The Monkeyface Chronicles (36 page)

“Welcome home, Sweetie,” my mother says. Her blouse is frayed and has lost its sheen, and one of the cuffs is held closed with a safety pin. Her hair is streaked with grey, and she looks tired and thin, but she's still got that characteristic tone in her voice, halfway between a sigh and a song. She's always had that way of speaking that makes my heart believe that everything is all right, even while my brain knows that it isn't.

“I'll bet you never expected to find
us
here,” an excited Arty says to me. He is the only person in the room who seems completely real at the moment. “We jumped in my car as soon as we left
C'est What
. I've never driven so fast! I thought I was going to lose control of the car on a couple of those turns heading into town!” He blushes, stutters, “Oh. Oh. I . . . I didn't mean to . . . ”

“Let's go have some cake!” my mother says. She helps the old mayor to his feet and walks him into the dining room. Arty and Landon trail behind them.

Dennis pats me on the back and says, “Well, come on, Philip. Let's all go have some cake, just like a big, happy, normal family does.”

“What's with the old mayor?” I wonder. “He's lost weight. And pajamas? Where's his suit?”

“
The destitute don't wear suits
,” Dennis says. “That's a direct quote from him.”

“Destitute?”

“They're broke, Philip. In debt up to their eyeballs.”

“What? How? He's one of the wealthiest men in Faireville. He owns half the buildings in town.”

“Faireville is dying,” Dennis says. “All the young people are getting the hell out of here. Didn't you notice all the closed shops? No businesses, no rent for
Grandpa,
er, for . . . ” He shakes his head. “You know, I still have trouble with that.”

“Me too,” I admit.

“Anyway,” Dennis says, “he's not wealthy anymore. The medical bills, the cost of replacing stuff that was lost in the fire . . . ”

“But didn't the insurance cover all that?”

“
What
insurance? He didn't
believe
in insurance. ‘
There is
no insurance in life. There are no guarantees. You can only do
what you have to do, and hope that things go your way.'
The lawsuit from the Weirdo Church didn't help, either.”

“
They
sued
us?
”

“He refused to renew their lease, so they sued him. Of course they lost, but then they just bailed and left town, leaving him with all the utility and legal bills, and a year of unpaid rent.”

“How come nobody told me about any of this?”

“Hey, don't get mad at me. They made me promise not to say anything to you, and you know I keep my promises. Besides, none of
them
ever talk about it.
Everything is okay
now,
you know. Everything is
normal
. We don't want to see anything for what it really is. We don't face anything that has happened since the night of your
‘mishap.'
The night that the house
‘caught on fire.'
The night that Michael
‘got hurt.'
”

“Philip! Dennis!” our mother sings out. “Come on boys! Your coffee is getting cold!”

“Cold coffee,” Dennis says as he heads into the living room. “Now
there's
a horror we need to avoid.”

In the dining room, Mom is slicing into a white-frosted cake topped with the words “
Welcome Home Philip”
in scrolled red icing. “I know you like the corner pieces,” she says to me.

“Where's Michael?” I ask.

“Oh, Michael and Caitlin will be here soon,” Mom says. “They were hoping that the train would be late, like it usually is. Wouldn't you know that today would be the one day it would arrive on time.”

“Wouldn't you know,” I say, taking a piece of my
Welcome
Home Philip
cake.

I am about to take my seat in the red, leather-upholstered armchair at the end of the table, when the back door opens and Caitlin Black rushes in through the kitchen. Her red hair is cut short, and she's wearing a pink hospital uniform.

“Could one of you guys come out and give me a hand with . . .
Philip!
You're already home.” She rushes toward me, embraces me tightly.

“Hey, Caitlin,” I say. “Are you a PCA now?”

“A what?”

Right. They probably still call them ‘nurses' in Faireville.

“I'm a student nurse,” she says. “I was lucky enough to get my placement at Faireville District, so I can be close to . . . ” she pauses. “Michael will be so glad to see you! I'll . . . I'll go get him.”

I follow her out through the back door, onto a recently constructed wheelchair ramp. Parked at the bottom of the artificial-turf-covered plywood slope is an old red Econoline van with the words
“The 'Bility Bus!”
painted in cheerful bubble letters along its side, and
“Generously donated by the
Faireville Lions Club”
under the window of the front door.

“We were so lucky to get this van,” Caitlin says. “The hospital was going to pay a wrecking yard to take it away, so they gave it to us for nothing. Thank Heaven for small miracles.”

In elementary school, Grum and Grunt and their gang used to refer to this same vehicle as “The Retard Bus,” and suggested that I should be riding it to school each day. Caitlin slides open the side door and ducks inside. When she emerges again with Michael, I drop my
Welcome Home Philip
cake. The china plate shatters against the wheelchair ramp.

My twin brother's body is bloated like a beached whale. Nylon seatbelts secure his waist, torso, neck and limbs to the wheelchair. His feet are splayed inward at awkward angles, and his pudgy arms are strapped to the pus-green armrests. His head lolls from side to side, his jaw is slack, and his tongue pokes out over his bottom lip.

Michael's once architecturally perfect face is almost unrecognizable. His strong cheekbones and square jaw are buried under pale white jowls. His sky-blue eyes are concealed behind swollen, half-closed eyelids. Only his straight, chiseled nose remains, poking out from the wreckage.

Oh, Michael. You were the handsome one.
“He made some good progress today,” Caitlin says. “He was able to lift three fingers in order, and he's developing more control over his eye and head movement. His doctor is pleased.”

My legs are turning to rubber. I feel like the teenager who consumed two bottles of wine and smoked a Cuban cigar. I grab the handrails of the wheelchair ramp.

“He's pretty tired out, though,” Caitlin says, stroking his hair. “Rehabilitation is hard work. But I don't have to tell
you
that. You've made an impressive recovery, Philip.”

Oh, Michael. You were the positive one. You were the resilient
one.
“He can only move his fingers and eyes?” I am finally able to say.

“The thumb, index, and middle finger of his right hand,” Caitlin says. “His doctor thinks he'll be able to manipulate one of those yes/no joysticks one day, which will make it a lot easier to communicate with him.”

And I thought it was tough when I had to communicate with pencil and pad.

“It's already more than they thought he'd ever be able to do,” she says, and leans over to kiss him on the forehead. “It's a miracle, really.”

Oh, Michael. You were the talented one. You were the kind
one.

A guttural, gurgling roar explodes from Michael, like he's choking to death. It makes me jump.

“He says he's glad to see you,” Caitlin says.

There is another burbling eruption from my twin brother.

“He says you look good. He was expecting a lot worse.”

Oh, Michael. You always knew the right thing to say. You
always knew the right thing to do.

This should have been me.

“I wouldn't have even recognized you, Philip,” Caitlin says, “except for your eyes.”

Oh, Michael, Michael. This should have been me. This should
have been me.

I can't cry in front of Michael. He's never seen me cry. I can't do it. I won't. “I need to go for a walk,” I say. “I need to get some air.”

I stumble down the wheelchair ramp, past Caitlin and Michael, past
The ‘Bility Bus,
and once again I find myself running down Faireville Street, fleeing my family.

Undercover Blues

W
hen I pass through town this time, I notice how little business is actually going on in the Downtown Business District. Many of the shops are empty, their interiors strewn with debris, display windows dusty, front doors secured with padlocks and chains. Every third streetlight is burned out. Faireville
is
a dying town.

The parking lot of The Incredible Blues Bar, the latest incarnation of The Incredible Bulk Food Store, is packed; it appears that booze is a lot more popular in Faireville than chocolate-covered raisins and dried banana chips ever were. The Incredible Hulk sign now holds a painted-plywood electric guitar in his meaty hands.

The lettering on the backlit sign above the saloon-style door reads:

THURSDAY = HOMECOMING NITE
LIVE MUSIC CB + THE BLUES DEFENDERS
FIRST DRINK FREE

“Homecoming Nite.”
It's that time of year, I suppose, when my former classmates from Plympwright District High School will return home from college for the summer. I'm not sure I'm in the mood for a reunion just now, but the sign says
“First
Drink Free,”
and I sure could use one. Or six.

A guy about my age holds open the swinging doors. “After you, buddy.” It's Michael's old pal Brian Passmore.

The inside of the place has that shadowy, neon-lit feel of a true roadhouse saloon. Glasses clink, billiard balls clack. Shoulder-to-shoulder bodies generate heat, humidity, and the rumble of conversation, as if magma is bubbling beneath the floorboards.

There is a platform stage at the opposite end of the long room, crowded with a drum set, an electric piano, several electric guitars and an upright bass. At centre stage is one of those old-fashioned chrome-and-mesh studio microphones. A banner mounted on the wall behind the drums reads:
“C.B.
and the Blues Defenders
.”

Reminders of the building's previous incarnations are everywhere. Rust-speckled signs for fertilizer and feed corn from its days as a Co-Op farm supply store are nailed to the barn-board walls, and the life-sized plastic Superman from The Incredible Hulk Comic Book Shop stands guard inside the saloon doors. Bins from the Incredible Bulk Food Emporium are filled with peanuts-in-the-shell, wearing signs that instruct customers to
“Toss the Shells — C.B. will sweep ‘em up!”

A long, hardwood-topped bar runs the length of one wall, the mirror behind it reflecting hundreds of bottles standing like soldiers. The smell of charcoal smoke and sizzling barbecue sauce drifts out from the kitchen door at the far end of the bar. I push my way through the crowd and sit down on the only empty stool at the bar. Beside me sits a lone man, hunched over a book with his back to me. Without looking up from his reading, he raises his empty wine glass and shakes it by the stem.

“Come on!” he groans. “I'm as dry as a popcorn fart over here!”

It's Anthony Caldwell-Wheelwright. The book in front of him is titled
Martin's Annual Criminal Code, 2008
. Apparently he's following in his lawyer father's footsteps.

Anthony doesn't recognize me.

“For crying out loud, Cecil!” Anthony barks, slapping the book closed. “Do I have to come back there and pour it myself?”

Cecil Bundy turns from the sink and says, “For the hundredth time, Anthony, everybody calls me C.B. now.”

He ambles over to where Anthony sits, and fills his glass from the last quarter of a wine bottle. It's a high-end Australian Cabernet; I'm surprised to see such a quality wine being served in this kind of establishment.

“Hey!” Anthony complains, “Don't overfill it! Good wine needs air space!”

“The bottle's almost empty,” Cecil says. “And you bitch at me when I waste any.” He turns to me. “Hi there. What can I get you?”

Cecil doesn't recognize me, either.

His lisp was eliminated by the vocal coaching he received for his roles in all those high school musicals, but now Cecil's stutter has disappeared as well.

I gesture toward Anthony. “Whatever he's having looks good.”

“Oh, um . . . ” Cecil says, “
h
e actually brings in his
own
wine to drink here. My house wine isn't good enough for
him
.”

“I'd rather drink warm piss than the swill the rubes in this joint will settle for,” Anthony opines.

“That can be arranged,” Cecil says.

I turn to Anthony. “Want to sell me a bottle of the good stuff? Or I can replace it later tonight with something equally good.”

Anthony rolls his eyes. “The Faireville liquor store doesn't sell anything good. They could peddle after-shave lotion and mouthwash, and the hicks in this town would guzzle it down.”

“And to think that in high school they thought you were a snob,” Cecil says.

“Oh, I
am
a snob,” Anthony says. “And I'm proud of it.”

I am really in the mood for a decent glass of wine, so I offer, “How about I trade you for a bottle of 1990 Petrus? Or maybe a nice Mouton-Rothschild?”

Anthony's jaw drops. “Get outta here. There is no way in hell you can get those wines.”

“I know where I can get hold of several bottles of each.”

“No you can't.”

“Yes, I can. Without leaving town.”

“You're full of it.”

“I'm a man of my word.”

Anthony stares at me for a moment, trying to decide whether or not I'm just another one of the average humans he so despises. Finally, he shrugs and says, “So nice to meet another civilized person. Rare in these parts.” He extends his hand for me to shake, which I know is a grand gesture coming from an avowed misanthrope like him. “Anthony Caldwell-Wheelwright.”