Читать книгу Love Object - Sally Cooper - Страница 11

On my way back from the Trout Club Saturday evening, I coast past our house to the arena to check on Larry’s rig and it is gone. I park my bike and come in the back door. The sun on the pink insulation stuffed between the studs and the roof rafters gives the addition a rosy glow.

I find Sam lying on the couch watching the Jays. Vi sits in an armchair knitting the off-the-shoulder orange and turquoise batwing sweater-dress she’s promised me will be all the rage when I go back to school. Vi has never been the sort of expert knitter who fashions delicate pastel baby outfits or large intricate ski sweaters. Instead she prefers to make up patterns as she goes along, using a cheap nylon wool that squeaks when she rubs it between her fingers. After she cut down her smoking earlier this year at her doctor’s insistence, her knitting output surged. She started the sweater-dress when she moved in this spring, reminding me of the time I stayed with her after Sylvia left five years ago. Then Vi had knit me a floor-length poncho of white pompons centred on alternating mint green and black blobs.

Vi hoists herself up and beckons me into the kitchen.

“The barbecue’s lit if you want to help me get some burgers ready.”

Nicky joins us and we eat from paper plates set in green baskets and drink cola from Styrofoam cups. When Vi moved in, she brought boxes of disposable dishes pilfered from Effie’s. The last time she stayed with us, just before Sylvia returned, she brought only a single suitcase.

“The addition looks good. Warm,” I tell Sam.

“Thanks. Vapour barrier’s next, then drywall. Looks like Nicky’s wild vacation is over.”

Nicky smiles, his cheeks lumpy. He swallows, takes a swig of pop, and says, “Too bad Uncle Larry isn’t here for the dry-wall. You said it’s difficult. It’s probably better with three of us then, right?”

“If Larry didn’t get home today, Nadette would have been on him.”

“It’s not like she likes him very much,” I say.

“True, but she doesn’t want him anywhere but home.”

“She doesn’t trust him,” Vi says. “And who can blame her?”

Sam shoots her a look and the tip of her tongue appears between her front teeth. Her current wig is a shingled auburn, her horn-rims replaced by purple tortoiseshell frames that reach from halfway down her cheeks to above her eyebrows.

“Why doesn’t Mercy just help us? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Nicky says with a big smile.

I roll my eyes. “Hardly. I know I’m muscular, but I’m not strong like you are, Nicky. And I have to work tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you, Mercy. It’s getting the pieces propped in place that’s hard about drywall — and the dust, of course — but there’s nothing your brother can lift that you can’t. And we do wear masks.”

“Maybe when I’m done the boards.”

“Maybe we’ll have to help you with the boards when we’re finished the drywall.”

Vi tops up our cola. Sam adds rum to his from a bottle on the counter.

“Any money Larry didn’t ask about me. He likely doesn’t know about the operation. Four feet of intestine. If you tacked that length of gut against the wall it would be almost as tall as I am.” Her Dr. Snow had talked Vi into having it out and now she feels released.

“I told Larry,” Sam says into his drink.

Vi continues as if she hasn’t heard. “Bet Larry doesn’t know his own mother was eviscerated.”

“What’s that?” Nicky asks.

“It’s a disembowelment,” Vi says, easing her chair back from the table. “Where they slice you open and pull out your bowels. Remove your essential parts. Your viscera are your internal organs. Your innards. From the Latin.”

Five years ago, Vi defined hysteria for me with a similar relish, pointing out the connection between the Greek word for womb and what was thought to be a woman’s frenzy while I sipped a chocolate milkshake at her counter.

Sam gets up and stands under the horseshoe Sylvia had nailed over the doorway — with the round part at the bottom so the luck wouldn’t run out. He swirls his rum and Coke in the Styrofoam.

“I’ll show you, if you’re so curious.” She glances at Sam and lifts her flowered smock, revealing the bandage that stretches from under her bosom to well below the waistline of her pants. Sam takes off his wire-frame glasses and rubs his eyes.

“It looks like a giant Elastoplast,” Nicky says.

Vi laughs as Sam edges himself out of the room. “One thing I’ve always liked about you, Nicky, is your spontaneity. You say what is natural to say, what makes a person feel good and human. Not like your father and sister, skulking around the fringes of things, grunting instead of conversing.”

I open my mouth to respond as Nicky smiles but I decide against it. Why spoil her image of me?

Vi stuck with Effie’s Diner in the years since that summer I sat twirling on the red vinyl and chrome stools, reading Alice and eating grilled cheese, but the combination of this operation and a new owner who’s turned the BP station into a self-serve Texaco have forced her to give it up. She can’t walk without pain, let alone bend over to get coffee cups and napkins from beneath the counter where Dan Smothers, the new owner, insists on keeping them. Dan is young and bullish, with a dark thatch of hair on his upper lip that matches what is on his head. Before the operation, when the gas was a thick rubber stopper rising like bread dough against her diaphragm, she would watch Dan outside at the pumps and imagine where else that hair appeared on his body. When she reached the thick fur that surely sprouted between his legs, her sex reminded her that the world did not sit inside this firm bubble of her stomach.

“Dan’s pubes were on my mind as he was giving me the ‘you’re fired’ speech,” Vi says. “I pictured the hair taking territory, shooting tendrils up his abdomen, sliding down around the curve of his thighs. Even as he talked about how my surgery stories were losing him customers, my mind was running my fingers through that luxuriant pile.”

Nicky looks at me with his eyebrows raised. I bite my bottom lip and shrug. What does he expect when he encourages her with his questions and “spontaneous” comments?

Vi returns to her operation: “Four feet of intestine. How many things in this world are four feet long? Steamer trunks. Nine year old children. Dogs on their hind legs. The back seat of a Cutlass Supreme. I picture my guts as a living length of sausage-links, stretched out behind me wherever I walk, measuring themselves against the world. In terms of distance, four feet doesn’t go far.”

The summer I stayed with her, Vi told me a story about my grandfather, Earl. His father farmed pigs before the war. The first time he brought her home, Earl took Vi straight to the barn to show her off to his daddy. She wore a fashionable brown wool dress with patent leather pumps and a brown velvet hat holding her red hair in place. By the time they reached the barn, the black mud had ruined her pumps and stockings. She was in the middle of telling this to Earl when he opened the door — and there it was, strung up to the ceiling, legs laced together, a long, intimate slit bisecting it from throat to anus. The pig’s mouth gaped and its forehooves arched toward a steaming bundle of lavender and red entrails. Earl’s father approached Vi, rubber boots squelching, his hands coated with a pink soapy mixture. His grin was proud and she remembered his first words clear as day:

“What do you think of her?”

His teeth gleamed in the filtered barn light. He looked first at Earl, who nodded. Then he smiled down at Vi.

It was a long time before Vi realized he was talking about the swine.