Archibald Full Frontal, page 15
Her voice follows me out of the room. “It will be very clear when he is done with you.”
I bang hard on his door. I need him to be home. Now. He is the only person I want to see. Not Michael. Not Archibald. Only him.
He opens the door in pyjama pants and a white T-shirt. In the turmoil of the day, I have forgotten that time has passed and that it is, in fact, night.
“Maggie.”
“Sam,” I say.
I sit curled on the sofa and tell him the story: the day’s events, my lifetime of ignorance, the birth and demise of family members, and the gnarled relationships that are left.
He says, “Wow. Archibald is your grandfather.”
“Archibald is my grandfather.”
There is a lengthy interval of silence. “Damn. I guess there are worse things.”
“Like what?” I ask.
He sits silently, trying and failing. He gestures helplessly and shakes his head.
“Exactly,” I say. And I begin to laugh, and so does he. It is the closest thing there is to a remedy.
Next morning, I pack my suitcase. I find Archibald sitting in his office, alone. I leave my suitcase at the door.
“Mom told me,” I say to his back.
“About what, pray tell?” His voice sounds the same, lightly ironic, disinterested, but when he turns to me, I see he is exhausted, dog-eared. Like he too had an epic night.
“Everything. She told me about how Grandma died. The institution. The car accident.”
“Then she didn’t tell you everything.”
“She told me enough. Enough for quite some time.”
“I take it you are decamping with her? Just like that?”
“No. I’m not leaving. I am moving out of here, though. I need to get my own apartment. Live my own life. But I would like to stay on as your assistant.”
His eyes spark. Is he relieved? Surprised? “Really?”
“Yes. For now. But I have a request and a condition.”
“Well, I’m all ears.”
“First, the request: tell me about the painting.”
“Which painting?” His attempt at coyness does not succeed.
“Archibald!”
“All right,” he sighs. “It was your grandmother’s, obviously. It is a self-portrait, of herself and your mother. When your mother was just a girl. Your mother wanted the painting, thought she was entitled to it. But as you can see, it is in my possession, where it will remain, indefinitely.”
“Where are the rest of the paintings?”
He pauses. “There was a collection that went with them, but they perished in a fire.”
“What kind of fire?”
“A house fire.”
I wait impatiently, but he does not yield. “For more details, you will have to ask your mother. I wasn’t there. Now, what is your condition?”
“Anything else you have to say about our family history, you say now. Otherwise, I want things to go on like before. I don’t want to hear anything about my mother. No insults, no innuendo, no anecdotes. Nothing. She is my mother. And I will not have her torn down.”
“Believe me, I don’t have anything to tell that you would want to hear.”
“Nothing like that for example!”
“Okay. Okay.” He holds up his hands, submissive for the briefest moment. “Are there any other rules you would like to mention?”
“No.” We stare at each other, not close to grandfather and granddaughter, but not employer and employee either.
“There is one more thing, for my part,” he says. I wait, breath held. He reaches in his desk drawer and pulls out a photo, framed in gold. It is her. I can see that right away.
“You should have it. I hardly look at it anymore.” He passes it to me as if he is anxious to get rid of it. But he has kept it in his desk all this time, in his favourite room.
I take the photo. It is an old black and white, sepia toned. In it, she is in profile, her bobbed hair falling forward. She smiles a subtle, whimsical smile. She has a kind face. And her profile looks very familiar. I had painted her from memory and photos my mother had shown me years ago, but I had come close. I turn to leave the room and then hesitate. Yesterday’s events have made me bold.
“Did you love her?” I ask.
“What?” He looks up at me blankly.
“It’s a simple question. Did you love her?” I needed to know. To continue on with him, I need at least this one fact.
He exhales long and hard. “It is anything but a simple question. Not nearly well enough, but, yes, I did.” For the time being, it’s enough.
The Pink Palace
“Thanks a lot for doing this, you guys,” I say for the hundredth time. It’s an early spring afternoon, and Sam and Dan are helping me shuttle my belongings from Archibald’s to my new apartment, a west-side, three-storey walkup. Pink from top to bottom, it’s in the art deco style of the ’20s. We have named it the Pink Palace.
“No problem,” groans Dan from beneath the geriatric sofa he had taken upon himself to lug up the stairs. Now beige, it had once possibly been pink or purple.
Sam is navigating from the back. “A little to the left.”
“Over here.” I point to a wall. Dan lowers the couch with a grunt and then collapses in a heap beside it on the floor. A big heap. For a guy who claims to spend most of his time behind a computer, he is massively strong.
Sam puts a box down in the corner. “That’s the last of it.”
“Great,” I say, feeling great and not so great at the same time.
“This will be a good place,” Dan, the eternal optimist, predicts, patting the side of the sofa and coughing as it excretes a cloud of dust.
“It’s an excellent find,” I reply as Sam thumps Dan on the back, exacerbating his coughing fit. “Heavy on character.”
“Homey,” Sam suggests.
“Roomy,” Dan says, breathing normally again.
“That’s because there’s nothing in it,” I laugh.
“There’s a lot to work with, then,” says Sam. “Lots of … potential.”
But it feels like a long way away from West Van. From Michael. From Sam. Even from Archibald and his Vicious Circle.
I walk into the kitchen, which is barely big enough for one person. It is, in fact, turquoise, not pink at all.
“Where should we start?” Dan asks, scanning the room. But they have done enough.
“With this.” I open the fridge and pull a champagne bottle out. “I thought we could drink this with some pizza.”
“To commemorate your first place,” Sam says. “Not bad!”
I survey them, pleased with myself. Sam has taken off the glasses he wears from time to time and is wiping them on his shirt. Dan is rubbing at a tight muscle in his shoulder.
I twist the top off the champagne with a deft movement, something I learned from Michael, and fill our glasses.
“To your first real casa,” Dan says. We raise our glasses.
“To your liberation,” offers Sam.
“To two strong friends with good backs,” I contribute.
Dan gives his lower back a rub. “To the retirement of two strong friends with good backs.”
I laugh and pat his back.
“To friends of Maggie,” Sam toasts.
“To friends of Maggie,” I agree as we clink glasses. “And a move in the right direction.”
“It’s a long way from the Ritz,” Michael says, as he surveys the apartment.
“I knew you would like it.”
“Like might be a bit of an exaggeration.” He puts his arms around me, and it feels good. I have been living in my new place for two weeks. I had needed the time to get used to my legacy of car accidents, surprise relatives, and mysterious fires. I still had to get the scoop on that from Mom, but I thought I would put it on the back burner for a while. One more family mystery could wait. I pull him down on the couch. He looks dubiously at its musky cushions.
“Tell me why you went so far away again?”
“Independence or something like it.”
“Right. Well, how about a new couch as a housewarming gift? Something in Italian leather. There’s a store I like downtown.”
“This is kind of comfy once you get used to it.” I shift off a lumpy spring. He begins rubbing my calf.
“I have missed you. Archibald must be lost without you.”
“Oh, I still see enough of him. But speaking of him,” I take a breath, “I have some news.”
“Good or bad?” he asks resting his head on my shoulder boyishly, not overly concerned.
“Bad-ish.”
“Is it at least amusing?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He would find out sooner or later. Better to do it on my terms. I plunge in. “Archibald is my grandfather.”
“Funny, ha ha!”
“No, seriously.”
“Come on! How is that possible? That would mean your mother is his…”
“Daughter,” I finish patiently.
He sits up. “This is a joke, isn’t it? Archibald Weeks is not your grandfather.”
“He is.”
“I don’t believe it! Impossible!”
“Possible.”
“Since when?” His brows spring up in disbelief.
“I found out two weeks ago, give or take. That’s why I moved actually. I had to get some perspective.”
“Jesus!” He leaps up and paces to the end of the apartment, which isn’t far, and collapses headfirst against the sliding glass doors. He exhales an unintelligible assortment of syllables. “Faaameesoowaaa. Aaaah…”
“Was that Japanese?”
“I need a drink.” He twists around towards me.
“Water or stronger?”
“Much, much stronger.”
I rifle through the freezer and pull out a half-empty bottle of vodka. I fill a glass. When I return, he is hunched over on the couch.
“Michael? Seriously, are you going to be okay?”
He takes the glass from me and drains the entire contents in three big gulps. He hands me the glass and collapses back.
“Better?” I ask.
“Not even close,” he whispers.
“I know you guys aren’t tight, but really, Michael, you’re acting like I just told you I was pregnant with his child.”
He begins to laugh then, a big booming laugh that I have never heard before. “Ha! Ha! What would he say if he knew? About us?!” Lost in his own private world, he continues, “Archibald’s granddaughter. I never knew it was possible! I knew he had a daughter, but I never even knew you existed.” He looks over at me as if seeing me for the first time. “And you had no idea all this time? About him?”
“None.”
He pulls me down beside him. “You poor, poor darling. You are a marvel! A strange genetic morsel. Archibald’s descendant. What have I done? What have we done?” He flops over sideways and moans.
“Should I call for assistance?” I give him a shake. “A doctor, a priest, an exorcist?”
“God, if only it were that easy. Listen, you will get past this…”
“And you?”
“Me? Now that’s another story. But even so, know that I adore you even more.” He kisses my hand.
“You adore me because I’m Archibald’s granddaughter?” I expected this to be a detractor, not a romantic incentive. I shift nervously.
“No. Yes. No. I love the fact that just when I think I know you, I discover something completely new. Something I would have never guessed. Talk about skeletons in the closet! I don’t think I could ever be bored with you.”
“You’re not going to propose, are you?” I try to snap him back to reality with a little trademark Archie sarcasm.
He smiles, charming Michael, amused Michael. “Archibald’s granddaughter. How did I miss that brutal bloodlust that disguises itself as humour. That is just so … so utterly…”
I wait, but for once he is at a loss for words.
The rugged pathway descends before me at an alarmingly steep angle. I stand between Dan and Sam, balancing an aluminum mountain bike between my legs. From my position, I can see trees, and between them, the tiny houses of the town of Revelstoke spread out far below me through parting clouds. The sun glistens between mammoth-sized fir trees. It would be idyllic, even awe-inspiring, if it were not for what I am about to do. I look nervously from Dan to Sam trying not to hyperventilate.
“Ready?” Dan asks enthusiastically. This was his idea, to celebrate the start of his new job as a computer programmer and my new independence with a camping trip and a mountain bike descent. I admit, it had sounded appealing in the planning stages — the idea of rushing down a mountainside with nothing but a light aluminum frame and your wits preventing you from tumbling into oblivion. But now my stomach is churning, and I wish I hadn’t had eggs and bacon for breakfast.
I try to open my mouth to protest but only air comes out. The biking guide, Doug, pulls up beside us with two other bikers in tow.
“Okay, everyone. Just remember, there are two rules.”
“Rules?” I ask, hoping for some complicated directives I could object to, giving me a credible excuse to pull out.
“Yep. Number 1: Keep your helmet on. Number 2: Pedal like you’re being chased by a demon from hell.”
“Is there a Number 3?” I ask hopefully.
“Yep. You are in for a crazy motherfucking ride!” His mouth spasms into a guffaw.
“Motherfucking great,” I mutter under my breath.
“Let’s go, team!” he shouts. Everyone is off pedalling down the hill. I begin as best I can. As I meander down the mountain with plenty of brake, starting and stopping as I go, I notice everyone else has sped out of sight.
I pull around a corner to find the guide waiting for me. “Everything okay there, Maggie?”
“Just great, Doug,” I say. “I’m kind of new to this biking thing.”
“You’ll get the hang of it. Just go for it!” he bellows, before peeling off, spitting rocks and dirt behind him.
“Easy for you to say!” I shout to the wind, the trees, and a brown chickadee balancing on a branch above me. I press forward, and after not one, but two wipeouts, it is clear that I am still a terrible bike rider. All sense of balance deserts me. I wobble and bob until I reach the final descent point, gasping in relief after about thirty minutes. But my calm deserts me when I see what awaits: a sharp slope that seems to drop about ninety degrees to my terrified eyes. I find Sam and Dan waiting for me, sitting beside their bikes, on the roadside.
“Maggie!” They shout and wave.
“Here I am!” I say with as much cheer as I can muster, pulling my bike in beside them.
“We were getting worried,” Sam says, standing up and stretching his legs.
“You all right?” Dan notices my mud-splattered legs.
“I hit a few potholes,” I say, peering down the hill. “But it was pretty incredible all right.”
“Ready to do this?” Sam asks, staring down the incline of the final massive hill.
I take a deep breath: think crazy, think football player on steroids, think Archibald revved up on margaritas and self-righteousness, I tell myself. Most importantly, think there is only one way off this mountain, and I am looking at it.
“I’m with you guys!”
“Go!” shouts Dan. They race off, boys again, chasing the wind, soon becoming small blips and falling out of sight altogether. I put my feet on my pedals and push off, screaming. Instead of making a straight line down the slope, I weave like a drunken sailor to slow myself down. The bike fishtails on a mound of scree, causing dust clouds to whip up around me. I can barely see two feet in front of me.
“I hate you!” I alternate screaming with “I want to live!!”
I can just make out Sam and Dan calling below, their mouths moving in unison. I strain my ears to hear them cheering me on: “Pedal, Maggie! Pedal. That’s it. Pedal!”
And then Dan yells, “Pedal faster. Watch out! Oh my God! There’s a truck!”
“What?” I yell, speeding up. “What truck?” I can hear a monstrous motor fast approaching, bearing down behind me. That can’t be good.
“Pedal, Maggie!” Sam yells.
We sit around the campfire in front of our tent. Dan has made Polar Bears: hot chocolate with vodka. They go down with pleasing alacrity, warm and fuzzy. I have mostly recovered from the terror of the bike descent. The logging truck had come out of nowhere. The driver had been listening to the radio at full volume and had only braked after he saw Sam and the others waving frantically. He missed me narrowly. I didn’t even stop to see how narrowly. I just hung onto the bike as it flew down the hill. I shook for at least an hour after. I pretended it was from the cold.
“See, I told you the hot chocolate would warm you up,” Dan says, rubbing my shoulders.
“I do have an affinity for hot chocolate.”
“But not for mountain biking,” Sam says with the tiniest smile. Dan clears his throat.
“I admit it,” I say. “I pedal like a girl.”
“Hey, there are some great women mountain bikers out there,” Dan says.
“Just not in present company,” I say. The fire cracks. I stare up at the stars — luminous points, winking knowingly at me like amused eyes.
“Well, you took your time. There is nothing wrong with that,” says Sam. “And after the truck, I can understand if you might want to … shift gears.”
“Absolutely,” Dan agrees. “They should have made sure there were no trucks on our route. That guide really fucked the dog, pardon my French.”
“I could have throttled him!” Sam agrees.
“I probably could have made it down the mountain faster on foot,” I admit sheepishly. “As Doug so sweetly observed.”
“Doug’s back was just up after we expressed our dissatisfaction,” Dan says. “And that last hill was pretty intimidating.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Really,” Dan and Sam say one after the other.
I feel a little better, due to the hot chocolate, still being alive, and never having to ride down a mountain again. “Do you guys want some more?”
“Without a doubt,” Sam says. I reach for the pot.
