up the remote to channel surf when he grunts, “Is it about that Croft bastard? That’s why you were asking me about him back in June, right?”
“It’s about that,” I say, putting the remote back down again. “And some other stuff. It kind of starts with that.”
Gord picks up his crutch. I think he’s about to try to hobble off to the bathroom, and I swing around to stop him because he’s always trying to get up without my help and practically re-breaks his ankle every time. But instead of struggling out of his chair, Gord smashes the crutch down on the tray of tea and pinwheels. Sylvie’s ceramic teapot — a cheerful lavender elephant whose trunk, for as long as I can remember, has provided the spout — implodes, flooding the tray with tea, which is instantly absorbed by the remaining pinwheels.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout.
“Why the fuck,” yells Gord. “Can’t you forgive yourself for that?”
“What the hell are you doing?” I yell back. You would think after so many years of watching my father fly into rages, he wouldn’t be able to surprise me like this, but I am near-speechless.
“A book! Now he thinks he’s gotta write a book! It’s not enough that those bastards put a sixteen-year-old boy away for standing up against some drug-dealing scum? It’s not enough he lost his own mother?”
“Cut it out, Gord,” I say. “Calm down.”
“Oh and I know exactly what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna let that little bastard off the hook! Just like you always have. Just like everybody did.”
“It’s not about Croft, Gord.”
“And you’re gonna blame yourself. And you’re gonna blame me. Well you go ahead and blame me, Gordie. You blame your old man all you want in that book. And don’t ever call. And pretend I’m dead if that’s how you like it. But I’ll be god-damned [and here Gord bashes his crutch into the shattered elephant twice to emphasize the compound word] if I’ll have you in there all hours of the day writing a god-damn [elephant pretty much dust now] plea for forgiveness for something that was not your god-damn fault!”
And with the final double crutch bash embellishing Gord’s last god-damn, the tea tray flips over, spewing elephant ash and pinwheel sludge across the carpet.
Before I can react, he swings his crutch to the floor and wrenches himself to his feet.
“Gord,” I say, reaching for him.
“Get away from me,” says Gord, barely managing to stay upright. I see his face contort with pain, and the merciless way the crutch has jammed itself into his armpit. “Fuck off,” he adds, pivoting on his crutch so that now I’m facing his scrawny, shuddering back. “I’m taking a piss.”
And off he stumps to the toilet.
16
08/03/09, 12:12 a.m.
THE STORIES WADE BRINGS back from Goldfinger’s provide them with hours of entertainment. Now that he no longer works there, but only does business, he has enough distance from the place to comfortably laugh off its squalor. Every once in a while, the boys from the Temple will head down for a drink and be welcomed by Lorna of the bad teeth and bruised upper arms, Ivor of the sweaty face and paranoia. They will sit and listen to Ivor’s conspiracy theories for what seems like hours, sometimes. And they will notice how the occasional other adventurous clutches of university kids — slumming like themselves — will glance over at their table in admiration. It is one thing to have a beer or two at Goldfinger’s, soaking up its reprobate ambiance, but another thing altogether to actually fraternize with its habitants.
What Rank doesn’t mention to his friends is how the first time he walked into Goldfinger’s a feeling came over him like: Ah. Home. Not home in the comforting sense of the word, but in the sense of belonging. Which for Rank had nothing to do with comfort.
More than once he thought he saw Mick Croft in the crowd at Goldfinger’s. But it turned out to be simply some version of him. Turned out there were countless versions of Mick Croft in the world, countless Collie Chaissons too, countless human riffs on the various personalities Rank encountered in the Youth Centre. There were versions of Rank’s dad, even. Not as many of those maybe, but one or two. Tosspot Gords who had never met Sylvies, lacking impetus to morph into upstanding family men.
Turned out these types existed all over the place — not just on the coast where Rank grew up. You only