Circle of Stones (14 page)

I
'm
driving down Wellington Street on my way to meet Lhia for dinner. She called me and said it was about something important, but all I can think of are my bills. Bloodsucking vampire bills. If I pay my student loan and my Canadian Tire card with my Visa, pay Visa with MasterCard, MasterCard with my line of credit, then I'm covered. But then there won't be enough cash left in my chequing account for rent. I'm already in overdraft. Damn. That can't be right. Let's do this again. Student loan with line of credit, Canadian Tire and MasterCard with Visa, Visa with MasterCard, rent with a cash advance from MasterCard. That would raise my MasterCard minimum payment, though, which would mean higher bills next month, which means I better get a cheque soon — with all my back pay owing. Plus interest.

The gas gauge is pointing to an eighth of a tank. Jeannie, my trustworthy Jeep, loves me enough to soldier on for two more days on empty and still look sexy. But even gas fumes run dry. If I park here I'll save a quarter. Slam on the brakes. Bang the door shut. Remember my personal loan payment is also due. Slip on a patch of ice. I reach for the Jeep's door handle. Save me, Jeannie! I'll dream of you. This is my last really good pair of designer jeans. And Randall loves me in these jeans.

I stand up straight and dust off my jacket. Now I've got to iron things out. I'm the family smoother, but it never soothes me. Where's my pat on the back? Where's my pep talk? I hate being the adult. And I'm going to be late if I don't hustle. I tuck my hands into my pockets and seize on the quarters and loonies there. Five bucks. I thought I'd feel like a million at this age. I sniff the outside air again. It's crisp. Even in the city, with its exhaust and toxic spume, I can smell the change of seasons. That's my farm-boy trick.

Who am I kidding? I've been gone for well over a decade now. Almost two. I don't usually admit that because the real numbers make me feel old. And where I live still doesn't feel like home. Ottawa is a soul-squelched city with a chilly bitch of a wind. Bashes you over the head with the first signs of winter and laughs maniacally. It's only going to get worse. I'm already slouching, shoulders hunched under my coat to shield my neck from the cold. I think of Randall and straighten. Randall says good posture makes clothes look sharper, especially in winter. I want to look sharp. And expensive.

I look around at the market regulars. An old man in an orange toque stands in his regular spot beside a fire hydrant shaking a paper cup half full of change. He swears at me as I pass by, but I keep walking. My dad would have an awful comeback. He says embarrassing racist things, too, if you let him go on too long. He's a real compassionate guy, my dad. Except for when it comes to people.

I stop to gawk at the svelte Eames chair in the window of a vintage furniture boutique. Something moves in my periphery. Nearby is a figure in black huddled in a doorway. Looking dejected. I'm not my dad. I have empathy. I palm a toonie from my pocket and drop it in the direction of the guy's hand. It clangs on concrete before being snatched up by a black-and-blue limb. Now I'm a little scared. Is this guy a brawler? Beaten? Infected with something? Am I going to have to call an ambulance? I wait for my muffled “Thank you” so I know he's all right. So I know I can go.

“Hey wait a minute!” The figure crosses his long legs, yoga-lotus style, moves a fraction of an inch toward me, and I step back because I'm a jerk. And a coward. But now I'm looking at this guy instead of glancing at him, and I think the black and blue might actually be paint.

“I'm not panning for change, sir.”

Wait — there's no cigarettes or gravelly, grumbly old weariness in that voice. And
sir
? Shouldn't I be offended by that? How old is this guy? I look closer. Under the layers of dark, filthy clothes and street grime there's a kid. Not much older than Lhia.

“I'm just hanging out here.” The kid holds up the toonie, offering it back to me. “I'm waiting for my friend.”

“Uhhh, sorry.” I have no idea what to say now. Or do. I back away.
Thanks, Dad, you taught me well
.

“Fine. If you don't want it, then I'll keep it.” The shiny toonie disappears into his pants pocket. “Maybe I'll get a coffee later. On you.”

“Yeah, get yourself a coffee, kid.” I smile to myself. That sounded human! “It'll warm you up.”

“My name's Nik, by the way.” The young man reaches out to shake my hand, but that's too much for me. Or, rather for my knee-jerk legs, which hustle me away on their own accord, the conservative bastards. Apparently I'm only left-leaning from the crotch up. I'm already around the corner when I hear the kid talking to himself about being invisible. It makes me feel so much better to know he's crazy. Up until then I was feeling uncomfortable about the idea of someone so normal and polite ending up alone in the gutter. Around the corner from Sussex Drive. In view of the nation's glorious Parliament Buildings.

I speedwalk past Byward Market Square to Zak's Diner. Blast of warm air and noisy college rock. Everything inside perfectly, wonderfully predictable. A booth full of male students in jeans and T-shirts making ribald jokes about female body parts. A table of after-work, loosened-tie civil servants with papers spilling out of overstuffed briefcases. I spot an available booth. I slip off my black wool jacket, hang it on a hook, and straighten the collar of my blue-striped shirt before I sit down. Everything tidy. Everything smooth.

I look around and make eye contact with a man in a suit. His wedding ring sparkles, but the disco lights are gone from his eyes. He looks away. He's not talking to the woman he's with, which means she's his wife. She's as dour as a storybook nun. These are people who do not have sex — at least not with each other. They're married to their jobs, roles, secrets. I start playing “Civil Service,” my little game of matching office workers with their departments. The man must be with one of the technology sectors at Industry Canada — relatively exciting, largely ineffectual. I think that the woman is an underappreciated librarian at the National Archives until I catch a glimpse of the flashy designer label affixed to her coat. She's mid-level management grinding away at Statistics Canada. I'm at Foreign Affairs and International Trade. On contract. Can you tell? Is my not-quite-employee status showing?

A waitress darts past, keeping a tray of oversized milkshakes afloat. I strategize about whether to put this dinner on Visa or MasterCard, and distract myself by flipping through the songs on the tabletop jukebox. I drop in a couple of quarters and pick some old goth standards from the eighties and nineties for Lhia. The Smiths. The Cure. Depeche Mode. I used to like these bands in high school, too. I got the vibe, though I never dressed up. I've never been glam. Lhia seemed to enjoy my music picks the last time we had dinner, even though I was grilling her about school. Now she says she has something to ask me. I wonder what it's about.

I look up to see Lhia flounce in. Her hair is a little messier than usual, but other than that she looks more or less the same. Way too much makeup and at least four separate shades of black among layers of velvet and wool. It's always like seeing a phantom of my sister at sixteen, they look so much alike. I get ready to play all my adult cards, but with a cool attitude, of course. I don't want to lose all my awesome uncle cred. Last time Lhia tried to get away with ordering a beer. That's something teenage Tina would have done. Now that I'm an uncle I want to be the superhero role model Tina and I never had. We only had our closed-minded parents to talk to back when we were growing up on the family farm near Winnipeg. And peers who were just as addled as we were. Oh, the confusion! I would
never
go back in time. You couldn't pay me enough to.

Lhia lands in the booth, exuding teenage drama. It swirls and wafts around her like drugstore perfume. She looks up at me with baleful, red-rimmed eyes. Today's smudgy black eyeliner effect is spectacular. She could be in a music video.

“Oh, honey, what happened?” I lean over and pat her on the shoulder. Give her the sympathetic smile. Try to think of something smart to say. Start prepping jokes for later. It appears I'll be starring in the role of Cheery Uncle tonight.

The waitress appears with menus, glances at us, takes her ordering pad out of her apron pocket, and starts writing. “Two grilled cheese again?”

I love how bored the waitress sounds. Like every dinner show is in permanent syndication, and we're predictable reruns. We order the same thing every time. It's comfort food.

“Yes, please.” I nod to the waitress. “And a coffee.”

“Make that two coffees,” Lhia says.

My girly whirly is serious today indeed. I remember when my sister Tina first started drinking coffee. It was right around the time she got really interested in bands …

Uh-oh.

I grab one of Lhia's hands. It's colder than a cocktail glass.

“Uncle Georgie? I need your help.” Lhia looks at me again. Oversized manga-comic-book eyes. I sigh. It's too soon for this. I'm too young for this. I think of toddler Lhia jumping into my lap for a big hug. Remember playing peekaboo and hide-and-go-seek around my apartment. It wasn't too long ago I was still buying her toys at Christmas. A classic Fisher Price airport I found on eBay. A big pink plastic dollhouse. One year I gave her a charming stuffed monkey I nearly kept for myself. I refocus on the nearly adult version of Lhia in front of me. I pat her ice-cube-tray arm, make encouraging “Um-hm” sounds.

“I have this friend?”

Is that a “friend” euphemism, or
friend
, as in troublesome punk boy she doesn't want me to meet? I hear a faint ringing sound. A momentary pause as our coffees arrive. We tear apart cream and sugar packets. Lhia takes a sip, makes a face, adds more sugar.

“He's this totally brilliant artist. A painter. You would DIE if you saw his work. I mean it literally pierces your soul. You can't teach that, you know.”

“Okay. So where did you meet this guy?” I rub at my ears. What
is
that annoying ringing sound?

“Um. Around.” Lhia shrugs and blinks. Like a TV teen. Then she leans forward.

“I'm totally worried about him,” she says. “It's getting cold outside.”

“And that's a problem because …”

Lhia takes a strand of hair and twists it. It's a nervous gesture, which surprises me. “He's super sweet — it's quite a story. He travelled a long way to save his girlfriend's life, but she liked this other guy, maybe, well, he thinks so. Or at the very least he doesn't think she's in love with him, even though she should be, because he's amazing. And super nice. He has, like, the best manners ever. You wouldn't even believe it.”

“I'm confused. Where is he staying?”

Lhia leans forward. Her expression all hopeful and eager. “That's the thing — he doesn't have a place to stay and the shelters are terrible and I really, really want to help him. I want to make sure he's going to be okay and can keep painting. It wouldn't take much, you know. Of course he says he doesn't want help, but he needs it. He just needs to catch a break.”

She takes a shallow, hurried breath and continues. “Like maybe five hundred dollars to help him get back on his feet? Or a thousand? I can't ask Mom because, well, you know how broke she always is. And she probably wouldn't get it. But Uncle George, you're always so kind and generous and I think you'll get it. And want to help him. Because he's so talented. He's really not like anybody else. It's like he lives on this whole other plane of existence — and art. Like if there was a God, he'd be way closer to God than everybody else. But there isn't, or maybe God is a total bastard who's not paying attention, so my friend needs us.”

She looks at me, believing that super Uncle George will solve the world's problems with a wave of his wallet. I'm disappointed. And not God, obviously, though I do have lots of experience. Three (nearly four) decades. A real wealth of worthy advice to dispense. I wish being a superhero didn't involve cash payouts. I feel like an ATM machine. And something is bothering me about this story. I look at my niece and realize her face is glowy.

“Are you two dating?” I must be developing tinnitus. Years of the club music. The ringing!

“Oh, no,” Lhia says. “It's not like that at all. This girl totally broke his heart. He's just helping me with my drawing. I'll have to show you my sketchbook later. And the picture he made for me. I'm going to keep it forever.”

That's what it is. Alarm bells. Never trust men who write songs for you. Or ask you to star in their movie. Or paint your portrait.

“Oh, honey.” I pat Lhia's arm. I give her my best this-is-serious-now look. “He's not a wounded bird to fix. He's a scam artist.”

Lhia jolts. Startled face. Irritated face. She's unprepared for a no. But I'm shocked, too. And reminded. This sounds like a familiar story — one I never want to hear again. Lhia will not be going through what her mother did.

“Uncle George! But he needs us.” Lhia leans in, her voice hushed. “He's, like, soooooo sad. And he's so scared he told me he thought about trying to get arrested. Because at least if he gets arrested they'll bring him home.”

“Oh, Lhia. You have to — please stop.” I sputter, making waving motions with my hands. And then I raise my voice. It's more mean dad than cool uncle. “This is the
definition
of unsavoury behavior. If he wants to get arrested, then let him. Maybe he should be.”

Two grilled cheese plates slam down on the table. I hadn't noticed the waitress standing there. Her thin lips are pursed together into a line of disapproval. She shakes her head and walks away. Wow. She hasn't heard this one before.

“See? Even the waitress is suspicious of the guy.” I look at my sandwich and sigh. There's nothing complicated about grilled cheese. I pick it up and wave it in the air like a threat.