http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L6vvTaJVuiY
And I moved
As I saw him looking in through my window
His eyes were silent lies
And I moved
And I saw him standing in the doorway
His figure merely filled the space
And I moved
But I moved toward him
And I moved
And his hands felt like ice exciting
As he laid me back just like an empty dress
And I moved
But a minute later he was weeping
His tears his only truth.
And I moved
But I moved toward him
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Eyes of Oscar Wilde
The eyes of Oscar Wilde gazed upon me. Dreamy eyes, many of them. The thinker, chin resting on hand; the aesthete, in white tie and knickers fashionably past their day; the adventurer, spinning yarns to eagerly listening young brutes in the American west; the lover, strolling at Oxford with Lord Alfred Douglas, the instrument of his undoing. I had happened into this shrine to the writer, a pub called Wilde Oscar’s in the Church & Wellesley Village, to escape a punishing shower. Autumn rain in Toronto is cold and hard and it is best to get out of it.
I had been roaming the streets looking for a place to sit and set about writing the great novel. I had imagined a library, or a coffee shop, or some great gothic gallery. This smoky bar was a surprise. But under the circumstances, I had decided to allow myself to be swept up by the winds of reinvention, so I welcomed this serendipitous encounter with Oscar Wilde, found a table in a corner, opened my notebook, and was immediately interrupted.
“Fuck you, Jack! I said sorry and I’m not saying it again.” The voice resounding from the bar was angry, but the undertone was the hollow, shrill sound of despair. “I just feel like I’m going nowhere. I had big plans when I came here. It’s been over a year and I’m still waitressing. No…there’s nothing wrong with waitressing but...my mother’s coming next week and she’s gonna crap all over me. What? Well you don’t know my mother, Jack! She thinks I fucked up. And she’s right. Do you know what? I’m getting upset again. I’m hanging up.”
Soon, the sad voice was speaking to me. “Can I get you something, sweetie?”, making an effort to brighten up. I looked up to see an exquisite girl probably in her mid-twenties, a few years younger than myself. She was tall with black hair and porcelain skin. Her blue eyes, still brimming over slightly with the remnants of tears, looked like melting ice. I wanted to talk to her, tell her I knew exactly how she felt, how my life had no meaning either. I wanted to tell her about the non-descript cubicle in which I worked, to tell her about my mother.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine, please.”
Soon I was staring out the window, watching the rain turn the buildings into a bleak, impressionist blur. I remembered.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The path beneath my feet had been transformed by hours of driving rain into a mighty bog. My knit hat was matted against my head and my boots were filled with water, as I tried in vain to shelter my face from the angry wind. Shivering, I looked over the fence at my house with its warmly lit windows and shadows of people moving around inside; shadows of people who felt like strangers. My attempts to open the gate had caused the wet mud to gather and build on the other side, lodging it in the ground. Four years old and unable to climb the fence, I was trapped.
My neighbour’s dog run was the only way I was permitted to reach my friend’s house on the next street. That dog run was now my prison. In hindsight, I could have gone back the way I came, returned to my friend’s house and called my mother. Or I could have screamed in the hope that someone would hear my small voice over the whipping wind - my house was no more than 100 meters away. But I did neither. I just stood there, wet and shaking.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
My mother’s voice was like a kaleidoscope, with constantly changing shades and colours and patterns, bright and dark. She could, with a word or a tone, fill me with joy or send me running in terror. And you just never knew. On this night, she spoke softly. She sat on my bed, balancing the picture book on her knee, and read in that lilting, hypnotic voice that mothers use to put you to sleep:
“I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out. What did he see? He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.”¹
I was still awake when my mother quietly closed the book, turned out the lamp, and left the room. She did not kiss me good-night. She never did. I rolled over on my side and closed my eyes. Before long, I heard them. I knew that I would. The footsteps. My mother had said it was just my heartbeat that I could hear in my ear against the pillow. But I knew better.
¹ Excerpt from “The Selfish Giant” by Oscar Wilde
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Our nightly ritual had begun again. My parents and I had eaten our dinner in silence. My mother cleaned up the dishes, went to her bedroom and closed the door. My father and I walked into the den. I opened a book. My father sat in his chair and worshipped the television, cigarette smoke drifting around his head like incense. Edith Bunker was bringing Archie a beer when I heard the footsteps outside…slow and heavy, causing the earth, our house, the windows to tremble. Like clockwork, I soon saw the eye of the giant, large and cold, peering in through the window. Oblivious, my father rose from his chair and went to the bathroom. As usual, I quickly left the den, put on my coat and boots, and ran out the front door. As I crossed over our lawn, I could see the top of the giant’s head behind our house. He must have sensed my presence because he turned and looked right at me, rage in his eye. He only had the one eye. That was my advantage; that and the fact that I knew the neighbourhood better than he did and could hide easily. I ran. He followed.
I ducked behind an overgrown shrub and watched him lumber by. I climbed a low stone wall into a field where the other kids often played, and saw several older children throwing a ball. I ran up to a boy that I knew and tried to warn him about the giant – but no words came out of my mouth. He caught the ball, threw it to someone else and told me to go away. Just then, I saw the giant step over the same low wall that I had climbed minutes earlier. He saw me. The other children continued to play and, to my astonishment, the giant ignored them. He was only interested in chasing me.
At the other end of the field, there was a house with a cat lounging on the step. I ran to the house, knocked loudly on the door and rang the bell. Noone answered. The giant moved closer. Suddenly the cat spoke to me. “Go home. Remember? He can’t get you at home.”
The cat was right. I remembered that the giant could not get me when I was inside my house. Since the giant was blocking me from the field, the fastest way home was the dog run in the backyard of the house next door. The dog run was a long enclosed path that, years before, our neighbours had built for their dog to play in. It led to my backyard. There was a gate at both ends that sometimes got mired in mud in a heavy rain. But today it was sunny and warm so I knew I would have no problem getting through. By the time the giant reached the step where the cat sat undisturbed, I had passed through the gate, tumbled up the lawn and into my house. I went to the window and saw the giant, wandering around in search of me.
I returned to the den where my father was back in his chair watching television. By this time, he had finished his second of three stiff nightcaps and was nodding off. I could still hear the giant’s footsteps outside but I could no longer see him. I knew with certainty that I was now safe from his evil grip. I sat for several minutes anxiously watching the television. Then, as my father drifted off to sleep, I snuck out, opened the door, and returned to my private adventure.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I never knew when it was morning. The curtains on my bedroom window were so heavy that they blocked out any hint of the sun. My mother told me I had light sensitive eyes. I have a memory of a family trip to Maine where we stayed in a grubby little cabin with tattered curtains. I awoke at dawn, bathed in light, and screamed in horror, thinking I would go blind. My mother screamed back at me to be quiet. “Be quiet!” Later, she asked why I had reacted to the sun the way I did. I told her my fear and that she had said my eyes were sensitive to light. “Don’t be foolish”, she said, “Mummy never told you that.” But she did. She did.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I had become fond of Wilde Oscar’s. By my third visit, I still hadn’t written a word but the heady atmosphere of the bar stirred up countless memories and ideas. I knew I was on the verge and that excited me. It occurred to me that maybe there was a story in the young waitress’s struggles. I now knew that her name was April. She had moved from Halifax to Toronto a year ago, to get away from the grip of a mother who controlled her and a boyfriend who ignored her. Her father, now dead, had been an insurance salesman and a disappointment to her mother, a domineering woman who wanted April to marry a doctor or lawyer and settle into a life of dignified prominence. April worked as an office temp and took ballet classes. She had a dream of getting out of Halifax and becoming a dancer or an actress. Finally, she mustered enough money and courage to say goodbye to her old life and begin anew. She boarded a bus bound for Toronto, found a place to live and a job at Wilde Oscar’s. A year later, here she was wiping tables, bringing me wine and learning that an unfulfilled life is the same wherever you go. I should say that this is what I imagined her story to be. I still had not spoken to her, except to order a drink.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“Dad, why do you watch TV all the time?”
“What?”
“I was just wondering why you watch TV all the time?”
“Who the fuck are you to ask me that?! What the fuck do you do? Read! Read, read, read like a fucking little girl!! While all the other boys are outside playing ball. I’ve never seen anyone read so much!! I work my ass off for you and your mother and what do I get? ‘Daaad, why do you watch TV all the time? Jiiiim, why don’t you go back to school? Maybe you could get a better paying job, Jim!!’ As far as I’m concerned, the two of you are a couple of ingrates. I’m a tired old man and I like to come home and watch TV. What’s your excuse, you fucking little girl?! Just keep your mouth shut.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I drove the car slowly up the lane. Beneath the street lamp, a rough, handsome boy was lighting a cigarette. I came to a stop, as lust converged with fear, and opened my window.
“Looking for company?”
“Yeah.”
He got into the car and we drove away. We parked by the lake and spoke not another word. Later that night, I dropped him off back at the street lamp.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“And alien tears will fill for him pity’s long broken urn. For his mourners will be outcast men and outcasts always mourn.”
The inscription on the bottom of the large photograph of Oscar’s grave was also the epitaph on the back of the grave itself. He had written these words in his last poem, “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”. The grave was a very plain large concrete block, surrounded by the more traditionally ornate and intricately carved monuments of prominent Parisians. Oscar was not Parisian nor, at the time of his passing, was he prominent; rather a penniless social pariah. But even in death, Oscar found a way to make a bold statement, for out of the front of the plain concrete block soared a carved figure, a spirit, a phoenix, a something, that seemed to proclaim “I am alive!”
I ordered red wine this time. I stared at April as she brought my drink. She smiled. Overhearing conversations, I learned that her dream was to be a singer. She had written a few songs that she was proud of but had no idea how to launch a music career. She had assembled some musicians and found a cheap studio where she could record a demo CD, so she seemed to be making progress.
I had come to think of her as something of a kindred spirit. Thought we could help each other. I wished I knew her.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was just wondering why you only gave me a C. I aced every paper.”
“That may be so. But, if I’m not mistaken, this is the first time I have ever heard your voice.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In an entire term, this is the first time I have heard you speak. And you know this class is a seminar. You were expected to share your thoughts, to debate. From your papers, I’d say you’re a bright young man with some lovely ideas, and I was looking forward to hearing what you had to say. Just once. But nothing. What would you have me do?”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The psychic was dark and foreign and had a tumour on his cheek. He laid the cards out on the table. The first said Honesty. I didn’t look at the rest. He asked me to give him my watch, took it in his hands, closed his eyes, and began to speak.
“I feel that you’re in a job that doesn’t fulfill you. Does your job fulfill you?”
“No.”
“No, I feel like you should be doing something else.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Do you have a cat?”
“Yes.”
“Is it black and white?”
“Yes.”
“I feel like you don’t say what you feel. Is that right?”
“A lot of the time.”
His eyes were closed again, as I searched my shirt for signs of Puss. None.
“I feel like you’re going to travel. I see a warm place. For some reason, LA comes to mind. Do you plan to visit LA?”
“I just visited LA.”
“Well that could be it. But I see you moving to a place like that. Now I’m thinking it isn’t LA. Maybe Vegas. Have you ever been to Vegas?”
“No.”
“You should really go. The desert is amazing.”
“I’ve been to the desert.”
“Where?”
“Arizona.”
“Have you ever been to Sedona?”
“Phoenix and Tucson.”
“I asked if you’ve ever been to Sedona.”
“No.”
“You really should go.”
I hadn’t been to Sedona but I understood. I had gone on a few hikes in the Sonoran Desert and sensed the mysterious energy. I had felt very connected and …alive.
“So maybe it’s Sedona or someplace else in the desert I am meant to go to, not Vegas.” I was certain that I was not meant to go to Vegas. The lights and showgirls held no fascination for me.
“No, I am pretty sure it’s Vegas. You should just go and see what happens. I feel like you’re a creative person, but you don’t create. I see you writing. Do you write?”
“Not really.”
“Well I feel that you should write. I can tell in your eyes that you have an active mind. You’ve seen and felt a lot. I sense that you‘re brimming over with thoughts and ideas and experiences that you don’t share. You know, I’m just here to say that you need to find your voice and speak your truth. And promise me you’ll go to Vegas.”
“I’ll think about it.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I finally got the seat by the fireplace. I had wanted to sit there since the first time I entered Wilde Oscar’s many months ago. But it had always been taken. I looked across the room to the bar where April was pouring me a Cointreau. A large portrait of my muse hung behind her. In this picture, the eyes were not languid and distant. They were fiery and lascivious and looking right at me, daring me to act.
April brought my drink, smiled and turned to walk away. My head spun, my heart raged and my face reddened as the words came out: “Do you mind if I say something a little strange?”
She turned and gave me a puzzled look. “Okay.”
“So a few days before I came in here for the first time I went to see a psychic just a lark really and he had a massive boil on his face so that was off-putting but it was okay because he told me I have a black and white cat which I do and I searched my shirt for cat hair, none, and so how did he know so I thought he must be good and over the course of twenty minutes he totally deconstructed my life and he told me that my head was filled with thoughts and ideas that never come out and that I was unfulfilled in my job because I’m not doing what I’m meant to be doing and that he thinks I’m meant to be writing which would make sense because I love to read and I’m thinking that I will never find meaning in my life until I say what I feel and I suppose it’s because of my parents but that’s for another day and he said I needed to find my voice and speak my truth and I’ve been coming in here all these months and so I totally identified with you when I heard you talking on the phone way back when about your life going nowhere and it seems like things are looking up for you with the CD and all and I’ve just started to write so maybe I’m on my way too and I think we could help each other and maybe we’re kindred spirits and I would really like to know you.”
I stopped to take a deep breath.
“So what did you want to say?”
“Sorry?”
“You just asked me if I minded if you said something strange. What is it?”
“Oh…..I was just wondering if you’ve ever been to Vegas.”
I had been roaming the streets looking for a place to sit and set about writing the great novel. I had imagined a library, or a coffee shop, or some great gothic gallery. This smoky bar was a surprise. But under the circumstances, I had decided to allow myself to be swept up by the winds of reinvention, so I welcomed this serendipitous encounter with Oscar Wilde, found a table in a corner, opened my notebook, and was immediately interrupted.
“Fuck you, Jack! I said sorry and I’m not saying it again.” The voice resounding from the bar was angry, but the undertone was the hollow, shrill sound of despair. “I just feel like I’m going nowhere. I had big plans when I came here. It’s been over a year and I’m still waitressing. No…there’s nothing wrong with waitressing but...my mother’s coming next week and she’s gonna crap all over me. What? Well you don’t know my mother, Jack! She thinks I fucked up. And she’s right. Do you know what? I’m getting upset again. I’m hanging up.”
Soon, the sad voice was speaking to me. “Can I get you something, sweetie?”, making an effort to brighten up. I looked up to see an exquisite girl probably in her mid-twenties, a few years younger than myself. She was tall with black hair and porcelain skin. Her blue eyes, still brimming over slightly with the remnants of tears, looked like melting ice. I wanted to talk to her, tell her I knew exactly how she felt, how my life had no meaning either. I wanted to tell her about the non-descript cubicle in which I worked, to tell her about my mother.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine, please.”
Soon I was staring out the window, watching the rain turn the buildings into a bleak, impressionist blur. I remembered.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The path beneath my feet had been transformed by hours of driving rain into a mighty bog. My knit hat was matted against my head and my boots were filled with water, as I tried in vain to shelter my face from the angry wind. Shivering, I looked over the fence at my house with its warmly lit windows and shadows of people moving around inside; shadows of people who felt like strangers. My attempts to open the gate had caused the wet mud to gather and build on the other side, lodging it in the ground. Four years old and unable to climb the fence, I was trapped.
My neighbour’s dog run was the only way I was permitted to reach my friend’s house on the next street. That dog run was now my prison. In hindsight, I could have gone back the way I came, returned to my friend’s house and called my mother. Or I could have screamed in the hope that someone would hear my small voice over the whipping wind - my house was no more than 100 meters away. But I did neither. I just stood there, wet and shaking.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
My mother’s voice was like a kaleidoscope, with constantly changing shades and colours and patterns, bright and dark. She could, with a word or a tone, fill me with joy or send me running in terror. And you just never knew. On this night, she spoke softly. She sat on my bed, balancing the picture book on her knee, and read in that lilting, hypnotic voice that mothers use to put you to sleep:
“I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out. What did he see? He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.”¹
I was still awake when my mother quietly closed the book, turned out the lamp, and left the room. She did not kiss me good-night. She never did. I rolled over on my side and closed my eyes. Before long, I heard them. I knew that I would. The footsteps. My mother had said it was just my heartbeat that I could hear in my ear against the pillow. But I knew better.
¹ Excerpt from “The Selfish Giant” by Oscar Wilde
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Our nightly ritual had begun again. My parents and I had eaten our dinner in silence. My mother cleaned up the dishes, went to her bedroom and closed the door. My father and I walked into the den. I opened a book. My father sat in his chair and worshipped the television, cigarette smoke drifting around his head like incense. Edith Bunker was bringing Archie a beer when I heard the footsteps outside…slow and heavy, causing the earth, our house, the windows to tremble. Like clockwork, I soon saw the eye of the giant, large and cold, peering in through the window. Oblivious, my father rose from his chair and went to the bathroom. As usual, I quickly left the den, put on my coat and boots, and ran out the front door. As I crossed over our lawn, I could see the top of the giant’s head behind our house. He must have sensed my presence because he turned and looked right at me, rage in his eye. He only had the one eye. That was my advantage; that and the fact that I knew the neighbourhood better than he did and could hide easily. I ran. He followed.
I ducked behind an overgrown shrub and watched him lumber by. I climbed a low stone wall into a field where the other kids often played, and saw several older children throwing a ball. I ran up to a boy that I knew and tried to warn him about the giant – but no words came out of my mouth. He caught the ball, threw it to someone else and told me to go away. Just then, I saw the giant step over the same low wall that I had climbed minutes earlier. He saw me. The other children continued to play and, to my astonishment, the giant ignored them. He was only interested in chasing me.
At the other end of the field, there was a house with a cat lounging on the step. I ran to the house, knocked loudly on the door and rang the bell. Noone answered. The giant moved closer. Suddenly the cat spoke to me. “Go home. Remember? He can’t get you at home.”
The cat was right. I remembered that the giant could not get me when I was inside my house. Since the giant was blocking me from the field, the fastest way home was the dog run in the backyard of the house next door. The dog run was a long enclosed path that, years before, our neighbours had built for their dog to play in. It led to my backyard. There was a gate at both ends that sometimes got mired in mud in a heavy rain. But today it was sunny and warm so I knew I would have no problem getting through. By the time the giant reached the step where the cat sat undisturbed, I had passed through the gate, tumbled up the lawn and into my house. I went to the window and saw the giant, wandering around in search of me.
I returned to the den where my father was back in his chair watching television. By this time, he had finished his second of three stiff nightcaps and was nodding off. I could still hear the giant’s footsteps outside but I could no longer see him. I knew with certainty that I was now safe from his evil grip. I sat for several minutes anxiously watching the television. Then, as my father drifted off to sleep, I snuck out, opened the door, and returned to my private adventure.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I never knew when it was morning. The curtains on my bedroom window were so heavy that they blocked out any hint of the sun. My mother told me I had light sensitive eyes. I have a memory of a family trip to Maine where we stayed in a grubby little cabin with tattered curtains. I awoke at dawn, bathed in light, and screamed in horror, thinking I would go blind. My mother screamed back at me to be quiet. “Be quiet!” Later, she asked why I had reacted to the sun the way I did. I told her my fear and that she had said my eyes were sensitive to light. “Don’t be foolish”, she said, “Mummy never told you that.” But she did. She did.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I had become fond of Wilde Oscar’s. By my third visit, I still hadn’t written a word but the heady atmosphere of the bar stirred up countless memories and ideas. I knew I was on the verge and that excited me. It occurred to me that maybe there was a story in the young waitress’s struggles. I now knew that her name was April. She had moved from Halifax to Toronto a year ago, to get away from the grip of a mother who controlled her and a boyfriend who ignored her. Her father, now dead, had been an insurance salesman and a disappointment to her mother, a domineering woman who wanted April to marry a doctor or lawyer and settle into a life of dignified prominence. April worked as an office temp and took ballet classes. She had a dream of getting out of Halifax and becoming a dancer or an actress. Finally, she mustered enough money and courage to say goodbye to her old life and begin anew. She boarded a bus bound for Toronto, found a place to live and a job at Wilde Oscar’s. A year later, here she was wiping tables, bringing me wine and learning that an unfulfilled life is the same wherever you go. I should say that this is what I imagined her story to be. I still had not spoken to her, except to order a drink.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“Dad, why do you watch TV all the time?”
“What?”
“I was just wondering why you watch TV all the time?”
“Who the fuck are you to ask me that?! What the fuck do you do? Read! Read, read, read like a fucking little girl!! While all the other boys are outside playing ball. I’ve never seen anyone read so much!! I work my ass off for you and your mother and what do I get? ‘Daaad, why do you watch TV all the time? Jiiiim, why don’t you go back to school? Maybe you could get a better paying job, Jim!!’ As far as I’m concerned, the two of you are a couple of ingrates. I’m a tired old man and I like to come home and watch TV. What’s your excuse, you fucking little girl?! Just keep your mouth shut.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I drove the car slowly up the lane. Beneath the street lamp, a rough, handsome boy was lighting a cigarette. I came to a stop, as lust converged with fear, and opened my window.
“Looking for company?”
“Yeah.”
He got into the car and we drove away. We parked by the lake and spoke not another word. Later that night, I dropped him off back at the street lamp.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“And alien tears will fill for him pity’s long broken urn. For his mourners will be outcast men and outcasts always mourn.”
The inscription on the bottom of the large photograph of Oscar’s grave was also the epitaph on the back of the grave itself. He had written these words in his last poem, “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”. The grave was a very plain large concrete block, surrounded by the more traditionally ornate and intricately carved monuments of prominent Parisians. Oscar was not Parisian nor, at the time of his passing, was he prominent; rather a penniless social pariah. But even in death, Oscar found a way to make a bold statement, for out of the front of the plain concrete block soared a carved figure, a spirit, a phoenix, a something, that seemed to proclaim “I am alive!”
I ordered red wine this time. I stared at April as she brought my drink. She smiled. Overhearing conversations, I learned that her dream was to be a singer. She had written a few songs that she was proud of but had no idea how to launch a music career. She had assembled some musicians and found a cheap studio where she could record a demo CD, so she seemed to be making progress.
I had come to think of her as something of a kindred spirit. Thought we could help each other. I wished I knew her.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was just wondering why you only gave me a C. I aced every paper.”
“That may be so. But, if I’m not mistaken, this is the first time I have ever heard your voice.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In an entire term, this is the first time I have heard you speak. And you know this class is a seminar. You were expected to share your thoughts, to debate. From your papers, I’d say you’re a bright young man with some lovely ideas, and I was looking forward to hearing what you had to say. Just once. But nothing. What would you have me do?”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The psychic was dark and foreign and had a tumour on his cheek. He laid the cards out on the table. The first said Honesty. I didn’t look at the rest. He asked me to give him my watch, took it in his hands, closed his eyes, and began to speak.
“I feel that you’re in a job that doesn’t fulfill you. Does your job fulfill you?”
“No.”
“No, I feel like you should be doing something else.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Do you have a cat?”
“Yes.”
“Is it black and white?”
“Yes.”
“I feel like you don’t say what you feel. Is that right?”
“A lot of the time.”
His eyes were closed again, as I searched my shirt for signs of Puss. None.
“I feel like you’re going to travel. I see a warm place. For some reason, LA comes to mind. Do you plan to visit LA?”
“I just visited LA.”
“Well that could be it. But I see you moving to a place like that. Now I’m thinking it isn’t LA. Maybe Vegas. Have you ever been to Vegas?”
“No.”
“You should really go. The desert is amazing.”
“I’ve been to the desert.”
“Where?”
“Arizona.”
“Have you ever been to Sedona?”
“Phoenix and Tucson.”
“I asked if you’ve ever been to Sedona.”
“No.”
“You really should go.”
I hadn’t been to Sedona but I understood. I had gone on a few hikes in the Sonoran Desert and sensed the mysterious energy. I had felt very connected and …alive.
“So maybe it’s Sedona or someplace else in the desert I am meant to go to, not Vegas.” I was certain that I was not meant to go to Vegas. The lights and showgirls held no fascination for me.
“No, I am pretty sure it’s Vegas. You should just go and see what happens. I feel like you’re a creative person, but you don’t create. I see you writing. Do you write?”
“Not really.”
“Well I feel that you should write. I can tell in your eyes that you have an active mind. You’ve seen and felt a lot. I sense that you‘re brimming over with thoughts and ideas and experiences that you don’t share. You know, I’m just here to say that you need to find your voice and speak your truth. And promise me you’ll go to Vegas.”
“I’ll think about it.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I finally got the seat by the fireplace. I had wanted to sit there since the first time I entered Wilde Oscar’s many months ago. But it had always been taken. I looked across the room to the bar where April was pouring me a Cointreau. A large portrait of my muse hung behind her. In this picture, the eyes were not languid and distant. They were fiery and lascivious and looking right at me, daring me to act.
April brought my drink, smiled and turned to walk away. My head spun, my heart raged and my face reddened as the words came out: “Do you mind if I say something a little strange?”
She turned and gave me a puzzled look. “Okay.”
“So a few days before I came in here for the first time I went to see a psychic just a lark really and he had a massive boil on his face so that was off-putting but it was okay because he told me I have a black and white cat which I do and I searched my shirt for cat hair, none, and so how did he know so I thought he must be good and over the course of twenty minutes he totally deconstructed my life and he told me that my head was filled with thoughts and ideas that never come out and that I was unfulfilled in my job because I’m not doing what I’m meant to be doing and that he thinks I’m meant to be writing which would make sense because I love to read and I’m thinking that I will never find meaning in my life until I say what I feel and I suppose it’s because of my parents but that’s for another day and he said I needed to find my voice and speak my truth and I’ve been coming in here all these months and so I totally identified with you when I heard you talking on the phone way back when about your life going nowhere and it seems like things are looking up for you with the CD and all and I’ve just started to write so maybe I’m on my way too and I think we could help each other and maybe we’re kindred spirits and I would really like to know you.”
I stopped to take a deep breath.
“So what did you want to say?”
“Sorry?”
“You just asked me if I minded if you said something strange. What is it?”
“Oh…..I was just wondering if you’ve ever been to Vegas.”
Copyright 2005 John David Phillips
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2xODjbfYw8
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Holly
God bless Holly Gushue. Holly was a friend of Ryan's back in Halifax. I got to know her on visits to Ryan's apartment. I believe she was a Micmac but I'm not sure. She had AIDS and many addictions...and barely a tooth in her head. Still her smile was warm and intelligent. Her mind was sharp and her wit was quick. She shocked me frequently with the things she would say. We sat and listened to her one night chatting with a guy on a date line. I almost fell off my chair when he asked her what her best qualities were and she responded, "I'd have to say my t*ts and my c**t." Holly was a piece of work. But she sold herself short. Her best quality was her heart. She said she had a bunch of kids and that she did time in prison for killing a guy...stories we found out to be untrue. Holly was warm and kind.
Before I met Holly, I always believed in aspirational living...and part of that philosophy is making a point to spend time with people who can teach you and help you. Strictly applied, this means people you aspire to be like....mentors. My initial reaction to Holly was that people like her didn't belong in my life. They were a distraction, a stain. And yet, I found myself fascinated by her and, despite an obvious instability brought on by years of self-abuse, and no doubt abuse by others, she taught me that everyone deserves love, respect and dignity. She also taught me that aspirational living was not always about emulating others whom I admired, but rather seeing the good in all kinds of people. Ultimately, I learned that it was about who I wanted to be as a person. Holly taught me to aspire to be a person who could accept and love anyone, regardless of their station in life, what they looked like, how they talked, what their job was, or how many degrees or teeth they had. I did love Holly but I didn't express that love, and my love didn't mean anything because it didn't manifest itself in compassionate action. We left her behind.
When we moved to Toronto, we fell out of touch with Holly, or as Ryan called her, The Gush. She was more or less a transient and difficult to track down. We tried but maybe we could have tried harder. But she moved around amongst the homeless...living in squats and shelters. When she and some neighbours were booted out of a squat, she became a bit of a media darling in Halifax. She spent time volunteering with anti-poverty groups and the AIDS Coalition. She connected with people and made an impression. She had friends who loved her.
In 2006, Holly died of pneumonia at the age of 37. We just found out.
I'm still processing what Holly meant to me and what her death means to me. I wonder if we could have helped Holly. She was a little on the crazy and unpredictable side. And there were the addictions. My natural orientation is to think that people need to just avoid addictions and get a job. I'm still not sure that isn't the best way to approach life. But it feels arrogant maybe. A bit of empathy causes me to ask "what if Holly had been born with the advantages I had?" And "if I were in Holly's shoes, how would I want people to treat me"? If I had been born Holly, could I have done better with my life?" I think not. And besides, notwithstanding many barriers to what we traditionally view as "success", Holly had friends, purpose, love, and goodness. You could do worse.
At the end, Holly was not alone. She had lots of friends and people who loved her. I wish I had somehow managed to do something to show her that I loved her too. And I wish I could become that person I aspire to be...the one who doesn't have to spend so much time writing about people who meant something to him after they have died...the one who has the courage and class to show love, even to the people who don't "fit".
Finally, I have come to believe that dignity and love are inalienable human rights. Everyone is entitled to them regardless of anything they may do or omit to do with their lives. Implicit in this is a roof over their heads, food on their table, and a kindly word...at a minimum.
I will work to perfect this blog entry as my thoughts and emotions become clearer. But in the meantime, please click the links below and read about Holly. She deserves your attention.
Rest in peace and love, Gush.
http://www.streetfeat.ns.ca/Issues/sf060305.pdf
http://www.streetfeat.ns.ca/Issues/sf060302.pdf
On Giving (Kahlil Gibran):
You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?
And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?
And what is fear of need but need itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, thirst that is unquenchable?
There are those who give little of the much which they have - and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.
There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Though the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.
It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall some day be given;
Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'.
You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving."
The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?
And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life - while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.
And you receivers - and you are all receivers - assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;
For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the free-hearted earth for mother, and God for father.
Before I met Holly, I always believed in aspirational living...and part of that philosophy is making a point to spend time with people who can teach you and help you. Strictly applied, this means people you aspire to be like....mentors. My initial reaction to Holly was that people like her didn't belong in my life. They were a distraction, a stain. And yet, I found myself fascinated by her and, despite an obvious instability brought on by years of self-abuse, and no doubt abuse by others, she taught me that everyone deserves love, respect and dignity. She also taught me that aspirational living was not always about emulating others whom I admired, but rather seeing the good in all kinds of people. Ultimately, I learned that it was about who I wanted to be as a person. Holly taught me to aspire to be a person who could accept and love anyone, regardless of their station in life, what they looked like, how they talked, what their job was, or how many degrees or teeth they had. I did love Holly but I didn't express that love, and my love didn't mean anything because it didn't manifest itself in compassionate action. We left her behind.
When we moved to Toronto, we fell out of touch with Holly, or as Ryan called her, The Gush. She was more or less a transient and difficult to track down. We tried but maybe we could have tried harder. But she moved around amongst the homeless...living in squats and shelters. When she and some neighbours were booted out of a squat, she became a bit of a media darling in Halifax. She spent time volunteering with anti-poverty groups and the AIDS Coalition. She connected with people and made an impression. She had friends who loved her.
In 2006, Holly died of pneumonia at the age of 37. We just found out.
I'm still processing what Holly meant to me and what her death means to me. I wonder if we could have helped Holly. She was a little on the crazy and unpredictable side. And there were the addictions. My natural orientation is to think that people need to just avoid addictions and get a job. I'm still not sure that isn't the best way to approach life. But it feels arrogant maybe. A bit of empathy causes me to ask "what if Holly had been born with the advantages I had?" And "if I were in Holly's shoes, how would I want people to treat me"? If I had been born Holly, could I have done better with my life?" I think not. And besides, notwithstanding many barriers to what we traditionally view as "success", Holly had friends, purpose, love, and goodness. You could do worse.
At the end, Holly was not alone. She had lots of friends and people who loved her. I wish I had somehow managed to do something to show her that I loved her too. And I wish I could become that person I aspire to be...the one who doesn't have to spend so much time writing about people who meant something to him after they have died...the one who has the courage and class to show love, even to the people who don't "fit".
Finally, I have come to believe that dignity and love are inalienable human rights. Everyone is entitled to them regardless of anything they may do or omit to do with their lives. Implicit in this is a roof over their heads, food on their table, and a kindly word...at a minimum.
I will work to perfect this blog entry as my thoughts and emotions become clearer. But in the meantime, please click the links below and read about Holly. She deserves your attention.
Rest in peace and love, Gush.
http://www.streetfeat.ns.ca/Issues/sf060305.pdf
http://www.streetfeat.ns.ca/Issues/sf060302.pdf
On Giving (Kahlil Gibran):
You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?
And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?
And what is fear of need but need itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, thirst that is unquenchable?
There are those who give little of the much which they have - and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.
There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Though the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.
It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall some day be given;
Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'.
You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving."
The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?
And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life - while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.
And you receivers - and you are all receivers - assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;
For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the free-hearted earth for mother, and God for father.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Mud Floor
“The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple” Oscar Wilde
“Everyone is in such a hurry to go nowhere”, my father used to say. Cars that raced by us on sleepy old Nova Scotia roads were the bane of his existence. He never understood the rush to get from one place to another. My father loved to drive, and would often take me around the villages and countryside surrounding Glen Haven, where we lived. He was a real estate agent. He would show me houses he had sold and tell me stories about the people who lived in them. “Everyone has a story”; that was another thing my father used to say.
One bright, cool day in early October, when I was fourteen, he and I drove out of town across the Bass River Bridge. We passed cornfields, small farms with red barns and goats, and Pot’s Dairy, where we often stopped to get ice cream on the way to the beach. Pot’s was closed now for the winter. Then we came upon Robert Haverstock’s house. Robert Haverstock was an antique dealer who lived with his mother in a beautiful home. I was intrigued when we drove by his house, hoping to hear an update on his strange tale. As on previous days, I saw the old spinning wheel in the window and the painting on the wall behind. Beds of dwindling summer flowers adorned the lawn in front of the house. A magnificent oak was bravely fighting off the encroaching Fall. It was losing the battle, for its tenants had turned a deep red, glowing brilliantly in the late afternoon sun. Before long, they would succumb to autumn fire. I wondered who would pick the flowers when they died, and burn the leaves when they fell from the old tree. Robert Haverstock was missing.
My father told me Robert was a quiet, effeminate man. When I asked what effeminate meant, he said Robert was a sissy, a mama’s boy. He also told me that he was a gentle man who always had a kind word for everyone. Robert was in his mid-forties and had never married. He had impeccable manners, drove a tan Cadillac, traveled widely to antique shows, took his mother grocery shopping, and preferred to be called Robert. In a fusion of small town informality and subtle effrontery, most local men called him Bob anyway. Others were less kind.
He had a distinguished style of dress, perhaps a little too splendid for rural Glen Haven. He bought his clothes on frequent business trips to Boston, Chicago and New York. When he stopped at the gas station, the men at the lunch bar would share a chuckle over his finely cut trousers and polished shoes. “Hope the fairy doesn’t get his fancy wings dirty”, thinking themselves clever in their greasy overalls. When they were boys, they would tie young Robert Haverstock to a post in a field, call him names and pummel him with cow shit and acorns. Through his tears, he would try to remember his mother’s affirmation that names could never hurt him. But the acorns stung. Robert had a hard life growing up in the Glen Haven countryside.
I once heard people in a shop talking about Robert Haverstock. Beneath their expressed contempt for the man they shamelessly called a queer, there seemed to lie a sense of bewildered fascination. “God knows what he gets up to in the big city”, they would say, shaking their heads. Deep down, I suppose it hurt them that they would never get up to anything in the big city.
Robert Haverstock had exquisite taste and a discerning eye for quality. Several times a year, he would drive out of his yard, past the old oak tree, and down the road to the antique shows and auctions in New York, a big wagon hitched to the back of his Cadillac to bring home his ancient treasures. Upon his return, he and his mother would host an open house, inviting the more discriminating collectors in the community to view, and hopefully purchase, their wares. “I thought of you when I bid on this chest, Janet”, he would gush to one of his well-heeled benefactresses. “It belonged to Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney”, and Janet would pretend to know who that was.
For the ladies in his life, he exuded a sort of mysterious and certainly non-threatening glamour. Robert Haverstock was an exceptional salesman and a wealthy man by Glen Haven standards. His mother had a full-time nurse and every winter, he took her, the nurse, and a handsome colleague from Chicago, to Fort Lauderdale or the Caribbean for a month.
Just over a year before that sunny autumn day when my father and I passed his house, Robert Haverstock kissed his aging mother on the forehead, got into his Cadillac, drove to New York, and never came home. Glen Haven was rife with speculation about his fate. Some guessed that Robert had decided to move to New York or Chicago to live with his young antique dealer friend. But most people, remembering his devotion to his mother, feared that the quiet man with the polished shoes had been the victim of foul play. One rumour had him being robbed, murdered and thrown into the East River. If only it could have been so pure and simple a tragedy. Still, the entire community - his mother, his friends and customers, even the men at the gas station lunch bar - hoped that, one day, he would return safely from wherever he had gone.
As the fine house disappeared into the distance, I asked my father what he thought had happened to Robert Haverstock. He didn’t answer. My father never said much about Robert. Mostly, he just listened as other people made their judgments. My father did not judge people. Like everyone, he had his own demons, but he seemed to understand that people were never simply good or bad, strong or weak. He understood that they struggled each day, like he did, to be the best they could be, and more often than not, failed.
We turned up Old Schoolhouse Road and drove towards Pine Valley Junction, stopping at the cemetery to look at my grandfather’s grave. It was an impressive stone of shimmering black granite. The rosebush, planted by my grandmother years before, still bore blossoms from the waning summer, despite the recent frost. “You know, eight generations of your family are buried here”, my father said. The cemetery, so quiet and green, was comforting. We returned to the car and drove on.
Crossing the Pine Valley Bridge back over Bass River, we came upon a lovely place called Harmony. What a beautiful name, I thought. It wasn’t a town or a village. It was just a place in the country…a place to drive through. I imagined that it had been named by a poet for its rolling hills and gentle waters. It seemed so peaceful. And yet, the early flash of passionate colour emanating from the forest in the distance gave the appearance of silent rage.
My father stopped the car and stepped out to smoke his pipe. I got out too. He pointed to a pale yellow farmhouse sitting on a hill among the trees. It was an impressive home with outbuildings and several acres of land. “You see that house up there?” he said, “I sold it to Tyler Montgomery fifteen years ago. Made his money mining nickel in Ontario.” My father took a long, slow drag on his pipe. “As nice as that house is, would you believe it has a mud floor in the basement?” The sweet cherry smoke encircled my father’s head, then wafted into the sky. “Bob Haverstock is buried in that basement.”
My father was suddenly pensive. He stood gazing up at Tyler Montgomery’s house. I sensed that, whether he wanted to or not, he needed to tell Robert Haverstock’s story. And at fourteen, I guess I was old enough to hear it.
It seems that Robert had indeed driven to New York the previous year. But he had not gone for an auction or an antique show. In the seventies, revolutionary medical advances in the science of gender reassignment - sex change, my father called it – had made hormone treatments and subsequent surgery popular among men who wished to be, or believed themselves meant to be, women.
Robert Haverstock had confided to Helen Montgomery, his best friend, that he had always felt uncomfortable in his body. He said he knew somehow that he had been meant to be a woman. He told Helen that, on his many trips to cities in the States, he frequently posed as a woman. He said these were the only times that he felt truly himself, truly alive. He had not told his mother…he didn’t know how. She had tolerated the young man in Florida because she loved her son. He was all she had. But how would she ever understand this? Helen Montgomery did not understand either. But she was a caring woman who had known Robert all her life. She listened sympathetically.
On his recent trips to New York, Robert had secretly consulted with a specialist in Brooklyn. The doctor started him on a regimen of hormone treatments. As the therapies progressed, the drugs were not having the effect Robert had expected. At times, he became violently ill. At others, he was faint and confused. He had not even begun to come to terms with the impact his altered state would have on his life in Glen Haven. Robert was frightened. But every morning, he put on a cheerful face to greet his patrons and sent them off with the perfect addition to their stately homes. When they left, he would often double over in pain. At first he thought he was feeling the normal repercussions of the reassignment process. But over time, he began to fear something was wrong. His agony seemed to grow with each new day.
By the time Robert Haverstock left home for his last trip to New York, he was in a very bad way. He was nearly broke from the exorbitant cost of the treatments and the advance payments for his pending surgery. The drugs were devastating him. He was coughing blood. There was not a doctor within a thousand miles whom he could trust to help him through this nightmare. And none of his calls to the specialist in New York had been returned. He imagined, with terror, the inside of his body. He need not imagine the horror of his outer self. The effects of the mysterious hormone treatments were becoming increasingly difficult to conceal. Upon arriving, in a hard rain, at the office of his specialist in Brooklyn, Robert found it locked and empty; a condemnation notice posted on the side of the building. You see, this was 1980 and gender reassignment was not a perfect science. Robert Haverstock was in trouble.
He found a telephone booth and made a collect call to the only person he could think of who may be able to help. Helen Montgomery heard his desperate story, his voice hollow and unnatural. “Come home, Robert. Just come home”, she said gently. It was an instinctive response. For Helen Montgomery, who had spent her entire life in Glen Haven, even while her husband slogged away in the nickel mines of Upper Canada, home was the answer to all one’s problems. Home was where people loved you and would support you. Like the name suggested, it was a safe haven from the cold, hard world. Despite everything, this was Robert’s instinct too. Without a second thought, he got into his car and left the city that never sleeps.
Helen Montgomery had no choice. She had to share Robert’s story with her husband, Tyler. Having told him to come home, she didn’t know how to help Robert. She guessed he would need money, medical attention, and eventually, a place to hide his wrecked body from his mother. From everyone. She could not deal with this alone. Robert’s story, as told by Helen, threw Tyler Montgomery into a fury the likes of which his wife had never seen. “Jesus and Mary, that sick bastard!”, he shouted, “I knew he was queer but this is just hellish and evil!” Rage is the mask of many a man’s fear. Helen fixed him a whisky and soda. It did not calm him. “I’ll not have that freak anywhere near my home! Do you understand?” Helen understood. She made herself a strong drink and went to bed. Early the next morning, Saturday, she and her husband quickly packed the car and drove to their cottage on the north shore, hoping to avoid an ugly scene. As they sped by Robert Haverstock’s house, Helen briefly glimpsed his mother, looking out the window by the spinning wheel. Then she noticed the clouds on the horizon.
By late Sunday evening, the storm from New York had reached Glen Haven – and so had the tan Cadillac. When Tyler and Helen Montgomery turned into their long road and drove towards their home on the hill, they could see Robert Haverstock’s car parked beside their house. The fierce rain had pasted the roof and sides with a crooked collage of leaves and branches. “Stay in the car. I’ll deal with this”, commanded Tyler. He disappeared into the night. Moments later, Tyler Montgomery staggered out from behind his house and returned to the car, soaked to the bone. He was breathless and overwhelmed. Helen saw his wild eyes and looked away. They drove next door to the Bains. Janet and Ed Bain had also been Robert’s friends and customers. The two couples shivered by a raging fire as Tyler explained that, when he reached the back of his house, he found Bob Haverstock, dressed as a woman, hanging from a tree.
The four drank heavily and discussed the possible implications of this horrific calamity. If the police were called and the normal course of action taken, the whole community would know Robert’s humiliating story. His mother, who had done nothing wrong, would surely die. People would wonder about their involvement. Yes, people would talk. It was decided. The normal course of action was not in order. Tyler Montgomery and Ed Bain put on their jackets and silently left the house.
When he finished the story, my father emptied his pipe of its coals. We got into the car and drove home in silence. I wondered if Helen Montgomery knew where Tyler and Ed had buried the body of Robert Haverstock. I doubt she ever asked. I suppose she believed that her foundation was fixed and solid. But how are the acts and omissions reconciled with the intentions? I barely know for myself. But I do know this – the truth, for better or worse, has all the patience in the world.
Twenty years have passed since Robert Haverstock disappeared. My mother occasionally sends me copies of the local paper so I can keep up on the news from Glen Haven. I often come across an obituary of a person whose story my father told me. He died ten years ago and I miss him very much. Robert’s mother died a few months after her son was laid in his lonely grave beneath Tyler Montgomery’s mud floor. Prior to her death, she could be seen, everyday, looking out the window by the spinning wheel, waiting for Robert to come home. In the last batch of papers my mother sent, I read that Robert Haverstock’s rusty old tan Cadillac had been pulled from Bass River in a place called Harmony.
Universal Copyright 2003 John David Phillips
Sunshine in the Sky
No bitter rain
No desert dry
No crushing pain
Only sunshine in the sky
No old men wander through cold night
No sickly women wait to die
No war fires blaze brilliant and bright
Only sunshine in the sky
No lonely smoke in late night bars
No rabbit fear nor foxes sly
No strangers sit in steamy cars
Only sunshine in the sky
No oily shores
No hungry cry
No corporate whores
Only sunshine in the sky
Look up, look up
You children dear
And see beyond your frightened tears
Look up, behold the loving eye
Only sunshine in the sky.
No desert dry
No crushing pain
Only sunshine in the sky
No old men wander through cold night
No sickly women wait to die
No war fires blaze brilliant and bright
Only sunshine in the sky
No lonely smoke in late night bars
No rabbit fear nor foxes sly
No strangers sit in steamy cars
Only sunshine in the sky
No oily shores
No hungry cry
No corporate whores
Only sunshine in the sky
Look up, look up
You children dear
And see beyond your frightened tears
Look up, behold the loving eye
Only sunshine in the sky.
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