Part 2 (1/2)
”How did you know cancer runs in my family?”
Jonas pointed to his temple. Then he made a phone out of his hand.
”You're a dirty narc.”
Jonas lifted his nearly empty pint gla.s.s and smiled. ”And another one of these?”
”I'm gonna spit in it,” said the server, and started over to the men in the corner.
Madison pushed her gla.s.s of club soda and cranberry juice around the table. ”Remember, it's still a secret that I'm pregnant.”
”I didn't say anything specific about you.”
”You haven't told anyone?”
”No and I never would. Not until you're ready or it becomes obvious, fat-wise, and I can't bear to hear people gossiping about how you've let yourself go.”
In the darkness of her bas.e.m.e.nt bedroom, during episodes of insomnia, Madison often found herself thinking about Jonas. He drank too much beer and he was about three times more sarcastic than he had to be, but she felt he would make a terrific father. Plus, he was smart and handsome, and sported visible stomach muscles. Out of selfishness, Madison found herself wis.h.i.+ng Jonas could set his h.o.m.os.e.xuality aside for seventeen or eighteen years so they could raise her child together. Once or twice a week, with the bedroom curtain open, the moonlight hitting his body, they could...no.
Jonas had been wondering aloud about 10 Garneau, whether Mr. or Mrs. Let's Fix It was a literalist. Did the mystery person intend to erase Benjamin Perlitz from history? To repair the bullet holes and bloodstains, and make the house pretty again for Jeanne and Katie to move back in? If so, the mystery person was a jacka.s.s. The men in ball caps extinguished and surrendered their cigarettes. Jonas mimed applause and returned to his thought. He had started backstage with half a bottle of champagne, so a slur was easing into his voice. ”In a couple of months, someone new will be in 10 Garneau. Your mom and s.h.i.+rley can make dips, throw a welcome barbecue, a bottle of red and a bottle of white, some microbrew, the Barenaked Ladies on the hi-fi...”
”Jonas, it's not that easy.”
”I'm not going to any meeting. No way. I'm ideologically opposed.” He lifted his gla.s.s, to remind the server. The server squinted with mock-malevolence. Jonas winked at her. ”Our waitress covets me.”
”We all do, Jonas.”
”I know, I know. Yet I'm so old.”
”You're not.”
”For the last twenty years, I've been waiting for this special thing to happen to me. Do you know what that thing is?”
”Yes, Jonas.”
”I have been waiting patiently and tragically for Lorne Michaels to fly up here and whisk me to New York.”
Madison played an invisible violin.
Jonas slapped at the instrument. ”All these cute young Edmonton boys have made it down there in the last few years, inferior performers. But I've been good about it. Haven't I been good about it, supportive and gracious?”
Madison had been through this many times before. For people like Jonas, to live in Edmonton was to live in a state of perpetual failure. His successful friends in Vancouver and Toronto begged him to leave, to live in a place where the same-s.e.x marriage debate hadn't been so mean. And what about the trucks? All the big, s.h.i.+ny, pointless trucks? ”Absolutely supportive and gracious,” said Madison.
The server arrived with his third pint of Honey Brown ale, and Jonas thanked her and called her gorgeous. ”Swoon,” she said, and swooned.
Jonas tinked his gla.s.s with Madison's, and took a great slurp of beer. ”I think, after I'm done this, we should go on a little expedition.”
”Tonight?”
”Yes, tonight.”
”What sort of expedition?”
”You'll see, sister.”
A young man, about Madison's age, approached the table and cleared his throat. He wore khakis and a white T-s.h.i.+rt with a West Coast Choppers logo. On his right arm, just below the hem of the s.h.i.+rtsleeve, a Canadian flag tattoo. Madison expected him to ask for directions to the nearest Bruce Willis film festival.
”Hi. Um, I just wanted to, uh, say...”
Jonas hopped up out of his chair. ”Spit it out!”
Frightened, the young man took a step back. ”I, uh, I think you're real good.”
”Real good, eh?”
The young man swallowed, and nodded. ”I just wanted to say that.”
”Well, thanks. That's very kind of you.”
They stood about five feet apart. Madison recognized this as the usual distance between boxers, before they stepped in to wallop one another. The young man was handsome enough, in his way. But next to Jonas's canary-yellow s.h.i.+rt and tight Diesel jeans, the stranger looked like a soccer referee.
”My name's Carlos,” he said, and extended his hand for a shake.
”Oh, it is not!”
Carlos took another step back and turned his head slightly, like a confused cat. ”But. It is my name.”
The oddly tense handshake made Madison feel like a voyeur. Jonas slapped him on the tattoo. ”Carlos. I've seen you before.”
”Whenever I'm not working I come to your plays, and the soaps.”
”Want to join us for a drink?”
Carlos looked down at Madison and smiled. ”Uh, no. Thanks. I have to split. Bye.” And with that, he snaked around the tables and exited onto the sidewalk.
”That was bizarre.” Jonas sat down, and took a sip of beer. ”Wouldn't you say?”
”Quite bizarre.”
”Sorry, I'm drunk and forgetful. What were we talking about before Carlos came around?”
”An expedition.”
”Yes!” Jonas attempted to finish his beer in one giant gulp. Near the bottom, he took a break to burp and breathe and say, ”Whoa, that really burned.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. ”Are you ready?”