Читать книгу Planet Reese - Cordelia Strube - Страница 10

“Put the knife down,” Reese says to his mother. “He kicked me,” Betsy protests. “First of all he sends the ambulance away and then he kicks me.”

“How could I kick you if I can’t move my legs?”

Bernie fell off the toilet again. Betsy couldn’t contact Reese because he was in a meeting with the duck hunter/environmentalists. She called Med-merge, who lifted Bernie off the floor and offered to take him to the hospital.

“He hasn’t gone to the toilet for six days,” Betsy explains, “and he says there’s nothing wrong.”

“It’s happened before,” Bernard says. “It always rights itself.” Bruises have disfigured his face. There are blood as well as coffee stains down the front of his polo shirt, and dried blood and croissant crumbs caught in the white hairs on his thighs.

Betsy gesticulates with the knife. “Not for six days, Bernard. You haven’t been constipated for six days. Every twenty minutes he thinks he’s going to go and I have to listen to his grunts.”

“Six days is a long time, Dad. Mum, put the knife down.”

“I don’t feel safe with him, he’s crazy.”

“Off she goes,” Bernie says, “the drama queen.”

“Your face is pretty bruised, Dad. What did you do? Smash it into the tub?”

“Of course,” Betsy says, “that’s what he always does. You’ve got two black eyes, Bernard, and maybe a concussion.”

“In your dreams.”

“It might be a good idea to let somebody take a look at you, Dad, the cuts on your nose anyway.”

“The rat poison makes the bruising worse,” Bernie says.

“He means the blood thinners,” Betsy interprets. “He says they’re killing him like a rat.” Bernie went to medical school in 1948 and believes that any advances in medicine since then have been bogus.

“It wouldn’t hurt to have somebody take a look,” Reese persists.

“Nobody’s looking at anything.”

“Mum, put the knife down.”

“He’s afraid they’re going to put fingers up his bum,” Betsy clarifies. “I told him everybody has to have fingers up their bums some time. Would you rather be dead, Bernard, than have a professional’s finger up your bum?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business? I don’t go telling him your business, do I? There’s a few things I could tell him he wouldn’t be too happy about, should I tell him?”

“People do die from blocked bowels, Bernard, it’s a little different.”

“From smoking till they cut off your legs?”

“Can you guys stop,” Reese pleads, “just stop?”

They both look at him and ask, “What?”

“Arguing. It’s pointless. What’s the point? If he doesn’t want to go to the hospital, fine, that’s his right.”

“Easy for you to say, you don’t have to listen to him, every twenty minutes ...” She mimics Bernie’s grunts.

“Stay in your room and close the door,” Bernie advises.

“I brought you more Crispy Crunches,” Reese intervenes. “I’ve got to go. I have a dinner engagement.”

“A date?” Betsy asks, excitedly exchanging the knife for the Crispy Crunches. “Are you seeing somebody?”

“I’m still married, Mother.”

“Then how come we never see your family?” She follows him to the door. “You were never right for each other. Didn’t I always say she should have married a dentist? You’re too sensitive for her.”

“I’m still married to her, Mother.”

“Don’t get testy.” She smells of cigarettes. There are cigarette burns on her stretch pants.

One of the things that put Roberta off her mother-in-law was Betsy’s nostalgia for Reese’s old girlfriends. When Clara and Derek came to visit, she’d drag out the photo albums. “Now she was a nice girl,” she’d say, pointing to a snapshot of a girl she’d barely acknowledged when Reese had brought her home for dinner. Betsy appeared especially fond of a girl named Mitzi who was famous for blow jobs. In the photo, Mitzi is dressed as Princess Leia. “That girl never had a bad word to say about anybody,” Betsy would comment, stroking Princess Leia’s braids. Her point was that Roberta had many bad words to say about many people, in particular her mother-in-law.

Waiting at a light, the headline “Spousal Slayings on the Rise” in a newspaper box arrests him. Men, apparently, are killing their wives or ex-wives, accounting for 47 percent of all family-related homicides. What does killing the wife do for the men? Beyond the initial adrenalin rush from swinging the axe, what is left? Remorse? Prison rations and no access to their children? Can this be better than negotiating with Babb & Hodge?

He has been encouraged by the judge’s ruling in the case of the billionaire. He need pay only $50,316 U.S. a month in child support for his four-year-old daughter rather than the $490,000 U.S. requested by the mother. How is it possible to spend even $50,316 U.S. monthly? Does she own an airport and fly big jets? The judge called the billionaire’s wife’s request “incredible” and “grossly excessive.” Reese had hoped to hear such words coming from the meagre lips of the cat-obsessed mediator. Certainly, in Reese’s opinion, Roberta’s demands have been incredible and grossly excessive. Already the chains are upon him. It will be a life of penury. The only advantage has been that he’s been forced to ride his bike to save on transportation costs, which is better for the environment, providing badly needed exercise and daily neardeath experiences. Shying out of the way of opening car doors and right-turning vehicles reminds him that he must want to live, for, although he’s thought of suicide — as have, according to a recent poll, one in five Canadians — he would not act on it.

Avril Leblanc also rides a bicycle, with a dream catcher suspended from its handlebars. Reese listened in on her a second time while she was consoling a potential donor who was distraught over a newspaper story regarding the murder of a four-year-old girl. The girl’s parents had forced her to drink large amounts of water as punishment; autopsy reports indicated death from “forced water intoxication.” Reese felt himself becoming distraught over this information but Avril Leblanc calmly advised the potential donor — and incidentally Reese — to avoid being “reactive” to such items in the newspaper, that perhaps reading the newspaper less frequently would reduce stress in the potential donor’s life. Unconvinced, the potential donor — a retired veterinarian — asked if Avril had read about the Iranian man cutting off his seven-year-old daughter’s head after suspecting that she had been raped by her uncle. Avril said that she’d made it a policy not to read newspapers and that this had improved her meditation practice enormously. “A post-mortem,” the retired veterinarian persisted, “showed that the girl was still a virgin.” Reese had to disconnect at this point, feeling much too reactive. He reached for his Evian bottle, for the first time perceiving it as an instrument of torture. He thought of children everywhere, beyond the ones making headlines, suffering, and as always he could not understand why.

Peggy and Scott have invited a woman to dinner. As she and Reese are the only guests this can only mean they are intended to mate, which means that Peggy and Scott believe that his marriage is over. Over wine and hors d’oeuvres, they do not ask about Roberta or the children, but speak humorously of Reese’s determination to “save the planet” and warn the woman, whose name is Wilda Mims, not to let him catch her idling.

Feeling misled and misunderstood, Reese tries to clarify the situation by mentioning the cruise.

“That was some pricey swan song, Reesie,” Peggy says. “Whose idea was that anyway?”

“Oh, I love cruises,” Wilda Mims says. “I’d like to go to Alaska. I’ve always wanted to see the aurora borealis.” She speaks very quietly, smiling frequently, revealing multiple mercury amalgams. Peggy shepherds them into the living room then hurries back to her convection oven. Although Reese has absorbed that Wilda Mims is a probation officer, he is having difficulty hearing further details of her conversation and says “pardon” several times. He searches for the volume control on the stereo until Scott appears with more wine, enthusing about his state-of-the-art sound and theatre system, then returning to the wine cellar. Wilda Mims resumes speaking words Reese can’t hear as he fumbles again to find the volume control. He smiles when she smiles, nodding periodically, acutely aware of his body language, determined to present himself as a happily married man. He notes that Wilda has muscular arms, which suggests that she works out. Reese imagines her smiling as the convicted swear that they are going to rehabilitate themselves, then heading to the gym to pump iron and bat around balls. Her mouth stops moving and she doesn’t smile, and Reese realizes that it’s his turn to speak.

“Do you believe that pedophiles can be cured?” he almost shouts. Wilda looks very solemn before saying something Reese can’t hear, then she smiles. He smiles back.

Conversation over dinner is easier, further from the stereo. They discuss blogs, YouTube, iPhones, personal listening devices, and PCs. Scott wants to upgrade again but Peggy says he’s being a booboo pants, they upgraded less than six months ago. “What are you using these days, Reese?” Scott asks.

“Nothing.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No. I listen to birds.”

“And they say I’m a radical,” Wilda says. Reese can’t imagine anyone saying that Wilda Mims is a radical.

“So how are people supposed to get in touch with you?” Scott asks.

“I have a phone plugged into a wall,” Reese says. “Or they could always write me a letter.”

“You know what, this might be the new thing,” Wilda suggests. “I was reading somewhere that people are spending more time alone, and that even when they’re together they’re alone because they’re watching TV or checking e-mails or surfing or something. My sister’s typical. When she’s making dinner she’s talking on her cell to somebody on the school council or something. Meanwhile Jud is checking his e-mails and the kids are either watching TV or doing homework with headphones on. It’s pretty sad.”

“Sad,” Reese agrees.

“What a pair of whiners,” Scott says. “Any information I want is at my fingertips.”

“Too much useless information,” Reese suggests.

“Too many penises,” Wilda says, “and vaginas and breasts. Who needs that with your cup of coffee?”

“All Scott does,” Peggy says with unexpected disdain, “is look for deals on eBay. Isn’t that right, Lulu?” she asks the cat. Peggy and Scott don’t have children, just two cats to whom they speak in baby voices. Lulu does not answer Peggy, leaving a yawning chasm in the flow of chitchat. Roberta has often complained of Reese’s dinner conversation, that he will slip into his environmental “rant” unless reined in. As they nibble on an assortment of cheeses, Reese tries to think of some benign dinner conversation. “Good cheese,” he says.

“Tell them about Bovine Growth Hormone,” Mrs. Ranty urges, digging her heels into his kidneys. “Tell them the cows live two years. They used to live for fifteen!” Sesame seeds from the crackers lodge between Reese’s molars. “It’s killing them,” Mrs. Ranty snorts. “What d’you think it’s doing to you, dullards?” Reese tries to discreetly dislodge the sesame seeds with a fingernail.

“The poor cows are consstantly zseeck,” another voice in his head adds, “masstitiss, eendigesstion, diarrhea, cysstic ovariess, utereene problemss, reduced pregnancy ratess, shorter pregnanciess, lower birth weightss.” To his dismay, Reese realizes that the voice belongs to his Polish Scout Leader, Igor, who washed Reese’s mouth out with soap when he said “clitoris.” Igor survived concentration camps and building a plumbing business in Etobicoke. He had no time for “no-goodniks,” of which Reese was one. Igor’s sibilant “Ss” won him the codename “the Boa” among the no-goodniks.

“You lossers,” Igor scoffs, “drink the milk zsucked off thesse zsick, drugged cowss!”

“What was that?” Wilda Mims asks, looking at Reese.

“What was what?” Reese shoves another cracker in his mouth. It concerns him that he is hearing voices in his head, but doesn’t everybody? He passes the cheese to Wilda.

“Well,” Wilda Mims says, “aren’t we a chatty group?”

Reese swishes wine around in his mouth to loosen the seeds. “There’s pus in the milk,” he blurts.

“What milk?” Peggy asks.

“Pus?” Wilda asks.

All three of them look at him as though he has made a rude noise. “I was just thinking about mastitis,” he explains. “In cows. The ones given growth hormones. The pus isn’t visible, meaning we drink it. Along with the antibiotics plugged into the cows to treat it.”

“Oh, Reesie,” Peggy says, “don’t be such a booboo pants, we’re trying to enjoy ourselves here.”

Is this where mankind has gone wrong? The pursuit of happiness as a state of being that requires no effort or thought?

Peggy offers more genetically modified crudités. Scott heads for the cellar to scout for more wine.

“I don’t usually eat dairy anyway,” Wilda admits. “It makes me feel bloated.” She smears more brie on a cracker.

“We had brown water at work today,” Peggy says. “It creeped everybody out. They couldn’t wash their hands or make coffee or anything.”

“Why was it brown?” Wilda asks.

“The super said it was something in the pipes. They were working on the pipes or something.”

Third World children crowd into Reese’s mind. He sees the brown water they drink daily, and the severely malnourished seventeen-month-old North Korean who was on the reverse side of Pamela Anderson’s props. The baby’s eyes were half closed; his irises rolled upward, his mouth gaped like a baby bird’s. He is probably dead now. Reese gulps more wine.

“Oh, Scott,” Peggy says. “Before I forget, the tree guy phoned. He says it’s going to cost five thousand to cut them down, dig up the roots, and everything.”

“You’re cutting down trees?” Reese asks, gasping only slightly but feeling a sudden urge to shake his body violently.

“I hate them,” Peggy says. “They’re always dropping needles and oozing stuff.”

“That’s sap.”

“Whatever, it creeps me out. It sticks to the lawn furniture.”

“Trees are dying due to development and smog,” Reese protests, feeling the wine heating his face. “Trees can’t survive surrounded by concrete and paving stones! We can’t survive!”

“Whoa,” Scott says. “Why don’t you tell us how you really feel.”

“I’m not cleaning off those chairs another year,” Peggy insists.

“Five thousand’s a bit steep I would say,” Scott comments.

“I don’t care. I want a deck.” The cats meow and Peggy speaks to them. “You’d like a deck too, wouldn’t you, Lulu and Ricki, so you can warm your tumtums in the sun.”

“Did you hear about that guy who stabbed some driver with his car keys?” Scott asks. “He said the guy was driving too slowly. He’s being charged with assault with a weapon, property damage, assaulting a police officer, and resisting arrest.”

“You get psychotic around slow drivers,” Peggy snipes.

“Yeah, but I don’t get out and stab them.”

Over dessert Scott tells of one of his cases; a man suing a strip club, claiming he was injured by a “reckless” exotic dancer who kicked him in the head.

“You’re making that up,” Wilda says.

“I kid you not. He’s seeking damages from the club, claiming it was negligent in not posting signs warning the public of the risk of sitting too close to the stage. He was just sitting there minding his own business when she swung around a pole and kicked him. Fractured his nose.”

“My heart bleeds,” Wilda says.

“What was he doing in that scuzzbar anyway?” Peggy asks. “Any man who goes to one of those joints deserves a kick in the head.”

“He was lonely,” Scott says, “was just looking for a good time.”

“All can be forgiven in the quest for a good time,” Reese says, wine pulsing where his blood should be. “Destroy Earth, Mars, whatever’s required, as long as we’re having a good time!” He can’t believe he’s speaking like this when he has resolved not to, to stop scaring his children. He must stop scaring his children.

They all look at him. Wilda Mims smiles. Peggy begins to clear dishes.

“I’m going to a golf day tomorrow,” Reese says in an attempt at normalcy, remembering that, in the event of a divorce, he may require Peggy and Scott as character witnesses.

“Lucky bastard,” Scott says. “Some fundraising thing?”

Reese nods.

“Do yourself a favour, Reesie,” Peggy advises. “Don’t start telling them how much water it takes to keep the green green, or how many pesticides they use and how it’s killing them through their golf shoes.”

“It’s a bit of a turnoff,” Scott agrees.

“Just try to have a good time,” Peggy says.

As Reese leaves them on their pressure-treated, carcinogen-emitting front porch, he knows he will never be invited there again.

Peggy waves. “Take care, Reesie.”

“Keep it real,” Scott says.

After a near-death experience with a white stretch limo, Reese, cycling in slow motion, tries to remember who he was seventeen years ago, driving Greenpeace canvassers around in an unheated van. To pay for gas he would buy beer and sell it for two bucks a bottle to the canvassers. At the end of the night, inebriated, all seemed sublime to him, and possible. Seventeen years later, inebriated, nothing seems sublime, or possible. Being without expectation should be freeing. The problem is the children. What happens to the children?