Archibald Full Frontal, page 26
And it all falls away, the bitterness, the irritation, any unfinished business. Archibald has become a stranger. Michael has disappeared. The chaos has faded like a bad dream, and I am left with a living fantasy that isn’t perfect, but it’s damn close. For my birthday, Sam and I go away to Salt Spring Island and stay at a B&B. We hike through leaf-covered paths and drink wine by the fire, watching the sun-dappled arbutus trees and purple-hued waves fade into darkness. It is the best birthday I can remember. Back in our new apartment, in our new neighbourhood, we make friends with people who have never heard of Archibald and the sordidness we escaped.
We still see Dan, but not as much. Our camaraderie has faded to a paler version of its former self. I have always been comfortable touching him, hugging him, like a kid sister, but each time I touch him now I feel him recoil. I am Sam’s girlfriend first. He makes his excuses: he is busy with work; his software business is expanding; he is fighting the flu. But we all know the truth. We are drifting apart.
Nevertheless, he calls one day and we plan to go hiking. Sam and Dan have long talked about this hike, on Mount Garibaldi, one of their favourites. After five hours of gruelling climbing, we reach the top and find ourselves at the rim of a dazzling precipice, watching a waterfall tumble and rush into a large foaming pool of water below. The view is dizzying. We stand together, dirt-crusted, sweat-drenched, and satisfied; well, Sam and Dan stand; I lean against a boulder, trying to catch my breath. The sunlight glistens through fern leaves, and the silence is swallowed by the sound of flowing water. Sam drops his pack, kicks his boots off, turns, and smiles. “Maggie. This is it. The best rush of your life.” And then he is gone, off the side of the embankment. I straighten up, heart in my throat. Dan stares down over the edge as though nothing has happened.
“Holy shit!” I shout and rush to look down too. Dan points down benignly. Sam is waving and bobbing in the water below.
Dan looks at me, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “It’s easier than mountain biking, Pedal. Should I go next?”
“Okay,” I answer, still stunned. “No! Don’t do it! You could drown.” I grab his arm, reliving a fear I haven’t felt since the mountain bike descent.
“It’s pretty safe, well, comparatively,” Dan says with a shrug. “Come on. You’ll love it. I promise.” And then he is gone, dropping before my eyes, free falling, arms and legs flailing, yelling as he hits the water with a tremendous splash, being absorbed by it, and then, after what feels like minutes, emerging. He waves up at me enthusiastically.
Sam calls, “Come on in, Maggie!”
Dan beckons, “Just close your eyes!”
Sam again, “You won’t regret it.”
They are so small below. The cliff is so high. Were they insane? I watch the rushing water below, my apprehension growing, turning into terror.
“Not a chance!!” I yell down at them. “You two are loco, looney-toon crazy if you think I’m budging from here. Nutcases!” I could smash into a rock, drown, or just die from the shock. They shrug and begin splashing each other, adolescent boys full of enthusiasm.
Afterwards, we sit on rocks in the sun. They had hiked back up and taken not one, but two, more leaps off the edge. Each time they invited me, and each time I rolled my eyes in refusal. They have their shirts off now, warming their torsos, looking spent but satisfied. I am still hot, sweaty, and a little put out. They don’t seem to notice. I pass around a bag of trail nuts. Dan opens his eyes.
“I have something that I need to tell you guys,” he says. He hesitates and clears his throat. “As you know, I spend a fair bit of time travelling back and forth to Toronto. Actually, most of my business is in Toronto now. So it makes sense for me to relocate. To Toronto.”
“You mean temporarily?” Sam asks, chewing.
“No. I mean permanently. This is my home, of course. My closest friends are here, family too. But for business reasons, it just makes sense. I’m moving.”
He clears his throat again. We all sit for a moment, letting it sink in.
“Have you … thought this through?” Sam asks.
“Yes.” He nods, flipping a nut in his hand and popping it into his mouth. There was a time when we would have argued, tried to convince him to stay.
“When?” Sam asks simply.
“Soon,” Dan answers. “Next month.”
“Dan,” I say, and then “Dan,” again. It is all I can think of to say. It’s my fault, I know.
As the day of Dan’s departure draws near, terrible as it might seem, I begin to feel a sense of relief. I know that deep down he believes my relationship with Sam is wrong. He has always been in Carolina’s corner, but he is too kind to say anything. I want endless sunny days, without the cloudiness of his disapproval. Maybe it’s for the best that he is going, I tell myself.
We drive him to the airport, in my jeep, which used to be his. He gave me a great price. And it’s a thrill to have my own car. On the way, we make idle chit-chat, but the silences are long and awkward. At the airport, we walk him to the gate. And when we reach it, we stand looking at each other. How to say goodbye? My heart grows heavy as I face the truth: someone I cared for, who has only been good to me, is leaving.
He had never faked his death, stabbed me in the back, told my secrets to the world. He had never kissed me on a dance floor and made me wait years for an encore. He had taken a back seat to Archibald, Sam, and even Michael. Always. And now the thought of his absence fills me with sorrow for a friendship that is ending. I swallow back tears. I had been prepared to miss him in little bits but not all of a sudden. Not even before he was gone. I am overwhelmed with remorse. Had I driven him away? I throw my arms around him, the familiar big back and shoulders with the heart they can barely contain, and hold him close. He hugs me tight, just like old times.
“You always did that the best,” he whispers in my ear.
Then he turns to Sam. Boyhood friends. Best friends. They embrace the way men do, with a lot of back clapping and throat clearing. Then Dan leans in and whispers something to him. I can tell by Sam’s face that it throws him. He blanches, looks at me, and then struggles to recover, and as he does, Dan watches him as if to make sure it sunk in.
Sam nods, but says nothing. A silent truth throbs between them.
And then the big linebacker turned computer geek turned successful businessman makes his way to the gate and disappears.
On the way home, I have to ask. It’s killing me. “What did he say back there?”
“Not now,” he answers, looking out a window.
“Okay,” I say, thinking it must be something about Carolina. And it was between them. Fair enough.
Sam is remote for the rest of the evening, marking papers. We watch TV. I take a bath and think of Dan. I wish he hadn’t been so damn loyal to Carolina. That he had undermined me at the last minute hurt. But he had spoken his truth, whatever it had been, and I couldn’t resent him for it.
Lying in bed, I try to read but end up staring at the ceiling. Sam is also awake. “Maggie? I can tell you now.”
“Tell me what?”
“What Dan said,” he says as though it were completely obvious.
“Okay, shoot.” I brace myself.
He turns, eyes serious, pondering. “He said, ‘Make her happy. Promise to make Maggie happy.’”
Archibald, Again
He rests, propped up on pillows, his favourite afghan around his knees, a Queen of Sheba dressed in purple and mint green striped pyjamas, an assembly of flowers displayed according to hue on his bedside table. The hospital room looks like a royal mausoleum crossed with an oriental antiques store: Persian rugs scattered on the floor, an Indian tapestry on the wall, his large gold-leaf Buddha poised on his stand in the corner, observing with an impassive eye. The only thing missing is Mi Tie. I hand him a bouquet. I have chosen irises, more magenta than purple. He gives them a cursory but approving sniff. I fan them in their vase and file them on the outskirts of the purple section. I know flowers after all my time with him.
It is hard to stop myself from gaping. He has lost at least thirty pounds. He is a smaller version of himself, a shrunken Archibald. Gone is the pink from his cheeks. His skin has a waxy undertone. He wears a beaded Moroccan cap on his head to conceal that he has lost most of his hair due to the chemo. But then the blue eyes turn to me, assessing, hot as a fired iron slicing through butter. They have not changed much.
“Archibald,” I say.
“Maggie, what a pleasant surprise,” he remarks, as though I have just turned up for tea.
“Mom called.” I had ignored the phone calls from the Deliahs and Eddie; even my mom had had to call twice. I had refused to believe that he was dying. It had only been seven months since the night of the portrait. I wasn’t ready to see him again. I was even less ready to see him like this. I still expected actors to jump out from behind the wings and reveal this as just another prank. But I could see now, clearly, that that would not happen. Although he had taken on monster-sized proportions in life, he was only a mortal man confined to a weak body and a wanting soul.
“Yes, I expected she would,” he laments with a sigh. Had he called her? “She always was nosy.”
I sit in a nearby chair, close but not too close, muscles in my back tense and ready.
“I suppose you haven’t forgiven me yet,” Archibald says with an even more pronounced sigh, fiddling with his afghan.
“Are you asking me to?” I counter.
“No, no. I always preferred you angry. It gives you some passion. Besides, it will make you remember me longer.” His blue eyes flash, and it is like the old days again. “On my headstone it should say, Archibald the Terrible.”
I suppress a chuckle, taken off guard. It would be fitting. “You said it.”
“Well, I did my best,” he says. “Some of the time, I misbehaved, and some of the time, I do regret it.”
I look down at my hands. I refuse to make this easy. But it would be a lie to say that I am not struck by his impending death, that death does not have a presence.
“Where is Penelope?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see her march through the door at any second, something between a snarl and a smile on her lips. I had last seen her flailing like a banshee at the award gala, trying to escape the mounds of her dress.
“I have no idea. Nor do I want to. She could be halfway to Hades for all I know or care.”
“What happened?” I ask. Did she find a bigger name to put on her resume? I wonder. “Did she quit?”
“No. She did not. I fired her bony ass, after … well … it was the final straw.” He breaks into a throaty cough and takes a sip from a flask on his bedside table, which makes him hack harder.
“She didn’t end up working for Michael?” I ask, too curious to contain myself.
“Of course not!” He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “If you must know, she spilled wine, red wine, on my best rug.” He points to where it graces part of the hospital-room floor. I peer down at the mosaic and quickly locate the familiar rose-coloured stain made by Carolina months before. “It was clear that it was made some time ago. And then she had the nerve to lie and to act offended on top of it. After everything.”
“How do you know it was her?” I ask, suppressing a giggle.
“Puh-lease. Red wine was all she drank after 4 p.m. She was a lush. And not a creative one at that. I could tell by the guilty look in her tiny, piggy eyes. It was a gift from a relative of the former Shah of Iran!” He raises what remains of his wispy eyebrows at me. “So I told her where she could go, to the depths of the river Styx with a very big stick stuck up her … She was a leech anyway. Her teeth were so white, you could read by them. She was addicted to vitamin C enemas. By the last month, her skin was turning orange. And Maria just hated her.”
“Maria hates everyone,” I interject.
“True,” he admits. “But then she had the nerve to say that my Buddha, the Tibetan Buddha, looked like a prude, and he just needed to get laid. By a woman of all things! I couldn’t bear to look at her. And then the rug, of course, was the final straw!”
I couldn’t help smiling to myself. Penelope fired for something I had helped conceal, now that was poetic justice.
“You don’t have to hide your amusement. I know she wasn’t exactly a favourite of yours.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Quite a view, eh?” He changes the subject, motioning to the window. Outside it is spring. I peer down at the open grassy park below, people walking dogs, kids playing, trees full of the bounty of their own fertility, blossoms that would fall, scatter on the paved sidewalks, get mashed underfoot, and perfume the soles of countless shoes.
“It’s not exactly the Ritz,” I quip.
“Touché. And let me tell you, they have a preposterous shortage of male nurses around here.” He glares when a matronly woman pokes her head in, making a note on a clipboard. “Everything is so … sterile. They wouldn’t even let me have the walls painted. Can you believe it?”
“The nerve of them,” I say.
“They got upset when I wanted to clear the negative chi with a little burnt sage. They thought it was pot. What is a little incense going to hurt? Or a little pot for that matter?”
“I vote for a little of one and a lot more of the other.”
He peers at me with approval, “You always could banter better than most, Magali.”
“Sam came to see me last week,” he whispers, on my next visit. The illness is doing its work, spurring him on, like an angry, whip-wielding rider on the back of a stubborn horse, to the finish line of his life.
“I know,” I say. I put his copy of T.S. Eliot’s The Hollow Men he has asked for beside his bed. He shifts uncomfortably. Sam has forgiven him, but it has taken him time.
“These hideous beds … it’s like they’re trying to kill me with discomfort. I am dying for a pedicure. Oh bother, I asked you for Wordsworth, not Eliot.” He sighs.
“My mistake,” I answer even though his memory is the culprit.
He rolls his eyes, “You were always a pathetic liar and absolutely dreadful at diplomacy of any kind.”
“True. But I think I have improved over time under your instruction.”
“Maybe a very little,” he wheezes, a dark guttural noise, before continuing. “I am glad about you two, you know. He has a quality I always liked, a depth to go with those pretty hazel eyes.”
“Well, I will take that as your blessing. Not that I sought it.”
“Although I always liked the big boy with the Hemingway shoulders more. He gave the impression that he was the kind of man you could depend on, put your arm through, and just … lean on a little … if you ask me.”
“You mean Dan?” I ask.
“It’s too bad he turned tail. Toronto will wear him out. They work far too hard in that flat pancake of a province. Give me a prairie any day.”
Anger bubbles up inside me. How had he discovered that fact? Had that little troll been spying on me and mine again? “I hope that horrible little Zoltan rots.”
“Don’t blame him. He was just an eye for hire. A very good one. Sam told me about Dan anyway, not Zoltan.” I rise to go, not wanting to continue this conversation, but he interrupts.
“Sit,” he commands regally. “Please. It falls to me to give you some essential advice.”
“Advice? I don’t think so,” I counter.
“As you wish.” When I don’t leave, he clears his throat. “I am leaving most of my worldly possessions to you, as well as my estate.”
“Archibald, there really is no need—”
“Yes, there is. I wasn’t what I should have been to you. I know that. So.” He picks up The Hollow Men and flips through it.
“Are you feeling guilty?”
“Not really. It’s more like buyer’s remorse. I enjoyed the ride, even though I may have paid far too much for it. And made others pay, too. I have injured innocents on the way, sacrificed for the greater good. At least, that was my justification.” He puts the book down beside him.
“Is this your advice? If so, it sounds a bit bullshitty,” I say, hands on my hips.
“That’s just what she would have said,” he comments.
“Who?” I ask, surprised. “Mom?”
“No. Your grandmother. Magali could smell bullshit a mile away.”
“I didn’t know that about her. I thought—”
“That she was crazy?”
“Mentally ill,” I finish.
“No more or less than the rest of us, well, up until … her hospitalization.” He peers around the hospital room and shivers. “She was quick-witted, and she had a good sense of humour. Anyway, she visited me last night and she stood right where you are and said: A — that is what she used to call me, ‘A’ — she said, ‘You need to help our girl out. Point her in the right direction. She can’t sit around feeling sorry for herself. And neither should you. Tell it to her like it is but don’t be a self-centred old queen about it.’”
“Grandma said that?” I say, thinking his medication must have delusional side effects.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. It was probably all in my head. But now that I’m on the subject: Take a trip. You need to see the world. You have talent as an artist, but you need more … context. I suggest Asia, because Italy, France, Spain, they will always be there, but you need more energy and stamina to do Asia. You should experience it while you are still young, and, believe me, youth is the first thing to go. One day you look in the mirror and it is just going-going-gone.”
“Asia?” I repeat, unconvinced. I had been to Thailand.
“Yes. Go to India. Take Sam with you. Don’t leave him to his own devices. Because he is from the prairies, and she is from the prairies. You know what I’m saying! Once from the prairies always from the prairies. It’s like a virus they cannot get out of their systems. They may drink martinis in the city, but they are most at home with a flavourless brewsky and a view of nothing but corn.” He makes a sour face.
