Читать книгу Planet Reese - Cordelia Strube - Страница 11

Annoyed, Sterling will not permit him to drive the golf buggy because Reese was late to register and did not bring his own clubs. When Reese explained that he didn’t own any, Sterling said, “You were supposed to rent them.” Reese could not help noticing Sterling’s golf bag bulging with clubs. “You’re not using mine, boyo,” Sterling said. “It’s against the rules.”

“Who’s rules?”

“USGA. We can’t share clubs unless we’re a team.”

“Can’t we be a team?”

“Not on your life. Buck up. Go rent a set.”

Plodding back to the clubhouse, Reese wondered if this is what we have come to, a world in which each man must own his own house, car, extension ladder, and golf clubs.

On returning, weighted with clubs, he again offered to drive the buggy because he felt it would free him of the obligation to converse. When he admitted his preference for walking, he noted a certain huffiness from Sterling and the players in the other buggy. Apparently, all must go in the buggy, with their own clubs, their own tees and golf balls, and feign amusement at “hooter” jokes.

Teeing off proves easy — driving the ball down the freeway and onto the green. Banging the ball into holes is another matter. The prospect of eighteen holes causes sweat to drip from Reese’s nose. He swings repeatedly, digging up turf. Dirt lands in his eye. Sterling, sniffing for business, bonds with the man with hooter humour who owns a chain of dollar stores. “The mark-up would knock your socks off,” the man says. “People’ll buy anything for a buck.”

Roberta is continuing to ignore him; Gwyneth Proudley, the child psychologist, left a message saying that she would “be willing” to meet with him if he felt that there were “issues” to discuss. She sounded weary, as though returning the calls of fathers accused of molesting their children is a task she would prefer to do without. Reese hurriedly dialled her number, but was thrown again into her voice mail.

Sterling and the dollar store magnate lose interest in watching Reese fumble with his clubs when they discover they both own sailboats. As they compare their yachts’ prominent features, the magnate’s buggy partner offers pointers to Reese in heavily Chinese-accented English, demonstrating when his vocabulary runs out. Reese, hungover and sleep-deprived, rolls his neck to release the tension. He feels the phantom pain from his missing children — his severed limbs — constantly. What would Gwyneth Proudley make of this metaphor? Would she say, “Your children are not an extension of you”? Betsy keeps intruding on his thoughts. And Elena, and Roberta, and Avril Leblanc. Why all these women? The fact that he’s thinking about them indicates that they have power over him. Roberta has justifiable power, but Elena’s dead, his mother’s a nicotine junky, and Avril Leblanc doesn’t bear thinking about. Avril Leblanc is the kind of woman he avoids, who talks about karma and smells of patchouli. Even the non-reactive upstairs tenant keeps lounging around his temporal lobes. Reese tossed the chicken carcass into the backyard hoping that, in between West Side Story numbers, the tenant would stroll in the yard, stumble over the chicken, and scream herself to death. But she didn’t leave her deck. The stench of her sunscreen wafted into his window. And the hum continues. Reese has phoned and spoken to much voice mail at Toronto Hydro, eventually contacting Roman Derbish, a supervisor who joked, “Why do transformers hum? Because they don’t know the words.” When Reese made no comment, Roman said he would “look into it.” And the delinquent boys who live next door entertain themselves by dropping garbage into Reese’s recycling bins. When the bins aren’t available, they litter on the lawn. They play street hockey, shouting and swearing as they slam the puck around. Reese suspects that these are the same teenagers who made the community newspaper headlines by taunting a ten-year-old loner named Barton, hanging his dog by its leash from the top of a piece of playground equipment and leaving it there to die. Barton watched helplessly, screaming for help, until a dog walker called 911.

The Chinese golfer takes a call on his cell and shouts into it. Reese climbs into the buggy with Sterling. “Back in the saddle,” Sterling says. “Is this not a beautiful course? They sank a ton of money into it. Beautiful.” He takes out his comb and arranges his hair.

“Water,” Reese mutters. “They sank a ton of water into it.”

“Bee-ewtiful.”

“Earth has no more fresh water now than it did two thousand years ago when our population was three percent its current size.”

“You don’t say. I’ve never been able to stomach the stuff myself. Those eight glasses a day you’re supposed to have. Makes me queasy.”

Reese has been reading about native birds. For the most part the birds are hard-working and respectful of their neighbours. Then there are the brown-headed cowbirds. Too lazy to build their own nests or warm their own eggs, cowbirds lay their eggs in the nests of other birds, tricking them into raising cowbird chicks instead of their own. One per nest, which hatches earlier than the nest owner’s eggs and therefore demands feeding earlier and grows stronger sooner than the owner’s hatchlings. Kirtland’s warbler, one of the rarest birds in North America, suffers not only from loss of habitat but because their babies die while the warblers are busy serving the cowbirds. Only the oriole has the sense to eject the cowbird’s eggs. The warblers and sparrows continue to feed and protect while the cowbirds, freed of responsibility, have a good time. Sterling is a brown-headed cowbird. Duped, the rest of the birds continue to feed and protect. Reese would like to think of himself as an oriole but knows that in his soul he is a warbler.

A donor, who has been making monthly payments for years to the Humane Society, has advised Reese that the Bible warned of an apocalypse, that it is unstoppable and that only the believers shall be admitted into the gates of heaven.

“What if this is heaven?” Reese asked.

“What’s that?”

“Planet Earth. Maybe this was heaven and we destroyed it.”

The donor looked at him with the veiled eyes of those who care for the terminally ill. “Bless you,” she said and patted his hand. This same donor is one of many who are angry that their donations have been used outside of their communities. They want their money to help only the suffering dogs and cats in their own backyards. Reese has been taking their calls and apologizing for any misunderstandings but inquiring, humbly, if a suffering dog is not a suffering dog? Is a dog undeserving of care because he lives in Parkdale?

Luncheon is even more trying. “Gifts” of wine await guests on chairs at place settings. Piles of dinner rolls are consumed while wine is poured and gulped. Vomit-coloured soup is served, and meat, covered in pink sauce, that Reese suspects is either chicken or pork. A man called Robert Vinkle explains to Reese how his truck came to be vandalized. “The alarm system was a factory-made piece of shite. The frickin’ thing didn’t go off when they crashed the back window.” Reese nods understandingly, although he is having trouble feeling present.

“Never,” Robert Vinkle says, tearing apart another dinner roll, “go for a factory-made system.”

En route to Golf Day, Reese asked the cabby to drive by the house that was once his. There was no sign of the Ford Festiva. This relieved and yet disappointed Reese, as he was hoping to collect evidence. He had at the ready the portable video camera he’d used to photograph his children. It occurs to him that he should have those videos in the basement apartment. He paid for the camera, the tape. They’re his videos. He will retrieve them as he did the chicken pot, will even return the chicken pot, which he’ll never use because it only reminds him that he has no Clara, or Elena. Robert Vinkle is pulling up his pant legs to show Reese the sutures from his recent varicose vein stripping. “Second time around,” Robert Vinkle admits. “The doctor tells me if I don’t quit the forty-five-minute drive to work, he’ll have to strip more until I don’t have any left and they have to cut off my legs.”

“Ouch,” Sterling says.

“Maybe your socks are too tight,” Reese suggests.

“My what?” Robert Vinkle asks, trying to cut through his meat.

“My mother always tells me to make sure my socks aren’t too tight,” Reese explains. “She says if your socks are too tight you’ll get a heart attack. She actually checks my socks.”

“Is that right? Well you might want to tell her that I’m supposed to wear pressure stockings. A pressure stocking sounds a bit like a tight sock, don’t you think?” Pink sauce is collecting on the edges of Robert Vinkle’s moustache.

“I’ll tell her,” Reese says, wishing that his arms did not feel like sponge.

“Who’s read Dracula around here?” Sterling interjects. “I mean the real thing, the book.”

“There’s a book?” Robert Vinkle asks.

“I read it,” Reese offers. Whenever he speaks, he hears echoes.

“That is one scary book.” Sterling says. “I mean imagine being that guy, Harker or whatever his name is, in this big mansion and you’re talking to this guy and he looks in the mirror and he’s got no reflection. I mean that’s scary. And these women you can see through keep coming at you. Now that’s scary.”

After the main course there are speeches. Watching lips move, Reese absorbs nothing. He applauds automatically with the other warblers. More glasses are raised, more wine quaffed. A large-buttocked woman in a miniskirt named Wendy Hiscock — “Good thing it’s not hercock,” Sterling remarks — announces that it’s time to collect gifts. Their tickets are numbered, Wendy Hiscock explains, corresponding with a gift on the table. All the golfers check their tickets then swarm the gift table. Reese remains seated, staring at his salad. The golfers, excited, rush back to their tables ripping the gift wrappings off chocolates, mini cheeses, pots of jams, tiny bottles of Bailey’s Irish Cream, and trinkets made by Third World children.

To Wendy Hiscock’s astonishment there are not enough gifts to go around. She apologizes, clasping her hands over her bosom, suggesting there may have been a mix-up with the numbers, and that perhaps some of the guests would be willing to share their gifts. The guests avoid eye contact as their arms surround their gifts.

“Mine’s up for grabs,” Reese says, his words resonating off the pastel walls of the banquet hall.

“That’s very generous of you,” Wendy Hiscock says. “You must be number eighty-nine.” She holds up his cellophane-wrapped package.

“That’s me,” he says.

“Would anyone else be interested in sharing?” Wendy Hiscock inquires. No one puts up their hands. The golfers start leaving with their gifts. Sterling leaps up and offers his to Wendy Hiscock. She visibly warms to him, and actually touches his arm to show her gratitude. Sterling leans towards her, making some comment Reese is grateful not to hear. On returning to the table, Sterling slaps Reese on the back. “I just did it to impress you,” he says. “You and Jodie Foster.”

“Can we go now?”

“And miss dessert? Get outta here. She’s got nice jugs anyway, even if her name’s a bit touchy.”

Robert Vinkle also donates his gifts. A small crowd gathers around the table on which the donated gifts have been opened. The golfers snatch at the tiny bottles and jars and trinkets. “I think we’re going to have to make it one item per person,” Wendy Hiscock intervenes, “I’m so terribly sorry.” Giftless golfers turn away from the table in disgust.

Dessert is served — fruit crepes with ice cream. “There is a God,” Sterling says.

Robert Vinkle waves the crepes away. “My doctor says no more ice cream or I’ll fucking die.”

Reese begins to worry about the hamster. He’s certain that Roberta is neglecting to clean his cage, that Bonaparte has been forced to live in his own filth. And doubtless no one lets him out of the cage to roll around in the plastic ball, or wander a tabletop. Clara is too young to look after him and Derek has adopted his mother’s view that the hamster is just a rodent whereas Reese has watched Bonaparte and knows how clever he is. Late at night they would sit at the kitchen table together. To liven things up Reese would place a wastebasket near the edge of the table and Bonaparte would leap into it and tunnel around in the dirty Kleenexes. After a few minutes, Reese would carefully lift him out and put him back on the table enabling Bonaparte to again leap into the wastebasket. Once, Bonaparte escaped. Reese despaired, certain that the hamster would die of dehydration in a crevice. He left the cage open and put it on the floor. Within an hour Bonaparte had found his way back to his cage, his home. Reese told Roberta of this extraordinary feat, hoping to impress her with the hamster’s savvy. “How difficultis it for him to smell his own piss?” Roberta said.

It scares him how he is growing to hate her.