Archibald Full Frontal, page 11
He doesn’t move. “Secrets never last long around me.” He clacks his teeth together and pokes his nose with the tip of his finger like a malicious version of the tooth fairy. It would have been amusing if it weren’t so disturbing.
“Okay, detective.” It’s only when he returns to the television that I realize I have been holding my breath.
“You looked pretty tasty on television the other day,” I say to Michael.
We are eating fruit salad on his balcony. It is chilly, but he has turned the outdoor heaters on. We had started up again after our fight on the night Sam discovered us, and things were almost, if not quite, like they were before.
“Thanks. It was hard work. Judy List is as obtuse as a tree trunk. And she grabbed my ass in the green room.”
“How horrible,” I say mockingly. “Well, think of how many books she sold for you.” The ocean below us is a dark pulsing whirlpool.
“You sound like Rudi. Are you sure you don’t want to come work for me?” I throw a grape at him as the phone rings. He manages to catch it before disappearing inside. Rudi is his publicist and was about as friendly as a pit bull the one time I ran into him. I close my eyes, enjoying the heater’s warmth.
“It’s set. I’ll be in New York over Christmas,” he says as he steps back outside.
“Nice. For work?” I ask listlessly.
“I have to stop in at the eastern office, do a couple of appearances, on it goes.”
I open an eye. “Say hi to Miss New York for me.”
“I could,” he says. “Or you could come along…”
“I think I have to do something with my mom,” I fumble.
“No problem. Some other time then.”
“Ask me again when you’re going someplace warm and tropical with white sandy beaches and turquoise water.” I sigh.
“You never know what Santa will bring.” He holds a peach in his outstretched hand. I take it and press it to my nose. It smells like summer.
I shut the door behind me and toss my textbooks into a hallway cabinet with disgust. I’ve just finished struggling through my sixteenth-century lit final. Four essays later, hand cramped, I handed my paper in with ten minutes to spare and cast my prof a final scathing glance. I had met up with a few of my classmates at the local pub afterwards, and two coffees and three beers later, felt on the verge of either a migraine or a nervous breakdown.
I had come home seeking a quiet nap in a dark room. Archibald, it seemed, had other plans.
“Megs, my self-contained underling, is that you?” He has taken to calling me Megs lately. “If so, report to the living room on the double!”
I sigh. He has surprisingly excellent hearing for someone who is supposed to be old and infirm. In the living room, the smell of pine needles is overwhelming. The room is absolutely overflowing with greenery. A small, fat fir tree sits in the corner of the room, and a large fir garland anoints the fireplace. Archibald is in the process of hanging silver ornaments on the tree.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” he says. “I have been busy while you were suffering through your final. Reggie helped. Such a sweet boy when he isn’t murdering my hip.”
“Very festive,” I say weakly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you supposed to be a Buddhist?”
“Even Buddhists have a little fun now and again. Anyway, the merchants took over the holiday a long time ago. Now it’s a pagan festival once more. People clean their houses, hang lights, drink rum, and spend their hard-earned savings on things they absolutely don’t need. What’s wrong with that?” His blue eyes swim with mischief. “Now help me hang this tinsel.”
I pick up the crinkly tinsel and begin to drape it on the tree.
“And don’t forget, for the top, a silver stupa. All the way from Thailand.” He holds up a miniature palace. It’s white, a domed building with long pointed spires, hollow on the inside. He hands it to me, and I stand on tiptoes and balance it carefully at the top of the tree. He tips his head back and recites:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
“Mr. Coleridge knew a thing or two about atmosphere,” he comments. He pours two glasses full of some creamy concoction.
“Is your hip still bothering you?” I ask.
“Not after this it won’t be.” He picks up his glass. “It’s my Eggnog Delight. If it doesn’t cure what ails, it obliterates everything else.” He takes a long steady drink.
“Is there rum in this?” I ask. “Because I really can’t do rum.”
“No.” He wipes a white moustache clinging to his upper lip.
I take a sip and spew white foam everywhere. “Blah! Ack! It’s full of rum!”
“Of course it is. It’s eggnog for Christ’s sake.”
I bend over for a minute, breathing deeply. “The last time I drank rum was at my mother’s Christmas party. It was this really serious party, full of doctors and hospital types. I was fourteen, and, of course, I had to try the eggnog punch. My mother wouldn’t speak to me for three months.”
“What did you do? Jump on the table and do a strip tease? Snog your cousin? Do tell!”
“No. I threw up all over the Christmas presents. We had to throw them out. We couldn’t get the smell of vomit out. I’d bought her a cashmere sweater with my babysitting money. It was a disaster.” I shudder at the memory. “Ever since then, Christmas has been something to get through.”
“My philosophy is either do something or don’t do it. No half measures. Hence, all of this Christmas finery. Christmas is also a perfect excuse to air the beast.”
“Air the what?” I look at him blankly.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! You know, air the beast, let the dam down, release your ya yas.”
I look at him doubtfully. “Should I start jogging?”
He ignores me and finishes off his drink. “I want you to do something now.”
I swallow. This can’t be good. “Such as?”
“Go out on the balcony. Throw your arms wide and yell as loudly as you can, ‘Fuck it all! Fuck fuck fuck it all!!!’ I guarantee it’ll make you a new person.”
“Now? On your balcony. Really?” I ask.
“Yes. Really! You are so repressed.” He helps himself to a second glass.
“But people will hear,” I protest. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“That is the point. Get into the spirit of it.” He pours a little eggnog cocktail into Mi Tie’s bowl. That explains her moodiness. The cat’s a raging alcoholic.
“But … why?”
“I already explained.” He sighs impatiently. “Look, you have to experience it to understand it. But when you tell life to fuck off, when you stare it in the eye and challenge it, a funny thing can happen.”
“And what’s that?”
“It listens. And sometimes it says, ‘Okay, this sorry sod needs a break.’ And things improve. And other times, of course, it gets pissed off and kicks you in the privates. Either way things start moving forward.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound tempting.”
He shakes his head. “Pa-thetic. With that attitude, you might as well climb into your own coffin and rest in peace, girlfriend. Now get out on that balcony and yell your head off.”
Sure, I could do that. What’s the big deal? It’s not like they’re going to lock me up for swearing. And I had just kicked back a tumbler of rum. And I was feeling dull. I was supposed to be young and vital. I could do this! I cross into the living room and open the sliding glass doors. I lean out on the balcony.
I take a big breath of crisp air, release it, and begin: “Go … go … Fffff—”
I stop short, deflated, feeling ridiculous. I can see one of the Deliah twins making her way up the street, trying not to slip on a patch of ice. A man in a business suit walks a dog. Cars change lanes. Children are getting out of school. This is a stupid idea. I sigh and shut the door.
“I don’t really feel like it right now,” I say, anticipating Archibald’s disappointed face followed by a barrage of clever, cutting insults.
But Archibald is nowhere to be seen. He has left me to succeed or fail on my own.
Two weeks before Christmas. Archibald decides to throw a “little” party. He appoints me the bouncer. In other words, it is my job to show the most belligerent drunks the door. When I ask him for his definition of a belligerent drunk, he says, “Someone who is more belligerent than me.”
Platters of snacks, courtesy of Maria, and three brimming bowls of Eggnog Delight or Slog as I liked to call it, are set out on the dining room table. Archibald adjusts a few last strands of tinsel on the tree, then sets his sights on me, eying my denim overalls and wool sweater critically.
He flicks a hand dismissively. “Now go decorate yourself in something festive.”
He has chosen a blue cashmere cardigan, checkered slacks, and a blue paisley scarf, to match the blue and silver lights he has strung around the perimeter of the deck. He has combined them with little Chinese lanterns, which seemed to me at first incongruous with the Christmas lights. But as it grows dark, the effect is like a moonlit Christmas scene.
I opt for a burgundy wraparound dress. When I make it out of my room, all of his regulars, his “vicious circle” as he likes to call them, are present. The Deliah twins, who are anything but vicious; Wendy the Wiccan, a recent addition to Archibald’s enclave, whose long red nails look like they could carve a turkey; Rita, who looks like her circulation is being cut off in a too-tight, forties-style silk ensemble; sweet-natured Leo — even stinky Zoltan. The enigmatic Marcell is also present, engulfed in his lemony aura, as usual.
“Lovely dress, dear,” says Dorothy Deliah, giving my arm a squeeze. She and Edna wear matching holly corsages, and both have done their hair up in Shirley Temple–style curls. Edna hands me some punch. Archibald sits in the living room fawning over Marcell, who winks at me. Leo nods his head and stands with his hands in his pockets, looking depressed, the perpetual observer; a slight sheen of sweat hugs his hairline. Wendy corners me as more guests arrive and begins to discuss a new spell book she’s editing. I begin to get the feeling that she is trying to recruit me for her coven, when I spy Reggie.
“Hey, Meggie,” he says with his customary wave. I admire him. He is always positive despite having to put up with Archibald’s daily complaints. They don’t even seem to faze him.
He takes a sip of eggnog and whistles. “Holy Jesus, this stuff has got to be 100 proof! I hope nobody lights a match in here; we’d all be blown sky-high.”
“Well, now you know what runs in Archibald’s veins. Rum.” I have decided to behave tonight and avoid the toxic eggnog.
“I believe it,” he chuckles.
More people pour into the apartment. I recognize Archibald’s editor and a few more of his writing cronies. They stand in a huddle.
“I like your dreads,” I say, admiring his new Rasta locks.
“Thank you. Julia did ’em,” Julia is his gorgeous girlfriend. “She could do you too. You have the hair for it.” He gives my hair an affectionate tug.
The apartment is hopping. People mill about, telling stories, laughing, animated, fuelled by Archibald’s amazingly flammable eggnog. The punch bowls are draining quickly. It is hard to move, let alone see across the room.
A cellist begins to play Christmas carols, hidden from view by all the bodies. I recognize “Silent Night.” Its delicate melancholy resonates through the crowded room, sinks in through the fuzz of alcohol. People are still, attentive; the music’s sincerity leaves anecdotes unfinished on their tongues. It has always been my favourite Christmas carol, for it addresses the sleeping, the ghosts, those who are no longer with us. I think of my father, whom I used to know, my dead grandmother, whom I never knew, and my mother, who seems unknowable in her rush to outpace her demons.
I push my way through the bodies, drawn closer to the source of the melody, to the player of such truthful heartache. He is in the dining room sitting with his back against the wall. He leans forward as he plays, body swaying with the motion of the notes, arm drawing back and forth across the cello. His hair falls forward into his face, and when he leans back, I see it is Sam, eyes gazing off into some other place, as though half-asleep.
If I had a camera, I would take a picture of him. I now understand what he seeks in his photography subjects: Someone immersed in his or her own moment. A moment when an inner life floats to the surface, and we, the voyeurs, are buoyed along. It is a philosopher’s quest, both nebulous and exact, only rarely successful. I lean against the door frame, watching.
Suddenly, a bright, dazzling happiness swirls up inside me. It is like a hidden switch has been flicked on. I take a few steps forward, dazed. But before I know it, it is turned off, and I am reeling. An intense sorrow, a murky despair, floods through me, tinged with regret, the hollowness of loss. Tears spring to my eyes. What is wrong with me? Is this a premonition? Or madness? It is as though I realize, simultaneously, that he plays just for me and that I will never hear that song again. The friction of these feelings, so foreign and so authentic, is too much. I want to be far away from here, to run. But I would not leave for anything.
My hand rises involuntarily, searching for something to hold onto — a chair, a ledge. But there is nothing solid. I am stuck in a bunch of people. I make a fist and clench it against myself. It is agonizing to know that the song must end, and that when it does, I will be just another person in a room full of people, and that the room will devolve back into a state of superficial cheer.
When he finishes, the crowd erupts into hearty applause. I clap along, willing my face into calmness. Sam smiles, surprised and embarrassed. I try to shake off the strange feeling his playing evoked, but the memory quivers inside me. He plays a few more songs, slightly more upbeat, and then Archibald and Edna begin to play show tunes on the piano.
I try to reach Sam through the crowded room to compliment him on his playing, to reassure myself — of what, I’m not sure. But he is swept up in the crowd, which is like an organic, moving body. People press closer to him, as if drawn to a glimmer of sun in the bottomless night. I watch as he is swallowed up.
I step out onto the balcony for fresh air, a moment’s respite from the feverish apartment. And when I return he is gone.
“Hi, Maggie,” Sam says, peering out his front door. He blinks repeatedly as though he has just woken up.
“Were you sleeping? I can come back.” It has been a few days since the party, and I’m finally feeling more settled.
“No, I mean, yes, I was, but it’s good you woke me. Come in.” He opens the door. Inside the apartment, I see a suitcase half-filled with clothes.
“Oh, are you going to visit your family?” I ask, hiding my disappointment.
“I’m actually going to stay with Carolina and her family. I fly out tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, not sounding overly enthusiastic.
“Your playing was really something the other night,” I say, not wanting to gush.
“Thanks — I don’t get to play as much as I like. It was fun though.”
“Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just … haven’t seen you around as much and…” I feel like the kid sister.
“I know … but we’ll do something when I’m back…” He hesitates. “You know, about before? I shouldn’t have been so personal. Your relationship is your business. I feel like I came on too strong.”
“Really? Well, then I did too.”
“Good, then,” he says and clears a few dishes into the sink.
I look at my watch. I am meeting Michael for dinner. “I wanted to give you this.” I hand him a small wrapped package.
“Oh, thanks. I’m really embarrassed. I didn’t have a chance to get anything for you.”
“It’s just a little something. Open it, seeing as you’re leaving.”
He opens the package, pulls off the paper. It’s a small female-shaped statue carved out of sandstone, with a large middle, cone-shaped breasts, and long, straight hair.
“Thanks,” he says slowly.
I had found it in a small dusty shop in the heart of Chinatown as Archie and I had perused its pungent, cluttered shops.
“It’s the Goddess of Fidelity,” I say. “Seeing as you are such a fan of committed relationships.” I’d found the statue mislabelled on a shelf.
He looks down and I wonder if I have gone too far with the joke. It had seemed harmless at the time. I wonder if I have spent so much time in the cruel court of Archibald that I have crossed the line.
But he laughs, to my relief, and his eyes are surrounded by tiny crinkles. “Are you sure you don’t mean the Goddess of Fertility?”
“Yeah, I think the store owner was confused, but I thought if anyone should have it…”
He takes the statue and places it on a bookshelf. I know, for him, this is an honoured position.
“The Goddess of Fidelity it is,” he says. “This has to be one of the most original Christmas gifts I can remember.”
“It’s right up there with socks and long johns.” I smile.
“Well, a close second to socks. You can never have enough socks.”
And things are easy between us again. We are chums, nothing more, nothing less. The statue stares silently from her new home. She ignores me. I ignore her. We have nothing to say to each other.
The Goddess of Fidelity
At the airport, I see her before she sees me. I watch her push past people, walking at her usual brisk pace, all business, even on vacation, eyes fixed straight ahead, posture erect. She looks like Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, with her red-blonde hair and oval face, dressed in a smooth beige suit. The only problem is that this goddess, since I turned nine and she found herself newly divorced, had turned her back on the idea of love.
I think if it were up to my mother, there would be no marriage, no long-term affairs, no short-term trysts, no sex on the sly. All kinds of romantic love — its variations and mutations — would be eviscerated from the world. But I might be exaggerating. I watch her pushing her way to the front of the luggage terminal, an apology in the form of a faint, bloodless smile on her pale lips. Maybe a few embers still simmer inside her heart. Maybe not.
