Blasted (37 page)

Then he collapsed onto his side, next to the wall of the van, and fell simply and completely into sleep.

A faint spasming in my right hip woke me, I don't know how much later. I ignored it, not wanting to move. The pain grew. Still I lay there, picturing myself awakening in the dawn: filthy, ill, rubbed raw in the privates, and next to Jason. My ankles were shackled by my own jeans. My leg twitched; I stifled a moan, and grabbed my thigh with both hands to shift to a more reasonable angle. That hurt even more.

Jason stirred. I turned my head toward him; was he waking up? He rolled over heavily; too late I saw one hairy muscled arm come at me, thumping hard over my face. I yelped. Jason shuddered, muttered, and sank back into oblivion. My lip bled a little salt into my mouth. Gritting my teeth, I wriggled out from under his arm. My head spun. I almost fell off the narrow cot, but forced myself to sit up. His come was like eggwhite dried on my stomach. Through the windshield I could see that the sun had risen; traffic sped past on Queen. A large abandoned field opened to the left of the van, one of those forgotten places in the city, owned by no one or everyone, who knew?

A small battery-powered lamp glowed feebly in the morning light. I reached out and turned it off, pulled up my jeans. Jason lay on his back on the cot. I stroked his hair back from his face. The skin on his forehead was surprisingly white and smooth. In sleep he looked rather like a little boy, his blunt nose and the jaw he liked to describe as “craggy” softened and vulnerable, a scattering of freckles across his cheeks. “Oh, Jason. What have I done?” I whispered.

Noiselessly as possible I opened a door and climbed out of the van.

There was a liquor store just half a block up the street. I was surprised to find it open; I'd slept longer than I'd thought. With the last of my money I bought a small bottle of Jameson's, then climbed the chain-link fence that surrounded the abandoned field next to the van. The field sloped down over a small hill, so there was little danger of Jason seeing me. Mere steps into the tall, dead grasses, I had the cap off the Jameson's and the hot-cold whiskey was pouring down my throat. I slugged back about a third of the bottle, screwed the cap back on, then went over backwards like a felled tree, lying on my back in the feathered grasses, the brassy sun beating down on me. My eyes closed.

“Drink.”

A small voice, close to my ear.

“Drink?”

And another.

I opened my eyes. People were standing in a ring around me, leaning over me, silhouetted against the sky. Children. Odd, sweet-faced children. Were they boys or girls? They were wearing red caps. I shaded my eyes with one hand. “Hello,” I said. They were in white, all of them; robes, maybe, or shawls. They looked old, with wrinkled faces. Dizzy, I closed my eyes.

When next I opened them, I was alone. Grasses swayed around me; the wind was picking up, a wet smell on it: rain coming. I slugged back more whiskey, and more, emptying the bottle and tossing it aside. Getting to my feet I staggered down the slope. The tussocky grass caught at my feet. I stumbled forward but my footsteps made no noise. Where was I going? I couldn't seem to find the edge of the field. I turned around helplessly, looking for buildings, the street, anything. Shadows closed in around my head, my vision narrowed to a tunnel, the ringing in my skull grew and still I couldn't get a breath; I tried to cry out but my throat was closed; hands on the soft grass now, face pressed into the grass, scratchy on my cheek. I scrabbled at the earth like an animal. My heart boomed, jumped, crackled.

Fear took hold of me, and my body fell away with it, down. A rushing noise, and my spirit spread out across the sky, above my limb-splayed body, small as a child's below.

Rain. Cool rain, fixing me immobile with large drops splattering, one, two, three, a dozen. On my skin, through my clothes, on my face. The sky so heavy and near it was falling, the air unbearable with waiting.

Deep grey, almost black clouds, and the lowering sun sent gold streaming through the air, the thick air, rumbling and glowing. That was the west, then, where the gold was coming from. I sat up. There, right in front of me, was the street. Across the road trees showed their green bright and painful as acid against the darkness. The air stirred sluggishly, resentfully, and leaves rustled and whispered fearful, joyful secrets in the heat.

I was on my arse, alone in a field, head spinning with whiskey. I had no idea how long I'd been sunk there like an empty glove. I felt very small under that sky, weighted, like I was at the bottom of the ocean. The very bottom, where it is dark and the pressure crushes you.

Suddenly a fresh wind full of the scent of water rushed over the landscape, so like a wave that my heart moved with the grief of missing the sea. The busy street was full of little glittering people rushing in concert, trying to get where they were going before the storm hit. Trees tossed their limbs. I pulled my knees to my chest and hugged myself, just as terrible, purple-white light flashed on the world like a shout. A second later, distant rumblings crashed into full-throated roar. I imagined the people on the street cried out with fear, and realized it was me.

The rain came next in a seemingly solid sheet, and able to move at last, I leapt up and dove for the street. Across the road was a Coffee Time, oh blessed day. Stumbling – my
God
I was drunk – I dodged cars and almost wiped out on some treacherous streetcar tracks.

The doors to the Coffee Time were thrown open to the cooling air, and the place was steamy and stale with the breath of all those taking shelter. Dripping, I squeezed onto a stool at the counter. The place was noisy and happy, everyone chattering about the storm, men in suits buying coffee next to skater punks. A homeless woman sat in the front window, exclaiming about the thunder.

“What can I get for you, honey?” A pair of breasts hovered in front of me, a polyester uniform stretching perilously over the biggest rack I'd ever seen. “Coffee, sweetheart?” I wrenched my gaze upward.

“Um, double double?” Lord.

“Right away, love.” She was a short woman with a sweet smile and delicate hands. They flew about like plump brown birds as she worked, talking with the customers, distributing “honeys” and “loves” with a Latina lilt that melted everyone.

“There you are, my sweet.” She deposited a cup in front of me, and went on to serve someone else. My shaking hands grabbed the cup and I sucked back half of it in one go, then the other half, warmth in my gullet. “Another, okay, darling?” I sucked that one back too, and then I ordered and consumed a soggy tuna sandwich. Maybe it would sober me up. I ordered a third cup of coffee, and buried my face in my hands. Bits and pieces of what had happened between Jason and I came drifting back to me like unspeakable flotsam in a river of sewage, the look on his face, his voice crying my name. I put my head down.

Someone threw change on the counter near my ear, and I jolted up. I watched a man call out goodbyes to the waitress and leave. Into the gap waddled the sighing, smelly bulk of the derelict woman, her cart clutched in her hand. I turned my face away and pretended to stare out the window at the rain. Out of the corner of my eye I sensed her easing onto the stool, muttering, positioning her cart so it stuck out in a manner calculated to cause maximum inconvenience. Then she turned to me and, sitting perfectly still, stared intently at my profile. She smelled awful. I tried to ignore her, but at last my eyes darted over.

“Izzie!”

With a shriek of delight she grabbed my arm and began shaking me. My head snapped back and forth; I gripped the counter. “Calm down, woman,” I said, and she began laughing; her grip tightened, but she stopped shaking me. “How are you, Izzie? How are you?” Izzie leaned in close, inches from my nose, and launched into a whispered speech of which I couldn't understand a word. She wore layers of bright rags and shirts, horrible knitted vests, multiple fluttering skirts. She kicked her legs as she sat on the stool, like a child. Terrible smells arose from the folds and I gagged. “Do you have enough money? Do you have a place to live?”

I asked. I felt for change in my pocket; I'd buy her a meal, coffee. I patted myself up and down my leg. Izzie fell silent, still smiling and gazing at me with her glassy eyes, her face close enough to kiss. Trying to breathe through my mouth, I freed the arm she was holding and felt myself up on
that
side. And then I went cold. That's right. The last of my money had gone to the Jameson's.

“You're in trouble.” I turned my frightened gaze back to Izzie. “Troubles?”

Tears welled up in my eyes. It was all too much. Bad enough to have hurt probably the only person who would ever love me; bad enough to be totally abandoned by everyone I loved – I mean, Judith and Tad would as soon kill me as look at me now, and my Grandpa didn't want me in Newfoundland, and Blue and Gil would disown me once they heard what'd happened. Now I'd consumed a sandwich and three coffees and had no money to pay for them. I was worse than crazy bag lady Izzie. I was an unlovable arsehole.

“There, there, dearie,” she said, her face full of sympathy. “Dear, dear.” Her arm shot out. She grabbed the back of my head with one hard hand and slammed my face into her armpit. I yelped. My face was buried in layers of stinking cloth. She possessed unexpected strength and I flailed around with my arms and legs like a marionette; her free hand stroked and patted my back. “There, there. There, there.” I couldn't breathe. I felt like throwing up. I was going to die. Finally, desperate and crafty, I went limp, hoping like a bear she'd abandon her hold on me if I played dead. Suddenly air and light flooded back, and I almost fell from my stool. She'd hauled me backwards, her fist entwined in my hair.

“Let go of me,” I croaked.

“Oh, I know, I know,” Izzie crooned. She gave me a little friendly shake. I was practically swinging from her arm, black spots swimming before my eyes.

“Jesus save us, Izzie, leave the poor girl alone! She bothering you, miss?” It was the waitress come to my rescue, fixing my former superintendent with a baleful gaze. “Let go of her, Izzie. Izzie, let go of the nice girl!”

I wondered briefly and disconnectedly how the Latina waitress could be on a first-name basis with Izzie, who then let go of me so suddenly that I fell on the floor. I lay there, dazed and drunk, staring up at the gum stuck to the underside of the stool. The waitress gave a hoarse cry of dismay. Hands lifted me and patted me down, seated me in a chair. The waitress apologized lyrically. Izzie never took her eyes off me, and she never stopped smiling.

“I am so sorry, I can't express. Another coffee? Donut? Everything on the house, of course. Sandwich? Here, give her these to wipe herself down, poor sweetheart.” She handed a tottering tower of paper napkins to a helpful man, who passed them on to me. I managed to assure them that I was fine – Izzie hadn't hurt me at all (this sent the waitress into a burst at Izzie who was, it appeared, a regular at the joint) – no, really, I was fine. No please don't throw Izzie out, we were talking and I lost my balance. Another sandwich? On the house, no, I couldn't possibly… if she
insisted
… Izzie eased herself off her stool and backed her cart toward the door. The waitress pressed free food and drink upon me. I couldn't believe my luck. Then I met Izzie's eyes, twinkling over her slack and drooly smile.

“Thanks,” I said.

The rain had almost stopped; a few falling drops sparkled in the last rays of the sun. Through the big front window I watched Izzie stoop over her cart, adjusting the load of bundled clothes, a bicycle wheel, blankets, what looked like a flowering shrub, and bright rag streamers. She rummaged around and then stood upright again, hands clasped to her belly, looking toward me. Suddenly she squatted, right there on the sidewalk, and fiddled under her vast skirts with her hands, a look of intense concentration on her face. Her brow cleared, she stood, and with one gesture threw something up into the air. In the bright setting sun it looked like a bird, blindingly white, and it came curving around to perch upon the handlebars of a nearby bicycle. It was a gull, a white and grey gull and it fixed me with one of its crazy yellow eyes. Izzie touched its head with one thick, dirty finger; it shrieked once, then leapt joyously into the light and air. When my eyes came back to earth, Izzie was gone.

CHAPTER 25

By the time I had walked the miles home to Blue's, the sun was long down. I'd forgotten, or lost, my keys. The door refused to open and no amount of knocking brought Blue or Gil. God, I was tired. I leaned back against the door and slowly slid down until my arse hit the floor. I fell over, gradually, curled onto my side: wet, dirty, my palms clasped prayerfully between my thighs, pressed against my sore crotch. The wooden floor was gritty, cool against my face.

I was awakened some time later by a sudden blow to the small of my back, a shriek of dismay, and a crashing blackness over top of me. I yelled.