Cul-de-sac Page 3
But you’re not here about Doreen are you. You’re here about the cat. And I’m sorry ... Oh no you’re not here about the cat, shut up, you’re here about the Leonard fellow. Yes. Well I didn’t know him. He used to catch my eye once from time to time. I’d be out working the lawn. He’d always give me the Doctor. “Doctor Bickford.” I never did bother to correct him. Bickerson. Bick. Bickerson. Bick Bickerson. Bick. Just Bick. Or Bicker. Or Bickerson. Or Ernie. Bickerson. But Bick. Just Bick. Bick stuck. Used to play a bit of hockey and Bickerson wouldn’t fit on the back of the jersey so it was just Bick and Bick stuck. I wanted “Doc.” Hey Doc. How ya doin' Doc. Nice shot Doc. But oh no, no one was having any of that. Not for the lowly old veterinarian. No veterinarians don’t get the doctor too easy. No room for that kind of respect for the poor old lowly old veterinarian. Chiropractors have that complaint too I hear. And dentists. But not proctologists. No, you’re pretty quick to give your proctologist the Doctor, but I guess you’d be in a position to give that kind of respect being the position you’d have to be in to be in that position. You know. Not to say I cared I suppose. I did enjoy my work. Thoroughly. No indeed I did. Never did want to retire. But they do that to you don’t they. And retire to what? To being the crusty old fart at the end of the street who’s always after the kids to get off the lawn. I never gave a hoot and a half about my lawn until I retired. Now I know more about sod than I ever knew about dogs. Honestly. But one thing is, interesting, you’ve got to be careful of the seams. In the sod. Even when the sod takes root you’ve got to be careful of the seams. The water will still tend to gather at the seam and if you don’t watch out you’ll get a bit of rot. That’s those brown patches you see. Ken Turner’s got a bit of that on his, though that could also be due to—that hedge they put in—Shut up.
No never cared too much for dogs. It was cats was more my thing. And that’s what I thought it was. That sound. That strange low sound that night. It was the sound of like when you put a cat down. And that’s a sound I know pretty damn well I must say because I did put a fair number down in my time. And that would be the sound—of course sometimes there’d be nothing at all. Just a bit of a jerk or a spasm. But other times there’d be the sound. Oh they’d bring in the poor old thing all crippled up and suffering “Can you do something for my poor little guy?” Yes I can, I can do something for him I can put him out of his misery. The cat would be looking up at me with his eyes all full of “Kill me kill me.” But they wouldn’t see it. People. They just don’t want to let go. They hang on and hang on till there’s nothing but skin and bones. It all happened very fast with the cats. But for the sound. And don’t take this strange but in some ways it could be a quite beautiful sound. This little noise, like this little ball of air, almost with some weight to it, this little ball of life you could almost just almost just hold. Like that, this little ball of sound, this little ball of life like that in your hand. Just like that and pass it back and forth just like that... just like that... But now it’s all... Gone. Where? Gone the way of the letter from London that’s where it’s gone. I was in London. Years years years ago. Just after Doreen and I were married. I was in London, Doreen was here. I had a nice place, little room up on the second floor looking down into the park. And every Sunday I’d sit at my desk in the window and write my letter home looking down into the park, and the same father and son always there in their suits from church, a ball between them, those bushes with the ... what are they called, those red and yellow blossoms, lovely little birdsong ... Sitting there in the window, at your desk, your clean piece of paper and your good pen, writing your letter home, line by line, word by word, thought by thought. Or maybe just one thought. So much just what happened, this happened Tuesday, and a nice restaurant on Wednesday, and who said what to who on Thursday, and just so much what happened and then maybe just one good, one real thought. Maybe just at the end of the letter. Maybe just “I miss you.” “I miss you.” And then you sign it, and you fold the paper and you fold it twice, and you put it in the stiff new envelope and you lick it—with your very own wet, your very own from your mouth from your own personal personal person. And you seal it and you turn it over and oh you don’t have a stamp. Okay. Put on your jacket, go downstairs, walk to the corner then right at the butcher’s, a special trip to the post office, go in, up to the counter, give your money to the fellow—heavy that money—and he gives you the stamp and you lick it—with the stuff of yourself, DNA all over that. And you put the stamp on the front of the envelope. The stiff new envelope with the address there and you give it to the man in his hand and he puts it in a box. And then another fellow takes it from the box in his hand and gives it to another fellow in his hand to another fellow in his hand and to a hand to a hand to a hand. This lovely little thought, this little ball of life, just like that. And now it’s just, like this. And the time. The time. That’s the difference of it the time. Two weeks it takes to get there. Two real, long, solid weeks later and it gets there and she opens it and two weeks later and it’s all still there. The Tuesday this happened and the Wednesday night restaurant and Thursday who said what to who and the father and the son in their Sunday suits and the blossoms and the birdsong and two weeks later and I still miss you. I miss you. I miss you more than ever. Two weeks later and it’s still true. Truer.
But now it’s just ticka ticka ticka (a farting sound as he presses “send” on an imaginary keyboard). It takes time to be true. No, no more letters from London anymore. No more little balls of life ... And I guess that’s what I was thinking about when I heard it. The sound, that night. That. And the cat. Or the cat come back. Or I don’t know. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place to ... just that Leonard fellow seemed like the type that would just hang on and hang on ... And I’m sorry about the Leonard fellow too. He used to catch my eye from time to time. I’d be out working on the lawn. He’d always give me the Doctor. I appreciated that.
I’ve had a thought, sure I have. Shut up. Oh we all think we’re all so different. Then you get to a point when you realize that no matter who you are there’s really only the same five things that happen to everybody.
Pause.
I guess you’re going to want me to tell you what they are now.
Birth, death, love, weather and arthritis. But by the time you realize that, your hips are too seized up to enjoy it, and it’s probably raining anyway.
Yes I’ve had a thought... In my hockey days, sure, road trip, out of town game, there’d be that once in a while, bit of a skirmish on the ice, you’d be up against the boards with a fellow—close like that in the corner, shoulder to shoulder, catch his eye he’d catch yours. Later at the bar, having a drink, catch his eye again. Sure, I’ve had a thought. It’s not the end of the world.
I hear the people who bought the empty house have kids. That’ll be nice. Haven’t been kids around here in a while. I’m a little out of practice. (yelling gruffly) “Hey you kids get off the damn lawn.”
Ah to hell with it, who cares about the goddamn lawn anymore. I’m just the old fucker at the end of the street who sleeps with his socks on and the window open.
Light shift.
LEONARD
Isn’t he a sweetie. Yeah. He killed my cat. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m sure someone will tell you the story. Oh well. There but for the grace of whoever. Poor old cat killer. And Doreen? Tough cookie. Sense of humour? Oh yeah. Like a nail gun. Nail gun? What do I know about nail guns? (looks at his fingernails) Oh well, nail gun! Patent that. I hear they keep growing. Talk to me in a month. What time does that make it?
Thunder—light shift.
2:04. And now the sound might just be the wind. Something you hear but think you don’t hear at all. Like the secret sound in a lover’s voice that tells you your lover doesn’t love you anymore. The kind of sound you won’t hear for fear of what it might be. Just the wind. And it might have been if it weren’t for the music. A tiny line of music that rises up just lightly underneath the sound, lifting it from its p
ool gathering on the windowsill. Lifting it up, gently gently and nudging it lightly into the night. Gently gently. Almost floating now. The sound held just above the little line of music, carried gently gently in a kind of a curving motion between and around the now intermittent drops of rain. The sound now the music, the music now the sound. Pausing only briefly to land, gently gently in the ear of Virginia.
Light shift.
VIRGINIA
(sings) “Oh here is love and here is truth.” Poor Leonard. At least he had something beautiful to listen to in his final moments.
The Pirates of Penzance. G and S. Gilbert and Sullivan. Oh what a delightful, what a rollicking, what a roll in the good times they are. Oh the music, the patter, the story lines, stop it! God bless G and S. I certainly wouldn’t call myself an aficionado though. Samuel certainly could—he wouldn’t though he’s too too far too self-effacing for that—but he most certainly is. Samuel and I met doing a Gilbert and Sullivan. Years ago with the ADL? The Amateur Drama League? It was a lesser known work called Patience, or Bunthorne’s Bride. Due to a lack of gentlemen in the league I was cast as Reginald Bunthorne, listed in the dramatis personae as “a fleshy poet.” Samuel was our musical director and pianist. Shortly after our meeting Samuel discovered not only a prediliction for the piano but also a rather sublime aptitude for bringing rapture to the larger lady. Oh our romance may have begun as furtive frottage behind the flats but it soon found itself centre stage drowning in a rain of roses and bravas. Yes but let’s leave all that to the fullness of time and my memoirs shall we? Suffice it to say we landed here cozy and content on our charming if eclectic dead end street.
But perhaps in deference to Leonard’s memory I should refer to it as a cul-de-sac.
We didn’t know Leonard very well. It was Robert more we clicked with, Leonard’s ex-boyfriend. Robert was a whirling dervish of wit and mischievousness while Leonard was more ... less complicated. Let’s just say where Robert was the New York Times crossword Leonard was more a search-a-word-puzzle—it was all sort of given, you just had to circle the letters. Robert did the most outlandish windows for The Bay downtown—my word— and when December rolled around, ladies hold on to your hats. The three wise men in rainbow afros and the baby Jesus with big false eyelashes Miraculously inventive. But you go by The Bay on the holidays and what is it? “Have a very DKNY Christmas.” About as inventive as a glass of tap water. Of course to be fair to Leonard, anyone would have paled in Robert’s glare. He used to do—Robert used to do these brilliant drag-show-cum-performance-art-events at this horrible little local they insisted on frequenting—The Gear Box or something equally greasy. Robert’s Carmen Miranda was a revelation in hilarity. And at the end you could eat the fruit! Little did I know when I introduced Robert to an acquaintance of mine, a very charming, very sophisticated antiques dealer from South Beach, that sparks would fly—and fly they did. And I must admit that I did encourage Robert in his decision to leave Leonard. But Robert seemed destined for so much more, he was so cultured and well traveled—I mean Leonard hadn’t really ever been anywhere— outside a couple of excursions to, as Leonard called it (as before, phonetically:) “Porta Vallarta.” He grew up not far from here Leonard did, an unfortunate upbringing I learned from Robert—from foster home to foster home, that sort of thing. It couldn’t have been very pleasant. But Leonard seemed to blossom when Robert left. He struck up an adorable friendship with little Madison Turner, Ken Turner’s daughter across the street. Madison, she’s a precocious little girl. Well she’s not so little anymore. Madison used to babysit for Samuel and I when we’d go away weekends—for our little chihuahua—Pipi—before Pipi disappeared. But yes, Madison and Leonard, they were just like that; thick as thieves there for a while.
It’s interesting to consider when things began to unravel for Leonard. Oh there was that ridiculous business with the hedge and miserable Ken Turner—Madison’s father. Oh Leonard fell upon a book on feng shui. And that was Leonard all over, falling upon some book, oh this was going to change his life, he’d read the introduction and up on the shelf it would go. But feng shui was going to be his new thing and so he bought some round tables and moved this and that around and decided what he really needed was a hedge beside the house to catch all the chi escaping from the kitchen. So lickety split up went the hedge, which turned out to be an encroachment on Ken Turner’s property, and Turner went rabid about not having clear access to his back yard, apparently there were court dates set and the whole nine yards ... oh it was just a nothing that turned into a circus.
Of course there was the Christmas party, things did head south after that. We always hold the Christmas party for the neighbourhood. Samuel always looks so forward to hosting it, “Can I get you another egg nog,” he’s such a Santa. We weren’t going to bother last year but decided we should make the effort if only for the sake of the Saeeds since they’d taken to being a bit invisible of late considering the political climate and the fact that they are Muslim. So we thought the least we could do was to extend the friendly hand of neighbourliness. He’s a pleasant enough fellow, an eye surgeon, and she’s ... well to say she’s silent and subservient would be to paint a far more animated portrait than is the actuality. Be that as it may, ahead went the Christmas party which turned out to be an unqualified fiasco due to a kerfuffel which erupted between Leonard and Madison. Oh and it was really just another nothing which Ken Turner blew all out of proportion. You know what else he did, that miserable Ken Turner? Leonard wasn’t dead one week and Ken Turner was out there digging up that hedge. Honestly. Lawyers.
And then there was the tragedy of Whiskers. Leonard’s cat. Went missing last month, the week before the terrible business with Leonard. Oh Leonard was inconsolable. He’d had Whiskers for eons. But it did bring the neighbourhood together in a way, everyone running about putting tins of cat food hither and thither hoping to lure the poor creature home. Little did we know. I mean that really didn’t figure in I suppose since the truth of all that only came out recently. Poor Mr. Bickerson. Apparently nostalgic for his former profession he coerced the unfortunate beast into his basement and put him to sleep. What happens to people? There but for the grace of whomever. Though it does raise a disquieting question or two about the fate of dear Pipi—not to mention Doreen. Yes but the past is just that isn’t it.
I do have one lovely memory of Leonard. It was shortly after Leonard and Robert had split and Leonard decided he was going to try his hand at singing. So, he signed up for one of these little variety shows that they would hold at the Grease Factory or whatever it was. And this was so unlike Leonard, Leonard was always one to shun the spotlight—unless he was two glasses of wine beyond his limit and then you mightn’t be surprised to find him on the coffee table with his knickers on his noggin—and unfortunately that’s no hyperbole. Be that as it may. So Leonard asked Samuel to accompany him in his song and he came over one afternoon to practice and I sat in. Oh it was adorable watching Leonard struggle through the song. An odd little song, something about “If you see my love please don’t forget to tell him that I’m sorry that he ever met you.” Rather oblique, opaque, obtuse, obscure.
But a perfectly passable voice. Not a big voice but a sweet voice, a simple voice ... an honest voice.
Of course he could have used more support here, and he was somewhat tone deaf. But that’s fixable. I offered him some lessons but he never took me up on it. Never ended up singing the song either, but that was Leonard all over, another book on the shelf never read.
The night it happened I was upstairs in my office working on my memoirs. I seldom sleep before three. Samuel was downstairs putting out a tin of cat food thinking that perhaps poor Whiskers might turn up on our back step as he often had in the past. And then I caught a little bit of “Pirates"— (singing) “Oh here is love and here is truth"—and I immediately thought of Leonard. We had given Robert and Leonard a copy of The Pirates of Penzance as a Christmas gift some years before. Robert was a huge G and S fan
and Leonard seemed drawn to the work as well. All the talk of orphans perhaps. Perhaps, (singing) “Oh here is love and here is truth ...” And then the music was gone but a sound remained. An odd ... a clear ... Not a familiar but a very very human sound. Almost a “noooooooo ...”
Light shift.
LEONARD
Robert. He was Robert to Virginia. Robert had a big mouth. I hated Robert.
I was indifferent to Bob. He was Bob to his family.
He was Bobby in bed. He was Bobby to me.
I thought Bobby was going to be my story. Clearly not.
Boo hoo. Who cares.
LEONARD turns his back on the audience for several moments. Suddenly turning back:
Oh here’s a piece of information you might be interested in about Virginia and Samuel: nudists. 2:05.
Thunder—light shift.
The sound continues clearer now, stronger now, now an unwavering line, like a string, like a rope, like a hydro wire, across the street and into the tree, through the wet branches, down the trunk. Was that pain? Was that pleasure? Into the ground. Is this real? Am I dreaming? Through the new roots of the hedge. Whiskers? Through the window of her basement bedroom and along the concrete wall, past the desk where the lamp is off but still warm her studying for tomorrow’s math test—
Light shift.
MADISON
(throughout MADISON plays with a disposable lighter) Math? Hello? What am I eight? They stop teaching math in grade three. Algebra. And I never said “‘The Balsawood Astronaut’ was a ‘novel’"—I said it was a story. And I wasn’t writing it in my journal, I was illustrating it. Adults are such knobs.