Knucklehead & Other Stories (10 page)

Then the hostess was at her side again, still smiling warmly. “So. Still waiting for the mysterious George?” As she spoke, she spun a bracelet on her wrist.

“Oh. He's not mysterious,” Vi said. “Just late. I was hoping to find a phone to see if he's still at the office. I'm afraid I don't recognize anyone here.”

The woman guided Vi to a small room, hardly bigger than a closet, just off the entrance. A Princess telephone stood on a compact polished desk, along with a pad of linen notepaper and a pen in a marble holder. Vi pulled her little phone book from her clutch and looked under G. Though she called him at least once a day, she was no good at remembering numbers. She dialled his phone and, as expected, got the answering service. She tried the switchboard—again nothing. She called the security desk in the lobby of George's building and was relieved when Neil answered. He was one of the regular security officers, not some pimply-faced recruit filling a shift. “Neil,” Vi said, “It's Mrs. Spenser. I was wondering if you knew whether George—Mr. Spenser—was still in the building.” But no, he'd signed out an hour ago or more, dressed for dinner. She waited while Neil confirmed his exit in the log. “Thank you, Neil. Merry Christmas.” She put the phone down. The hostess lingered nearby, rearranging a floral display beneath a mirror the size of the picture window in Vi's house. “No luck, dear?” she said to Vi.

“No,” Vi said. “He left ages ago.”

“Did I hear you say his name was ‘Spenser?'” The hostess looked at Vi in the mirror. “I'm afraid I just didn't recognize it at all.” Vi felt the blood rush to her face, quelled the laugh that rose in her throat like an unwanted thistle in the garden. “Oh my. I think I've made a terrible mistake. I'm sorry to have put you out,” Vi said. She had a sudden impulse to strike the other woman. She'd never told Joy that story. Never would either.

The waitress is saying, “No. We're not a chain. We're one of a kind.”

Vi pushes her glass away. “I wonder if you can bring me fresh water, without ice this time,” she says. The waitress grabs it quickly, spilling a few drops on the tablecloth. Viola wants to order the fish. Not with the sauce or reduction or whatever nonsense they call it. Just fish, and rice. And a small green salad, lettuce and things, without any dressing, certainly nothing with vodka. That sounds like a very nice meal. Joy will be sorry if she misses it.

But Viola doesn't order. She dabs the corner of her napkin where the water is beading on the linen. She looks up, catching the waitress's eye. “What do
you
think I should do?” Vi asks.

Ledge

Twelve storeys down, traffic has stopped. An ever-growing crowd of a few dozen spills into the street. I can see their faces as they turn their heads to look up. There's Bob Logan from Accounts Receivable—he's easy to spot with his green checked sports coat and his chrome-dome head. That's Manny from the mailroom beside him, his long greying ponytail bobbing with excitement. No doubt they're both coming back from lunch—picking their Sports Select numbers, a poker game maybe. They might've even dashed to the casino and back. They're probably making book right now, taking bets from the crowd. I can imagine Bob yelling, “Jump!” or “Don't Jump!” depending on which side of the action he's holding.

My window unit, like all the units in this office tower, is sealed, so I am unable to hear his or the others' voices. Nor can I lean out to see how the crowd is developing directly below on the sidewalk in front of this building. I do have a good view across the street, to the building with the crumbling sandstone façade. Facing me, a man is standing on a ledge at the same level as my office, three or four metres below the top of his building. He's wearing a dark-blue double-breasted pinstriped suit. The well-tailored jacket is still buttoned. He's got a ridiculous polka-dotted bowtie coming apart at his high collar. One trouser leg breaks perfectly over his shoe. Shoes as absurd as his tie: pointed black boots with elastic inserts on the side. They do have a nice shine. The other neat cuff has ridden up and lodged in the high top at his ankle. With those shoes, I am amazed he has managed to climb onto the ledge.

I am certain that Bob and Manny have a bet going—if not with the crowd, at least with each other. They have edged their way around to the far side, where they are talking to a cop. Maybe the cop wants in on some of the action, figures he's got an edge with inside information. None of the three—Bob, Manny, the cop—pay attention to the man. I look across again. He seems handsome enough, he's probably very attractive in spite of the tie and shoes. Maybe I think so because he's so vulnerable. His hair is blowing a bit in the breeze, across his forehead, catching highlights from the summer sun. He could be in a shampoo ad. He's hanging on now above his head, both hands clutching the jaw of a gargoyle that adorns the parapet.

I have difficulty making out his expression as he looks down between his upraised arms. He is standing duck-footed, trying to maintain as much purchase as he can on the narrow ledge. He recoils as if startled, letting a foot slip, and I flinch too. A woman has appeared on the roof above him. I think she's called out to him. I see her lips moving. As he regains his footing and twists to look up at her, I finally see his face well. Sad-eyed with a furrowed brow, he has a lively mouth and chin. I would guess his age at mid-thirties.

The woman on the roof is talking. Even though she's in civilian clothes—a smart black blazer over a silky-looking green blouse with a big collar—I assume she's a cop. At least she's in the company of police who stand back out of the man's line of sight. I can just see the tops of their bodies above the edge of the roofline. Dressed in tight-fitting fatigues, they hold their leather-gloved hands cupped to earpieces. Coiled wires disappear into tight shirt collars. They talk into their sleeves and beckon to others I cannot see. The man on the ledge shakes his head.

When he puts his head down, I can see he's thinning on top. Not exactly male-pattern baldness, he hasn't resorted to combing long hanks over the top. But there's the shine of scalp. Then he looks up to see the woman on the roof. He crooks his right arm—still raised to the gargoyle's mouth—to make a port through which he peers at her as best he can. He exposes the whiteness of his throat as he tilts his head and raises his eyes skyward.

Two more observers have appeared at a window below him and a little to his left. One is a stout middle-aged woman in a brown outfit with epaulets. The other is a cop in regular uniform. The building on which the man is perched is turn-of-the-century vintage, so they can open the window and lean out. By the expression on the woman's face, I assume that she is the man's boss, or lover, or both. Or she wants to be his lover. I look over to try to make out whether or not he's got a wedding band on his left ring finger. She is calling to him, making beseeching gestures with hands and face. As the woman in brown leans forward, the cop looks at her cleavage.

The police helicopter beats the air overhead. Down in the street, the crowd numbers in the hundreds now. I can hear the low rumble of their white noise, muffled but steady through the triple glazing. The fire department is trying to set up an airbag, but a portico and a parked chocolate-brown delivery truck obstruct the impact zone. A fight has broken out on the edge of the crowd. I watch as the jostle of combatants and police and spectators eddy and swirl in the wash of the mob. I've lost track of Bob and Manny.

The man has managed to turn around so that he is hugging the building, still hanging on to the gargoyle above. His pants are smudged with dust, his shirt is untucked at the back and sticks out below his jacket. I think I can see a tear at the seam under his arm. Two cops on the roof are rigged like climbers with ropes and carabiners, ready to leap over the edge. The woman is leaning far over the parapet, held secure by fatigue-clad officers who have girded her with a safety belt. Her blouse is straining at the buttons, pulled taut over her slim bosom. She's wearing a matching green camisole. If the man released his left hand from the gargoyle, he might be able to grasp hers. The woman in brown below has her head buried in her arms on the windowsill. The cop beside her listens to his radio. The man looks back and forth between the proffered hand, the street below, and the woman in the window.

I wonder about taking a thick felt marker from my top drawer and writing a sign on a piece of my letterhead to hold to the window. What to say?

Don't Jump.

Choose Life.

Please.

It Can't Be That Bad.

Reconsider.

Jump.

My telephone rings. It's Bob Logan. “Wave to him,” he says. His voice is digitally compressed. He's calling on his cellular. “What?” I ask. I scan the street below, and sure enough there's Bob among the throng, phone pressed to his ear. Both he and Manny are looking up towards me, but at the wrong window. “I'm over here,” I say.

“Wave. Now. Just do it,” he says and hangs up. I look across to the man, and for the first time he glances over his shoulder and sees me. Our eyes lock for an instant. He wriggles to turn himself half-around to see me better. The woman on the roof looks over, and the woman in brown lifts her head. One of the tactical team police officers across the way trains his binoculars on me.

I lift my hand as if I'll wave.

The Day the
Buffalo Came

I

There was no shoulder on the road, just ditch, which is why I didn't pull over to take the picture. I really can't say why I wanted to take a picture of a dead horse in the first place. Startling image, I guess. Perhaps it was the sun and the heat—I'd been driving all afternoon with the sunroof open and it was hot, 34 or 35 degrees. That's maybe what killed the horse, heat prostration.

The corpse: charcoal-grey with Appaloosa spots on its rump and a black tail and mane, collapsed awkwardly, upside down, splayed feet pointing up to the crest of the knoll. Two more horses standing over the dead one: one looking like its twin, pawing the ground near its head, the other a skittish strawberry roan nickering near the tail. On top of the knoll, somewhat apart from the others, a black-and-white paint pony cantering back and forth against the backdrop of the Porcupine Hills and clear blue skies.

I down-shifted quickly from fifth gear to fourth. I glanced in the rearview—still plenty of separation between me and the farm truck I had passed a couple of minutes before. I have a bad habit, as dangerous as talking on a cell phone or eating a Big Mac while driving. Flipping through my catalogue of photos taken over the years, I can pick out dozens of pictures I've snapped from moving vehicles. Buildings, landscapes. People, cars, sunsets through the windshield. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I worked my camera free of the bag on the seat beside me and raised it quickly at arm's length, thumbing the autozoom and trying to frame a shot through the passenger window as I drove by. It's a move I've done a hundred times before.

I was listening to Jimi Hendrix on the stereo, god knows why, and it was loud. I think the horses could hear it too—the one on the hilltop reared up. Beautiful. Just as I snapped, I hit a pothole and some washboard in the road and fumbled the camera. I muttered a curse, grabbed it and lifted it again. I was more or less even with the horses now, maybe a bit ahead, so I leaned way over until the camera was almost out the other window.

Maybe I cranked the steering wheel to the left as I was pushing off it. I don't know. As I clicked the shutter and the Pentax's autowind whirred and Jimi's guitar wailed, I heard the horn and looked up.

I was on the wrong side of the road, veering for the nose of a motorhome with Michigan plates. It is peculiar, I know it is almost a cliché, but somehow I had the time to think, Wow, he's a long way from home. I yanked the wheel to the right and jammed the accelerator. I had slowed down so much that the engine lugged, and hesitated. The other driver was so close I thought I could touch him. He was sitting behind his windshield like it was the plate glass window at the Four Seasons in Manhattan. Fifty-five, maybe sixty years old, trim and tanned with neatly cropped white hair and a pale yellow golf shirt. I could see the alligator crest on it. I'll never forget the look on his face—not frightened, nor alarmed, nor excited, but determined. A set to his jaw, a slight furrow to his brow, steady blue eyes. He had the look of a man who had faced down those hard inevitable moments in life—laying off a shift of factory workers, locking a son or daughter out of the house in a fit of ToughLove, shaking the hand of the executive vice-president after signing his forced retirement. And now this inevitable moment: he was about to drive his 33-foot Pace Arrow head-on into a vintage Mercedes sport coupe. I have an idea how I looked: sun-burnt architect with flip-up sunglasses flipped down, covering saucer-eyed panic—seemingly cool as death loomed.

That's when it happened. Or didn't happen. Whatever. I have trouble with this part. Saying it. When I tell this story as anecdote, I lie. I tell a lot of lies. I never tell people that I was trying to take a photo at arm's length through the passenger window of a moving car on a busy, narrow rural road. A photo of a dead horse. I usually say I was scrounging for a tape—a Tracy Chapman tape,
Fast Car.
That gets a laugh, sometimes. And I tell them when I saw the motorhome, I managed to slam the car down a gear and speed out of the way as if I was Jacques Villeneuve. I tell them there was no way I was going to let that grim-faced bastard cream me. I tell the story, with lies, complete with pantomime and pulled faces. I tell them it was a miracle, but a miracle of lightning reflexes and finely tuned German engineering and sheer will. But the miracle was something else.

I'm trying to get it all down here, trying to write the truth of what happened. But I can't really say what that is—what is the empirical truth, what principles of applied physics and vector mathematics and geometry in action caused our two vehicles to miss each other? I don't know. I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands at exactly the moment my car should have crumpled under the wheels of the motorhome. My life did not flash before me, blackness did not loom, no shining light beckoned. But I saw something: Against the sparkling salmon backdrop of my eyelids floated the apparition of an upside-down horse, a dead charcoal-grey Appaloosa with x's for eyes, a dead horse that opened its mouth and spoke to me a word in a language I had never heard but recognized, a word like the rending of flesh and bone, and before I understood it, the word turned to thunder and the horse flattened and the spots on its rump reared to life and charged towards me in a herd.