| |
11:25 p.m.
Allison and I were slumped in the basement desolately watching television.
We were watching the news, a depressing bit about the war in Iraq. The smell of our lasagna dinner was still in the air. Chocolate cake crumbs sat on the empty plates on the coffee table. Allison had said very little to me all night after her blow-up. I couldn’t blame her.
The paparazzi had clung to the sidewalk in front of our house. I’d paced back and forth in the living room while Allison made the dinner, occasionally peering through the crack in the drapes, but every time seeing them still there. I’d called the police radio room and they’d sent around a cruiser. They’d dispersed for a while, then returned in twos and threes until they’d amassed in original number.
I’d found myself thinking about my aging parents, wondering how life would turn out for them in the following years. I wondered what would happen to Allison and I, wondered if, on my own, I could put a stop to my writing compulsion.
“ ... You promised you’d paint the baby’s room a week ago,” Allison said, in a grim voice.
“You’re right. I’ll do it tomorrow,” I said, changing the channel on the remote.
“Not Ultimate Fighting. It’s too violent.”
I changed the channel. “What do you want to watch? Seinfeld or Sex and the City?”
Allison didn’t answer. I glanced at her profile. Her eyes had teared up.
I longed to move closer to comfort her, but I didn’t dare.
A flash of light through the crack in the basement room drapes startled me and I jumped up and peered through. Just headlights from the neighbour’s car as he pulled out of the driveway. I scanned the street for signs of the CSIS dudes, but the street was deserted.
Allison turned to gaze at me earnestly. “You’re a nervous wreck, Donny. I want you to stop all of this. Tomorrow, I want you to tell your boss the truth.”
“He’ll fire me, Allison,” I said, returning to the couch.
“I don’t care. I just can’t take the pressure, anymore. All this stress is really bad for me. What if I miscarry?” She choked on her last word, but gained control of herself.
“It’s okay—you won’t miscarry. Everything will work out.” It made me sick even to imagine that that could happen.
Her voice got very quiet. “The baby’s due in six weeks, you haven’t painted the baby’s room, you haven’t even tried to get in to talk to the psychologist, these entertainment people will sue you for all the lies you’re telling about them, maybe you’ll even end up in jail, and then you won’t even know your child, and the media’s stalking our house because you don’t care about the baby or me.” She drew in a trembling breath.
“Of course I care—”
She stared at the floor, shaking her head. A big tear dropped onto her night gown.
My mouth parted. I felt helpless to find anything to say. Numbness spread inside me. She was right. I was all talk, all lies. I was out of control. We must have sat there for a good hour, saying nothing, each passing second our marriage sinking deeper and deeper into quicksand. After a while, desperate to break the tension, I flipped the channels until I happened on Channel 11.
My mouth unhinged all the way. On the screen was the last person I’d ever expect to see gracing the local news. He was being mobbed by reporters outside of the Canadian Tire as he rolled the giant automotive bay door shut and headed for his car in the parking lot.
Allison said, “Isn’t that your friend Tony?”
“Holy shit,” I said.
“Steven was awesome,” Valentini said. There was a weird look on his face. ”We used to dream of opening up a dirt track on the edge of Hamilton. We were going to call it Steeltown Speedway. I had the talent with cars, and Steven had the chutzpah to drum up the dough. We could have easily gone all the way!”
“You lying bastard!” I said. “They never discussed Nascar. Ever. Never.” I stared at his face. Now I could see what that funny look was about: guilt. Tony had been bitten by the bug and he knew it!
“How do you know they never had plans like that?” Allison said.
“Because I just know, that’s all.” Jealousy rose up inside of me. My ears burned. First Reingruber, now Valentini. Steven had liked me the best, and that was that.
Allison gave me a piercing glance. “Maybe you weren’t as special to your old friend as you’d like to think,” she said carefully. “That’s a load of rubbish,” I said, sounding just like my old man.
Allison’s silence spoke volumes.
"You just couldn’t understand the relationship between me and my old bud,” I said. I crossed my arms and slumped deeper into the couch. A big, sulky kid.
I couldn’t believe Tony was spilling like this. Not once had he ever shown any desire for the spotlight. In fact, he had no use for famous people, or so I’d thought. I knew then, more than ever, that everyone desires to be famous, even if just a tiny bit.
The scene on the screen changed to Pappas’ restaurant. No frickin’ way! I can’t handle this! John was standing there with his arms crossed, dressed in black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a thin black tie, very eighties and waiterly. He posed the same way he had in the school halls between classes. A cocky grin ate up his face. “Sure, I knew Steven back in the day. We used to chill together.”
“Did you have any idea Steven would become famous?” the reporter asked.
Pappas narrowed his eyes and gave a slow dramatic nod. “Of course, I did. Truthfully, though, any one of our group could have been famous if we’d taken the risk.” His voice had taken on a funny tone. “It takes a special kind of person to do that—you know, just throw it all away, walk away from everyone who loves you, all your responsibilities to people...” His voice trailed off and I saw sadness in Pappas’ eyes.
The reporter apparently didn’t like the way the energy was draining out of the interview, so he jumped in with the next question. “When was the last time you spoke to Steven?”
Pappas suddenly turned back on. “I had a few chances myself, you know, to have a career in the biz. I used to be able to dance like nobody’s business.” He saw the camera woman starting to make the wrap-it-up gesture to the reporter. “Wait, wait, check this out!” Pappas said, and he slipped into a tap dance routine straight out of That’s Entertainment. It was surreal. The camera angle widened so that we could see John’s fancy footwork. He was good, actually, but the crazed look in his eyes kind of ruined the effect.
“Oh my God,” Allison gasped in disbelief. “He’s dancing on television! The grown man’s actually dancing on the news. I mean, he’s good, but that’s ... so pathetic. Your friends are...” She groped for the word. “You moved us back here to be with these bizarros?”
We both stared, mesmerized.
“I could have been famous,” Pappas gasped, his dance routine done, “but hey, I had a family business to run. Had to help out my dad. He suffered a stroke when I was eighteen. My chances were ruined.”
“His dad never had a stroke—I’ll bet he still comes in to the restaurant to manage the place every day!” I spluttered indignantly.
Allison was starting to breathe heavily through her nose. It was not a good sign, kind of like when a bull is getting ready to use you as target practice. “You came back to Hamilton for this,” Allison said, her voice raised. “You and your friends are acting like a bunch of attention-seeking children!”
“No, they’re not usually like this! It’s the damn camera, it makes them act out. I’ve never seen them act that way, even back in high school. And I didn’t come back just to hang out with these guys—I came back to help out my parents. I don’t give a shit about being famous.”
Allison stared at me, incredulous. “Ugh! You’re lying to yourself again, Donny. Don’t you hear yourself?”
Yes, I am. So what?
The news broadcast had moved to another segment about the war in Afghanistan. I’d sat down to watch television to escape my problems, and they’d fought their way out of the television screen to taunt me. I couldn’t remember ever having so many battles to wage at one time.
I hit the remote control. The television died.
Allison heaved herself, stomach first, out of the sunken old sofa. “Wow. I’ve had enough for today. I’m going to bed. If I wake up in the morning, feel free to shoot me.”
“Not if I shoot myself first.”
I sighed deeply, and sank back a thousand miles into the sofa, thinking of nothing and everything.
