway.”

“Just to the room. To the room, Toby. The things I
did
for you.”

“Can’t we just have one normal conversation?”

“How? How?”

He helped Edward down, and into a pair of paper slippers. They shuffled to the bathroom like geishas. Edward leaned on the toilet tank and breathed, hunched. Most of the blisters had popped; the gauze had fallen off with the movement, and his bare shins glistened yellow and black.

“You’re all right?”

“No.”

“Marvellous. So I’ll just close the door.”

Edward breathed through his mouth.

“Whatever you might need, Dad, just shout. I’m closing the door now.”

Edward watched him close the door, his eyes red and wide and wet. Never simply
looking
anymore. This was not a new phenomenon. In the summertime, an intensity was drawn out of him that neither Karen nor Toby had ever seen.

Two months before, in early August, the three had met for dinner in a ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton. The station was celebrating its new season of American reality television and cheap Canadian movies-of-the-week starring D-list Hollywood actors. Back when Montrealers read newspapers, these launches were designed for publicity. Now the station’s president, Mr. Demsky, threw them as family parties—in lieu of a Christmas event, which he had always considered depressing.

Toby and Alicia sat at a table of prominence across from his parents, her parents, and a childless VP of advertising and her husband. Edward had laughed at everything, not just the jokes. He had actually booed, in a frolicsome manner, as Dwayne introduced
The Circle of Hope,
a reality show about a town built and administered by the mentally retarded. During the speeches, Edward had whispered insistently about the role television
should
play in our society, as a vehicle of education. Climate change was going to kill us all, to say nothing of illiteracy, crystal meth, and general ignorance. He had made cracks about the wealthy, their shocking selfishness in the face of social and environmental disasters, the moral failure of Montreal’s elite—of which Alicia’s father was a charter member. He teased Alicia, passive-aggressively, about never coming to Dollard for a family dinner. After three glasses of wine, Edward had touched the advertising VP’s hair and made pronouncements about its softness. He had asked Alicia if it bothered her to date Toby, knowing
he was part Jew, and elbowed her father in the ribs when he failed to laugh. Then a switch, a physical transformation. His eyebrows lowered, his cheeks sagged. He would not touch his dessert. He accidentally dipped his tie in the chocolate sauce.

“It’s no big deal.” Karen inspected the tie. “I can get that out.”

“I didn’t mean to do it.”

She laughed. “Of course you didn’t.”

“I’ve ruined everything.” He looked around the table. “Haven’t I?

Edward had explained that these emotional outbursts originated in his solar plexus. It would go mouldy, and the mould would spread everywhere and take him over the way stink takes over a river town.

All evening, Toby had alternated between gripping his serviette and squeezing Alicia’s hand. She was appalled, her parents were appalled, Karen was appalled, he was appalled. He
hated
his father for this, and despite his area of expertise it had tossed him into a silent rage. Edward had not seemed mentally ill at the time, only poor and stupid. If Karen had not picked out a tie for him earlier that afternoon, what might he have worn to the Ritz-Carlton?

The plan had been to go for a drink in the lounge of the mighty hotel, just the three of them, after the launch. Instead, the moment Mr. Demsky said his thank yous and goodnights, Toby stood up and said his own thank yous and goodnights. He did not make eye contact with his parents or allow them the time to stand up for a hug. Alicia took his hand, and they walked out of the hotel, straight to her Mercedes, and headed to her house on Strathcona Avenue.

Edward called from inside the bathroom.

“Yes?” Toby placed his ear on the heavy door, opened it a crack. “Let me fetch the nurse for you.”

“Just help me up.”

“But—”

“Please.”

His father was on the toilet seat, trying to lift himself. There were two stainless steel support bars, but Edward lacked sufficient strength. Toby did not know where to stand. In front of his father? Behind him, somehow, straddling the toilet? He held his breath.

“It doesn’t smell good.”

“No, no, Dad. It’s fine.”

“Go call a nurse, if you want.”

“We’ll just lift you up here and…”

Edward raised his arms like wings.

Once he was standing, Edward had to catch his breath before he could reach down and pull up the hospital pants that had been cut into shorts. He tried to reach them, but his miniature boxing gloves were too thick, his fingers too tender. Toby did not want to injure his father’s pride by lifting the shorts for him, so he waited. He waited out two more unsuccessful attempts.

“I’ll just grab those, Dad.”

“No. I will. I will when I can.” He tried again, squeaked in pain, and failed. He worked his way into a cry. Father crying.

Toby reached back with his free arm and snatched a handful of tissues. For two minutes that passed like twenty, he held his father, naked from the waist down. Though he had only seen glimpses of it in his peripheral vision, Edward’s unfrocked, quivering penis might as well have been displayed, by projection screen, on the wall before them. Eventually,
Edward placed all his weight on Toby, and together they lowered themselves to the floor so he could pull up his shorts.

“You did it. You did it, Dad. Way to go.”

Edward breathed some more, and stared at him. The fire stare, a toddler gathering secrets.

Once his father was back in bed, Toby collapsed on the adjacent chair. There was a faint burning sensation behind his eyes. For at least thirty years he had gone without seeing his father naked. “I didn’t sleep.”

“Then sleep.”

“You saw the clip. My boss—”

“If you don’t want to think of something, you just up and don’t.”

Already, the pre-sleep nonsense was creeping in. A roller-blader. Scooby-Doo. “Just a few minutes.”

“Lie back.”

It was a startlingly uncomfortable chair.

“We love you, no matter what you do, or say. Everyone does.”

“Thank you.”

“You never have to worry.”

“Hmm.”

“You want me to sing ‘You Are My Sunshine’?”

“No, no, no. Shh.”

“You are my sunshine.”

“Dad, I’m going to buy you a scarf, at Holts.”

“My only sunshine. You make me happy.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Sleep came down on him like a mountain of silk.

Toby had met Alicia five years ago,
on the day he tried to quit. He had applied for the job of temporary weathergirl, while the weathergirl went in for a tummy tuck. Going weathergirl, even for a week or two, was an indication that management considered you a personality, local celebrity material, the possible subject of a billboard. Dwayne came by the office Toby shared with a rotating series of producers, and together they walked through the studio. He motioned toward Alicia, a new hire, a long-legged, black-haired beauty, rich and reportedly smart, who was taking a lesson on one of the computers. He confided in Toby that he would like nothing better than to
tap that.
Toby thought nothing of this. Dwayne was married, with two sons, yet he often expressed a desire to engage in anal intercourse with interns, production assistants, public relations consultants, and reporters.

It had not been an easy decision, but Dwayne had concluded that Alicia—given her uncommon hotness—was going to be temporary weathergirl. What could he say? Look at her for five seconds!

Toby returned to his office, sought his mom’s advice, then his dad’s advice, and thundered and flailed briefly in the only bathroom that locked. Edward had suggested he “harness his negative energy,” and try something wild. Edward had never forgiven the station’s executives for the name change debacle. “Fuck ‘em,” Edward had said.

For some time, Toby had been refining a rather wild idea. The station was overflowing with union technicians working three hours a day and being paid for seven and three-quarters, yet they didn’t produce anything beyond cheap news. Why not set up a corner of the unnecessarily vast studio to look like a cozy living room, and Toby could wear a crisp suit and interview the fascinating figures of Greater Montreal. It could be called
One on One, with Toby Ménard.
Or
Toby’s People.
He immediately wrote up a proposal and, with Dwayne’s blessing, submitted it to Mr. Demsky. If Mr. Demsky said no, he would immediately quit and waltz across town to the CTV affiliate, whose station manager had expressed interest in him as a sports guy.

Toby’s meeting with the president, to whom he had never spoken, was scheduled for 3:30 that afternoon. Already he had summoned the wild fuckemtude to ask Alicia for dinner at Toqué!, and she had accepted. By the time he knocked on the heavy wooden door of the executive office, he was quite certain he could chew through it.

There were five televisions in Mr. Demsky’s office, tuned soundlessly to stations he owned in Western Quebec, Southern
Ontario, Vermont, Maine, and upstate New York. Pipe smoke hung low and tranquil in the room. There were framed Looney Tunes animation posters and collector cells on the wall, so Toby made a mental note to discuss his theory about Bugs Bunny being the culmination of Ralph Waldo Emerson. A plaque in a place of prominence behind Mr. Demsky’s chair recognized his ongoing financial and spiritual commitment to Israel, so Toby made a second mental note to mention and exaggerate his Jewishness.

According to the skin around his eyes, the president and CEO had spent the majority of his youth on stallions and golf courses in Florida, baking creases and blotches into his face. His dry, white hair framed him like an Inuit hood.

“Sir.”

“No ‘sirs’ in television. You can sit.” Mr. Demsky waved the three-page proposal for
One on One, with Toby Ménard
over his desk. A snake of blue smoke broke and twirled in behind it. “I’m curious about the city and the world, unlike the majority of my peers and pretty much all yours. But I’m not going to watch you interview a pompous ass about sewer easements in front of a fake fireplace. That’s a half-hour of my life I just don’t want to give up.”

“It wouldn’t be about sewer easements.”

“Do you know how television works?”

“I should hope so.”

“You clearly don’t.”

“All right.”

“We buy prime time from Los Angeles, simulcast it with local news, and invest in some shitty movies-of-the-week set in Medicine Hat to please the communists. We put the profits in businesses that actually make money.”

Toby had not prepared for this response.
One on One, with Toby Ménard
had seemed unassailable. The fuckemtude was upon him. “Fabulous.” He stood up and loosened his tie, demonstrably. “I’m finished with Century Media. I want to thank you for the opportunity, of course, and I do hope you fail, miserably. And second—second, mind you!—that you and your station manager die a most painful death.”

“Sit.” Mr. Demsky fetched his pipe from its tray and fixed his tiny eyes on Toby. He pulled one remote control from the regiment before him, a black model, and pressed a button. The humidifier in the corner belched mist in their direction. “That was stirring.”

“Can I go now?”

“What sort of a person are you, if you were to sum yourself up?”

“I’m a bit Jewish.”

“Listen. I was on an airplane the other night, coming home from a conference in New York. By the way, what the hell sort of name is Toby?”

“Jewish.”

“Shut up.”

Toby tried to regain his fury. He bit the inside of his cheek, but it didn’t make him furious. It only made his cheek bleed a little.

“It sounds like an adjective.”

“A Toby, Mr. Demsky, is a coffee mug in the shape of a man’s head. With a three-cornered fisherman’s hat on it. Now, if you will excuse me.”

“Your parents named you after a coffee mug.”

“It was coincidental. It’s short for Tobias.”

“So I’m on the airplane, and the two men sitting behind
me start whining in these battered tones about a meeting they’d just escaped. Some brainstorming session about Internet piracy. They were involved in the music industry somehow; I guessed lawyers.” Mr. Demsky reached up and pulled out a pen that had been hidden behind his ear in his wreck of white hair. “How’d that get there? I musta slept with it!” He removed his glasses and tossed the pen at the wall. A rumble started in his chest, like the old Husqvarna chainsaw Edward had bought from a farmer to transform the fallen trees of the ice storm into firewood. It was something between a wet cough and a laugh; Mr. Demsky appeared to levitate out of his chair. The episode went on long enough for Toby to peek down at his timepiece, at his shoes—scuffed—and to think fondly of Alicia’s neck.

“Can I fetch you a glass of water, maybe, before I accept a position at your competitor’s station? Where I’m treated with respect.”

“The in-flight movie comes on and it’s some piece of shit about dogs. Dogs and kids in the same movie is always murder. The stewardess is embarrassed, as we should all be, as a species, so she starts handing out magazines. I take a
New Yorker.
Guess what the two music lawyers go for.”

The smooth transition from chainsaw to anecdote had paralyzed Toby. The blood in his mouth was surprisingly salty.

“I said guess.”

“
Rolling Stone.
”

“Wrong!” Mr. Demsky slid the remote controls down the desk and leaned on his forearms. “Sure, that’s the obvious response. Music people read
Rolling Stone
and smart people read
The New Yorker.
But no. No, these two choose a magazine called
Gentlemen’s Quarterly.
You heard of it?”

“I have a subscription.”

“Tobias, it’s a whole goddamn magazine about
being a gentleman.
”

“I’ve learned quite a lot from it over the years.”

“Etiquette.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And men’s clothing and perfume and spa treatments. Book clubs. How to please women orally. It’s fat with advertisements. There were a couple of recipes inside. One was for brioche! It’s a girl magazine, but for men. Men like you, Tobias.”

“Like me.”

“You ever been in a fist fight?”

“No.”

“Ever built a garage or shot a handgun?”

“Oh no.”

“Play any sports?”

“I go to the gym.”

“At first I thought the music lawyers were a couple of Kansas City faggots. But when one of them went to the can, I spotted his wedding ring.”

“Well, it
is
legal now to—”

“Can you believe it?”

“I have a subscription, Mr. Demsky.”

“You know what these two talked about for the rest of the flight home?”

“No.”

“Guess, Tobias.”

“Rap music.”

“They talked about the decline of good manners.” With some cussing in a language Toby took to be Yiddish, Mr.
Demsky stood up out of his giant leather chair and sauntered to the window. “You been overseas?”

“No, but—”

“A man must go overseas, Tobias. This isn’t an actual
country
we’re living in; the sooner you understand that, the better. It’s a big, big suburb. It’s a place you graduate from.”

“A suburb.”

“If we didn’t have oil, we wouldn’t exist.”

“What does that mean? We wouldn’t
exist?
”

“Wood hewers, water carriers. That’s all we can do. And we’re impolite. Litterers. Spitters. We dress like hobos, most of us, and drink shit coffee.
Toi, toi, toi.
And
One on One, with Toby Ménard
—no offence—that’s the best you could come up with?”

“I don’t even know what a sewer easement is, Mr. Demsky.”

The president aimed his pipe like a rifle. “Where are we living?”

“In a place you graduate from.”

“Sterling!” He lowered his cigar. “Now, Tobias, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Go ahead.”

“The sort of question you can’t ask an employee anymore?”

“Certainly.”

“Are you a homosexual?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“I’m not.”

“So I suppose you like women.”

“Very much.”

Mr. Demsky looked down at Toby’s grey wool pants and shiny black oxfords with that regrettable scuff. “You like suits?”

“Suits are my favourite.”

“And unless I’m mistaken,” he leaned over Toby, sniffed, “you’re wearing perfume.”

“Cologne.”

Mr. Demsky returned to his chair, sat back, snorted. “Ever go to a dinner party and think, sweet Christ, should I bring wine or champagne?”

“Red wine or flowers, depending.”

“Wish you had your own herb garden at all?”

“I have one.”

“How about vacuuming? You like to vacuum?”

“There are some delightful vacuums on the market.”

“Decoupage?”

“If only.”

“You ever been afraid?” Mr. Demsky bit down. The joy had departed. “I don’t mean movie afraid. Afraid,
afraid,
for your life or the lives of the people you love?”

“Well…”

“A generation of pussies. Shoppers, who haven’t even been overseas.”

“I intend to go very soon.”

“How would you like to develop and host a series of segments on how to be a gentleman? Manners, etiquette. But with shared concerns among the ladies and the poofs? We’ll produce them here and broadcast them on all the stations. What do you say?”

“I would adore that, sir.”

“One more ‘sir’ and you’re cleaning my shitter. Write up a proposal and slip it under my door.”

“When would you like it?”

Mr. Demsky examined his cigar. “I’m due for a Vietnamese massage in an hour and a half.”

“I really didn’t mean what I said about you failing and dying painfully, Mr. Demsky. My father gave me bad advice. I have only the fondest thoughts.”

“Mention, as a postscript, some businesses where Kansas City faggots like yourself shop for clothes and perfume and flowers and, you know, ceramic pots and garden tools and scarves and serviettes with roosters on them. I’ll meet with the advertising knobs on Monday.”

That night at Toqué!, Alicia wore a white top that wrapped around her like silk bandages on a mummy. Between the wrap and the skirt, an inch of her stomach was visible. Her dark hair was tied up in the back with an intricate arrangement of clips, and it shone in the candlelight.

Toby was making $38,000 at the station before he became an etiquette commentator, a personality, a person. He could not afford a $298 dinner. Yet Alicia stared over the candles as though he were the most significant man on the island, and feigned fascination as he told her about his family, his meeting with Mr. Demsky that afternoon, and the proposal he titled
Toby a Gentleman.
“You think it’s gauche, to make my name the title?”

“How else are you going to be famous?”

The
plat principal
was
canard aux framboises,
and Alicia claimed she had never eaten duck, a claim Toby would realize, some months later, was grossly false. She thanked him more than twenty times: for asking her out on this special day, for ordering food and wine so commandingly—in French!—for being adventurous and knowledgeable about duck.

Toby wanted to ask if he could move into her house. He wanted Alicia to be his before she realized she could be a movie star, a pop icon, a network anchor. The desire to lock her in a kitchen for forty or fifty years of olde-tyme afternoon-sex-on-the-table marital solitude nearly burst out of his chest and onto the expertly unpolished table before them.

He had framed the bill from that night at Toqué!, still the most magical night of his life. It hung on the wall in his kitchen, where he made an Americano and watched the morning summaries of the federal election. The Conservatives had prevailed, with a minority, but Westmount-Ville-Marie had gone to the Liberals. He wrote a note of condolence and fond wishes to Stéphane Isidore. His neck was stiff from sleeping in a hospital chair for six hours, but with medication, yogurt and granola, and a redemptive session at the ironing board, he was ready to return to work. His phone had been flooded with data, but he could not sufficiently steel himself to hear or see any of it. Instead, he simply dialled his father’s cellphone number. To his delight, no one answered, so he left a rather long and inspiring message. A poem, really. “We’ll all soon see, Mom and Dad, that this accident was really the catalyst for so much positive change in your lives.”

The black sapphire metallic 335i sedan was his superhero phone booth, spotless and dark, filled with the scent of triumph and, this morning, baroque chamber music. He pulled over at the congested corner of Roy and Drolet to mail his letter to the Conservative Association of Westmount-Ville-Marie. The morning wind was warm and cool at the same time, and smelled of bakery. His decision to forget the fire, Alicia, the on-air gaffe, his naked father, had cleansed him of anxiety. Montreal opened to him, as it always did. He said, “
Bonjour, Monsieur
” and “
Bonjour, Madame
” to the francophone media workers who passed, in black boots or shoes, on their way from renovated houses on the Plateau to the game show studios on Saint-Laurent. He complimented a retired gentleman in mustard slacks on the splendour of his poodle.