Circle of Stones (20 page)

Glenn nods. “Sounds cool. But can you do this?” He curls and pulses his biceps like a bodybuilder. “Salad is a man's job. Grrrrrrrrrrr.”

“Always marry a chef.” Sharon laughs at Glenn and then turns to look at me. “What kind of political stories have you been covering? Anything groundbreaking?”

“There's tons of stuff going on in Europe. Environmentalism is huge there.” I peel back the paper label on my beer bottle. “They're so far ahead of North Americans.” I watch Glenn toss the salad with two wooden bear-like claws. “I'm mostly doing culture and travel reporting now, though.”

“Socio-political issues?” Sharon says.

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “Well, you could say that all art and cultural products ultimately have a socio-political context.”

“Awww, Timbucky's covering movies and art exhibits.” Glenn looks up from tossing the salad. “You were always a big softie for that stuff.”

I drain the last of my beer. “Think of activism much while you're swinging a hammer on a construction site?”

“Physical labour is very punk.” Glenn puts on a pair of oven mitts and poses in a boxer's stance. “Gets your aggressions out. Want to fight?”

“Don't beat up the guest, honey.” Sharon swats Glenn's oven-mitt fists away, and puts her hands up, pretending to protect me. I step back — awkwardly — then try to recover by leaning casually against the countertop. Sharon straightens in her chair. “Actually, Glenn works for a green construction company that retrofits homes and buildings for energy efficiency. It's basically activism put into practice. He's just being a big old goof because you're here and he has an audience.”

“And I'm cooking something
amazing
,” Glenn says, lifting the lid off the slow cooker. “Fuck this smells good. Beautiful organic meat, fresh sage, a bit of red wine. Cooked eight hours to perfection.”

“Timbucky eats meat now, too.” Sharon stands, leans over the counter, and grabs a pickled asparagus shoot from an opened jar. “I checked already.”

“Damn right.” Glenn stabs the pork between an oversized fork and carving knife and hoists it onto a wooden platter. “Always thought you were just hitching along for the ride with the veganism stuff.”

“What's that's supposed to mean?” I help myself to another beer from the fridge and plunk a second down for Glenn.

“You were a bit of a fashion punk, Timbucktoo.” Sharon sits back down in her chair. Glenn snorts and winks at her.

“No, I wasn't.” I wrench the cap off my beer. It hurts my fingers. “I was right in there. I did Food Not Bombs with you guys. I went to all the protests and stayed in squats.”

“And the strong, beautiful punk girls had nothing to do with it, right?” Sharon smiles. “You always had this thing for hardcore, unobtainable girls you could admire from a distance, and I don't see a ring on your finger now. You're still single, aren't you?”

“Now who's beating on our guest?” Glenn plunks a heaping platter of shredded meat onto the table and drapes an arm around Sharon's shoulders. “You were one of those beautiful girls, and we hooked up in the scene, remember?”

I look away and wait for the kissing to stop. I gulp my beer, look at my watch, flick the Off button on the camera.

“Sit.” Glenn nods at me. Sharon distributes knives and forks like she's dealing poker cards.

Glenn manoeuvres three bright-orange plates and the bowls of salad and vegetables to the table then settles into the big chair at the head. “Let's eat. I'm so hungry I could eat a European.”

I laugh dryly and look around for a napkin. “Good thing I still travel with my Canadian passport.” I give up on the idea of a napkin and help myself to two forkfuls of pork and a spoonful of vegetables. I fill the rest of my plate with salad and offer the bowl to Glenn.

“I gotta eat my protein first.” Glenn dumps a pile of meat onto his plate with a fork, grabs a piece with his fingers and stuffs it into his mouth. He continues talking with his mouth full. “Fills me up. Otherwise I'll eat the whole salad and this entire bowl of vegetables here.”

“He's not joking,” Sharon says, taking the bowl of salad from me. “When we moved in here Glenn made a classic Waldorf salad to celebrate. I got a phone call, and I swear I was only away from the table for five minutes, but when I got back it was gone. Not a single grape left for me.”

“Awww. Sorry, honey.” Glenn kisses Sharon on the cheek. “I shouldn't have eaten the whole thing, but honestly I was saving you. Waldorf salad tastes like shit. Just sounds impressive. I'll take my plain old tossed romaine any day. Regular salad is good enough for me.”

I look away, annoyed by their intimacy. I think about Masha. Her legs. The idea of her arms wrapped around me. I want to impress her. I tap Record on my camera. Clear my throat.

“I want to ask the two of you why you ended up in the suburbs. I have to say I was shocked when I found out. Prefab housing is the antithesis of everything you used to stand for, isn't it? It seems like you're giving up — and isn't that the worst thing we ever imagined when we were younger? Why not live in the city?”

“That's quite the grilling, Tim,” Sharon says, leaning back from her plate. “But obviously Glenn and I aren't giving up. We're just changing.”

“But what does this represent?” I wave my arms, gesturing at the walls, the ceiling. “A house is the most conspicuous object individuals can consume. And you don't own it. Not really. You own a piece of paper that says you do.”

Sharon makes a face, chuckles, and shakes her head. “Where do you expect us to live and raise kids? In a squat? A shoddy, expensive apartment somewhere where we have to deal with an asshole landlord? That's not realistic. That's where theory falls down.”

I turn and look at Glenn, watch red flush across Glenn's cheeks, then crest up his high forehead. His nose looks beak-like.

“Are you accusing
me
of selling out?” Glenn shakes his head at Sharon. “That's rich. We feed him dinner, offer him our best hospitality, when he shows up out of nowhere. No questions asked. And then out come the knives.”

“Glenn —” Sharon reaches for Glenn's arm, but he's already standing up, heading for the fridge. He grabs another beer for himself. I am not offered one.

“Okay, Tim,” Sharon says. “Let's engage with your argument for a moment. Yes we live in the suburbs. Yes it kinda sucks, but so does downtown. This was affordable. And we get a yard bigger than a postage stamp where I can grow food. Plus I'm doing social policy work and Glenn is making the city greener. We're not monsters because of where we live.”

“So you're planning to subject your kids to the same suburban shit we rebelled against when we were in high school and university and you're fine with that? I don't get it.” Checkmate. Now I've got them.

“What the fuck do you know about raising kids, Timbucktoo?” Glenn steps toward the table, looming. “You're not pushing a stroller around the cobblestone streets of Europe, are you?”

“No.” I look up into Glenn's reddened face.

“Then I don't want to hear your lecture.”

“Sit down, honey.” Sharon tugs on Glenn's arm. Glenn sits. Sharon pushes Glenn's plate back toward him and Glenn picks up his fork. Huh. I listen to the machine-like sounds of Glenn chewing and try to figure out how to reframe my argument.

“Don't worry.” Sharon leans in and taps me on the arm. Gentle pressure. It feels weirdly good. Motherly. I miss that. And I hate myself for missing it.

“I appreciate your concern, but we're not our parents. And this —” Sharon waves a hand above her head. “This is just a place to eat and sleep. Doesn't have to change anything. Doesn't have to change us.”

Glenn looks up from his plate. “That's a nice idea, Share. What's getting me riled is that buddy comes in here all bougie, with his fancy shoes and expensive gear, saying
we've
changed.” Glenn points his thick, calloused index finger at me. “We're the ones who schooled
you
, remember? Plucked you out of a confused frosh pack, adopted you into our collective, taught you everything we knew.”

I look down at the table. Sharon watches and smirks. For a moment we all listen to the tick of the clock and the metronome of Glenn's chewing. I reflect on my talking points, struggling to remember the rest of my arguments. I sit back in my chair, flummoxed. I stare at my plate. Wonder why I came.

Glenn starts to chuckle — a rumble beginning from deep within his enormous chest and vibrating the table. Peels of it echo through the half-empty house. Sharon giggles. I try to hold on, maintain some semblance of dignity. But the more I try to stop from laughing, the funnier it is — whatever it is. Finally Glenn leans over and clasps a huge hand on my shoulder. It stays there, as heavy and secure as a papa bear's paw. I'm still, strangely calmed, suddenly aware of the solidity of the hardwood under my feet. For Sharon and Glenn, a house is not an idea.

“Timbucktoo, you're the prodigal son come home to give us our first test as parents. You're our teenager-at-heart standing up to his folks for the first time.” Glenn raises his beer in an impromptu toast. “Cheers, my friend. That was brilliant.”

Huh. I force a smile.

“Oh, Glenn, you're confusing the hell out of the poor thing.” Sharon tries a serious face before bursting into laughter again.

Glenn chuckles. “You know you've succeeded as a parent when your kid takes some shit you taught him, runs with it, and then flings it back on you.” Glenn grabs his wife's hand. “Share and me, we had some big theories, yeah, but we're just regular folks. So were you.”

I note the past tense. I lean back in my chair, reach over, and flick the camera off.

“That's one lucky kid.” I nod at Sharon's belly. “You two are the best parents I never knew I had.”

I shiver and flick the porch light off. Sharon sent me outside to smoke, and for the moment I don't want to be seen. I look up at the stars, struggle with my lighter in the cool wind. The neighbourhood is silent. Like a studio film set. I look around, waiting for a horror-movie surprise. Vampires, aliens, zombies. The kitchen window is open a crack — enough so I can hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the sound of Glenn hammering in the basement room he's finishing. I'm reminded of the sounds of a house. Of a home.

I peer through the dining-room window and see Sharon walking toward the fridge door, opening it, and staring in. I imagine her becoming gradually rounder, her hair becoming shorter and greyer, her face alternating between the parallel parental expressions of pride and anxiety. I look away, into the darkened expanse in front of me, space soon to be populated with a patchwork of lawns, shrubs, and cul-de-sacs. I think of my mother, and then catch myself. Stop. I focus on the sharp point of Masha's elbow, her capable hands, the set of her jaw, the strength of her ideologies. I remember the dejected waitress. The weird angles of her face and her unusual eyes. Two different colours. She would do well in Europe. And she's been through something — I could feel it. I want to ease the worry in her face. She deserves some kind of rescue.

I lie on the foamy camping mattress in the guest bedroom, still wearing my clothes. Staying with Sharon and Glenn is too comfortable. I can't handle it. I picture myself adjusting to their routines: painting cupboards with Sharon and helping Glenn in the kitchen. They've asked me to stay on longer. But I can't imagine getting any real work done here. I can hear the murmur of their talking and laughing through the walls. I look at my watch, wondering if eleven is too late to call my sister in Ottawa. I'm only a province away from home. What used to be home. I think about how the waitress, Jennifer, reacted to that word. Like it was painful. Strange. I don't know what her story is, but I feel the same way. I can't go back there. Not after the funeral. I couldn't stand being in the house without my mom there. It was this new kind of hell. Unreal, movie-like. Excruciating. I watched my sister Lucy grieve for my mother, and I couldn't help her. That would have meant letting myself feel. So I was an asshole. I left early. Didn't help out when I knew I should have. Now it's too late. My father is going to sell our house. It makes me want to help everyone else I meet, or at least connect with them. I'm going to be a weird kind of homeless itinerant. I'm not punk anymore, but I'm not settling down, either. Because I'd need someone with me. To help me do it. And I don't have a girl. Just a clutch of fantasies. I close my eyes and make myself think of something else. Like switching TV channels. I watch a memory of myself tagging buildings with Glenn. In my mind's eye the memory is as clear as a film. The idea of it, a script.

POST PUNK

Directed by Tim Tavistock:

BACK IN THE DAY