By D.B. Gardner
The Spouse
Trevor wants to stay at the hotel and brood over his wounded stock portfolio, so I decide to stroll the wine-colored cobblestone streets of Old Montreal, thankful I’m not wearing the spiked heels from my bachelorette party. Memories of Montreal seep in from five-plus years ago, the entourage of drunken maids in little black dresses, the ridiculous veil. That was in late June, and the weather was practically tropical compared to this September day.
The morning dew is still drying from the bricks as I approach a corner-facing door, climb the stone steps, and cringe, recoiling from the shop’s entrance. Inside, it’s dank and smelly, not
unlike the corridors of Emma Dillard prep but the complete opposite of the sterilized foyer of my
parent’s home—a two-story void of black marble. A portrait of Mother hangs there, bathed in the soft glow of concept lighting, standing behind my seated father, a jeweled hand draped over his broad shoulder—the Family Firm—and the photograph directly across features me in my debutante gown and tiara—nineteen years young. A larger image hangs above mine, one of Father with then-vice-president Cheney at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new hospital wing.
Theirs was not an earned opulence. Daddy’s never held a job and should have flunked out of college, by most accounts. His grandparents were immigrants from Belfast who landed in Quebec City, drifted south, and put down roots in Albany. Mother met him while she was a senior at Cornell. She had attended an intramural rugby match on a dare, and at the follow-up mixer, he swaggered in wearing an agitated gin and tonic sneer and asked her to dance. According to her, back then, he was a brawling, vigorous man, over six feet tall, with deep-set eyes the color of arctic ice, though Mother says what she most admired was the matter-of-factness in his nature, how he plucked her from the golden pedestal.
I linger at a gift shop window and see, in its reflection, a gray-haired man in a sea captain’s hat perched at the edge of a bench, playing the accordion. A sliver of sunlight glints off his strap buckle. I turn to listen and answer his wink with a smile. His regard is that of a vintner to a ripening bunch. The bending and folding of the creaky instrument take on a carnival zeal.
An eddy of dried leaves dances past my feet, and I’m carried away by the street’s earthy musk down an alley to a bistro, where I grab a table near a young couple. A baby carrier rests on a chair between them. Their infant coos, the husband slips an arm over the back of the seat, and they gaze lovingly at the child.
It’s noontime, and I text Trevor. Minutes pass without a reply, so I order a bloody mary and a salad. Round, puffy clouds parade like sheep over the city skyline as I complete the light meal. Later, I walk toward the Basilica, cross the plaza, and take the Metro to the Place des Arts to browse the shops along Saint Catherine, abandoning all notions of how Trevor and I came here to spend time together, to repair our fractured relationship.
The bitch of it is, if he and I can’t make it, I’ll have to go boot-kissing back to the Firm, and Mumsy will have the upper hand again. The last time I loosened her grip was during my junior year in college. I had phoned her to discuss my recent miscarriage, interrupting her bridge luncheon. She’d never been enthralled with my life choices and didn’t miss another opportunity to say so.
“There are plenty of boys in the world, Jeanette. All that you desire. But they are boys. Not men,” she sermonized over the phone. “Boys are what you practice with until you learn what it takes to subdue the right man. And don’t ever marry a friend—a person you adore. It’s easier
to love someone you can ignore. Learn to temper your emotions now. It’ll translate into power when things turn sour. And things always turn sour.”
At the time, her sing-songy phrases were perhaps the ugliest words I’d ever heard. I was an undergrad. We talked about feelings in class. And yet, I unwittingly followed her advice and didn’t take the plunge for compatibility, love, or any other passionate obsession because stability became my goal—financial security. It was a lateral move. I went from Firm to term—tethered to the same stipulations, a prisoner in paradise, and marital bliss as out of place as the massive
Frederic Back stained glass mural before me as I step from the Metro escalator.
A bright red construction sign directs me toward a staircase, and I follow the arrows up the steps into a recently dry-walled corridor. Though constructed as a temporary Metro exit, the thruway is an unintended funnel for a gale-force wind, and the intense draft makes it difficult to gain ground and not be shoved back. Some fifty feet ahead, a whisp of a girl with a fanciful look rushes toward me on the toes of her shoes, taking three long steps for every one of mine. Holding tight to her skirt and hat, she sails past sideways.
My Valentino scarf comes partway loose from my neck, catches on my wrist, and billows like a sail, so I gather it up, a childish euphoria seizing hold, and plow headlong into the cyclone. When I reach the bend in the passage, the surge of air inside the fabricated structure ticks up a notch. I spread my arms wide, the wings of my duster robe flutter open, and I’m transformed into a great bird and take flight, escaping to a remote corner of the earth.
Behind me, on my left side, there’s a voice, loud and coarse, boisterous enough for two but hard to tell. “Hey, buzzkill—don’t block out the fun,” a man says, his strained words carrying a crazed energy. His boots scuffle along the concrete, drawing closer. He’s still talking,
and I catch a whiff of booze and quicken my pace, hands fisted at my side, and weigh whether to spin around and confront him—to get him to back off.
Woo—Hoo. I’m an airplane, man,” he says, walking sideways in his tattered army surplus coat, footsteps in sync with mine, a lopsided grin framing every drunken point he tries to make. “This is as good as—Coney Island. I haven’t been to Coney Island, but I’ll get there. Got to get more money first. This is better—and it’s free. The city ought to charge for this, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what I think,” I mutter. We reach a pair of open doors, the hallway widens into a poorly lit underground concourse, and the wind slows. I exit the tube, not a soul in sight except the pesterer keeping pace.
“My woman—would love this shit,” he says. “She’s pretty, but not as pretty as you.”
He touches my elbow, and I yank it away. My footsteps transition to a half-jog, and I head for the far wall to create more distance.
“Wait, wait. I just want to know. You were so wild and free—back there. How do you do it?” he says, the hem of my sweater in and out of his grip as we descend further into the passage. Our dance pauses for an instant, and he squares himself. His desperate, half-lidded eyes and that tangle of hair make it impossible not to stare. “I’m serious. What’s the straight dope on all this—happiness shit?”
“I don’t have any answers,” I say. “But I know a person who does—just give me a sec.” I wrest free from his grip and raise my phone to dial—anyone! He reaches for the device. In the tussle, the camera function activates, and almost by instinct, I choose the video record option.
“Let me make a call—to get help for you,” I lie, backing down the ramp.
There’s a patch of daylight behind him, and I run for it, our shoulders banging together. He reels at the impact. In my periphery, I see him tumble to the ground, and I sprint toward a glass door (how did I miss it?), which, to my amazement, leads outside, up a staircase, and onto a sun-splashed concrete platform. The way-out has deposited me at the main entrance of the Place des Arts. A jazz combo performs on a short dais in front of the colonnade with a flood of people gathered around, churning about the stage’s perimeter as the band’s tempo quickens, and I melt into the crowd to catch my breath.
***
The Friend
The last time I saw Jeanette was during my sophomore year at Syracuse. She was the first undergrad I encountered with an off-campus apartment (she maintained a university-mandated dorm room as a front). Has it really been eight years since that wild October fling? —her label, not mine, though our affair didn’t officially end until Thanksgiving week, when she’d first grown distant and irritable, constantly throwing open windows and charging through doorways as if purging herself of some disagreeable odor. Her parents sat me down and unraveled the problem. It was my pedigree. Not enough zeroes in the bank account. The bottom line, literally. They couldn’t imagine me, the son of a parvenu, at ease in polite society. Jeanette and I weren’t even allowed to rub elbows over the holidays, let alone become husband and wife. I heard that distinction fell to a pushover named Trevor.
I was right! It is Jeanette coming down the front steps of the concert hall. Those rangy features—time has been kind to that sleek, muscular form. I’ll bet she’s still a runner. Her
movements resemble those of an Egyptian Mau cat as she bounds over the rough stones, crossing the closed-off thoroughfare, heading straight toward the streetside patio where I sit.
The waiter appears at my table. “I’ve settled your bill, as requested,” he says.
“Not yet,” I reply, standing to peer over the man to recapture Jeanette’s angelic figure. “I changed my mind—two lattes, pronto, s’il vous plaît? Very little foam.”
As soon as he leaves, I yell across the square, “Hey—Pickering,” my arms flailing over through the crowd, and I make a heart over my head with my arms, a semi-improvised move but my head. I repeat her name with more oomph. “Jeanette—over here,” and at last, she finds me
through the crowd, and I make a heart over my head with my arms, a semi-improvised move but
cagey, none the less. And classy.
“Brett? No—freaking—way,” she shrieks.
If she’s on a date, it doesn’t show. She races around the orange plastic fence to my table, and we hug. Her scent is fresher than a springtime garden. A woman in her prime. I hold her close, my face against her neck. When she draws back, her cheeks are pink. There’s no doubt she’s excited to see me, so I tell her to sit and bathe her in flattery.
“How have you been? What brings you to Montreal? You—look—fantastic!”
She scoots her chair closer to the table, eager to give me the once-over, and I break out my best toothy smile. Her phone chirps. She glances down, then shoves it away and glares across with a vibe that screams intrigue. There’s no doubt she’s impressed and prefers my company. The waiter arrives with the coffee.
“I guess I have a little time,” she says, nervous as a kitten. “Are you living in Montreal?”
“Yes, I moved here in May to take a position at the University Health Centre.”
Jeanette falls back in her chair. “Wow! You’re a doctor? Congrats.”
I stir my frothy cup and bask in the flirtation. “I’m not a doctor, per se. I’m a medical paraprofessional,” I say, watching the glow evaporate from her face. “I’m employed by a group of radiologists. I’m the sonofabitch who calls you up if there’s a shadow on your X-ray. I have to contact another poor bastard later today. Lucky me.”
“And you enjoy this line of work?” Her nose crinkles.
“Somebody’s gotta do it. Doctors always soften the message. A real man delivers the bad news to the patient upfront, no frills, because it’s cruel to arouse their hopes for no reason. But I won’t go into that over lunch. Tell me what you’re up to?”
“Up to? Me? Nothing, really.” She stares into the sky. “I’ve considered returning to school to complete my MFA. Next year,” she says. “Unless you meant—right now, because—I just had to ditch this lunatic in the Metro. He tried to assault me.”
“What?” I say, lifting from my chair. “Is he here? Did you tell a policeman?”
“No, no. It’s fine. He was so buzzed,” she says, subduing me with a wave to sit.
She twirls a strand of hair around her finger. The presence of a man so ready to charge into battle for her honor has her tantalized. There’s a diamond ring on her left hand. I bet her high-key fanboy husband doesn’t make her feel this protected.
“There must be thousands of degenerate cowards in this city alone,” I say. “I know this guy, Raul, lives next door, drives a taxi, tells me all kinds of stories, some of them rough.”
She briefly scans the area. “Your neighbor is a cab driver?”
“Yeah. And it’s always something weird. I swear he makes this shit up. I ran into him in the driveway yesterday. He works the midnight shift, so he’s hyper-caffeinated in the a.m. We’re talking, and out of the blue, he launches into a rant about X-class solar flares and radiation storms.”
“Sunspots?”
“Right. One of Raul’s fares told him that solar flares have an 11-year cycle, and when we near the next peak, we’ll have satellite outages and power grid disruptions on a global scale. Real doomsday stuff.”
“Not a happy topic. Especially first thing in the morning.”
“Grim, I agree. But Raul is hilarious, too. He’s so off-the-wall. Small-town funny, if you know what I mean. The place he’s from has a population of less than a thousand—an everybody knows everybody kind of place in western Manitoba.
Jeanette laughs—throaty and mischievous—and slings one leg over the other. It bobs restlessly, so I go for broke and show her my ringless fourth finger. “How’s married life?” I say.
“Trevor? He’s good. Real good. Busy. Real—busy,” she says.
“Too bad.” My eyes wander to the middle of the street. A musician is unpacking his gear under a small canopy. He tunes his guitar, switches on his amp, strums it with his hand, and softens it into a gentle melody. Jeanette’s foot flexes in time to the music.
“He’s good,” she purrs. “I suppose you ordered this too.”
She’s still a wiseass. “It sounds okay,” I say. “He’s no Segovia. Speaking of which, did you know he had limb-lengthening surgery?”
Her eyebrows fold inward. “That guy?” she says, referring to the soloist across the way.
“No—Segovia. The Spanish guitarist. He had the procedure because all the women he fell in love with were taller than he was.”
Jeanette frowns. “Sounds made up.”
“On my mother’s grave,” I say, crossing myself.
“Limb-lengthening isn’t cosmetic, you know? I’ve heard it’s quite painful,” she says. Her wince melts into a smirk. “Maybe the goal of your story is to lengthen my leg.”
Jeanette’s joke flatlines, but I don’t bother to point it out. In the middle distance, the busker angles sideways in his chair, high-bridged nose, chiseled cheekbones, stubble chin, sharp eyes shrouded by the brim of his newsboy hat—a study in quiet concentration.
I lean forward in my chair. “Remember those word games we used to play.” Jeanette covers her mouth in pretend shock. Her expression softens, and she shrugs. “Shy bunny,” I say. My hand crosses the table to hers. “I meant like when we spotted those oddly marked tombstones in the cemetery.”
Her head totters, amused. “I ran past one last week with the name—Donna Jackshitz.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. You used to run through Woodlawn faster than a scared rabbit.”
She blushes. “I still run there. I have for years.”
“What was the name we once saw—Fannie Asbury?”
“Right,” Jeanette says. “And there was another—with a double headstone.”
“Yes. One side was simply—Arthur Spanks—and the other half said—His loving wife, Katherine.”
“You’re such a child,” she says with a snort.
The waiter shuffles to our table with the bill. Apparently, ill-timed interruptions are on special today. “My shift is over,” he informs us, “and Lori is here.” He nods toward the restaurant. “She’ll open a new tab if you decide to stay.”
I sign the credit device. After he leaves, Jeanette whispers, “Brett. It’s him. Over there.”
I squint hard to follow her gaze through the never-ending stream of humans. “Who—are we afraid of—princess?”
“The drunk guy from the Metro. He’s at a picnic table. See him?”
“The street is too busy to pick him out,” I say, aggravated by the dense crowd. “Tell me again, where did he accost you?”
“In an underground construction zone, just across the way. It happened near that tragically mislocated stained glass mural.”
“The history of music? I love that one.”
“Me too,” she says with a sigh. “It’s just—it doesn’t belong down there.”
I run my hand across my head, attempting to conjure a clever comeback. “I don’t know,” I say, still searching for the vagrant. “That mural, amid all that concrete and steel. It’s quite powerful. I can relate.”
“Regardless, it should be in a museum. Or a church, even,” she says, and her eyes widen. “There are fewer people now, and that man is still there. See him?”
“The picnic table. Yes,” I growl.
The man raises his head, looking our way. “I need to get a picture of him—or a video. If he’ll hold still,” says Jeanette, leveling her phone on the table.
“Let me go over there and have a word,” I say.
“Please, it’s unnecessary,” Jeanette says, blinking with admiration. “In any case, it’s almost time for me to go.”
I clutch her hand before she can slide her chair back. “Wait. Can I interest you in a quick drink? There’s a club nearby,” I say, stroking her wrist with my thumb.
“Brett. I’m flattered—” she fawns, “—but—oh my goodness—he’s a thief!”
I swivel in my chair. The bum Jeanette warned me about is dashing away with the guitar player’s tip jar. He gallops past, down the street, while three or four men rise from their tables to pursue. Naturally, I join the fray and glimpse Jeanette in my periphery, standing as if she intends to follow. My chest swells, and I race ahead with little regard for danger. Rounding the first corner, I briefly spot the quarry ducking down a backstreet a block away. Seconds later, when I arrive at the blind alley, it’s empty.
Hunched over, hands on my knees, I catch my breath and realize that, by joining me in the excitement of the chase, Jeanette had witnessed my rugged masculinity first-hand. When I spin around, I find only three others still with me in the alley, heroes who hadn’t given up—a middle-aged man and a couple of skinny guys in t-shirts but no villain and no Jeanette.
***
The Busker
The guitar has always been a passion of mine. After high school, I joined a band and knocked around the pub circuit while my friends moved off to college and careers. At twenty-eight, I retired all my musical gear to the basement, got married, and found a steady job.
Nine years later, Hattie and I split. She didn’t click with the company I kept. So, my guitar re-entered my life, like an ex-girlfriend in the wings, more than a wife, a friend. It wasn’t long before I applied for a busker’s permit with the city. After a short audition, they booked me for a weekly gig in Old Montreal. The pay isn’t bad. A single show can equal a week’s wages at the cardboard factory—back when I was employed.
I’m mid-song when a noise nudges me from my daydream. There’s a sudden movement on the street. I slow my cadence and lift my chin, stunned by the crowd’s reaction. Then it registers. Solely focused on the musical piece, I didn’t see this punk rush by and pilfer the tip jar at my feet.
“I’m okay.” I stand and shout to the self-appointed gendarmes who take after the kid. “No need for alarm. Sorry for the delay. I appreciate your concern. Please, let’s enjoy the day.” The crowd nearby is still buzzing from the attack. I don’t have a microphone, so I increase my pickup volume to nine and bring the guitar to my face.
“I’m okay,” I say into the hole. The feedback squelch of the amplifier sends the pigeons flying. The audience begins to drift away. As I hastily prepare a new song in my mind, a woman approaches, saying she’d taken a video of the robbery.
“Bonjour-hi,” I say. “Yours is a nice gesture, but this is a big city. Shit happens, good and bad. Chalk it up to—professional risk.” The attractive young creature blinks, her makeup heavy and bright blue, big as a peacock, except angrier—a thunderbird on a totem pole.
“I can’t for the life of me understand why you’re so glib in regard to your own mugging,” she says. “And for your information, the same guy accosted me in the Metro not half an hour ago. As I said, I can share what I filmed on my phone—even testify, if required. What’s your phone number? I’ll forward this to you.”
“Sorry for your troubles,” I say as I tune my instrument. “I’ve had money stolen before. It isn’t the worst of outcomes. What good would forty or fifty dollars do, buy me another week’s rent? All to send some hungry beggar to jail?”
Her eyes search the street.
“Will your friend be back soon?” I say.
“Excuse me?”
I point toward the café. “Please, forgive me. It’s what I do—people watch while I play. The two of you seemed to be having a moment.”
Her face sours. “I’ll have you know the man I was with is out there, as we speak, trying to retrieve your cash. You might show a little gratitude.”
“Your husband is a courageous man.”
“He’s—not my husband,” she says. “All the same, it’s none of your business.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Not my business at all. I observe too much while I play. I stand corrected. The two of you are not intimate.”
Her arms cross over her chest. “That’s right—mister guitar man, appearances are not always as they seem.”
“How true. And very poetic.” I hold out my instrument. “Perhaps you should play instead of me?” My passive behavior seems to frustrate her. She waves the guitar away, saying she sang a little in high school and has no talent. I have her on her back foot.
“You are perplexed by my reaction,” I continue. “It’s like you said—your perception of the incident doesn’t match my reality. Here’s an example. I was hospitalized for an appendectomy not too long ago. The doctors fixed me up, but there was a spot on my X-ray. We argued a bit before I agreed to let them test for cancer. Now, I’m on standby until they call with the results. Music is my therapy while I wait. There’s no better medicine than a live performance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I get paid to play, not to talk. We can in greater detail after the gig. If you wish. If not, at the very least, you’ll have a terrific story to tell your husband.”
She follows my stare to her wedding ring and covers her hand. I give her a wink, rake the strings with my fingernails, switch on the amp, and restart the previous song.
After the gig, I take the Metro to Park Ex, the pig nose amp in my backpack and guitar in hand. I stop into Marnie’s pub to settle old debts and buy a round, greasing the wheels for when times are lean. Then I trudge over the bridge to my ground floor one-and-a-half.
My accomplice, Roger, had arranged for us to rendezvous at three. I met Roger at the juvenile detention center when I was sixteen. Unlike him, I wasn’t there because of any charges filed against me. Just your typical rebellious, fatherless teen who preferred to live on the street instead of home, unwilling to go to school. Roger, on the other hand, was doing six months in juvie for attempted robbery. Real crime. We were cellmates during my stay. Since then, he pops up out of the blue, claiming he’s temporarily between gigs and sleeps on my couch. A few days become a week; months go by. The situation gets awkward—like it is now.
The neighbor’s dog growls from the balcony overhead as I key the lock and enter the three-story co-op. My apartment is down a small flight of stairs. The door is propped open, and Roger’s green canvas jacket lies in a heap on the floor just inside. He’s seated at a wooden table under a single lightbulb in the center of the room, stoic as a stone, absorbed in a hand of solitaire. His hair, wet from a shower, is rubber-banded together and draped over the front of his bathrobe.
“Didn’t think you’d ever get here,” he says. “Those guys were out for blood. And that dark-haired asshole was a fast bugger. But no quatre-cinq-zero knows the city as well as I do. I ran through three courtyards and a souvenir shop before I lost him. I ended up at Millie’s.”
“Rog—tell me you didn’t.”
“Sat there cool as an iceberg, drinking a pint, watching the chase from the second-floor window.” He snaps an ace from the deck and puts it up top.
“Reckless—beyond belief,” I say, straining to keep my voice level. “What on earth did you do with your coat? The foul stench is unforgettable. It’s a dead giveaway.”
“Folded it up and sat on it, fool. There was no problem at Millie’s.” Roger flicks another card down. “Still, you don’t believe me. I’ve worn out my welcome. The wine has gone sour.”
“Remember the deal?” I say. “I agreed with this scheme, but only until you had the funds to visit your cousin in Toronto.”
“It takes more than the average yoyo to pull off this homeless guy shit, you know?” Roger closes his robe over his stomach. “I went out early today to test my chops and put the touch on some skirt down in the Metro.”
“That’s exactly what we didn’t want, for you to draw attention,” I say, and my head begins to throb.
“I couldn’t help it,” he says, shrugging. “The way she stood there admiring that godawful sculpture—almost like she was worshiping in a cathedral. I was annoyed. So sue me.”
“Perhaps she was a musician. I know I get inspired walking past that piece of art. Have you ever read the plaque? Part of the mural is about the first concert ever held on Mount Royal in the fifteen-hundreds by Cartier, the explorer. Pretty heavy, no?”
“Musician or not, she was so scared she went batshit crazy. After she ran off, I stalked your gig for a while before I stole your money. I bet you I could run faster than Donovan Bailey if I had new shoes. These slip on the bricks when I take a corner.”
“Not as nimble as you used to be?”
“Nimble enough. Try putting the damn jar out where I can get to it next time. I’m risking my life with this job—all these American tourists, there’s no way to know who’s packing.”
“Speaking of packing.” I tug a handkerchief from my vest pocket, unroll the sleeve, and money spills out. “There’s more than a couple hundred here. Throw in the tips you grabbed earlier, and you’re on your way.”
Roger’s leer widens. “How the—?” he says, stuffing it all into his pockets.
He stands there with a vulgar grin, his robe forced open by the weight, and the idea of his ultimate departure makes up for the view and gives me a minor lift.
“As I began to pack up, the audience, out of sympathy, I suppose, filled my guitar case with mostly fives and tens.”
Roger draws a breath. An appeal is forthcoming. I can hear the egg hatch inside the nether regions of his brain. My phone buzzes in my shirt pocket. I recognize the number. It’s the doctor’s office. They’re probably calling with news regarding my X-ray. I let the message go to voicemail and return to the important business at hand—the dispatching of an unwanted guest.
D. B. Gardner, a graduate of Michigan State University, has appeared or is forthcoming in Windmill: The Hofstra Journal of Art & Literature, Wordrunner eChapbooks, Black Fox Literary Magazine, and South 85, among others. His writing has been shortlisted for numerous literary awards, including the Grist ProForma Prize, the Letter Review Fiction Prize, and the Leapfrog Global Prize – short-story collection. To discover more about D. B. Gardner, visit www.dbgardner.com