Part 10 (1/2)

I have fought with friends or family members.

I have experienced anxiety or memory loss.

I have locked myself out, wearing red monkey underwear.

I Agree. Strongly Agree. Disagree. Strongly Disagree ... On and on, till the nameless man said he was done.

22.

Sissy thought for a while, then finally said, ”I used to like horses.”

This was in response to Mason asking her to tell him about herself.

”I read all sorts of stories about girls and their horses, and boys and their horses, when I was a kid. Do you remember that scene in The Black Stallion The Black Stallion, at the beginning, when the black stallion is in the s.h.i.+p and they're being so awful to him? All I dreamed about was having a horse like that to save. Are you even listening?”

”Yes ...,” said Mason. His skin felt itchy, like there were flies on his neck. He, too, had once liked horses.

”So have you seen that movie or not?”

”I have.” They were quiet. Then Mason said, ”How about The Man from Snowy River?” The Man from Snowy River?”

”I haven't seen it. Is it good?”

”I shouldn't have said anything.”

”What?”

”I'm sorry. I think it's just this place. Do you think we could go somewhere else ... somewhere with a tree, maybe?”

”I don't know ...” Sissy lifted up her little plastic cup. ”I've still got some juice left.”

”So bring it with you!” He said this like it was a daring idea.

Sissy thought for a moment. ”All right,” she said.

”Okay then. Great!”

”But I don't want to sit on the ground.”

”No way. Near a tree, maybe. But definitely not on the ground.”

”We could find a bench.”

”A bench would be perfect!” He ushered Sissy and her apple juice out of the Ho-vee's, into the cold sunlight and traffic outside.

They found a park with a bench near a tree. It was at the bottom of a gra.s.sy hill. They sat down. Mason waited for Sissy to catch her breath. Eventually she pulled an envelope from her pocket. ”Your money,” she said. ”And I also brought you this.” She handed him a folded piece of paper.

”What is it?” asked Mason-distracted by the weight of the envelope.

”It's one of my dad's poems.”

He was about to take it, then stopped. ”I don't want to know who he is.”

”His name's not on it.”

”I might recognize the poem.”

”I seriously doubt it.”

He unfolded the paper.

Circe and the Stallion You remember the waves like breath, but never will See the ocean, the stables where the G.o.ds keep them Pawing, their hooves sparking aqua-blue, snorting hot breath from Ma.s.sive lungs, the stables, the ocean, the heat, the waves, all the same and so You never even sweat.But you guess at being a girl once, running breathless Placing things in a box, an island with walls you could fill With toy soldiers, a purple toenail, a funny sketch of your mother You might have drawn, had you not become more lovely, so unearthly You put the island in its place.And when eventually came the stallion, it was indistinguishable From the waves it crashed upon the sh.o.r.e breathing and beaten tough With the burning of its own lungs, it sighed your name and made you run For the first time, down to the edge of the water, the island, the earth, the box, the page You picked up and wrote.You rode it down the sh.o.r.e, in circles, Circe, Then stumbled finally On brine-covered, salty, wind-whipped gla.s.s.

The critics had loathed it, but Sissy loved the poem. She'd read it over and over, imagining herself on the back of that horse. She begged her father for riding lessons, and finally he relented.

On her thirteenth birthday her father drove her out of the city, down gravel roads, to an enclave of paddocks and stables surrounded by elm trees. ”It was Utopia,” she said. Standing in wood chips with six other girls, she waited on the horses. The woman who'd told them to wait was barely a woman-only seventeen or so-but she was the coolest, most beautiful person Sissy had ever seen in real life. Before she pulled it into a ponytail, her straight, dark hair touched the waist of her riding pants. Her dark eyes were like cool coal, and the coil of rope swung down from her shoulder into her hand as she turned towards the stables. I want to be her I want to be her, thought Sissy. And for a moment she didn't think at all about the other girls standing in the wood chips, the normal skinny six of them.

She didn't even give them much thought later that night, as she lay sobbing on the rug at the foot of her bed. She was accustomed to their sort of derision, and it was nothing compared to the shame she felt in the lovely face of the coal-eyed cowgirl. She She was the kind who could save a wild stallion from a sinking s.h.i.+p, make it to sh.o.r.e still breathing, stand up and meet his dark horse eyes with hers, mount him bareback and gallop o'er the glistening sand. Whereas Sissy was the kind who couldn't even hoist her fat, round self onto a saddled, half-asleep nag. She'd tried, again and again, kicking and kicking her monster legs ... and by the time the horse lady had managed to get a shoulder under Sissy's large b.u.t.t to help hoist her up, the Normal Six were already laughing. Then she was on top of the old nag named Venus, tears welling in her eyes, reaching hopelessly for the reins. was the kind who could save a wild stallion from a sinking s.h.i.+p, make it to sh.o.r.e still breathing, stand up and meet his dark horse eyes with hers, mount him bareback and gallop o'er the glistening sand. Whereas Sissy was the kind who couldn't even hoist her fat, round self onto a saddled, half-asleep nag. She'd tried, again and again, kicking and kicking her monster legs ... and by the time the horse lady had managed to get a shoulder under Sissy's large b.u.t.t to help hoist her up, the Normal Six were already laughing. Then she was on top of the old nag named Venus, tears welling in her eyes, reaching hopelessly for the reins.

”Here they are,” said the horse lady. Her hands grasped Sissy's and Sissy began to sob, thirteen years old, already slumped on the back of her dreams.

Notes on the Novel in Progress Verisimilitude check: So many characters, so few professions.

Real people have real jobs....

To research: Doctors. Lawyers. Policemen. Priest. Court reporters. Candlestick-makers. Intake forms. Medical questionnaires. How to make candles.

Possible t.i.tle: That Is the Question

23.

The file was thick-full of all those answers he'd given. Mason could guess, more or less, what was on the first page: Name: Mason Dubisee Mason DubiseeAge: 30 30Occupation: writer / hotdog vendor writer / hotdog vendorHealth Card #: not available not availableTreatment for: alcohol and cocaine alcohol and cocaineUse in past 60 days: extreme extremeDuration of heavy to extreme use: 5 years, approx. 5 years, approx.Arrests, parole or court appearances: none nonePsychiatric history: Formed once. May 4-this year. Less than 72 hours. Formed once. May 4-this year. Less than 72 hours.Drinks per week: 84 84Cocaine per week: 4.5 grams 4.5 gramsWillingness to decrease use: unclear unclearRisk to self: moderate moderateRisk to others: low lowManaging day-to-day life: moderate difficulty moderate difficultyIsolation or feelings of loneliness: quite a bit quite a bitDepression, hopelessness: quite a bit quite a bitFear, anxiety, panic: quite a bit quite a bitConfusion, loss of concentration, memory: quite a bit quite a bitMood swings, unstable moods: quite a bit quite a bitUncontrollable, compulsive behaviour: quite a bit quite a bitImpulsive, illegal or reckless behaviour: quite a bit quite a bitManic, bizarre behaviour: a little a littleOpenness to treatment: unclear unclearWould like to belong to several clubs: very unclear very unclear ”You don't recognize me, do you?” said Mason, a half-smile on his face.

The young doctor looked up from the file. ”How are your tonsils?”

”Oh,” said Mason. ”They're okay. Thanks.”

She turned back to the file.

Mason looked around. There was indirect light coming through the window. If one were to look out, across Spadina, one could see Mason's apartment building. He made a mental note to close his curtains.

The office was spa.r.s.e. A few books, a framed picture of a girl with pigtails, some bottles and pill containers. On the wall was a diploma, a poster from the 1970s advertising cod liver oil (You are my suns.h.i.+ne!) are my suns.h.i.+ne!), and a laminated sign: NO NUTS ALLOWED!

Mason laughed.