The City Still Breathing Page 6

  He stands on the steps outside the Nickel Bin. The snow is laid out so white and pure you almost forget the city underneath it. Almost forget that by tomorrow everything will be grey sludge kicked up by cars.

  A squeaking and here comes some cart rolling down the street. Normando pushing his popcorn cart. He hasn’t been down here for he doesn’t know how long and it’s all the same. That scrawny crow as ancient now as he was years ago. When Mom used to make them cross the street when they saw Normando coming. Nothing ever changes. Same potholes, same burnt-out street lights, same graffitied brick, same sad-faced businessmen, same whores on Elgin, same Normando pushing that same cart same time every morning heading for the same corner. Nothing changes. He’s only been in the city for an hour and already he feels it leaning in on him from all corners like it always did, and he just wants to be free of it. The city, yeah, but all the rest too.

  The clouds are moving above him. Layers and layers of grey crawling over one another. Grey for days on end. But for a moment, a hole opens, clouds shifting to allow a single patch of blue. Vibrant. And he thinks about lying in the top bunk and Lemmy saying, Tell me bout the oh shine, Yershey. And he wouldn’t yell, he’d tell him about water and whales and sailboats and submarines and starfish and coral reefs and mountains and the people you’ll meet, good people and the space, oh god, so much space. Above them a galaxy of glow-in-the-dark stickers across the ceiling.

  Can we go Yershey?

  Yes.

  Today Yershey?

  Yes, today, Lemmy.

  And they’d be free. Free in the ocean. Free from their awkward bodies and histories. From this hard unforgiving sidewalk slab. Free. His feet are coming off the ground and he’s falling slowly up toward that blue, Lemmy beside him smiling. Looking back to see the city fading out. Floating up so high he’s leaving behind the dead farm in Spanish, Ukki waving from the porch, the wreck of their parents’ car. High over everything, finally splashing into all that blue. Like Lemmy in the water. Free. Released.

  Then crashing back to that patch of miserable concrete outside the bar and he looks up to see Lemmy going up and up. Leaving him like everyone leaves him, to deal with the mess. Leaving him behind. Going on. Going gone.

  6

  Normando pushes the damned cart, squeaksqueak, squeaksqueak, down Durham to the corner of Larch. Sets up right underneath the yellow canopy of the news shop. People walk by. Businessmen going to work, hookers going to bed. It’s a morning routine. The way a downtown shakes off sleep like some old dog.

  Light the propane, wipe the kettle and in with the wad of lard like a baby into a cradle. One, two, three. Hands into the sack. Quatre, cinq, six. Coming out with gold. Seven, eight, nine. He opens the mouth of the kettle and, dix, the kernels rattle in like broken teeth. He pours salt over it all.

  There’s the sizzle. This crowded moment in the morning, just before the sun clears the smudgy brick buildings, just before the first bargain hunters tramp down the cracked pavement to Woolworth’s or the bins at Liberty, before the men slouch around the barbershops. This instant before the damned day cracks wide open.

  Here it comes. Pop. The smell of summer. Even as the first snow falls around him. Carnivals. Pop. Midways. Pop. Baseball games in old weedy fields. Pop pop. Movie theatres with busted springs and sticky floors. Pop pop pop.

  The day spilling out from all sides. No stopping it now. No way to hold it to that moment. To pin it down like a butterfly in some damned display case, as close to perfect as a dead thing can get.

  He’s got his regulars, but he never sells that much. Just enough to get by on. It started as a weekend thing, while he was paying off the mortgage. Then when the mine was done with him and his bad knees, he started coming down on those same bad knees every day. Gets him away from the house and that gaggle of women Pat has in and out all damned day. Chattering about their damned kids. Chattering about the kids their damned kids've had. And on and on. The things people leave after them. Careless. Scattered like seed to be gobbled up.

  Thirty years he’s been popping now, he figures.

  Still, he hears the whispers. He sees the men laugh to each other, pretending to gag. He sees the mothers pull their children close or cross the street. They don’t like his smile. But he’s part of the day. And they count on him being there. Like they used to count on the old clock tower in the post office. Before they swung a wrecking ball and brought it all low. Just another hole down here now. Like pulling out your own guts and trying to live empty. They still need something to orbit around. Some cities got statues the birds shit on, and he’s the next best thing.

  He pours in the last batch at four, stretches it like taffy through the hour. The last few bags he gives out to some hungry characters on their way to or from the Sally Ann.

  He doesn’t touch the stuff himself. The years have told him it don’t fill you up, no matter how much you eat. So he lives off the smell. The ghost of something better.

  Squeaksqueak, squeaksqueak. Back down the street, in time to catch the businessman heading home and the hookers coming out of the alleys. The damned deep voice of church bells up and down the streets.

  The old dog settles down. Waits for his return. He brings the day with him when he goes.

  7

  It’s the too-familiar smell of rotten eggs that brings her back to where she is and what she’s doing. Here in the plastic bucket seat in Mario’s. Her hair’s all up in rods but in the mirror she can tell her face is falling down. Creases, wrinkles and lines, everything deeper today than yesterday than the day before. Forty-three next month and Martha Novak is looking at another hard winter.

  ‘So who’s the lucky guy this time?’ Lucy back in the salon chair, Mario’s hairy knuckles working out the dye job in the sink. Martha butts out her second-last cigarette, thinking, Least I don’t have any grey yet.

  ‘William something – no, Walter.’

  ‘What’s he do?’

  ‘I dunno. Velma’s brother knows him. Wife died.’

  ‘A widower. I like sad men. They’re quiet.’

  Martha drops her magazine. She read it last time she was in and the time before that. ‘I don’t even know why I put myself through it.’

  Mario stops washing Lucy’s hair. He points his comb at Martha. ‘You need to find the nice man.’ Nice, like the word means something. Something other than Frank the insurance salesman who liked to go for steak dinners and always split the tab. Or Lorenzo the janitor who talked only about the woman who left him and never mentioned his daughter. Or old Tom Frost who was still married, still living with his wife, but soon, soon, someday. Or Felix, or Hank, or James, or the other men. Nice, what you reach at the end of words.

  ‘You put yourself through it so you don’t end up alone.’

  ‘I’m not alone.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about that boy of yours – him out all hours of the day and night. He was in at the restaurant this morning bragging about some stuff he pawned at Oz’s.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘For drugs probably. Or booze.’

  ‘He doesn’t touch that shit.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be an idiot. He’ll move out someday – soon – and what’ll you have? A big empty apartment.’

  ‘I like being alone.’

  ‘No you don’t.’ Lucy shakes water off like a drowning rat, while Mario attacks her with a towel. ‘No one does. The worst thing in the world. Any one of em is better than that.’

  Martha picks up another magazine she’s already read and starts to re-reread an article about all the new things that give you cancer. Behind her, Mario hums opera as he washes out Lucy’s hair, stopping to look at the television, stopping to chat, stopping to touch his moustache in the mirror, stopping to take the espresso pot off the hot plate, stopping so often that he might never finish washing Lucy’s hair.

  ‘Mario, can you get this out before my hair goes purple already?’ Lucy thrashes around to see Mario peering out the window. ‘Fuck’
s sake, Martha, it’s snowing.’

  Martha looks up from her magazine. Outside, snowflakes fat and slow are coming down, still space enough for people to dodge between. A couple walks by, the man’s arm thrown across the woman’s shoulders, pulling her close, her burrowing into his chest, getting ready for the winter.

  Mario turns at the window, points his comb at Martha. ‘A man say nice things but he not the nice man.’

  Martha with her perm and Lucy with her black-almost-purple hair under the awning of Mario’s shop, Martha smoking her second-last cigarette and watching the barber pole spin.

  ‘Just like it to snow today.’ Lucy looks at the sky, the universe against her. ‘So where’re you meeting this guy?’

  ‘The Empress.’

  ‘Ooh, cultured. When?’

  ‘Bout a half-hour.’

  ‘Perfect. Enough time to grab a beer.’

  ‘It’s not even noon.’

  ‘C’mon, help you loosen up.’ Lucy pulls Martha off down the street, both of them rushing with a hand up like some small shield to protect their new hair. Martha tries to picture what a Walter would look like and if it matters anyway. Long face, droopy eyes, bad sweater.

  They pass Normando pushing his popcorn cart, Lucy giving him a dirty look and whispering to Martha, ‘You know he picks his nose.’ Martha tries to shush her but Lucy mimes jamming a finger up her nose, like Martha needs the image. One of the wheels going squeaky on him as Normando pushes that thing down the street to the corner. The same corner. And Martha almost turns and goes back to buy a bag of popcorn, nose picking or not, to thank him for being there year after year. For sticking around.

  ‘Ain’t that your boy over there?’ Lucy pointing across the intersection and Martha sees Slim coming up Elm, the collar of his jacket flipped up against the weather.

  ‘Slim honey!’ He stops and looks around, spots her across the street and cringes. She shouldn’t’ve said honey and she shouldn’t wave but she does anyway. ‘Honey, I work at four, but I’ll leave some dinner on the stove.’ But he’s already moving, crossing on the red and away. Martha eventually brings her hand down.

  ‘Where’d he get those fancy things?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The boots. Putting them all over the furniture at the restaurant.’

  Martha looks down at the water Slim’s kicking up and sees the dark brown leather cowboy boots on his feet. She’s never seen them before but they look familiar anyway.

  ‘Thinks he’s Randolph Scott or something,’ Lucy snorts.

  Martha flicks her cigarette, the white nub buoyed by the melting snow and then dragged down into the storm drain. ‘Well, maybe I’ll get him spurs for his birthday.’

  ‘Why not a goddamn horse while you’re at it. Be your regular knight in shining armour. Not like his deadbeat father.’

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘I’m just saying – the apple don’t fall far from the vine. What’s this business with that boy changing his name anyway?’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s going by Slim Slider now. Is that his … his gang name?’

  Martha looks back up the street toward the small figure of her son, just like a little boy at this distance. ‘That’s my maiden name.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lucy shifts her purse awkwardly. And then laughs – hard, fake, an of-course-I-knew-that laugh. ‘Well, whatever name he’s trying to hide behind, he’s gonna turn out just like his father.’

  ‘Van’ll be back.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Martha.’ And she heads down the sidewalk, yelling over her shoulder. ‘Van Novak ran out on you just like that boy’s gonna.’

  ‘He’ll be back.’ But she says it just quiet enough while Lucy’s walking ahead that no one can say any different.

  Lucy’s wheezing by the time they climb the stairs at the Empress and step onto the thick red carpet. Paper lanterns, the smell of oil and fish. Jean leads them to a booth in the back, one of the ones where you sit on a cushion on the floor. Lucy doesn’t even bother with a menu. ‘Take a Northern.’

  Martha sits with a clear view to the stairs. ‘I’ll have a tea, Jean, thanks.’

  ‘Fuck that, she’ll have a Northern too.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Jean disappears behind a curtain. Lucy crosses her legs and places her palms face up on her knees, starts humming.

  ‘Lucy, stop it.’

  ‘What? I’m doing some yogi.’ She rolls her head from side to side, as always enjoying the performance, even more since she played the mayor’s wife in that amateur production of Bye Bye Birdie last year. ‘How’re you gonna know it’s him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Willy.’

  ‘Walter. I dunno, Velma didn’t say.’

  ‘Ugh, that’s never a good sign.’ Lucy brushes imaginary crumbs off the tablecloth.

  ‘You should let me set you up again.’

  ‘No.’ A few dismal nights resurfacing. Men Lucy met working at Gloria’s.

  ‘What? Didn’t you like that Indian dentist I found for you?’

  ‘Prabir. He’s a psychiatrist.’

  ‘What was wrong with him?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Martha plays with the edge of her placemat, a cheap piece of paper with the Chinese zodiac printed on it. Year of the dragon, year of the rat, year of the monkey. That monkey looking all pleased with himself. That big goofy grin she’s seen before.

  ‘Bet he did yogi. They don’t eat pork, right?’

  ‘I dunno. He was a Catholic.’

  ‘Don’t know how you could live without pork chops. Pork chops and dill.’

  The curtain shivers and Jean comes back through, putting two cold glasses of golden ale on the table. Lucy shakes some salt into her glass, watches the nest of bubbles rise to the surface.

  ‘What about that hockey player I seen you talking to?’

  And for a second it’s like she’s back there at centre ice in the Arena. Him skating down the wing, flashing her a mouthful of broken teeth. The whipcrack sound of one body hitting another and then the entire stadium gone silent.

  ‘What’d they used to call him – Spider?’

  ‘Python.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cause he used to crush people.’

  ‘Ooh, I like that. He looks kinda like Paul Newman.’

  ‘Paul Newman if his face’d been run over by the zamboni. Anyway, we’re friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ Lucy saying it like a dirty diaper. ‘Now that’s a man that can take care of you.’

  ‘We grew up together.’

  ‘Nice butt too.’ Lucy takes a big gulp of beer and belches, waving her hand in front of her mouth like she’s waving away the conversation. ‘You hear bout the dead guy they brought in this morning?’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘At the station. Found him out off 17. Naked, can you believe that?’ Lucy titters, The scandal, oh the scandal.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Dunno. Nobody said yet. Gotta watch the obituaries.’ Lucy looking up as she sips her beer, that quick glance because she knows Martha already checks every day.

  A man in an overcoat reaches the top of the stairs. Tie, briefcase – government man. Smiling at someone at a far table. Not alone, not a Walter.

  ‘So what’s he do, this Walter?’

  ‘Uh, can’t remember, transport driver or something.’

  ‘Huh. You shoulda stayed with that doctor.’

  ‘I didn’t want to.’

  ‘Why? You said there’s nothing wrong with him.’

  ‘I know, it’s just – ’

  As Jean’s walking by with a tray full of food, Lucy pinches her sleeve and leans out in that not-to-be-a-bother way. ‘Can you bring me an eggroll, please, thanks.’ Then back to Martha. ‘Trust me, Herman’s a pain in the arse, but he’ll keep me warm this winter and it’s gonna be a cold one.’

  ‘There’s nobody interesting left in this town.’

  ‘Don
’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s just … ’ Martha pulling out her pack with nervous fingers and lighting her second-last cigarette. ‘It’s Van.’

  Lucy puts her glass down hard. ‘Fuck’s sake, Martha.’ She puts one hand on the table and leans back to look at the ceiling.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Martha’s puffing little gasps, hardly inhaling. ‘But I just keep thinking he’s gonna kick open that old screen door and come on in.’

  Two more men come up the stairs, looking back and forth, unsure whether to sit or wait or maybe leave. Mid-thirties – too young. Not a Walter. Not a Van.

  Lucy leans forward, here comes the crown attorney. ‘It’s been seven years.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Seven years!’

  ‘I know, don’t you think I know?’

  ‘Those weren’t the days of roses – you couldn’t agree on nothin and you bitched at each other all the time, I mean what’s to miss?’

  ‘There was more to it than that.’

  ‘Your memory’s goin.’ She puts her hand on top of Martha’s. ‘Look, I just want to see you happy.’ But Martha’s not sure if this is still part of the performance.

  Jean drops off the eggroll as she passes. Lucy splits the wooden chopsticks and starts rubbing them together, looking the part. Martha checks her watch, already past the hour. ‘He’s not coming.’

  ‘That’s what I keep telling you.’

  ‘No, this guy – Walter.’

  ‘Give em a chance.’ She drops the eggroll three times and then just uses her fingers instead.

  ‘Who’d they find, Lucy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who’d they find dead on the highway?’

  ‘I told you – I dunno. All Louise told me is they brought him in this morning, no identification.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Bean sprouts hanging out of her mouth. ‘But it’s not him.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘You know what you are, Martha – obsessed.’ Waving the dying inch of her eggroll like a sceptre. ‘And if it is him – y’know what? I’d be glad. Because maybe then you could get some closure – closure on these last seven years, closure on the whole thing.’ Closure like some sort of buzzword she heard on Donahue last week and been dying to use, closure like the screen door banging when Van walked out of it that day he got into his car and took off for the store, closure like the screen door banging when Slim walks out of it every morning, screen door banged so much the hinge’s gone off and it doesn’t close at all anymore, hangs open just that little bit, just enough to let the ants in, like the screen door on her insides hanging halfway between open and closed. That monkey smiling up at her from the placemat, wrinkling as she drops a couple of tears down onto its stupid face. Just a couple to let her know she’s still got them.