Archibald Full Frontal, page 20
“I do look like a superhero.” He grins.
He peers around at the rest of my paintings. The committee has chosen one of Archibald with an afghan coiled around his knees and Mi Tie staring menacingly. In it, he is reading a novel and looks like a sweet old man, until you look closer and notice that the title of the novel is S&M Tactics, and it’s by the Marquis de Sade. I had painted his and Mi Tie’s eyes the same electric blue and called it Soul Mates. The exhibit had purposely “slipped my mind” in Archibald’s presence. Besides, he was so caught up in his latest book that he barely seemed to notice anything I said or did.
The final painting was of Sam holding hands with Carolina, except it was a disembodied hand, tiny, feminine, with just a bit of a forearm. He was staring lovingly in profile at the empty space above her arm. It was titled Long Distance. I was glad Carolina was out of town. I believed she had been true to her word and never mentioned the photos, and we had fumbled on almost the same.
Sam, however, was staring at it, program rolled in his hand. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
I swallow, but he smiles.
“It isn’t meant to be literal,” I say.
“Of course not. Besides, a hand is better than nothing at all.” He puts a supportive arm around my shoulder. “They are really great. All of them.”
The foyer is filled with students’ paintings, pottery, and media displays. Dan is looking at a sculpture of a scrotum set amongst a bowl of fruit.
“Let’s get out of here. I have had this intense craving for nachos all day,” I say to them.
“Hey, that guy looks really familiar.” Sam points to a man with dark, neatly clipped hair wearing a button-down shirt. He is peering at my painting of Archibald.
“Oh, crap,” I say under my breath as he turns my direction. “Eddie. What a surprise.”
“Maggie.” He smiles broadly, gesturing at the portrait. “I love it. It is perfect. Very ironic.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope you don’t mind. I just had to check out your work for myself.” He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and he looked much better away from the apartment. More relaxed somehow.
“How did you find out about the show?”
He looks at me. “I noticed it in the paper. I remembered you mentioning you were a student here. Two and two.”
“Well, thanks for coming.” I turn to leave.
“Would you like to get a drink or a coffee? If you aren’t busy.”
So this was his motive, I think.
“I have plans tonight.” I gesture to Sam and Dan, who are just out of earshot.
“No, problem. No problem at all.” He looks over at Sam and Dan with great interest. Was he looking for a couple of friends too? “Some other time.”
I herd Sam and Dan out of there as best I can. In the foyer, they look at me perplexed.
“That man gives me the creeps.”
Sam peers back through the doors. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s Archibald’s spy.”
Dan puffs himself up. “Is he bothering you? Because I could always put a skirt on.”
“Keep your pants on, Daniel. Is he following me?” I glance around.
“Maggie. You are paranoid, maybe he just wanted to—” But there he is coming through the doors.
“Hi again.” There is no ignoring him. He stares at Sam expectantly.
“This is Sam.”
“Sam,” he says enthusiastically, pumping his hand. “Of course.”
Sam looks confused.
“I have heard your name before,” he explains. He is a spy.
“And another friend, Dan,” I say. Dan shakes his hand with a bit of squeeze.
“We really have to go now,” I say, pushing the front doors open.
“Absolutely. Great meeting you both.”
“He might just be friendly, Pedal,” Dan says in his jeep.
“A little too friendly if you ask me. He hasn’t been friendly before.”
Dan shrugs. “People change.”
“No, they don’t. Not really,” I say, glancing in the side mirror to make sure we aren’t being tailed.
“Maybe he likes you,” Sam says with a grin from the back seat.
“That would be even worse,” I say with a chill. Something really bothered me. It was how he looked at me. Like he knew me.
After polishing off a heaping plate of nachos, a thought occurs to me. “Hey, where was Juliette tonight?” I say to Dan. She had always been a big supporter of my art.
“She had to cancel at the last minute. Something came up,” Dan says, fishing an olive off my plate and chewing it. The dim diner fluorescents blink overhead.
“Maybe I should give her a call, see if she’s around.” I get up to find a pay phone. “We could rent a video.”
“Not such a good idea, Maggie,” Sam says, sipping his Coke.
There is an uneasy silence.
“We broke up,” Dan says like a weight has been lifted off his chest.
“Oh,” I exhale my shock. “Why?!” I sit down heavily. “When?”
They had seemed so happy together.
“The day before yesterday.”
“I saw her this morning. She didn’t mention anything.”
“Maybe she didn’t feel like talking about it,” Sam suggests. He doesn’t seem very surprised.
“Did you know?” I say to him.
“Yep.”
I turn to Dan. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“I didn’t want to upset you. It was a big night for you … with everything. I didn’t want you to be distracted.”
“How horrendous!” I throw my arms around him and accidentally fall into his lap. He pats my back reassuringly. I pull back and stare at him. “I had no idea you were having problems.” They had looked so good together. The attractive Scandinavian couple. I had pictured myself at their wedding, the maid of honour. Sam would be the best man.
“We weren’t exactly having problems. We got along great.”
“So?” I ask. “Oh my God. She dumped you! That bitch. Oh, Dan, I don’t believe it!” Sweet, loyal Dan tossed to the curb!
“Hold on. She did not dump me. Maggie, we just—”
“You dumped her? Seriously?!”
“No. It was mutual, Maggie. Okay?” Dan follows this with a large sigh. “We just didn’t see taking it to the next level.” I sit back down in my chair, stunned, and take a big gulp of air. Why was I so upset?
Sam and Dan look at each other like a volcano is about to explode.
“I am okay. I will be okay. I just need some air.” I get up and stumble to the door.
I change into my polka dot pyjamas, the most reassuring pyjamas I could find. I am debating which romantic movie to watch: When Harry Met Sally or Top Gun. I opt for Top Gun in honour of Dan, who loves fighter jet sequences.
There is a knock on my door. I peer through the peephole. Sam.
“So, did you pull the short toothpick?” I ask, opening the door.
“Dan is worried about you, and he’s the one who just went through a break up.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I overreacted. I just felt a little possessive, like it was my relationship.” After all, I had set them up. Juliette was a friend of mine from art school.
He looks amused. “I like the polka dots.”
“I called Juliette.” I shut the door behind him. “Do you want to know what she said?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
I futz around with the kettle, making tea. He follows me into the kitchen.
“She asked him if he could see a future together, and he told her, flat out. He told her that it would never happen for him. Shit!” I burn my finger as my cup topples over and hot tea spills out. I turn the tap on and rinse my finger under the cold water.
“Then he was honest with her. That sounds like Dan.” He mops up the spilled tea with a nearby paper towel. “Would you prefer he lied to her? That he pretended he cared more than he did?”
“No. I don’t know. Yes!” I turn away from him, a thought occurring to me. “Why not? Maybe pretending would make it true.”
“Pretending would not make it true.” He takes my hand, which is numb from the cold water, and looks at my red throbbing finger.
“Is there someone else, do you think?”
He releases my hand. “Doubtful, although he plays his cards pretty close to his chest.”
I shift my nightgown, noticing it has fallen off my shoulder.
“Maggie,” Sam says. “Do you think maybe it’s time for you to get out there?”
“Get out there?” I suck my injured finger stubbornly.
“Date again?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it struck me. Could you be so upset about Dan because … because…” he fumbles. “You don’t have a real relationship of your own? Since Michael.”
I stare at him balefully.
“It’s not like you haven’t had opportunities.”
“Opportunities?”
“That guy tonight? Eddie? He wasn’t so bad. Why not … get back on the metaphorical bicycle?”
“I am done with bikes and your big brother pep talks.”
I take a bite of spinach salad. My eyes slip down to my watch. The time is inching by, gooey as molasses. He takes a sip of his white wine. He has opened the collar of his shirt, but otherwise his persona is the same. Under duress, I had agreed to lunch with Eddie, motivated by a wager with Sam. He bet that Eddie likes me and asks me out again. I bet that he is pursuing me because he wants something from me.
“So, is it good to get a break from Archibald?” I ask, well aware that a break from Archibald could feel like a heavenly ascension.
“We’re mostly finished. But you know, it is. It’s good to … get out period. I am a bit of a workaholic. Then, I guess you probably noticed that.”
“Yeah. I don’t really get that. The whole living for work thing.”
“You work to live?” he asks, toying with his bocconcini salad.
“Pretty much,” I say.
“Well, you are a really good artist. Your paintings were solid.”
“Solid?” I raise an eyebrow.
“In fact, there is something I wanted to run by you…”
I was right. He wants something.
“I have an idea … Would you be willing to contribute your artwork to Archibald’s book launch party? Nothing too edgy, of course. Some paintings of … Archibald and his friends, your interpretation of them. It would be like an exposé of sorts. We will have to run it by his publicist, of course. But you could have your own exhibition at the same time. Archibald could give a reading … it might work out well. What do you think?”
“Oh.” I am surprised and flattered. “Well. I don’t know. Maybe … I do have a fair bit of work I could use already.” He must have really liked my paintings. But tying my fate so publicly to Archibald’s was a reason to deliberate.
“Anyway, no pressure. It’s just something to consider.”
“Well, I will.”
He took another sip of wine. “I know you haven’t read Archibald’s latest novel. I could give you the finished draft when it’s ready. You really should. You could get some ideas for your paintings. Some of his themes are very … contemporary. Very close to home.” He stares at his neatly manicured hands.
“I don’t know if I’ll get to it anytime soon, but for sure if I can.” I was being polite. I just didn’t want to go there. “I’ll think about it anyway.”
The loud ringing seems to come from everywhere, almost like it is inside my head. I fumble for the phone in the darkness of the room and in the process smack my funny bone against the bedside table.
“Ouch,” I say angrily as I pick up the phone.
“I need you over here now.” His voice is flat and serious.
“Archibald, is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me. Who else were you expecting?” he says.
“What’s the…?”
“Never you mind the what and the who,” he says. “It’s urgent. Bloody urgent. Come as fast as you can.” The phone clicks, and I am alone.
I dress quickly. He had sounded strangely sober, convincingly grave. Still, I wonder if this is a trick. It’s been months since his latest practical joke. When I arrive, Archibald is standing outside the building.
“What took you so long?” He leans against his cane, fully dressed.
“What is this all about?” I say, still panting.
“I need your help with an errand. He’s in trouble. We have to pick him up.”
“He who?” I ask.
“Marcell, of course, who else?” he insists, irritated.
“Marcell?” I hadn’t seen him in a couple of months, maybe longer.
We get in the car and he directs me to the freeway. I drive the old Cadillac across the slick, deserted streets. Archibald shifts, uneasy in his seat.
“What happened?” I say.
“I’m not sure,” he replies with an impatient sigh. “Drive faster.”
“Well, where are we going? Where is he?” I ask.
“He’s been committed. That’s all I know. That’s all I could find out.” The more I press, the more resistant he becomes.
I drive far out into the suburbs until we reach a great park-like expanse. He directs me through a large arching driveway, to a set of plain, industrial buildings. He knows his way around as if he has been here before.
“Wait here,” he says.
I notice a sign, old and faded: Riverway Psychiatric Institute.
“Archibald, is this a mental hospital?” I ask.
“It’s not the country club,” he replies tersely.
“Yeah, but do you think it’s a good idea … I mean … maybe he needs to be here.”
He looks at me then. A furious, needle-sharp rage surges across his features. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible, “Nobody needs to be here.” Then he is out of the car. He limps slightly, but it is a grim walk, a walk of determination. He stands outside the front door and rings a buzzer until he is finally admitted. He does not look back.
I wait for a long time. I watch the greyish building and feel deeply uneasy. Perhaps it’s just nerves, but from far away inside, I swear I hear a faint, slivery scream. I shudder. Is this what it had been like for her, my grandmother? Had she been here?
And then the doors push open and Archibald appears with a tiny person leaning heavily against him. Archibald, in turn, leans on his cane, swaying slightly. I sit for a moment, mouth agape. And then I open the door and rush out to meet them.
His eyes are open but unfocused. He is deeply drugged, and he grips me as though I am a lifeboat. His head is down, drooping on his flimsy neck. He is light as a pigeon and smells of sickness. Like he has been in a small room, away from air and light. His lemony cologne has been completely blotted out. He leans against me, shaking like a leaf, while Archibald opens the back door.
“That’s right, Marcell. That’s it. We’ll be away from this place in no time,” Archibald says encouragingly. “I don’t care what they say about your brain chemistry. They are hacks and halfwits. Do you hear me?”
If he hears, Marcell does not reply. He looks so old. He is skin and bones. I help him with his seatbelt and climb into the front seat. Archibald sits grimly beside me. I start the car and drive us home.
“Are you sure about this?” I say to Archibald quietly as I drive. “Taking him to your place?”
“Drive,” Archibald says.
“We could see if he has any family.”
“He doesn’t have any family,” he says wearily. He, too, looks exhausted. “They don’t understand people like Marcell in there.”
“People like Marcell…”
He looks at me as though I am very ignorant. I don’t ask how he managed to extricate Marcell from that place. And he doesn’t tell me. I later learn that he had been found, unresponsive, holed up in a little room in the Downtown Eastside. He had been taken in custody and then remanded for psychiatric treatment. His captors were well intentioned, but Marcell, like a wild animal, did not respond well to captivity in any form.
Archibald sets him up in my old room, where he lies with his eyes shut tight, unmoving. Archibald stays with him, and I fall asleep on the couch. The next morning, I awake with a familiar pain in my back. It is Maria’s day off, so I find some chicken soup and reheat it. Archibald insists on feeding it to Marcell, who looks about him but says nothing. He can barely manage a few spoonfuls.
I go home to wash and change, and when I return, Marcell is propped up in the bed. Archibald has fallen asleep on the chair beside him, head tucked against his chest, bird-like. I enter the room quietly. Marcell seems far away, unaware of me. I wait for a few seconds and then turn to leave.
“I remember this room,” he says in a small, scratchy voice. “It was the first time I met you. I was drunk, very drunk as usual, and I came in here to pee, and when I came out, you were standing there, looking like an angel, in a white dressing gown, glaring at me. At first I thought … I thought you were Sara … and for a second, it was like going back in time.”
I stare at him for a while, wondering about Sara. Archibald has opened his eyes, but also remains quiet, as if he too were remembering.
That night, I make sandwiches, tomato and cheddar, with Maria’s day-old potato bread. Archibald has banished everyone else, Eddie included, from the premises. We sit across from each other at the kitchen table as the room grows dim, strangely formal. Archibald seems reflective or just very tired. And I know better than to ask, than to pry into another person’s tragedy. Perhaps that’s why he tells me.
“He lost them in a car accident, his wife and daughter, in France. He never got over it,” Archibald says as the sun fades in the window behind him.
