Читать книгу No Good Brother - Tyler Keevil - Страница 9

Before dinner, while we waited for Tracy, I hopped on dish duty. I wanted to get a head start, and I suppose make amends in advance for what I intended to do later. So I stood at the sink and scrubbed away at Evelyn’s pots and pans. In the window above the sink I could see the reflection of the others sitting at the galley table behind me, their images transparent and ghost-like. There was Sugar and Albert and Evelyn and Big Ben, Sugar’s nephew: a quiet kid with a buzz cut and a scar across his nose, who’d joined the crew the same season as me. The four of them were talking about hockey and listening to Gram Parsons. It was one of Albert’s scratchy old cassettes, and the ragged vocals always reminded me of Jake, the way Jake used to sing.

Evelyn still hadn’t said any more about her little secret. She’d told me I had to wait till Tracy got there. Since I was at the window I spotted her first: clambering over the port-side gunnel. Like her mother she was strong and solidly built and at ease on the boats and water. When she straightened up she saw me and smiled, her cheeks burnished red from the cold.

‘Company’s here,’ I said.

Albert got up and hurried to open the door for his daughter, reaching it just as she did.

‘Should have called out,’ he said. ‘Would have helped you aboard.’

‘I’m training to run this boat, Dad. Reckon I can board it myself.’

Big Ben shook her hand and Sugar told him that was no way to greet a lady, then demonstrated by wrapping Tracy up in a bear hug and lifting her right off the ground. He’d known her since she was six years old and could make that kind of thing seem completely natural. I shuffled over to join them, and when it came my turn to greet Tracy I hugged her as well, though with me it was different. I hugged her cautiously, as if she were a cousin or a formal acquaintance. I always worried, hugging her, that it would seem improper in front of Albert.

‘Let’s all sit down,’ Evelyn said.

‘I just got the pots to finish.’

‘Oh, leave the dishes, Tim. We have company.’

We sat around the galley table, pulling up a pair of extra chairs for Tracy and me. Evelyn put on her oven mitts – these mitts in the shape of flippers we got her two seasons back – and brought the stew over to the table, along with homemade buns and a bowl of salad. This was all dished out, plate by plate, and the plates were handed around the table to the person on the end: Sugar, in this case. That was how we did it. Everything we did on the boat had its own ritual, and eating dinner was no different.

As we ate we chatted about the herring season. Tracy had already heard from Evelyn that we’d made our quota, and that the rest of the company had, too. Sugar and Albert shared the licence but operated through Westco in a collective. We told her about where we’d cast our nets that year and some of the stories we’d brought back: the skiff that had run aground and the yahoos on the Western Rider who’d gotten gooned and overslept and nearly missed the fisheries window. We moaned a little about the weather and how hard Albert worked us.

‘Your dad sure gets his money’s worth out of his poor crew,’ Sugar said.

‘Don’t I know it,’ Tracy said.

‘These fellows,’ Albert said, shaking his head, ‘would sleep through a hurricane if I let them. They would sleep through the End of Days.’

After the stew came the pie, and when that was done we got out the cards and played High Chicago for pennies, which was another ritual. Sugar lost quickly, and after declaring bankruptcy he palmed the table-top to push himself up. He’s six-four and two-twenty, and in the close confines of the deckhouse he moved slowly, carefully.

‘You coming for a walk?’ he asked his nephew.

The way he said it wasn’t a question. Big Ben folded his hand and followed his uncle outside. We played a few more rounds and Evelyn made a pot of coffee and we got to talking about payday and the cheques we all had coming our way. Albert was going to install a new furnace in their place out in New West, and Evelyn, she was putting some of her share away for a trip to Palm Springs. But even then I had the feeling that it was all preamble. I was still waiting for whatever it was they were going to spring on me.

‘What about you, Tim?’ Tracy asked. ‘You got any big plans once this taskmaster sets you loose?’

‘Ah, you know me. I ain’t got much imagination.’

‘No raising Cain?’ She elbowed me. ‘No lady friend to buy pretty things for?’

‘Well, there is one.’ Evelyn stopped sipping her tea. They all looked at me, waiting. ‘Old woman by the name of Evelyn,’ I said. ‘Might need a new dishwasher.’

Evelyn got up and slapped me with her flipper mitt.

‘No sir,’ Albert said, playing along. ‘Nobody buys my woman a dishwasher but me!’

The joke ran its course, and as Evelyn settled back down she said, ‘Albert – why don’t you tell Tim. Tell him what we were talking about.’

‘Oh no,’ Tracy said.

Albert frowned at her, and cleared his throat, and then spread out one hand to stare at the fingernails. The cuticles were rimmed with black: a lifetime’s worth of engine oil and grease. He ran his thumbnail beneath the nail on his forefinger, as if removing some. Then he said, ‘You know we normally head up to our cabin in Squamish for a week at the end of season. Well, we’ll be heading up this Saturday, after we finish, and wondered if you wanted to come.’

‘Wow,’ I said, which was all I could think to say. ‘That’s real kind of you.’

‘Our boy Rick will be there, with his kids, and Tracy.’

Tracy was staring into her teacup, as if trying to read the leaves.

‘That would be really something,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ Albert added, ‘if you got other things going on …’

‘No. No I don’t got anything else. The only thing keeping me here would be my mother. If she needs me, I mean. Seeing as I’ve already been away for a while.’

‘Of course, Timothy,’ Evelyn said. ‘You’ve got to look after your family, too.’

‘It would only be for a few days,’ Albert said.

‘That sounds real nice.’

‘Think about it, anyway,’ Evelyn added.

‘I will. I really will.’

She stood up and began to clear the cups, even though mine was only half-finished.

‘Well,’ Tracy said, ‘I better get back. Shift starts in an hour.’

She was working security at a local college, while undertaking her training.

‘I’ll walk you out, if you like.’

The docks were quiet, aside from a few old-timers on one of the boats, drinking to celebrate the end of season, their voices and laughter echoing across the water. Tracy and I walked in silence until we crossed the gangway. Then she said, ‘I’m sorry about that. They like to play matchmaker.’

‘It’s a nice idea.’

‘Nice is an easy word.’

‘I mean it would be fun.’

‘Well, maybe it would be.’

We reached her vehicle: a classic Jeep that she’d salvaged from the scrap heap, and fixed up. She’d parked in the same spot that Jake had earlier. She unlocked the driver’s door and before she got in I hugged her again. In the dark, away from the others, I could have held onto her longer, and maybe I should have. But it was funny. I still acted the same way.

That night, it wasn’t hard to slip away. I just waited until Sugar and Big Ben were asleep (this was easy to determine because they both snore like bears) and then crept out of the cabin, eased open the galley door, and lowered myself down to the dock. Sneaking off felt shady and dishonest but those were feelings I generally associated with my brother, and any plan of his which involved me.

The Firehall, where we were meeting, is on the corner of Gore and Cordova, just a few blocks away from the Westco plant. It isn’t a firehall any more. It’s an arts centre and performance space now – a fairly well-known one. They produce shows of their own and also put on work by touring theatre and dance companies. The outside still looks like a firehall: worn brownstone walls, glossy red doors, and those high-arched windows.

The night I met Jake, a company called The Dance Collective was performing. The name was spelled in block capitals across the marquee, and on the A-frame board out front a series of posters listed the various dancers and their pieces. I walked cautiously up the wheelchair ramp and stood for a time outside the doors, peering in through the glass.

The place hadn’t changed much. On the left was the box office, and on the right was the bar – a classy-looking affair, with a marble bar top, chrome beer taps, and leather stools. On some of the tables platters of appetizers and hors d’oeuvres had been laid out: smoked salmon and pastries and little vegetable rolls. In the foyer thirty or forty guests – a mix of well-dressed artists, hipsters, and bohemian types – stood chatting and milling about. All of it looked so eerily familiar I felt like a ghost, lurking in the cold and haunting my old life.

I have to admit: I just about turned and walked away.

But my brother was in there, waiting for me. So I went ahead, passing through the glass doors and falling backwards into memory. I knew exactly where to find Jake too: hunched at the bar, ignoring the room and world.

I sat down next to him and he said, ‘So the old man let you loose.’

There were three empty bottles of Molson in front of him and he was already looking a bit belligerent.

‘He said he wouldn’t stop me, if I snuck off.’

‘Better make the most of it.’ He motioned to the bartender, signalling for service. ‘Two more Molson and two shots of Wiser’s.’

‘Only beer, for me,’ I said.

‘Forget that. You just got back from sea, sailor.’

‘I’ll be scrubbing holds at six thirty.’

The bartender – a slim, trim guy with a stud earring – looked at us in a way that made it clear he’d rather be serving anybody else.

‘Do you want the whisky or not?’ he asked.

‘I ordered it, didn’t I?’ Jake said. Then, to me: ‘Get this bartender. I been tipping him big and behaving myself and he still treats me like a dishrag.’

Jake folded a twenty in half and flicked it towards the guy. The bill fluttered in the air like a demented butterfly, before coming to settle in front of the bar taps. The bartender took it reluctantly and smoothed it out before slipping it into his till and pouring the drinks. When the whiskies landed in front of Jake, he nudged one towards me.

‘Drink up,’ he said.

‘I ain’t playing, Jake.’

He shrugged and scooped it up to knock back himself.

‘You been drinking here all night?’ I asked Jake.

‘Hell no. I saw the show.’

I looked towards the stage doors. A few of the dancers were coming out, now. You could tell by the way they dressed – tracksuits or tights and leggings – and also by how they held themselves: that particular upright posture, chins outthrust, heads perfectly level.

‘You watched the whole dance show on your own?’

‘Why not? I know more about it than most of these posers.’

The bartender, bringing over the beers, frowned when he heard that. Jake waggled his head and stuck out his tongue at him, as if to imply some kind of uncontrollable insanity.

‘Was it any good?’ I asked him.

‘It was hit and miss.’

‘Any unarmed turnips?’

Jake snorted and sprayed beer on the bar top.

Before one of our sister’s performances, we’d seen this guy do a modern dance in the nude. He’d swaggered up to the front of the stage, swinging his pecker like a little lasso, and announced that he was an unarmed turnip. That had been the benchmark, from then on, and the kind of thing that Sandy had to rise above: the legions of unarmed and untalented turnips.

‘No – no turnips, thank God,’ Jake said, wiping his mouth with his hand. ‘But hardly any of them were classically trained. You can tell. They just don’t have the range, like her.’

‘Nobody did.’

That wasn’t really true, but it was true enough, in our minds. My beer was still sitting there – I’d been eyeing it but hadn’t touched it yet. Now I reached for it, in a way that felt momentous. It tasted smooth and cold and nice as ice cream. I swivelled around on my stool and leant back against the bar to watch the crowd.

‘I ain’t been back here since,’ I said.

‘That’s because you’re trying to forget.’

‘I haven’t forgotten anything.’

‘Except the anniversary.’

‘I was at sea. The season was late, this year.’

‘On your boat with your little fishing family.’

‘They’re good people.’

‘They ain’t kin.’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘Your body is.’

A dancer came up to the bar beside Jake and ordered a vodka lemonade. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, so you could see where the roots tugged at her scalp, and she still had sparkles and stage make-up on her face.

Jake glanced sidelong at her, then down at her feet.

‘This is one of the real dancers,’ he said to me. ‘She’s done ballet.’

She looked at him, startled, still holding a ten up for the bartender.

‘How’d you know that?’

‘You’re standing in third position. Only ballet dancers do that.’

Jake said all that without looking at her. He said it in a calm and certain way that is difficult to describe and unlike how anybody else talks – at least unlike how they would talk to a stranger, off-the-cuff. She might not have liked it, but he had her attention, all right.

‘Did you enjoy the show?’ she asked.

‘I liked your dance, and a few of the others. But you want some advice? You need to work on your arabesques. You bend your back leg too much.’

She turned to face him more fully, almost as if she were squaring up to him.

‘It’s not ballet. Modern isn’t as strict as that.’

‘An arabesque is an arabesque.’

‘I can do a proper arabesque if I want.’

‘That’s what I’m saying.’

Her drink was ready, and she took it without thanking the bartender, as if it was an inconvenience or a distraction. She looked about ready to dash the vodka in Jake’s face.

‘You sure know a lot about it,’ she said.

‘Our sister used to dance. She used to dance here.’

The dancer put her drink down. She looked hard at Jake’s face, and then over to me.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘You’re Sandra’s brothers, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right. Jake and Tim.’

‘I’ve met you. I danced with her. It’s Denise, remember?’

Without waiting for a reply, she hugged Jake, and then me. She started tearing up, so I patted her forearm, in a way that felt awkward, even to me.

‘It’s so good to see you. It’s been so long.’

‘Ten years,’ Jake said, tonelessly.

‘I still think about her.’ She was wiping at her eyes, now. All her mascara had run down her cheeks in black streaks and it was hard as hell, seeing that. I don’t know. It was as if she were crying for all three of us. ‘I was younger than her. She was the one we all looked up to. She was the dancer we all wanted to be.’

‘Me too,’ I said.

‘Oh – you wanted to be a dancer, too?’

Jake started laughing, and I had to explain that no – I meant I’d looked up to Sandy.

‘Of course. Everybody did.’

Denise took the straw out of her drink and threw it on the bar top and drank most of her vodka lemonade straight from the glass, knocking it back. When she finished, a little breathless, she asked, ‘What are you guys doing here, anyway?’

‘Just came down to see the place, again.’

‘Are you coming to the after-party? We’re going to the Alibi Room, I think.’

Jake said, ‘I got to take my brother somewhere. But we should meet up later.’

‘For sure.’

She pulled a pen from her purse, jotted down a number, handed it to him. Then she hugged Jake again, and me, longer this time – really squeezing the breath out of me. I could feel the strength in her body, thin and lithe as a wire cable, and she still smelled of sweat and activity, of a body in motion. All of that was so familiar, like hugging a memory or a dream.

‘I should mingle,’ she said. ‘But I’ll see you later.’

She took another look at us, not quite believing it, and moved off. We swivelled back to the bar and drank our beers in silence and after about five or six seconds Jake said, ‘Jesus.’

‘I know.’

I motioned to the bartender: two more whiskies. When he brought them this time he treated us with a kind of deference, his eyes downcast. He’d overheard some of it, I guess. I gave him another twenty and waved away the change and Jake and I knocked back the shots. I felt the belly-burn, that old familiar smoulder.

I said, ‘You said you wanted to take me somewhere.’

Two months before Sandy died, she auditioned for a dancing job in Paris with the Compagnie Cléo de Mérode, and landed it. At first I didn’t understand the significance of that. I just knew it meant she would be living in Europe for a while. But the full extent of her achievement was made clear to us at the celebration party. It was held at the house of one of Sandy’s dancer friends and all the people there were either dancers or choreographers or artistic types of one sort or another, aside from me and Jake and Maria, who he was still with at the time, and who has her own part in this story.

Jake and I were working the bar, mixing cocktails and pouring drinks and generally acting like jackasses. It was magical and heavenly to be surrounded by, and serving, all of these lean-limbed, long-necked women with perfect posture, who seemed to float from room to room and every so often stopped to order from us and teasingly flirt with us because we were Sandy’s little brothers and in that way were little brothers to them all.

At one point Sandy and Maria came up together, and Maria ordered them both a Bloody Mary. This was a unique opportunity because Sandy hardly ever drank, due to the demands of being a dancer, and even when she did it was seemingly impossible to get her drunk. Our sister was always focused, severe, in complete control – both of herself and us. She was the only one who could keep Jake reined in, seeing as our old man was no longer around, and our ma, well, she’d had it tough for a while. And since Sandy took care of all of us, she never relented in what I would call her vigilance.

That night we made a good go of it. Jake mixed the Bloody Marys and dumped a good splash of vodka in both. He served them the real way – over ice, with salt around the rims – and Maria scooped hers up and raised it high to toast and passed on what some local hotshot choreographer had just told her: he’d said that Sandy getting in with the Compagnie Cléo de Mérode was the same as if she’d won the gold medal of modern dance.

‘Gold medal winner,’ Maria repeated.

‘Solid gold sister,’ Jake said, and kissed her on the cheek.

Sandy laughed it off, but the phrase stuck with me, and the memory of the night. Sandy had two more Bloody Marys and sat Jake and I down, very solemnly, and laid out her plans for moving the whole family to Europe so we could stay together. Jake could make his music and I’d apprentice to be a carpenter and Ma would sit on our balcony and have coffee and croissants every morning. Maria claimed she wanted to come too and Sandy said that was fine, but she – Maria – would have to marry Jake and when they had kids Sandy would be the godmother. Then once Sandy hit thirty she would retire and marry a French plumber and start a family of her own and we would all move back home and buy an acreage in the Okanagan, and I could build houses for each of us and her husband would fit the plumbing and together we would set up polytunnels and vegetable fields and start our own farm.

She had all these plans, crazy but brilliant enough to believe in. At the time, we had an unquestioning faith that Sandy could shape our future through her force of will, and even now it doesn’t seem to me as if that faith was naïve.

Later in the night, when Jake and I had abandoned our posts at the bar, we built this makeshift sedan out of broomsticks and a kitchen chair. We put Sandy in that and hoisted her up on our shoulders and carried her around the party, with Maria clearing the way in front of us. When we passed everybody cheered and applauded, and Sandy played her part perfectly: sitting upright, looking stern and commanding as Cleopatra, our golden queen and champion.