Quickening

Snowflakes streaking past our eyes, stars jiggling up there in the sky.

Buck was laughing to split a gut, and he said, “Marsha, you’re a kook,” and I suppose he was right, considering. “Exhilarator! Haw, haw.” He was smacking his hand on the dashboard. Did I say that? I expect I did. You know, words zip out of my mouth assbackwards half the time. Like then, when I hit the, excuse me, accelerator instead of the brakes and couldn’t even get the swearing right. Probably because I was trying to pray at the same time, “Holy Shitface Mother of Bob, not the fender, please not the headlights.” What we’re talking about here is Daddy’s brand new Comet GT with the Luxury Decor Option – cut-pile carpeting, colour-keyed vinyl roof and wheel covers, reclining contoured bucket seats – all the spiffy features Daddy couldn’t stop jawing about that I’d just parked in a huge fucking snowbank.

“Shut up, Buck!” Though I shouldn’t have said that, either. Way to impress a guy, eh?

I’d been working on it, too. “It” being Buck and me, somewhere alone. Not in a snowbank, I’ll admit. That wasn’t exactly what I was after. Getting my mitts on Daddy’s car hadn’t been easy. Getting Buck in it hadn’t been easy. He’s had his mind, such as it is, on other things lately. Two things, Trudy’s, and they keep changing sizes, that’s the joke. I nearly had to run him over. “Hey, Buckaroo, wanna go for a ride?”

What I wanted from Buck was simple. I wanted his undying love, his thrashing gushing heart in my hand (no matter it was likely cold and blue as a ball of ice), and I wanted to sing in his band, the Tomcats, New Year’s Eve at the Lantern. I wanted this pretty bad. Feature me down on my knees every night: Listen up, Bob, you gotta do this for me. I’ll wear my black dress, the one I bought in Reitman’s in Sudbury with the ruffles around the hem tickling my kneecaps. Hot stuff, or what? I promise I’ll be buried in it. You set me up and I’ll do the rest.

Trudy’s not the only one, I’ve got two big things as well. One of them’s my nose, you can forget about that. The other’s my voice. I may not be able to talk straight, but I can sing like a siren. I could turn your ears inside out given half a chance.

Buck wasn’t saying too much by then, except for, “Shove over, will ya. I’ll gun it, you get out and push.”

IN MEDIAS RES. (Hey, I’ve studied Latin.) Even the long death of high school has its moments, and here was one: Biology, we’re doing cows, if you can believe it. Some farm kid’s brought one into class divvied up in about four or five green garbage bags. I think I’m going to be sick. I’ve got the lyrics of “Johnny Angel” running non-stop through my head like a purring engine to keep me from keeling over. Buck is sitting behind Trudy, as per usual, fanaticizing (you got it) about her swivelly hips, her ample tailpiece smothering the lab stool that with luck could be his face, I know he’s thinking. His hand darts out and sinks into pink angora. He hooks a finger around her bra at the back and pulls it out like a sling shot. Lets it go and snap! Funny? Everybody turns to smirk at Trudy and even Mr. Dandy, who floats at the front of the room like he’s pickled in formaldehyde, seems to wake up. You bet I was thrilled to see how embarrassed she was. No sympathy here. She got all red and hot looking and her scalp – under that teased bottle-blonde hair, a French’s mustard colour – kind of lit up like a lamp.

“What was that noise, Miss Vinney?” Dandy asks, stunned, like he’s got a mouth full of acorns, and the whole class breaks up. Then damned if he doesn’t steal the show himself by getting all flustered and blowing his nose on his tie.

JUST LIKE that. Gone. What a weird winter. Ever since I rammed into that bank, it never stopped snowing, like I ripped something open. Buckets of the stuff on the roof of the Comet by the time the tow truck got there. Thought Daddy was gonna have my hands and feet cut off, but he got over it. Frigging cold walk into town too, Buck whining and bellyaching the whole way. Think that asshole would give me a little squeeze to keep me warm? So cold, mercury dropped clean out of sight, and Grampy went with it. Down into shadowland. Hope the devils are taking care of him. Hope they hold his hand when he’s scared like I never did. No cloud elevator up to heaven for him, he was tied to the bed. Nurses caught him sneaking down the stairs. One time, hiding in the laundry room, looking for the chute out. He was scrappy, desperate, trying to escape with his life. But that was against the rules. They tied him to the bed, and you know, death came into that room like a doctor to take his mind apart piece by piece. Crazy as a louse, is what he said, memories unstuck and rattling free in his head, but he knew me. “Sing to me, sweetie, sing that one about the girl wants to get laid.” Ha, my theme song. And then, “Look there!” He meant the spiders and scorpions crawling all over the walls. Then, “On the floor, see! A twenty-dollar bill! Quick, pick it up!” And I stooped to snatch it up, even if it was nothing but dust. And I slipped it into my pocket. I’m saving it for shadowland. I’ll spend it when I get there. I’ll buy Grampy a pitchfork.

SWITCHING GEARS. Rnnnnnnnn, RNNNNNNNNNNN! My brother Robbie drives a kitchen chair at the supper table, making us press our fists into our temples and wish (oh please) that we belonged to some other family, even the Horelys down the street, not known for their brainpower. It’s hard to say, but from the sounds of it, Robbie’s chair has a souped-up V8 engine, four-on-the-floor, buns in the back and no muffler. He lays rubber on the checkerboard linoleum, and Mom says, “Don’t let your supper get cold, dear,” her wispy voice gobbled up by the sound of screeching brakes. I’ve got the sneaking suspicion he’s going to hit a snowbank soon. Likes to remind Daddy about that, and to tell the truth, Daddy doesn’t need reminding. He’s still pissed off, though the Comet came through it, tow truck and all, without a scratch. A wonder, I’d say. And do I get thanks? Daddy dangles the car keys in front of my eyes like a silver lure then snatches them away. (Jerk.) Robbie parks by his plate, sticks a baked potato in his mouth, and says (we think), “Deer eat birds, ya know. No guff, me and Billy were down by the banding station, and like there’s these deer munching on some chickadees caught in the banding nets. And the game warden’s hopping up and down flapping his arms trying to make them stop, and they don’t seem scared or nothing. He says one starts and the rest of them get the idea, eh. Like some of the birds are covered in spit cause they lick ’em first, and alls that’s left of some’s just legs and guts and stuff. Neat, eh?”

Daddy and me stare at Robbie like he’s got antlers growing out of his head, and Mom says, “Not at the supper table, dear.” So Robbie backs up his chair, puts it in gear, and drives away.

A LANGUAGE LANDSLIDE. An avalanche, out the words tumble slam bang and razzle dazzle. Now, a song’ll come out in a nice flowing stream, but my sentences hit bottom like they’ve been dumped out of a truck. “A pig’s breakfast,” Grampy said, but he didn’t care, he loved me anyway. Likely his fault, mind you, teaching me all those cuss words when I was a baby just learning to speak, and Daddy would give me a little slap on the lips every time I said one. Didn’t hurt much, but I think it made the words kind of flip out of shape. Like they had to put on disguises before sneaking out of my mouth to try the air. I remember this one time I invited a boy to a wedding conception, when what I meant to say was reception of course, and d’you think I’ve been able to live that one down? So okay, my talk’s pocked and pitted but I try to fill in the blanks as best I can. I don’t know, I used to have a rough time in catechism class. Nuns, cripes, they got muscles like stevedores under those black habits, and they’re always after you.

“Who made the world?” they’d want to know.

“Bob made the world.”

“Who?”

“Bob. You know, big guy in the sky, he did it.”

Their eyes would go small and hard as dimes. “Don’t get smart with us, girl.”

BUCK. “Oooooooo, baby.” This is his favourite saying, according to the legend under his picture in the high-school yearbook. We’re wondering what’s happened to those other favourites of his, “Tough titty,” and “Chuck you, Farles.” His ambition, we discover, is to be an “electronic technician for female robots.” His pet peeve: “Girls who drive.” Very funny. His hobbies and interests are listed as hockey, hunting, playing with his band, and a “certain blonde in grade eleven-five.” Also very funny. We’re dying of amusement, my better, smarter self and I.

“How’s Turdy?” I ask Buck when I see him downtown.

“Name’s Trudy, Dingbat.”

“Name’s Marsha, Dipstick.”

“So, been drivin’ much lately, huh? ‘(Snicker, snicker.)’ Got yer snow tires on yet?”

I laugh.

Like the Queen, I might add. Far above it all.

We gaze (leer?) at Buck’s picture in the yearbook. Insolent, would you say? Greasy hood-black hair tossed into a wavy heap, the look on his handsome mug suggesting nothing but harm. We hate to admit it, but we have kissed this face – the Dobermann eyes, the loverboy lips – slobbered on it until the paper buckled. And even soggy, bloated, drowned in ardour and rescued with the hose of a hair dryer, this face makes us clutch our common crotch in agony. It makes us brood (breed?), especially our feistier, more intelligent side, fretting over what kind of life we’re going to have if we fall so easily for faces like this attached to pricks like him.

“Oooooooo, baby,” we croon, helpless and doe-eyed, unable to stop looking at it, even though my favourite saying, according to the yearbook, is: “Get outa here, I didn’t say that, did I?”

THE SKY opened up and out it came. Sleet, blizzards, high notes, sour notes. A regular opera of weather. Valkyries were striding along the streets knee-capping old biddies and butting them into walls. A chorus of wind was hustling people this way, that way, snow piled on their heads like wigs, vapour vines twisting like white hair out of their noses.

There was this soprano wailing and moaning in our chimney. So Daddy cocks an ear, like he does when he hears a high-class singer on the radio, and says, “Whoa, that one’s gonna lay an egg soon,” culture and humour somehow inseparable in our family. Robbie thinks he’s Elmer Fudd, leaping off the couch singing, “Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit,” and shooting things with his finger. Mom sits by the fire, knitting and humming, humming and knitting. Robbie blows a hole through her head, and she says, “Can’t you children find something to do?”

Sometimes Robbie plays dead in his room, lying on his bed for hours, stiff as a board, eyes glazed, until Mom finally discovers him and comes screaming out. At the moment he’s pretending to be alive, his adolescent engine flooded with hormones. I ask him if he thinks Trudy Vinney is cute and he answers by letting his tongue unroll like a rug and flop onto his chin. I’m trying to figure out how I can sneak strychnine into her blood sausage at lunch. Her father’s a butcher, you know Vinney’s Meats. She’s a walking advertisement, as far as I’m concerned. Under those tight stretch pants of hers I’d swear she has an economy pack of pork chops strapped to each thigh. Robbie gets his tongue back into his mouth, and says, “Hey, did ya know Buck asked her to sing with the Tomcats on New Year’s?”

Okay, that’s it for me, folks. Madam Butterfly bites the dust. And here I thought I was in a comedy.

HE’S BACK. Hissing in my ear. Buck don’t know dickall about singing, honey, he thinks scat is somethin’ you step in. “Oh, Grampy,” I sigh, “either it’s you, or I’m going nuts.” This more likely as I haven’t slept in days. Haven’t eaten. Been overdosing on what passes for drugs in this house – Vicks cough drops and baby aspirin. But I am sorely tempted to listen. It’s hard to keep a bad old man down, even in hell. Houdini, they nicknamed him in the hospital. One nurse there, her old man a sailor, used to tie him up in blood knots and monkey’s fists, and Grampy still got out of them. By the end, they had him battened down so tight it looked like he was made of rope.

Steal the keys, he whispers, let’s go for a little joyride. You and me, like we used to. C’mon I wanna fly. Can’t get these Bobdamn wings they give me to work.

“Shoot! That’s a dead giveaway Grampy. For a minute there I thought it really was you.”

Three pairs of eyes, wide as wheels, are focused on me. Daddy drops one of Mom’s homemade buns in his plate of stew and it hits gravy like a bomb. Splatters everything. A carrot whizzes past Robbie’s ear like a piece of shrapnel. Mom frowns.

“Smooth move, Exlax,” I say, just to let them know I’m not completely lost to them.

TO RECAP. Grampy’s gone. Nature’s coming apart at the seams and all the stuffing’s flying out. Bambi’s true self has been exposed (disgusting carnivore). The Comet continues to give Daddy, though not me, “small car ease and handling, fuel economy and simplicity of maintenance and repair.” On the personal front, I have failed biology and do I care? I know where all the essential parts are and what to do with them. Not that I’ll be doing anything with mine. I’m thinking about switching religions, perhaps becoming an Altheist [sick]. I’m prepared to accept Buck’s invitation to sing at the Lantern, if he calls in time and begs my forgiveness.

In the meantime, I talked Robbie into phoning Trudy, impersonating Buck (“duuuuh”), and cancelling her date to sing. Say Trude, now that I think of it, you can’t carry a tune worth squat. Something like that.

When she answered, Robbie got a fit of the giggles, and said, “Here’s Marsha.”

“Oh, hi, Trudy,” I said gaily (hope you gag on a swizzle stick). “Just calling to wish you luck” (hope it slashes your vocal cords).

In summary, I’d have to say that I’m pretty much tarred in my own black thoughts and don’t expect I’ll live to see the New Year.

I RESOLVE to dissolve.

NEW YEAR’S EVE. Yours truly is all dressed to go. Really go, if you know what I mean. I’ve got on my black dress, black nether wear, and a corsage I bought for myself that’s gone kind of brown, kind of rotten, on account of having to keep it in my room. Looks like compost pinned to my chest. Ah yes, organic matter, like myself. This getup, my going-away outfit, is cleverly concealed beneath my housecoat. Don’t want the folks to suspect anything’s up. While they’re watching Guy Lombardo on TV and shoving popcorn into their faces, I’ll be on Highway 22, bride of the white line, marrying some transport truck. Me, done to a turn on the grill.

Robbie’s spent most of the day rubbing balloons on his head and sticking them to the wall. His hair stands straight out, alive with static, as he works himself to a lather playing an invisible guitar, in the throes of a soundless yet demented version of “The Night Has a Thousand Eyes.” I’ll miss him. But not much.

I take a last fond look at the folks. Good hearts all in all, and to prove it, Daddy reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out the keys to the Comet and tosses them over to me.

He WINKS, and says, “Why don’t you go to that dance at the Lantern, Princess. Show them what you’re made of. Get up on that stage and sing. Sit around waitin’ for people to ask, you’ll never get anywhere in life.”

“Now, Daddy,” says Mom.

“Now, Mom,” says Daddy.

“______,” they both say, when I whip off my housecoat and stand before them, transformed, reborn, ready to party.

IT’S NO NIGHT for hair, believe me. As I traipse giddily out the door, the wind grabs my fancy French twist like the knob on a joystick and yanks it viciously around my head. Do I look prettily tousled by the time I get in the car? No, more like a hag recently exhumed. Never mind. I’m driving down the road, getting somewhere in life. Dooo whaa, dooo whaa ditty. It feels sooo good to have my hands on the wheel. In control. Though I’ve got butterflies the size of bats in my stomach. And the wind’s gone positively mental. I can feel it frisking the car, sucking at the tires and trying to draw it into the ditch. A mad dog with the road in its teeth.

Over the top of McLeod’s Hill and down, at the junction of Draper and Hardbargain Road, is the Lantern, sitting pretty as a Christmas ornament.

I zoom down that hill and kind of lift off the ground, like the wind’s snatched the road out from under me. Teeeee, heeeee, I hear Grampy laugh in my ear. And I realize then, approaching the Lantern at a truly wicked speed, that I’m about to crash this party in style. That I’m going to pop through that wall there like a woman jumping out of a cake. And I do. I close my eyes tight, then hear this metal-wrenching wood-splitting glass-shattering explosion, and when I open them again, guess what, I’m in.

I drive through a shrieking diving confusion of people, clawing to get out of my way – all couples I know (I wave) – and park in front of the stage. Parallel park too. I’ve never pulled that one off before, and I’m tickled pink.

First, I check to see if there are any unseemly organs hanging out of my body (I don’t suppose this is what Daddy meant when he said to show them what I’m made of). Everything is shipshape, so I get out of the car. No problem, as the door seems to be missing. I brush a swatch of the colour-keyed vinyl roof off my shoulder, then hop lightly onto the stage.

I notice that Trudy’s mouth is frozen into a round red “o” of astonishment. She brays once then faints, hitting the deck like a slaughtered animal.

Two strings on Buck’s guitar are broken and wildly probing the air like antennae. He stands there shaking his head (admiringly? is that a gleam in his eye?).

The wind that raced me into the Lantern, a close second, is now wearing about sixteen party hats and having a riot lifting girls’ dresses.

I step over Trudy, take my place at the mike, and suddenly, you want transportation, I’m singing.