The Garneau Block Read online

  Madison had just finished printing Les’s itinerary when her parents, David and Abby Weiss, walked into Sparkle Vacations with Garith, her father’s Chinese Crested dog. Upset that Madison wouldn’t “make ’er an even twelve,” Les had gone silent but for his sniffing, mouth breathing, and sighing. He snatched his itinerary from Madison’s hand and looked down at Garith–deep brown and completely hairless aside from cream-coloured tufts on his ankles and the top of his head. Garith returned the stare, cocked his head, and released a rare, high-pitched yip.

  “What is that thing?” said Les to David Weiss, retired high-school math teacher, former champion amateur wrestler, and president of the Strathcona Progressive Conservative Riding Association. As if to prove something, Garith shook his head and bounced, and the bells on his collar chimed. Les bent down. “Is that a dog or–?”

  No doubt sensitive to his daughter’s position at Sparkle Vacations, David didn’t deliver his stump speech designed for fat men in windbreakers who insulted Garith. Instead, he pointed at the line of moist, crumpled tissues on his daughter’s desk. “Is that your rubbish or–?”

  It took Les a moment to figure out what David was referring to. So David raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat until Les picked up the tissues and scuttled out of Sparkle Vacations. Madison called Garith up onto her lap. The dog shivered and licked the air while her parents sat down. David rested for a moment then sprung up. “Blech. That seat is warm.”

  Abby Weiss dangled one of the Let’s Fix It sheets. “Did you see all these?”

  “I did.”

  “Rather a waste of paper, I’d say. It isn’t even recycled stock. But the sentiment is wonderful.” For most of her career, Abby Weiss had taught grade one. It had instilled a gently pedantic tone in her out-of-classroom speaking voice. “Why should we sit around and allow ourselves to be emotionally tortured by what happened in that awful house?”

  “It’s bunk,” said David. He was flipping through the thick brochures displayed along the back wall, advertising southern getaways. “Probably a pyramid scheme. Honduras. They speak Spanish there, right?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Back to Hawaii for us this year.”

  Abby waved the paper in the air again. “This isn’t a pyramid scheme, David. It’s what we need, as a community. That family’s tragedy will destroy us if we let it.”

  “Garith needs moisturizer, Dad. His skin’s a bit dry.”

  “Honduras. It sounds druggy, doesn’t it?”

  “We owe it to Jeanne and Katie Perlitz to take this seriously.” Abby swiped the brochure from her husband’s hand, replaced it on the shelf, and pointed at the chair.

  “But the seat’s warm from that slob.”

  “So sit in the other one.”

  Her parents sat. Abby straightened her posture. “I think we should go to this meeting. As a family. I think we all agree the air isn’t right since Jeanne and little Katie left. We can either do nothing about that and let the block fade into a sad and scary place where a man was shot, like some street in an American town that used to build Buicks, a place where ghosts toss buckets of blood around while good families are trying to enjoy dinner. Or. Or we can fix it. For God’s sake, we’re human beings. We’re Albertans. We’re full of can-do spirit!”

  Madison exchanged a glance with her father, a glance that had acquired subtlety and significance since her teen years. As much as they both loved and respected Abby, as much as they appreciated the sincere, boundless, crusading warmth in her heart, Madison and David found her hilarious.

  4

  the price of coffee in paris

  A Cadillac Escalade pulled up, its alloy wheels gleaming in the morning sunlight. Tammy “Sparkle” Davidson hurried around her SUV and walked into the agency, thanking someone enthusiastically on her little silver cellular phone. In a black denim ensemble and red scarf, Tammy waved at the air in front of her as though she were a queen visiting the colonies, swarmed by mosquitoes, bad architecture, and bad smells. “It’ll be a delight, an absolute delight.”

  Madison stood with her parents near the door, unsure whether to release them. A few months earlier, the proprietor of Sparkle Vacations had read a self-help book that contained several rules of etiquette designed to cultivate powerful friends and allies. From time to time, Tammy asked about David’s position as president of the Strathcona PC Riding Association. Did he know many of the provincial cabinet ministers, or even the premier? Could he get her invited to some events that might be advantageous to her, both as a small businesswoman and as a gorgeous single woman in her mid-forties looking for–how do you say–a not-too-ugly, not-too-stupid, not-too-boring man with a lot of pre-boom oil stock?

  Tammy finished her call, looked at them, and screamed. “Oh my goodness, the Weisses. And their little sweetie!” Tammy pulled up her black denim skirt and bent down daintily. “Come here, girl. Come to mommy.”

  Garith looked up at David, with a blend of confusion and horror. The dog didn’t move until David said, “Go on, boy,” and gave him a gentle nudge with his sneaker.

  For the next few minutes, the hairless dog squirmed while Tammy mauled him and baby-talked him and called him a girl. There was a conquered look in his eyes, the look of a gazelle just as a cheetah takes it down. Madison knew what her mother would say before she said it. “Do you have children, Tammy?”

  Tammy froze just long enough for Garith to escape her clutches. She inhaled and shook her head. “No. No, I don’t, Abigail.”

  The social error hung in the air like a cloud of unclaimed flatulence. Madison lifted her arms. “Wasn’t it cold this morning? Brrr.”

  No one responded. Garith jumped at David’s shins.

  “Um.” Madison cleared her throat. “I’m going to the soaps at the Varscona tonight, in case anyone wants to join me. It’s opening night.”

  Seemingly revived by the opportunity to talk about herself again, Tammy rolled her eyes. “That was my sister-in-law on the phone. She has these tickets to some sort of fundraiser at the Winspear tonight, with classical music? I had to pretend to be excited. The mayor’ll be there, I guess.”

  Madison snapped her fingers. “Dad, Tammy was wondering if she could join you one night for an association meeting.”

  “Yes! Yes! Could I?”

  David picked up Garith, in case Tammy’s enthusiasm inspired another outburst. “We’re always looking for fresh voices and ideas.”

  “I’m the freshest, David.” Tammy whipped a business card out of a small dispenser in her purse.

  For the next while, David talked about the merits of joining the PC party. Why fight it, really? No political organization is perfect, of course, but by supporting the Liberals or the New Democrats, what are you doing? Further dooming the City of Edmonton, that’s what. Further empowering Calgary and the rural caucus.

  “Nonsense, David,” said Abby. “That’s the sort of talk that leads to tyranny, and we’ve had plenty enough of it in this province.”

  “Tyranny, she says! Tyranny!” David took a few steps in Tammy’s direction, so they formed a political triangle. “No wonder the left is so flabby.”

  Madison felt the way she always felt when her parents argued about politics. Light-headed, dreamy. She approached the Europe brochures relegated to the secondary shelf and felt the acid-charcoal taste of panic swish through her mouth: she had not been to Paris. Now that she was pregnant, Madison knew she would never get there. The agency paid her ten dollars an hour and Tammy didn’t allow junkets. Madison didn’t have a car and rent was free, but she still couldn’t save any money. In Paris, a cup of coffee is ten dollars.

  In university, Madison had felt superior to all her grubby backpacker girlfriends who had taken a year off during their English degrees to ride the EuroRail, smoke Dutch marijuana, and have sex with Spaniards. But look where responsibility and hard work and serious scholarship on the haiku had led Madison Weiss. She would be thirty soon, an untravelled and unilingual spinster.
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br />   Abby bemoaned the exploitation of the word “progressive,” and flapped the white sheet of printer paper. Madison walked around a chair and snatched it from her hand. Let’s Fix It.

  The gesture interrupted the argument. Tammy shrugged. “I don’t know much about politics. I just want to, you know, be a part of it all.”

  “Perfect,” said David.

  Abby sighed. She lifted her finger to make a point, then she dropped her hand, lowered her shoulders, and sighed again. “I need to do yoga tonight.”

  “We can do that yoga DVD together, before bed.” David leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. Garith shivered between them. “I’ll even wear tights.”

  Tammy and the Weisses said their goodbyes. Garith endured a brief cuddle and a “smoochie woochie.” Mid-cuddle, Tammy’s cellular phone began ringing again–to the tune of “Summer Lovin’” from the Grease soundtrack.

  At the door, Madison returned the sheet to Abby. “I checked on-line again. There aren’t any new listings for a Jeanne Perlitz anywhere in Canada or the States.”

  “Jeanne will call when she wants to talk. I can’t imagine it’s easy to digest your husband’s death, especially given the unfortunate circumstances of Benjamin’s final hour.”

  “Unfortunate circumstances?” said David. “He went nuts and took her hostage.”

  Abby sighed. “We just aren’t trained to deal with that kind of trauma, at least in central neighbourhoods.” Abby grimaced and looked down at the Let’s Fix It sheet, then closed her eyes. “I really feel Jeanne and Katie are fine. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jeanne sneaked into the block last night and put these up herself.”

  David stole the sheet from his wife and folded it into his pocket. “Let’s not think too hard about pyramid schemes and time shares. When you girls go, leave your chequebooks at home. And don’t eat the coffee cake. Don’t even touch it.”

  “You girls?”

  “I’m not going.”

  Abby licked her lips, nodded to her daughter, and opened the door for her husband and Garith. Through the glass door, Madison witnessed the early stages of her father’s re-education.

  5

  that warm thing

  Jonas Pond stood near the gazebo in McIntyre Park, among the squeegee punks and lost, drunken teenagers, and considered the lineup across the avenue in front of Varscona Theatre. Who were these people, really? And what did they want from him?

  A giant pickup truck passed the park, obscuring his view of the lineup. The two young men inside, wearing sunglasses and baseball hats, bobbed their heads to the thumping bass of a gangster rap song. On the back window, a giant Ford decal. If Jonas weighed another fifty pounds, and if he weren’t worried about going to prison, he would flag down the giant truck, pull the young men from inside, slap them upside their heads, and ask for some good explanations. Why the giant truck? Why the gangster fantasy? Did you idiots pay extra to advertise for Ford? Jonas would punish them for their yob-hood, and then he would play good cop. So, fellas, have you ever considered experimenting with a man?

  “Hey, Jonas!” Two young women in oversized Value Village clothes and colourful sneakers approached him.

  “Hello.” He tilted his head and did that warm thing with his voice, that thing he did whenever a large organization hired him to host an awards ceremony or funding announcement. I am a friend of the people. He didn’t know these women, mid-twenties and puffy and shy, consumers of Monty Python and Sylvia Plath. But they knew him. “How are you lovely girls this evening?”

  “Awesome,” said one.

  “Awesome,” said the other, not quite as loudly.

  “That’s really awesome,” said Jonas.

  The first woman, in an enormous polyester ski sweater from the 1970s, nodded and looked around. “Cool. Cool.”

  Jonas wondered about this exchange, what these women had in mind when they approached him. Did they feel obliged, simply because they recognized him? He waited for them to speak, but they didn’t speak. They shuffled their shoes and bobbed their heads to the gangster rap, as the large truck was still waiting at the red light on Calgary Trail. The situation passed from uncomfortable into grotesque. Why were they still here? What did they want? Finally, when it became obvious that the women were never going to walk away without his help, Jonas asked if they were going to the show.

  “We never miss the soaps. Ever.”

  The quieter, more deferential girl sniffed and stood on her tiptoes for an instant. “We totally love you?”

  “Yeah, you’re the funniest one for sure.”

  Not far from the gazebo and the squeegee punks, who appeared to be drinking vermouth straight from the bottle, a small flock of magpies pecked at a squirrel carcass. Jonas sympathized with the squirrel. Perhaps he would work the squirrel into his character’s introductory monologue tonight. “Well, I totally love you guys, too. Totally.”

  Then the young women hugged Jonas. The more confident woman in the polyester sweater said, “So, are you gonna be funny tonight?”

  “Nope.”

  The woman in the sweater pointed as she and her friend walked away. “You’re so funny!”

  Near the back of the line, where the young women were headed, Jonas spotted Raymond and Shirley from the block. He remembered the signs on all the trees that morning, and guessed that either Abby Weiss or Shirley Wong had put them up. He could already taste the hummus and pita, the deli olives of community activism.

  The squeegee punks with their ripped-up denim, black leather, and haphazardly pierced faces grew in number. Cigarette smoke drifted toward Jonas. A tightrope walker was setting up a mini-circus between a park bench and the gazebo, and his balancing stick had crowded the punks toward Jonas, so close he could smell their booze breath amid the smoke. They laughed and pushed each other, speaking as though they had entered a cussing bee. Jonas saw they were a bunch of middle-class kids from the new subdivisions playing anarchy and revolution in the theatre district; tattoos, cigarettes, and vermouth weren’t cheap.

  He started across the avenue and squeezed through the lineup. People stepped back as they recognized him. They smiled and said hello, nervously, and he did that warm thing with his voice again. Of all his roles in the theatre, his work in the weekly improvised soap opera had made his career. This only disturbed Jonas in the summer and over the Christmas holidays, when the soaps weren’t running. And when one of the bald, pockmarked head cases from theatre school got a decent review for something at Stratford. And whenever a local moron just out of university, with twelve minutes of stage experience, landed a pilot in Los Angeles. And on Thursday nights. And Saturday mornings. And each time a rapper became a movie star. And when he travelled outside Edmonton, into the painful world of anonymity.

  Near the front of the line, he found Madison and pulled her to the side. “Girlfriend.”

  “Jonas.” They kissed each other’s cheeks, à la French people. “So what’s this season about? The suspense is like a rash.”

  “I daren’t tell. I was going to call you today. Did your mom put up those stupid signs?”

  “No. But, boy, is she excited about them.”

  “Who do you think it was?”

  “Abby thinks it was Jeanne.”

  Jonas laughed. “Jeanne is in Mexico right now, spending Ben’s insurance money on papaya licuados and Vichy showers.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Madison, come on.”

  “They were my friends.”

  “I’m your friend. They were the people you talked weather and traffic and Survivor with when you were pulling weeds. It’s awful but we can’t let it affect us.”

  “How can it not affect me? They lived next door.”

  “Homeless people die around you every day, Maddy. In the next three seconds, another five thousand Africans will die of AIDS. Oops, there go another five thousand. Another. Another. Another.”

  “You were asleep, Jonas. I saw.”

  “Don’t make shit up.�
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  “Well, I heard. I heard. And I think we should be affected by violence in our community. Especially our little neighbourhood, where…” Madison paused for a moment, squinted, and pushed Jonas. “You invented that five thousand people every three seconds.”

  “A vile accusation.”

  Madison snorted and smiled. For a moment she seemed her regular, pre-pregnant, pre-shooting self. Still, there was a worrying carelessness in the way she had clipped her hair up. Depressed or not, Madison was usually vigilant about the hair. Jonas put his arm around Madison and kissed her on the cheek. “I think you need a good, strong drink after the show.”

  “I’m not allowed.”

  “You need a good, strong cup of herbal tea after the show.”

  “What kind of herbal tea? The medicinal stuff can give a baby brain damage and cause early contractions.”

  “Just meet me at the bar.”

  6

  lacumseh and his daughter

  Shirley Wong held Raymond’s hand tightly as the lights went down. They had been regulars at the soaps now for three years, even though Raymond didn’t always enjoy confining himself to a room full of smug twenty-somethings every Monday after teaching two survey courses to smug twenty-somethings. As he eased toward retirement, he found young people increasingly lazy and obnoxious. They referenced movies, not books. They wore flannel pajama pants and dirty fleece jackets to class. They said “like” and “um” and “you know” constantly. Instead of asking about Kant’s categorical imperative during office hours they harassed Raymond about the subtle differences between a B+ and an A–in the context of their atrociously written essays.

  The musicians on the side of the stage broke into the soap opera theme song. Raymond sighed.