Blasted (44 page)

“I mean it.” I snatched my glass out of his hand; he made an exasperated noise and threw his hands up. I sat silent for some moments, thinking. “Where's Jason?” I asked suddenly. To my surprise it came out sounding more like, “Wheresh Jashon?” Steve took his head out of his hands. “Out west. You know that.”

“Oh, yeah.” I'd forgotten.

A professional photographer snapped shots of the happy couple as they beamed over the cake, one hand each wrapped around the handle of a frighteningly large knife, poised over the flawless surface. The knife flashed as the photographer took a rapid series of shots. Tad and Judith froze in unnatural, smiling poses. I felt hot, a little sick.

“Isn't it something,” I said to Honey, “taking part in an ancient ritual? Ancient. Gives me chills.”

“What?” she asked.

“This.” I waved my arm at the scene before us. “The white cake. The bride. The knife. Symbolic, highly symbolic.” My voice rose.

“Hush,” Steve cut in.

Tad and Judith both grasped the knife, her slender brown hand dwarfed by his large freckled one. Their new rings glinted.

“Rings on their fingers and bells on their toes!” I yelled.

Judith looked over her shoulder. “Hi, Rube,” she smiled.

I waxed enthusiastic. “For richer and poorer, in, in sickness… in sickness, and…”

“Sure, Rube, whatever.” Judith turned back to the camera, giving her hair a twitch with her free hand. She knew exactly how she would turn out in these photographs. It annoyed the hell out of me.

“
Look
at the knife, Steve!”

“Alright, alright, I'm looking.”

“An' you too, Honey. I mean, look at the
size
of that thing.” I jostled her with my elbow, winking. “But it's funny, you know.” My voice rose.

“We all say that, in good times and bad, but you know,” Honey's half-empty wineglass went from the table, into my hand and its contents went down my gullet, “do we ever
imagine
, I mean, hey, what if it's more sickness than health? What about that? What if it's for poorer, never richer, what if it's all bad times and no good?” Honey stared. “It could happen. In the great balance of things, what if it's sickness, poverty, and bad fuckin' times?” Steve hulked behind my chair.

“Come on, Ruby. Let's go get some air.” His hands cradled my elbows and I found myself raised up onto my feet. I fell over sideways.

“Whoa, Steve, why'd you push me?” I became aware that Blue and Gil were on their feet two tables over, ready to come to Steve's aid; that the parents of the bride and groom were looking at me with disapproval and rage. The camera flashed again. “Until death do us part,” I mumbled.

“I said, let's go for a walk.” Steve propelled me out from behind the table and toward the door of the church hall. I made a grab for someone's booze on the way out and scored it before Steve could stop me. People actually shrank away from me as we passed. I staggered, and slopped wine all over my hand.

CHAPTER 32

Steve steered me out of the church, his jaw twitching with barely suppressed anger as he poured me into a cab. He gave the cabby Blue's address and some money, and the cab took me away. After a few moments I straightened up and demanded to be let out.

“Sure thing, lady,” the guy shrugged. It took me a while to master the door handle, but at last I staggered onto the sidewalk, and to a bench, where I sat while the last light drained from the sky.

I realized three things: I was mere blocks from Blue's, my grandmother's dress wasn't all that warm, and I wanted another drink.

Wind rose, whipping leaves from the trees. I staggered through the streets to Blue's apartment.

I stripped in the middle of the living room, feeling wet on my cheeks and wiping my face angrily with my hand. Black eyeliner stained my palm. My old jeans and T-shirt felt rough on my skin; I grabbed my helmet and my motorcycle keys. Gramma's dress I left in a crumpled ball on the floor.

Riding north, back toward the heart of the city, I headed for my old neighbourhood, to the liquor store at Ossington and Bloor. The wind whipped tree branches until they clawed at the sky, torn clouds racing overhead. I shivered inside my leather jacket, but sweat trickled from my armpits, down my ribs, into the hollow of my back. Things flickered on the edge of my vision, surrounding me. It must be a flock of birds flying just on the periphery, I told myself as the shapes jumped and shuddered, too far from centre to make out, but there were more things I saw. A person, long, white limbs, crouched hissing in a tree. A massive black bull tied to someone's front porch, gold ring in his nose, red tongue. A crowd of tiny chattering people all dressed in white fluttering along the sidewalk, some of them not touching the ground. It's just Hallowe'en, it's just dress-up; still, I stalled, twice. At a red light I popped the clutch and almost fell off as my bike leapt forward, roaring angrily. “There, girl, sorry, it's alright,” I soothed, breath coming short; at this rate I'd get myself killed, like my father. I'd drive right off the side of the road, off a bridge, into concrete. Wings whispered all around me.

I was still shaky as I roared up to the store. I grabbed a mickey of rum and went to the counter. I'd almost forgotten this: the slight nervousness, the ingratiating smile to the checkout person, hoping he wouldn't see that I was drunk – a drunk – knowing he would. I'd almost forgotten the shame. I stuffed the mickey into my jacket and zipped up, fled on my bike to Christie Pits.

I parked on a side street. Some men played an evening game of bocci on the green; a parent watched exhaustedly as two children ran screaming, burning with Hallowe'en excitement; figures, shrouded in coats and blankets, lay on benches dotting the rim of the Pit. Some of these passed paper bags like mine hand-to-hand; I didn't want to be near them. Didn't want to be like them, and didn't want to share. I found myself a nice little thicket of shrubs with some leaves still clinging, sheltered. I could see out over the Pit itself from here. I slid the cold glass half out of the bag, unscrewed the cap, and inhaled the sweetness, the scent of the alcohol, and drank.

The wind was getting higher. Some trees stretched naked into the darkening sky; some were still heavy with yellow and greenish leaves, gleaming in the stark blue of electric streetlights. Every blade of grass was in sharp relief, outlined, the green so bright it hurt my eyes. I gazed up at the stars. They pulsed and glowed, clouds racing across them, obscuring and releasing them. I could hear people talking, chiming voices. I sucked on my bottle but it was suddenly empty; thirsty, I stared at the huge old oak that grew on the slope in front of me. The bark shaped rough faces, appearing and disappearing, some of them trying, I thought, to speak to me. The wind rose, cold, roaring in the high night sky. My father, face raised to the tearing October clouds, me trying to call him back. Dad?

He'd turned toward me, his eyes strange. His left hand naked, no ring, why did my mother make him get out of bed to go to that party that night?

She'd made him get out of bed, but she wouldn't let him drive:
You're not fit to drive, you're hardly in your right mind.
Spitting the words, a rain of rage onto him and his blank uncaring. The dead oak leaves rattled, shuddered. A sudden squall of wind shook the thicket around me; the tree swayed and groaned. Faintly, through the roar, I heard people shrieking, laughing, could see them flitting across the grass like leaves. I shrank deeper into the thicket to escape the wind. The branches clawed like live things, wild, the roaring of the wind shook the world.

And then, silence.

The ground felt cold along my back. The voices were stilled. I felt around for my bottle, but remembered as I placed it to my lips that it was dry. I'd go to the goddamn after-party, listen to the band, apologize to Tad and Judith. That was a good idea. It was probably around eight o'clock now, nearly time to get to the bar where the party was. I inched forward, shrubs clutching at my hair, whipping across my face. Where was the edge of this thicket? I had gotten turned around in the confusion of the squall, I fumed. “Let me out of here, goddamn it!” and at that the thicket opened and I was out in the air. I swayed on my feet, taking elaborate care to brush dirt off my knees and palms. Something buzzed around my head, insect-like; I waved my hand to send it off. I was in a part of the park I didn't recognize; funny, that, because Christie Pits wasn't exactly a big park. There was a stand of trees up behind me, a little white cottage in front of me. Probably some old house turned into offices for the park or the pool. A light shone in one window; and music, beautiful, reminding me of home, something that sounded like an accordion and sweet pipes. As I got closer I saw that the door to the cottage stood open and light streamed out of it. I stepped inside.

A narrow hall with a staircase opened before me, smelling of damp, of neglect. The insects came about my head more thickly than before. I could feel them brushing against me, though I couldn't see them. The music was coming from the left, through an open doorway, coming from the light. I stepped forward to peer through the door.

A group of women stood in a circle, all in white lace, shawls draped over their heads. They were small people, almost the size of children. One had her arms out, holding a large book; she was speaking in a language I didn't know. They stopped when I appeared, turning their faces toward me. They looked old, their faces withered, and on their heads, under their shawls, showed a band of red. The one with the book closed it with a snap. At the sound they all smiled, and I realized they weren't short or old at all – they were tall as I was, and beautiful. The one with the book stepped forward. I didn't need to ask. She was the one I'd seen so many years ago at the Fairy Rock. I'd thought she'd abandoned me, but she never had, she'd stayed with me; gratitude, grief pushed up through my throat like a prayer, my eyes were awash with tears. The woman brushed past me out the door, her clothes rustling. I went after her, the others following single file, out of the house. With her free hand she stroked my hair as we walked, and nothing had ever felt so sweet; the gentlest caresses from a lover had never left me so contented. We came to a large tree and I stood with my back to it; still she stroked my hair, braiding my locks almost absent-mindedly. I still held my helmet under one arm but dropped it now, and closed my eyes. Her hands soothed me. A cloud of small insect-things came about me again but they didn't worry me. A thrumming, like some thick bass string being plucked, filled the air. I tried to open my eyes but the small things weighed on my lashes. I longed to sleep.

Someone pulled my braids, a short, sharp tug, a shock. My hair was being pulled on either side of my head, twining around the tree, my head being pinned to the trunk. “Stop that!” I said, and tried to raise my hands to my head, but someone pulled them down again with force. A voice murmured in my ear, but the humming grew and I couldn't move my head or raise my arms or open my eyes. “Stop that,” I said again, a whisper now. My arms were pinned to my sides. I managed to get my hands into my jeans pockets. Did I have anything there, keys, a knife, anything to use against this force? Still the voice murmured, the humming rose. I felt very tired. Something cold pressed against my mouth; liquid touched my lips. “I drink, you drink,” the voice in my ear whispered, gentle and compelling as a mother's after a child's nightmare. I tried to turn my face away.

Then, through the humming, I heard a noise. An irritating noise, a screeching noise, rhythmic. It cut into the humming, sent it ragged, it went on like a squeaky wheel. And what was that smell, acrid and green? A familiar scent like unwashed body and something growing: tomatoes, tomato plants, sharp in my nostrils.

My fingers were numb inside my jeans pockets, but with all my strength I wrenched my arms up, tearing out of whatever force held them by my sides. I pulled my hands up, pulling my pockets inside-out.

And the murmuring stopped, and the humming. I could move my head again, open my eyes. I was standing with my back to the big oak tree I had seen from the edge of the thicket where I'd drunk my rum, the Christie Pits opening before me. The park was empty of people except for a few huddled forms lying on the benches. Down and to my left was a small brick structure, a power station of some kind. No white cottage. Only a single person moved, at the rim of the park, a bag lady dressed in a grand and shabby robe. It glinted in the distant streetlights, beads or sequins at the wrists and throat, she pulled a bundle buggy behind her. It had a squeaky wheel.

“Izzie!” I called. She was carrying an old suitcase in one hand which banged against her leg at every step; it had fallen open, nothing was inside. “Izzie?” but the figure disappeared behind some trees. The squeaky wheel fell silent.

My helmet was on the ground at my feet. I bent and picked it up. It was full of dead oak leaves, rattling; I dumped them onto the ground. I'd had too much to drink, that's what had happened. I trudged up the slope to the sidewalk. Traffic careened along the street. It took me a moment to remember where I'd parked the motorcycle. I was about to get on her when I thought I heard, faintly, the squeak of rusty wheels on the sidewalk behind me. I took off my helmet and looked, but no one was there.