Sweet Life Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Book & Copyright Information

  Dedication

  Quotation

  Section 1: A Far Away Roar

  Sweet Life

  That Buchanan Woman

  Mrs. Kravitz’s Mood

  Impact

  Doves

  Section 2: Indistinct Shapes

  The Bells of San Martino

  The Virgin in the Grotto

  Paradise Hotel

  The Marble Nymph

  Section 3: The Illusion of Grace

  What You Should Know

  Suspension

  Glass Garden

  The Madwoman Upstairs

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  ©Linda Biasotto, 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.

  This collection is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Edited by Sandra Birdsell

  Designed by Tania Craan

  Typeset by Susan Buck

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Biasotto, Linda, 1952-, author

  Sweet life / Linda Biasotto.

  Short stories.

  Issued also in electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-55050-578-8 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-55050-579-5 (pdf).—

  ISBN 978-1-55050-797-3 (html).—ISBN 978-1-55050-798-0 (mobi)

  I. Title.

  PS8603.I22S94 2014 C813’.6 C2014-900257-2

  C2014-900258-0

  Available in Canada from Coteau Books

  2517 Victoria Avenue

  Regina, Saskatchewan

  Canada S4P 0T2

  www.coteaubooks.com

  Coteau Books gratefully acknowledges the financial support of its publishing program by: the Saskatchewan Arts Board, The Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Saskatchewan through the Creative Industry Growth and Sustainability program of the Ministry of Parks, Culture and Sport.

  In memory of

  Ryan Biasotto

  &

  Lydia Senger

  Then I turned my thoughts to consider…madness and folly.

  – Ecclesiastes 2:13

  A

  Faraway

  Roar

  Sweet Life

  If you think I’m going to pass myself off as some kind of nice guy, you’re wrong. I did call the ambulance for my buddy, Greg, and ride with him to the hospital and answer questions best I could. But after I called Kayla and she showed up, I expected her to deal with the situation.

  The situation. A bad one for Greg and not looking good for me, either. I pretty much burned my bridges the morning before, walking out on another of Mom’s lectures, which I admit was rude. I’m not out to hurt her. But her hotshot husband, Dale? He can make me nuts in about four seconds. He’s a teacher, but he’s not my teacher.

  It was mainly because of him I decided to move in with Greg, who was after me to share rent ever since his last roomie took off. I finally make the move and what happens next day? Greg gets sick.

  So while I’m in the emergency waiting room, I think about it and decide to stay in his apartment until he gets out of the hospital. But if Greg isn’t coming back as Greg, then no way I’m sticking around. See what I mean about not being a nice guy?

  But where else can I crash? Most of the guys I know are in the same lack of housing situation, floating between joints and grabbing meals when they can. Sleep outside? Well, okay, it’s summer and I know some places, but I’m total chickenshit about that deal.

  Greg likes to remind me I have a sweet life. My own place in the basement, a bathroom, TV, cellphone and allowance. But when I dropped out of high school, Dale stole the TV and phone. Cancelled my allowance, too. Mom feels guilty about it, though, and slips me money.

  “He’s not mean, Jude. He’s trying to teach you a lesson.”

  Whatever. But I show him. Oil my synapses with a steady stream of beer, stay out all night and sleep all day. What I call a sweet life. Keeps me from seeing too much of Dale’s ugly mug, a mug my mom happens to love, but there’s no accounting for tastes.

  After all, she did marry my old man, Alvin Stuart, whose last name you don’t need to know. You can find it in back issues of newspapers and newscasts. Call him Alvin Stuart Black Sheep. That was him until a heart attack did me and the world a favour by dropping him in the prison shower.

  Here’s my joke on that one: Time did him while he was doing time. He was only forty, but what the hell; we’ve all got to go sometime.

  My name’s Jude Allan. Old man named me Judas Alvin, but soon as the long arm of the law tossed him into jail, I got my mom to legally change my name. Yeah, the old man was a Bible-thumper.

  One night when I’m ten, I’m asleep and next thing I know, he’s sitting on my bed. Has his fat hand on my leg and his face in mine and I’m smelling whiskey. I about piss myself.

  “The sins of the fathers, the sins of the fathers. Your father’s eaten sour grapes, boy. Are your teeth on edge?” And he laughs his nasty laugh. When he gets up and leaves, I can’t believe he hasn’t pinched my face or squeezed the life out of my leg.

  His moods sent me running for the basement. The TV was down there, and I could watch it all day without anyone looking for me. Guess my mom figured if I was out of sight then I was out of mind. Or what passed for my old man’s mind.

  There was this place under the basement stairs where Mom kept potatoes and onions and stuff in boxes. A room with a door. I’d hide in there with the light off. Other kids were scared of the dark and spiders, but I preferred the dark. And any creepy-crawly was a thing of beauty compared to my old man.

  He didn’t bother looking for me downstairs. After time alone and staring into nothing, everything slowed down for me. My heart, my breath, my thinking. When you can’t see what’s real, you begin to see what’s unreal. It was a lot of fun seeing what wasn’t there, my mind running off on journeys and me tagging along.

  So now I’m sitting in the waiting room at the hospital and I don’t know what’s going on with Greg and in walks Kayla. Of course she’s got on a tight skirt and sandals with big heels, the kind short girls like to wear. She drops into the chair I saved for her and she smells like fried fish. Doesn’t bother to say Hi, thanks for calling, Jude, and good job taking care of my boyfriend.

  No, what she does is open her giant purse, take out a mirror, put on lipstick and pat her purple hair. (She calls it magenta.) “My mascara’s melting. I got here fast as I could, but I was down to three bucks, so I took the bus.” And then she looks at me.

  “Greg’s not – he isn’t – ?”

  “No.” Why can’t she keep her voice down?

  “Sheesh, the way you look, I thought I was going to have to find a new boyfriend.”

  Yeah, a real joker. First time I met Kayla, I knew she wasn’t Greg’s type. A missionary, and not happy unless she’s saving a guy from himself. I told Greg he was whipped, but he wouldn’t buy it, got all defensive and didn’t talk to me for a week. Never, but never, attack your buddy’s girl, because he won’t thank you, even if you’re right on.

  In the waiting room, I’m about to launch myself out of the chair when Kayla orders me to tell her what happened. Apparently it w
as too noisy at the fish-and-chip joint for her to hear.

  I’m a patient guy, so I tell her again. “When I wake up, I go to the bathroom and Greg’s door is closed.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About four, I guess. On my way back I duck into the kitchen, check if there’s a cold one left and there is. So I knock on the bedroom door and say, ‘Hey, you want to share the last beer?’ No answer. I figure what the shit, did he go out? And I go in and there’s Greg sitting on his mattress and he’s wearing nothing but his birthday suit. And he yells, ‘Close the door before you let the angels out.’ And I say, ‘Ha-ha.’ But he’s weirded out and swinging his arms for me to shut the door, and I do because now I’m scared and looking around. I say, ‘What angels, man?’ and he freezes. Doesn’t move an eyelash. And when the paramedics come, they say maybe catatonic.”

  “Longest speech I ever heard you make and it’s clear as mud.” Kayla gets up, plunks her purse onto her chair and commands me to watch it.

  Off she goes, her fat ass swinging like two pups fighting under a pillow. So now I’m a purse watcher, which takes the cake. And desperate for a drink. A cold Sleeman. Don’t ask me why the beer has to be Sleeman, it just does. But it only takes a few minutes for Kayla to stomp back into the room and nab her purse.

  “Nurse wouldn’t tell me anything because I’m not family. Look, I said, he ran away from his family so now his friends are his family, but all the snooty bitch kept saying was they need his health card. Knowing Greg, he could’ve traded it for a pack of smokes.”

  Doesn’t she care that every single person in the room is staring?

  I’m outside, across the parking lot and waiting for the corner light to change before she even turns around in that waiting room. I look down at ants crawling in and out of a paper cup when I hear this voice practically in my armpit.

  “Got a plane to catch?”

  No way. Sure enough, Kayla’s looking up at me like something’s hilarious.

  The light changes and my army boots barely touch pavement. I’m a launched missile, a rocket headed for the planet Your Anus. I don’t care my black shirt’s stuck to my back. Don’t notice when I cross the tracks until I pass yards filled with dead cars and weeds and brats and mean dogs tied to ropes. And when I see the alley, I head for it. Open a certain back gate and stop because I can’t believe it. There’s Greg’s stalker girlfriend, coming right at me.

  Got the gate shut and I’m up the cracked walk to the house, my pocket knife open. Boom, I’m down on my knees at the window, got that open and up and I’m sliding my legs in when she says, “Break and enter?” And I can’t do a thing because I’m already inside, dropping to the floor. She’ll go away, right? No such luck. The crazy chick tosses down her purse and jumps in after. Her skirt rides up and it’s a good thing for her there’s hardly any light or I would’ve had a clear view.

  “Whose place is this?” Not enough sense to whisper.

  “Sh!” And that’s all I say. Except for: “Get out.”

  She looks at the window over her head. “Can’t see it happening.” At least she’s whispering. “Who lives here?”

  I go to the door, crack it and listen. The two old guys who bought the house from Mom go out every Tuesday and Thursday and don’t get back until 10:30. My plan’s to get to the stairs, slip Kayla out the side door. But it’s not dark, yet, and someone might see. Although I can be out of the neighbourhood in ten seconds flat, I figure she’s too winded to do anything but get caught by cops.

  And then it hits me. Take her along. Why not? Although I can’t imagine her afraid of anything, I hope there’ll be a couple of furry spiders under the stairs.

  “This is where I come when I want to be alone. It’s where I used to live. With my parents.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Want to see what happens next?”

  And the chick hesitates. A pause big enough to drive an ambulance through.

  “Sure.”

  Now who’s in charge?

  And it’s easy. She follows me in and I shut the door. So black under the stairs, you can’t see your nose, but I know where everything is. With my hand on her back, I give her a little push to a box overflowing with National Geographic magazines, tell her to sit on it. Of course the pile’s slippery and she’s close to tipping off, but she’s a sport, hangs on and doesn’t complain. What she can’t see is how I’m sitting comfy on a stool. More proof I’m not such a nice guy.

  I expect her to start yapping, ask a bunch of questions while I play it cool and keep my mouth shut. But she isn’t talking. I can’t even hear her breathe. And pretty soon I forget she’s there and wait, like usual, for things to get unreal.

  I’m not talking about some out-of-body experience or self-hypnosis or any other kind of weird stuff. It’s like falling asleep and dreaming. Leaving Jude Allan Black Sheep. Ditching any memories I want to leave behind.

  I admit sneaking back to my old house and sitting under the stairs isn’t a brilliant move. If I’m caught, how do I explain that I’m only borrowing the room?

  Greg gets it. He’s the only one I filled in about my old man. His old man is another winner; gave Greg the scar he hides behind long hair. Welfare sends him a cheque every month to keep him off the streets and finish high school. Greg tries going on and off. Mostly off. It sucks to be eighteen and have to sit in class with a bunch of grade nine losers.

  One of the questions the hospital asked is if Greg ever acted strange before. What could I say? The guy has no furniture. Just two mattresses and a ripped beanbag chair someone left behind. A CD player. Signs nailed to the walls: CAUTION, DEAD END, SMOKING and, over the toilet: MEN WORKING. His closet is the bedroom floor. When he’s got money, he eats nothing but iced cinnamon buns. Is any of this strange?

  “Does he do any sort of street drugs?”

  Knew the answer to that one. He can’t, because even hash makes him too edgy. We stick to beer, though in a pinch we’ll toss back cheap wine. I bet one day Kayla will talk Greg out of booze and into rehab. Have him blubbering about being a bad boy and wanting to turn over a new leaf.

  But what I tell the nurse is, “I never heard him talk about angels before.”

  Greg did tell me once how the apartment building was crawling with mice and cockroaches. Then he said it again and again. Said it so many times I was getting seriously pissed off and told him enough already. He couldn’t understand why I was mad. You could call that a strange moment.

  And now I’m under the basement stairs with his girlfriend. Yeah, just a bit unusual. And it hits me. She’s going to think I’m an even bigger freak than she probably already does.

  “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t – you know.”

  “Tell anyone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What I don’t get is…your dad was mean, right?”

  Greg, you rat.

  “So why do you want to come back? I mean, you must have bad memories of this place.”

  “Not under the stairs.” My big mouth. No way I’m falling for Kayla’s Talk to me and you’ll feel so much better bullshit. No one’s fixing me. I stop her with my own question. “Why did you follow me?”

  Now she makes me wait. And then I hear a car pull up the side drive. “We have to go.” I don’t know if the old guys are home early or not, but I’m sure as hell not sticking around to find out. I hustle her back to the other room, grab the window ledge, pull myself up to see if the coast’s clear and it is. “Give me your purse.” Get it shoved out and lean over to give Kayla a boost. We’re both thinking the same thing, because when she steps onto my hand, she says,

  “Look up my skirt and I’ll scream.”

  It’s not easy, but I hoist her up with my eyes shut. I’m used to hauling myself out. As we run for the back gate, I hear voices.

  Way too close. We’re up the alley to the street and around a corner before we slow down. Sun’s all but gone. Kayla starts a lecture about how it’s my responsibilit
y to help her find Greg’s health card. All I want is to get home. Use my key, sneak to my basement room and sleep for a hundred years.

  “I’m beat.” Kayla stops and looks for somewhere to sit. “I wish I had money for a taxi.”

  I pull out my wallet. “I’ve got some.”

  “What!” She looks like she wants to clobber me with her purse.

  “I’m used to walking.”

  “Yeah, with your head up your ass. All we need now’s a phone. ”

  And I say, in a very nice voice, “There’s a coffee shop two blocks this way.”

  She gives me the cold shoulder the whole two blocks, which suits me. The place is mostly empty, but I tell her I’ll wait outside.

  “Give me money for a couple of coffees. And don’t you dare take off.”

  Oh, she thinks she’s got me figured. Well, I was planning on taking off, but I’ll show her she doesn’t know everything. After I pass her enough money for coffee and the cab, I sit on the step and wait. She doesn’t come outside until the cab shows. Shoves a coffee at me, and when I open the car door for her, doesn’t bother saying thank you. I get in. Don’t say a word for the whole fifteen minutes. Pretend I love drinking lukewarm coffee. I still don’t say anything when she pays the driver, and then shoves my change into her purse.

  It’s totally dark, now. The usual nighttime crowd’s hanging out and smoking up. The guys across the hall are having a serious party. Rap music bangs along the walls. When I open the door into Greg’s living room, the light’s still on and I half expect to see him on the mattress, staring at the bug squishes on the ceiling.

  Kayla tosses her purse onto the mattress. “You look for the health card in the bedroom and I’ll start here.”

  I look toward the bedroom and my boots won’t move. Kayla gives me one of her Asshole stares and stomps off.

  There aren’t many places. I lift the mattress-slash-bed. Look under the CD player and beanbag chair. The racket from the neighbours’ takes off. No one in the building will sleep tonight, but I’m not sticking around, anyway. When Kayla finds Greg’s card, I’ll hand over enough money for her to take a cab to the hospital, and then to her place.