May Two-Four!”
Not even a so-called angel of holy light could prevent the teenagers from all over the region, including Wendel and his pack of skater boys, from getting shitfaced drunk before sundown.
“As long as they’re drinking 7 Up out of 7 Up cans,” Rose says, with unnecessary emphasis on the 7 Up. “And they drink their 7 Up quietly after eleven p.m. And pray none of these kids has a vision. Lord help us.”
Watchdogging sixty or so high school students may prove to be a welcome change. Let them hoot and holler. I bet group recklessness will make the supernatural feel very far away. Maybe base mentality upholds the wall between dimensions?
The first hours of my shift pass without incident. I clean up poor teenage attempts at cookouts. I scrape melted plastic wrap and charred hotdog buns from the family barbecue pits. Next I slowly rake cigarette butts from the quarry’s rim and the surface of the water—this kills another hour. All around me the boom boxes battle as I work: heavy metal mashes against Madonna, MC Hammer bumps up against acid house. Just after one a.m. I hear the first sex noises, loud, shamelessly declaring victory. The carnal cacophony makes me muse over Etta, then Tamara, in turns.
Around 2:30, the first chunk blower lets loose in the woods. It’s an admirable soundscape, as far as puke goes, with a solid build-up of gasps and spitting, a pleading whimper or two, a suspenseful, yet not alarmingly long prelude of suffocation before the stomach’s contents come rolling out to a dramatic crescendo. I’ve always had an iron stomach, me, resilient to chain reaction vomiting. But a few youngsters with less fortitude dash for the washroom to hug the toilets.
By three a.m., a half dozen or so campers are crying, boys and girls both.
Hal joins the weepers. He holds a crushed can of Molson. “Found it right outside our door. There’s one sip left. How low is it to be thinkin’ ’bout the last sip outta a can some kid used as a goddamn ashtray?” He holds the can up and a short trickle of beer and ash pours onto the ground. “Ya seen the angel?”
“Total radio silence,” I say. “It’s like she’s testing us.”
Hal harrumphs. “Ya wanna come in? Everybody’s awake.”
“What’s Bobby say?”
‘“What’s Bobby say? It’s my house too,” Hal snaps, then softens. “Sorry. May Two-Four is gettin’ me.” Hal sticks his head in the front door and I turn away as he mumbles something to Bobby inside. He pops his head back out, asks, “Got books?”
“A few, at the cabin. There’s this book I took out from the library. The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan. Everybody is talking about it. Amy Tan just won the National Book Award.” Hal looks dubious. He further crushes the dented beer can under his foot, unimpressed. “I also brought my Vampirella comic collection. Scantily clad bloodthirsty lady vampires.”
At this, he leans through the door, and after another few seconds of mumbling, out again. “Nothin’ too scary, eh? Lucky gets nightmares.”
“It’s kind of like Wonder Woman, except she’s wearing even less clothes as she fights evil.”
We read Vampi Issue #101, The Attack of the Star Beast, aloud together. Bobby reads the part of Vampirella in a consistent husky voice—even her battle cries are low and guttural and pretty darn sexy. Hal reads the narrator, skipping a word every so often, though still doing a fine job of sounding like a redneck Vincent Price. I read all of the other parts—monsters mostly—doing the best I can to change my tone with each new dialogue bubble. Lucky crawls over all three of us, more interested in our funny voices than the comic book pictures.
Lucky falls asleep within the hour. I hold the urge to stroke his hair as he sleeps. I don’t want Bobby to think I’m creepy. Is it creepy? Touching a child’s hair while they sleep? I have no idea what’s normal.
“Another sunrise—how about that? We’d better get a nap in today, Hal,” Bobby whispers. “I’ll put on the kettle.”
We sit at the table together, bloodshot eyes, yawning. Bobby clangs her spoon on her Crystal Beach Amusement Park collectable mug four times. “Today the day, Hal?”
“‘Spose today’s as good as any.”
I take this as my cue to page Tamara, then I wait eagerly by the pay phone for her to call back. “Everything all right?” she asks as a greeting.
“You up for an early morning good deed?”
Tamara arrives in her Galaxy 500, which still is way too cool for these backwoods roads. She’s got her hair in a neon-pink scrunchie and one of her green hoop earrings is missing from her left earlobe. I’m crushing on her hard. Together, using our high-pitch baby voices (not unlike how Tamara speaks to customers at work) we cheer Hal on as he shuffles into the back seat of her car. Rose, Bobby, and Lucky wave to us as we drive off.
St. George’s Catholic Church, the same church where I was baptized, holds rise-and-shine Alcoholics Anonymous meetings on Saturdays. Dolores has been on Hal to try it out. We pull around the back of the church, park beside the row of other cars—a Volvo with its front bumper and hood busted up from what I guess to be a collision with a tree or street lamp, a triad of motorcycles, a soccer-mom van, a couple of rusty clunkers, and a newly washed and waxed Mercedes Benz.
“Don’t just leave me here. Promise,” Hal says before he gets out of the car.
“We’ll be right here, waiting in the car in case you need a quick getaway, right, Tamara?” Tamara nods emphatically, then tilts her head toward the church, urging him on. Hal gingerly takes his baseball cap off before he enters through the large wooden doors.
“He’s kinda cute,” says Tamara. We watch the basement entrance for a few seconds before she’s in my lap kissing me. “We can’t fuck in a church parking lot,” she warns.
“We won’t fuck …” I nip her breast through her tank top just to hear her yelp. “We’ll just fool around a little.”
“Just a little,” she echoes. I unzip the fly of her jean shorts.
An hour later my T-shirt is on inside out. Tamara wears a crooked grin. Hal comes striding toward the car with Dolores and another man following. He looks elated, a kid on Christmas.
“She used to work the front door at Platinum,” Tamara nods at Dolores. “She was boss. Always looking out for us. I’ve seen her bounce a few guys from the club. Not little guys either, grown men. Tipped them out on their ass.”
“Really? Small world. She lives at The Point.” I don’t mention that she pulled my half-drowned ass out of the lake. I wipe my face in case any of Tamara’s lip gloss is smeared on me before we get out of the car to shake hands.
“This is Joe Foster,” says Hal. “And he’s gonna be my sponsor. Just like that! Joe’s sober for ten years today! Had his ten-year cake to-fuckin’-day! Joe’s a carpenter by trade, and he’s gonna help me build that gazebo, starting to-fuckin’-day!”
I search Joe Foster’s face for any sign of hesitation. He appears calm, smiling, and open toward Hal’s proclamations. Dolores silently nods behind them—her strong chin bobbing, smiling toothily. I suspect she’s helped facilitate Hal and Joe’s fortuitous meeting.
Hal’s spry animation continues all morning. He practically leaps over the toolshed as he and Joe begin hauling out what they’ll need to get started. He whistles as he and Joe inspect the salvaged wood. A rough cluster of roller coaster wood sits upon two sawhorses, still drying in the sun. The SS Canadiana wood is arranged in neat piles around the wheelhouse. Hal hugs me and spins me around for bringing him graph paper and pencils from Ricky’s desk drawer. Hums wildly while the two of them sketch out a plan. “We’ll have this built in no time,” Hal declares.
“That’s what you call a dry drunk,” Bobby whispers to me. “Dolores told me all about dry drunks. Magical thinkers, eh? Like, not all here in reality.”
“Are any of us in reality?” I whisper back to Bobby. “Things around here haven’t exactly been … normal.”
Bobby shrug-nods. “You seen her yet today?”
“Still no sign.” I cross my fingers that Etta doesn’t light up the wood while the men are working. It’s all fun and miracles until someone gets a hammer in the eye.
Although, these funny fellows surprisingly aren’t butterfingers types. While comically opposite in stature and belly girth, the two instantly fall into a kind of man dance, digging holes and driving decking posts into the ground. Quickly they develop a quippy communication that allows them to lightheartedly boss each other around with ease. They even know the same repertoire of jokes.
“What’s the difference between an American and a Canadian?”
“A Canadian not only has a sense of humour but can spell it.”
By the time Rose brings around the first pitcher of lemonade, they are singing: “We never eat fruitcake because it has rum. And one little bite turns a man like a bum … Away, away with rum, by gum, the song of the Salvation Army.”
By lunchtime, Howie Foster arrives. His face is sunburned—I’d say it’s from sitting on the patio rather than from doing outdoor chores. The Foster brothers greet each other with an awkward handshake with one hand and rough shoulder tap with the other hand. Joe seems more comfortable with Hal, whom he’s just met, than with his own brother. What is it about family?
Howie is less agile and handy than his older brother, and after a few rounds of hauling wood, he coolly gravitates away from the gazebo construction to keep company with Bobby, Tamara, Rose, and me. “Why dig holes with those jokers when I can be surrounded by beautiful women?” he repeats several times. I excuse myself to haul cinder blocks just to get away from him.
I’m pushing rocks down into postholes when Wendel creeps up beside me. “Can you get me a day’s work or two? You owe me,” he says. He smells like gym socks and smoke.
“I’ll ask Rose, but you can’t drink on this crew, got it? No pot either.”
Within five minutes on the job, Wendel makes the mistake of referring to Hal and Joe as “old timers.” After that, they accidentally clunk him with framing wood, spill gravel on his white skate shoes. “Oops, me old eyes didn’t see ya there, lad,” Hal chuckles. I figure Wendel is worth the five bucks an hour Rose offered him just to keep Hal entertained.
Mid-afternoon, Rose gets on the phone with Barbara. “She’s right here,” Rose intentionally speaks loud enough that I overhear her conversation. “No, she hasn’t gone to bed yet. She’s staying awake to watch the men lay the gazebo deck … Yes. The boat wood arrived yesterday … Well, I’m telling you now … I was going to call, but you beat me to it … How about you come on over and help me make these boys some lunch?”
Barbara is at The Point within minutes. She volunteers Rahn to help. He toils away with the measuring tape and decking wood, marking every sixteen inches exactly as Joe and Hal showed him. “Measure twice, cut once,” Hal repeats, affirming Rahn’s role in the labour. Rahn doesn’t seem to mind being a lesser crew member. His eyes drift again and again to Barbara. He smiles adoringly at her. Even after Barbara and Rose apron up and excuse themselves to the kitchen to cook (surely enough to feed an army) Rahn’s smitten grin does not cease. I hope Barbara reciprocates his love, if she’s capable of love. Maybe there’s hope for her yet?
Hal and Bobby steal a smooch as she’s refreshing lemonade glasses. I’ve never seen them kiss before. After, Bobby girlishly finger-combs her long salt-and-pepper hair, tilts her head up to let the sunshine hit her face.
Lucky takes a shine to Wendel, and Wendel actually accepts the chance to play big brother. “Let’s check the posts one more time, kiddo.” He leads Lucky from post to post giving each a rowdy shake to ensure they’re firmly in the ground. He seems like a completely different kid than the teenage brat being scolded at the back of a strip club by his sharp Nordic father.
In this cheerful synergetic moment, I lead Tamara to the quarry, and the two of us lay side by side on the warm wooden dock. It feels easy. Her and me, together. All around us campers paddle by in blow-up boats and chase each other along the shallow side and whoop those happy whoops that only happens in the summertime. The smell of barbecue hangs in the humid air. Tamara’s tank top is coated in dirt and sand. People around us might be looking but I truly don’t care. “I’m too happy,” I tell her.
“Too happy? How can you be too happy?”
I let my lips graze her neck as I speak. “So happy I can hardly believe I get to feel like this.” She threads her fingers through mine. We hold hands as postcard clouds hang in the perfect sky. I think about Etta and about death, like I always do, but instead of trying to push these thoughts away or mentally call Etta into existence, I simply let her be. Like any other thought. Like mentally reciting the words to a favourite poem or song.
Just before we set the picnic tables for dinner, Howie Foster brings out his camera. “You girls want a minute to freshen up? I know how women are when being photographed,” he winks at us. I catch a whiff of beer on his breath. His nose is even more sunburned than when he arrived. He summons all of us to the freshly laid gazebo floor. Everyone squirrel-paws around, exploring the different pliability and squeakiness of the new lumber versus the boat wood. As soon as my foot touches the boat wood, I feel Etta tap me on the shoulder. Decided to join the party, Etta? Seeing as we’re doing all this for you. I expect an answer, a flame or a bright light, a floating object, the sky to darken, any sign. Nothing. No booming show. Only a ghostly hand on my back.
“Good-looking bunch,” says Howie Foster as he mounts his camera on the tripod. “Hell, I’ll even make us the front page.”