Year of Lesser (26 page)

Then, her voice slows and the words become common and legible and, This is no longer tongues, Johnny thinks. Melody is describing an act, an
intimate and extreme act. And quickly, before Johnny can grasp what is happening, Melody is entertaining the bunch with a tale of drugs and driving and a dead baby. The whole story is told.

Johnny is watching Melissa Emery’s knuckles. Chapped a little. Then Melody’s face. Full of peace. He himself is experiencing tremendous confusion. When Melody sits, is in fact caught by Gordie and cradled briefly in his arms and then released, Johnny is on his feet, willing to offer what he hopes will be seen as a faithful interpretation. His head is bowed. Surprisingly, people wait. Melody is gasping; real tears, Johnny hopes.

Johnny stutters. Tries again. He has an audience, something he’s always liked. His voice is surer now, his mind slipping down that long black tunnel to the place he wants it to go. “Jesus Christ was a fag,” he says. “There is this theory which is quite possible. Claims that Jesus was gay. You know, homosexual.” Johnny grabs a quick breath here and forges on, knowing that any little pause now will allow for a stifling of his voice. “Seriously. I mean, why didn’t the man have any women? Think of it, twelve disciples, all men. Thing is, this theory states—and this is based on good research—Jesus and Judas were lovers. And if you accept that, how much greater the betrayal?”

Johnny’s smiling now. “You’re all unbelievable,” he says. “You people don’t admit to other possibilities. Narrow little views of salvation. What if I were to say that seeking out redemption in itself is evil; this idea that the world revolves around me. You know,
my
salvation,
my
soul,
my
wish to live forever. And besides that, Apostle Paul was a fag too. Especially liked little boys. Imagine, him giving us advice on marriage.”

Johnny shrugs his shoulders. A terrible lightness there. People muttering. Rumbling. The beginnings of a storm. A stoning perhaps. Johnny backs away towards the front door. Phil Barkman is stretching out his arms, eyes begging. What a handsome man, Johnny thinks. Little hooded blue penis. A good man. Melody is in the background, a wan ghost who listened to his voice. Good for her.

Johnny turns now and runs, out to his long black car. Gravel sprays, the faint ping of stones on Gordie’s Dodge. He drives too quickly across
the washboardy gravel along the road to Loraine’s house where he finds her in bed with the baby and a book. The baby sleeps.

“Are you okay?” she inquires, staring up into his wild face.

Johnny is touched by this question. So simple. She makes room for him on the short side and he touches her hip; the flow of her skin on his fingertips. The abandoned book takes flight at their feet. The roll of the mattress stirs the baby; Loraine hushes from above and finally giggles and gasps as she comes in his mouth. And then his quick efficiency, easing into her for the first time since the birth of Rebecca, and rocking slowly, his nose on the bone of her shoulder. The insanity of the evening dissolves and he concentrates on her, no one else; just this woman he loves, who lives out here above the black earth, a bright and vital star. His, for now.

OUT

In the days that follow Melody’s revelation, Johnny holds his breath and closes his eyes. What he has, this life with Loraine, hovers delicately in a cold blue sky so that Johnny begins to see himself as a bird; a bird like that raven Noah set loose upon a watery world, the one which never returned. Johnny, like the bird, seeks a place to rest; a rock, a piece of earth, a tree, but he finds nothing. There is no peace. One night Johnny wakes and has an urgent need to use the bathroom. He creeps from the bed and feels his way through the shadows to the toilet. He sits, eyes closed, and senses that he is ghost-like. His body is weak and flimsy, the weight and size of a scab barely clinging to its base. Johnny pulls at his chin and pinches hard at his thigh. The pain restores his faith and he shuffles back to bed and rediscovers his hollow beside Loraine and, before falling asleep again, smells her head twice.

And then one day Loraine phones Johnny at work. Her mouth is full of something, pain maybe.

“Johnny,” she says, “you should come home.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“We have to talk.” A little pull of air through her teeth now, as if the baby were feeding and biting her nipple. “Chris just told me about Melody.”

“I thought Chris was sick,” Johnny answers. “Couldn’t move, eat, or talk this morning. He should be working.”

“Is it true?” Loraine says.

Johnny won’t give in so easily. He distrusts the veins of gossip in Lesser; they become clogged and twisted so that what enters as fact at first exits as story, something made up: interesting, like the poetry Charlene used to read, but completely wrong—nonsense. “What did he tell you?” Johnny asks.

“That you were with Melody the night Rebecca was born. Down in Fargo. Helping her abort the baby.”

“I didn’t help her. I was the chauffeur, that’s all. And it wasn’t a baby yet. It was like eleven weeks.”

Another pause and Johnny has to listen to Loraine’s panic; her breathing is quicker, elevated. Then, “Oh, Johnny, I was hoping it was all wrong. Careless talk. But … shit, you took her down there?”

“What,” Johnny says. “What.” He can hear Chris talking in the background. His voice is high and strained, but Johnny can’t get the context. Just drivel.

“That’s it?” Loraine asks. “That’s your explanation, an adolescent ‘what’?”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. She asked for help. She came to me. There was no one else, she said.”

Loraine laughs, a cracking squeal that hurts Johnny’s ear. “You’re so gullible,” she says. Then her voice tightens into a dry whisper. “And you’re not sorry, are you?”

“Why?” Johnny says. Sometimes Loraine’s a mule. Puts her head down and won’t budge. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at Rebecca’s birth, sure, but she wasn’t exactly scheduled for that night, was she? I mean, I could have been hunting with Michael, or drinking in St. Adolphe. I just happened to be taking Melody down to Fargo to take care of a fetus that your son happened to be responsible for too. Only what would he have done? Married her? It’s the coincidence that’s killing you Loraine, admit it. I’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just the timing was off.”

“You’re sick.” The venom in Loraine’s voice makes Johnny sit up and take notice. He switches the receiver to his right ear. His neck, if he were to look in a mirror, would beam out at him, red and patchy and hot.

Loraine’s still talking. “Riding south with a teenage girl. Killing a baby. Huh. You probably wanted to fuck her.” Horror slips in. “You didn’t, did you?”

“Jesus, Loraine.” Johnny’s thinking about Chris, who’s sitting near his mother, listening to her talk like this.

“You wanted to though, didn’t you? Nice young cunt.”

Johnny doesn’t answer. He’s listening to Loraine cry, thinking how her face looks when she gets like this—all old and ugly and loose. He’s losing his patience. His tongue touches a sharp lower incisor; he lost a piece of it last week, biting into a steak. The rough edge makes the tip of his tongue hurt and swell.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“And then there’s Chris. You should see him. He’s
completely devastated.
Walking around in circles, mumbling. I had to yank this out of him. It’s like he’s been hit by a truck and managed to survive. Did you ever think?”

“Yes.”

“So, it didn’t matter.”

“It wasn’t the most important consideration at that point.”

“You screwed up Melody too, I hope you know.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, “I’m a pretty awful guy.”

“It’s the scope, you know. You understand? A decision like this pulls everyone down with you. You have no sense of the implications. You don’t get it, do you?”

Johnny thinks that there is a relief in finally giving up and falling, spiralling downwards, aware by now that nothing and no one can save him.

“This isn’t going to work,” Loraine says. “This family thing. You’re the odd one out, Johnny, you see? I certainly can’t sleep beside you any more. I said you should come by. Don’t bother. Your clothes will be out by the road.”

Johnny flutters feebly; one last attempt at flight. “Oh my. A sad day. Leaving your bed. Don’t fuck any more, anyway.”

“That’s everything to you, isn’t it. Fucking. That little muscle you adore.”

“You used to adore it.”

“When I could find it.”

This ought to be funny, Johnny thinks. He laughs, then realizes he shouldn’t. He opens his mouth then and says what he knows will hurt. “That’s fine. Just fine. I’m out. Now maybe there’ll be room for Chris in your bed. He’s been aching for you. Cozy and convenient. No problem.”

There is a brief awful cry and then silence. Loraine has hung up.

That same day Phil Barkman comes to visit Johnny at OK Feeds. Phil seats himself and announces there is a movement afoot to close down the centre. Phil says this almost carelessly, as if he were speaking of the weather. He’s wedged himself into a black vinyl chair and his fingers tap his thighs. Johnny knows Phil doesn’t lie, he has no need. His carelessness is simply a mannerism—his eyes show concern, not glee.

“Melody’s dad came to see me,” Phil says.

Johnny ducks his head.

“He says he’ll talk to the mayor and the councillors and he’ll start a petition,” Phil adds. “He figures he can have you shut down by next week.”

Johnny sighs. “It’s not a bad thing,” he says. “The centre. Nothing evil there. Not even me.”

“I know that,” Phil says.

“The kids’ll miss it.”

“Sure they will.”

“How’s Melody?” Johnny asks.

“She’s a strong girl. Eleanor talks to her. Has set up a little prayer time with her. She’s full of forgiveness. She’s living with us. We made a little
arrangement with her parents for the summer.” Phil says all this quietly, as if it were private or liable to break Johnny in some way.

But Johnny ignores the soft tone and says, “Yes.” He thinks he should apologize for the other night and as he considers this the words just turn up on their own, as if Phil were pulling them out on a rope. “Sorry,” he says. “You know. That night. I was lost. Confused. Don’t believe at all what I said. I heard it somewhere and it came in handy. Or I thought.”

“Sure,” Phil says. “Hey.” His face is calm and joyful. Johnny feels an urge to hug him but now Phil is lifting his hands to the ceiling as if begging for a blessing. “Like I said. Melody, who could have been devastated by your comments, seemed the least critical.”

“I’m a noisy gong,” Johnny says. Phil always makes him feel contrite.

“All of us, sometimes,” Phil says. “It’s a good verse to remember: ‘If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.’ Keeps us honest. You’re unhappy, aren’t you?”

Johnny thinks about this. Looks inside himself, considers, and discovers he is incapable of finding any sadness there. “I live on faith, hope, and love,” Johnny says. “I love Loraine.” He closes his eyes. Opens them. Phil is still there.

“Of course you do,” Phil says. “You’re a lover of women.”

Johnny stares at Phil. He’s got a small head, big eyes. Strange, to be called “a lover of women.” Makes Johnny feel good. Sometimes, Phil’s perceptions are perfect.

“How do you separate feeling from doing?” Johnny asks.

“I don’t always.”

“You suffer from weak flesh?” Johnny asks.

“Sometimes,” Phil answers.

Johnny wonders what that means for someone like Phil Barkman. Probably something to do with Eleanor, who had a look about her, touching Melissa that night. Then Melody. A glow; like it was lovely to minister to a woman’s skin.

“Pride’s a bigger one for me,” Phil says. Then, shaking his head as if
surprised at this conversation, he asks, “What are you going to do?”

Johnny thinks he’s never had trouble with pride. Selfishness, yes, but never pride.

“Close it down,” he says. “That’s what I’ll do.”

That evening Johnny lets himself into the centre and stands in the middle of the main room and listens. The tap is dripping in the back. The Pepsi machine hums. Several flies buzz and bang against the front window. Johnny picks up a swatter and kills them. It’s fly season in the country. He remembers when he was young and how the cows tightened their assholes so flies wouldn’t get in. Johnny can feel his own body tightening, closing up, keeping out the vermin of Lesser. A protection of sorts, but dangerous too; nothing good can come of it.

He finds a piece of paper and a purple felt pen. He writes “Closed” on the paper and tapes it on the big window facing Main Street. He takes his few belongings from his desk, drops them in a paper bag, locks the front door, and leaves. Johnny stops at Bill’s Hardware and buys a pup tent, Coleman stove, sleeping bag and a frying pan and camping dishes. The girl who serves him is new in town. She’s unfamiliar with the cash register and fights with it. She’s got an empty hole in her nose, no stud, and no other jewellery. Her shoulders are bare, she’s tanned.

“New job?” Johnny asks. He knows all the teenagers of Lesser.

The girl nods. “I’m here for the summer. From Abbotsford. Bill’s my uncle.”

“Oh.” Johnny watches her fingers touch the merchandise. “You like Lesser, then?”

Her nose wrinkles. “You going camping?” she asks.

“Sure,” Johnny says, sliding his credit card back into the wallet. “Sort of.”

Johnny knows where he’s headed, but before he goes there he drives by Michael’s land out by the river. Johnny has never been here before, though he’s driven past and caught glimpses of the one-and-a-half storey house. One light glows from the big room facing the road. Johnny knocks, waits, knocks again, and then Avi is there with her big head and long neck, a book in one hand.

“Michael’s not here,” she says. “He went fishing. Left this afternoon.” Avi is watching Johnny’s face, as if she knows about him. Has already caught the smell of his sin drifting on the wind, which all day has blown from the east. She lets him in, though not happily it seems. Johnny surmises she wants to spend the evening reading and drinking. Still he slips past her; she has aroused in him a memory of big, rangy, Charlene. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, or the smooth fall of Avi’s shoulders. He feels a need in his gut.