sometimes.”
“Yeah? Well, when Joseph woke up tonight some son of a bitch was standing over his bed.”
“Was he able to give a description?”
“All he can say is the guy’s a shadow.”
“A shadow?”
“Went downstairs to the living room with the kid following behind him. Just stood at the frontwindow, staring out at the street. Then, after a while, he walked out the front door as if he owned the place. Turn it around, buddy! Yeah, you !”
The cop steps away to have a word with whoever’s behind the wheel of the SUV that refuses to head back to Queen. It gives me a chance to walk up on to the neighbour’s patch of lawn and stand with my back to their front window. The same view the shadow would have had, standing behind the glass.
Staring at my place.
Where Sam is now. Standing next to Emmie on the porch, squinting over at me.
I read the nanny’s lips— Wave to Daddy! —and Sam raises his chubby arm in salute. And as I wave back I wonder if he can see how bad Daddy’s shaking.
The next circle meeting is at Petra’s house. She had kindly offered to host all of us the week before, though as I step out of my cab at her Rosedale address, I see she was being modest to the point of insult when she described her digs as “Nothing too fancy”. The place is a mansion. Copper roof, terraced landscaping that looks expensive even under a couple inches of snow, matching Mercedes coupés (one red, one black) docked in the carport. It makes me wonder how much the husband had before the divorce if this is Petra’s cut.
Inside the door, my coat is taken by a silverhaired man wearing a better suit than any I haveever owned. A man who serves not only a different class, but a different century. My first honestto-God butler.
“The group is assembling in the Rose Room,” he says, and leads me over marble floors to a sunken lounge of leather chairs, each with their own side table, and a snapping fire in the hearth. At the door, the butler discreetly inquires as to whether I would like a drink. He says it in a way that makes it clear real drinks are included in the offer.
“Scotch?” I say, and he nods, as though my choice had confirmed a suspicion he’d had on first sight.
Most of the other members are already here. Conrad White has chosen a chair near the fire, its orange flickers lending him a devilish air which is only enhanced by the smirk he barely manages to conceal as he notes the room’s incoherent collection of Inuit sculptures, garish abstracts and bookshelves lined with leather-bound “classics”. In this context of stage-set wealth, the rest of us look like hired help sneaking a break, holding our crystal goblets with both hands so nothing might spill on the rug.
Len in particular seems out of place. Or perhaps this is because he’s the only one talking.
“You should come. You all should. How about you, Patrick?”
“How about me what?”
“The open mic. There’s a launch party for a new litmag, and then afterwards they open the floor to anyone who wants to read.”
“I don’t know, Len.”
“C’mon. You can check out what’s going on out there.”
“They have a bar?”
“Half-price beer if you buy the zine.”
“Now you’re talking.”
All of us are here now except for William and Petra, the latter clipping back and forth to the kitchen on high heels, touchingly anxious about burning the shrimp skewers. When our hostess finally sits, Conrad White decides to go ahead without William. There’s a subtle easing in all of our postures at this. I would be surprised if any of us didn’t hope that William has moved on to other creative endeavours, if not a different area code altogether.
I’m first, which is something of a relief, as the sooner I can get through the miserable couple of paragraphs I’ve brought along, the sooner I can get to work on the quadruple single malt Jeeves has poured for me.
Besides, I’m only here for one reason anyway.
Angela.
She doesn’t
“Yeah? Well, when Joseph woke up tonight some son of a bitch was standing over his bed.”
“Was he able to give a description?”
“All he can say is the guy’s a shadow.”
“A shadow?”
“Went downstairs to the living room with the kid following behind him. Just stood at the frontwindow, staring out at the street. Then, after a while, he walked out the front door as if he owned the place. Turn it around, buddy! Yeah, you !”
The cop steps away to have a word with whoever’s behind the wheel of the SUV that refuses to head back to Queen. It gives me a chance to walk up on to the neighbour’s patch of lawn and stand with my back to their front window. The same view the shadow would have had, standing behind the glass.
Staring at my place.
Where Sam is now. Standing next to Emmie on the porch, squinting over at me.
I read the nanny’s lips— Wave to Daddy! —and Sam raises his chubby arm in salute. And as I wave back I wonder if he can see how bad Daddy’s shaking.
The next circle meeting is at Petra’s house. She had kindly offered to host all of us the week before, though as I step out of my cab at her Rosedale address, I see she was being modest to the point of insult when she described her digs as “Nothing too fancy”. The place is a mansion. Copper roof, terraced landscaping that looks expensive even under a couple inches of snow, matching Mercedes coupés (one red, one black) docked in the carport. It makes me wonder how much the husband had before the divorce if this is Petra’s cut.
Inside the door, my coat is taken by a silverhaired man wearing a better suit than any I haveever owned. A man who serves not only a different class, but a different century. My first honestto-God butler.
“The group is assembling in the Rose Room,” he says, and leads me over marble floors to a sunken lounge of leather chairs, each with their own side table, and a snapping fire in the hearth. At the door, the butler discreetly inquires as to whether I would like a drink. He says it in a way that makes it clear real drinks are included in the offer.
“Scotch?” I say, and he nods, as though my choice had confirmed a suspicion he’d had on first sight.
Most of the other members are already here. Conrad White has chosen a chair near the fire, its orange flickers lending him a devilish air which is only enhanced by the smirk he barely manages to conceal as he notes the room’s incoherent collection of Inuit sculptures, garish abstracts and bookshelves lined with leather-bound “classics”. In this context of stage-set wealth, the rest of us look like hired help sneaking a break, holding our crystal goblets with both hands so nothing might spill on the rug.
Len in particular seems out of place. Or perhaps this is because he’s the only one talking.
“You should come. You all should. How about you, Patrick?”
“How about me what?”
“The open mic. There’s a launch party for a new litmag, and then afterwards they open the floor to anyone who wants to read.”
“I don’t know, Len.”
“C’mon. You can check out what’s going on out there.”
“They have a bar?”
“Half-price beer if you buy the zine.”
“Now you’re talking.”
All of us are here now except for William and Petra, the latter clipping back and forth to the kitchen on high heels, touchingly anxious about burning the shrimp skewers. When our hostess finally sits, Conrad White decides to go ahead without William. There’s a subtle easing in all of our postures at this. I would be surprised if any of us didn’t hope that William has moved on to other creative endeavours, if not a different area code altogether.
I’m first, which is something of a relief, as the sooner I can get through the miserable couple of paragraphs I’ve brought along, the sooner I can get to work on the quadruple single malt Jeeves has poured for me.
Besides, I’m only here for one reason anyway.
Angela.
She doesn’t
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