Chapter 12 of The Trickster

It

Reproached by fate, it can’t see how its actions have led to its undoing. Instead, it carelessly brags about the dark and violent inclinations it surrenders to.

Weaving a filmy spider’s web, it stitches together a trap of cruelty. Proud of its distasteful behavior, it boasts hatred making me cringe whenever it opens its mouth. Its barbed tongue slices across my ears. Inured to violence, it feels no shame. Instead, it takes pride in its sadism. A misogynist and a coward, it can’t stop itself from delighting in the perversions it directs at the woman it claims to love.

Beat by rude blasts, its toxic rants, coloured with flatulence, pollutes the air. Crude complaints about Emma’s sexual hang-ups never seem to end… and like a broken record that farts over the same odious rut in the groove: it is stuck in a spiral of carnal revulsion.

There is a void in it. In the place where it should feel remorse for its unsavory behavior, there is nothing but a black hole. No guilt provokes it, no vows appease. Empathy just isn’t programmed into its hard-wiring. Its hollowed heart, stripped of compassion, is a receptacle for the most base desires, making it more beast than human.

Possessed by a wanton single-mindedness it operates under a dark sexual spell, fueled by the endless hours of porn it watches. Crude and indiscreet, I don’t know how many times I’ve had to hold up my hand, pleading with it to stop talking about sex. But it never heeds my words and continues to sing the same tiresome song: a kinky lament about Emma’s lackluster sex drive.

Ever since they’ve gotten back together all it ever talks about is doing her, Marquis de Sade style, up the ass. It’s so chronic, a couple of weeks ago I lost it. I don’t want to hear it any more. We were shelving books in the religious studies section. It’s like being trapped in a Tarantino film having to listen to you. God damn it! Some things are meant to remain private.

With menace in its eyes it glared at me. I crossed my fingers, hoping that it might make a threatening overture: any excuse to make it eat my fist. But then the coward’s thoughts gave way. Without mace or a weapon within reach, it quickly simmered. Patting me on the back it bemoaned. I guess I am a bit obsessed. It laughed. But if Emma would stop being such a bitch and just give it up I wouldn’t need to talk about it so much.

I turned around and walked away. Under its breath I heard it mutter: One of these days I’m just going to take it from her.

Chapter 11 of The Trickster

Skip

Around the room, I looked into the eyes of the people who had gathered. I began to read. Now that he is gone, I appreciate Skip’s magnum opus more than ever.

Dad’s great work, crafted from flesh and blood, was his children. The memorial service was a crowded affair. I looked up from my notes at the coworkers, friends and family members before continuing.

Two years younger than his brother and ten years older than his sister, dad duplicated that familial pattern when he created a family of his own. Blind to the future, but never pensive with fear, Skip was a craftsman. Greg, my brother, was born two years after me and ten years before our sister Catherine. All of us sculpted from repeating patterns of DNA.

Skip grew up in Detroit, formed from the fruitful genius of depression era Motown. A wily southpaw, he blossomed into an amateur basketball star in the 1950s. Blessed with grace and agility, he was a determined competitor whose desire to win was balanced by his sense of fair play. A fine golfer with an archer's knack for tucking his irons close to the flag, he inspired in me a love for the game. Over some three decades of strolling the links together, I managed only once to outscore Skip.

I remember how proud he was of me that afternoon as we lounged in the clubhouse after our round. I'll never forget the respect I felt for him as I listened to dad boast about my victory to his clubhouse cronies. Even though I'd finally managed to best him, I realized, that winning was meaningless unless I aspired to the qualities of sportsmanship that my father exemplified.

Near the end of his life when the leukemia left him feeling exhausted, Skip’s natural nobility never wavered. There was no bitterness; no regrets. With tender words, he emphasized how full and happy his life had been, reiterating again and again how fortunate he was to have had such loving and beautiful children.

During his final days, I often spoke to him about what he envisioned on the other side. He was vague and obtuse and generally changed the subject toward my sister and brother and mother, reminding me that through our actions his spirit would live on.

The final time we spoke, I told my father things that had remained unspoken between us since I was a child, expressing with words how much I loved and respected him.

-You've always been a winner, dad. You were a great father.-

He smiled a wary smile and I continued. -If there's such a thing as reincarnation, I know you're going to be reborn a star NBA point guard.-

Skip laughed: -Honestly, I'd much rather come back as a golfer who wins the Masters!-

-Maybe you'll do both, - I countered, -the first athlete to play in the NBA and don the green jacket at Augusta National.-

Dad's voice was weak. -Well, if I do happen to do both, you'll know it's me.-

I did some rudimentary math.

-Let's just assume it takes you about thirty years to do both. That would make me about seventy-four years old by the time you accomplished both tasks.-

I told Dad that I'd come down and cheer him on during the final round of the Masters.

-And don't forget to introduce yourself to me as the son I had from a previous incarnation.-

-Absolutely- I said. -You can count on it.-

The Trickster chapter 10

1:15

I’m gliding with ghosts, swept away, sliding through Pluto’s swinging gate. The echoes from the spirit world close in; apparitions circle around. Amongst the shadows I spot my father in chinos and Arnold Palmer wear standing between rows of books. He’s shaking his head. You should have turned back.

Chapter 9 of the Trickster

Molly

What compels a person to fall apart after a broken heart? I can’t speak for others but in my case I was caught by surprise. I had always imagined myself strong and capable and independent, not a weak-willed foil crumbling under the weight of Eros’ rejection. But then I met Molly and I learned the heavy truth about just how crushing heartbreaks can be.

She has always been my heroin: celestial wine that carries me on mystical wings to a place where heart and mind rejoice. Brought to my knees by a love that never failed to hit the vein, her narcotic allure and morphine smile was my undoing. But like all junkies I had to learn a hard way. Chasing a dragon like Molly isn’t easy. Before I could win her heart, first she had to pummel mine.

I thought we were in love, but without warning she disappeared from my life, cold turkey, for five years.

My beautiful Molly miracle: a divine gift of charisma and grace, everything about my life changed after she stepped into it. Sideways, upside down, Molly set me spinning.

So many memories embedded inside of memories: vignettes of the halcyon times we’ve shared together. I shake my head in disbelief, dizzy, not quite sure how I managed to both survive her and win her heart.

Before Molly, love failed to resonate with me. But once I discovered her, she plucked my strings and drew the music from the hidden Stradivarius inside me. Suddenly my ears were no longer deaf to love’s rhapsody. Convinced that I had finally met the diva who could make my soul sing, I lived in harmony. Dancing into my life I was blindsided by the song she set free in me. With a kiss, she threw the switch, rousing tender melodies from the very essence of my being…

Ithaca: with Molly my wandering had finally reached its end!

I’ve probably replayed this memory a thousand times in my head. Every detail remains perfectly vivid: the way the morning sun and the June breeze tiptoed through her bedroom window and stirred me awake. We’d been seeing each other about ten weeks and none of the restlessness that usually accompanied a new relationship plagued me. I touched Molly’s blond locks; her head was resting upon my shoulder. She was still sleeping and her breath was warm against my neck. It baffled me. There was so much I wanted to learn about her… from her … with her. The second guessing that once undermined my faith in intimacy was gone.

Through the window a beam of sunlight illuminated Molly’s face. Her perfect skin touched my nose with its peach blossom scent. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. At 37, for the first time in my life, I was really in love. I brushed a strand of hair off of her forehead. When her eyes opened, she smiled at me. Then she kissed me on the mouth and wrapping her arms around me I began to fall…

If I’d only known what was coming next. But back in those early days, I was drifting in the ether, flying high, too close to the sun. The wax holding my wings in place was destined to melt.

Love-blind I didn’t see the fraud lurking in the shadows. Determined to make mischief with my happiness a few weeks later, Molly suddenly vanished without explanation. Of all the unnumbered woes heaven and fate could have thrust upon me, why I wondered did the gods introduce me to Molly.

There were no warning signs. With a wink of her eye, she made like a magician and disappeared. She left no clue, provided no letter. It was like a progression of punches to the face that rattled me harder and harder with every passing day without news from her. I had no idea why she walked out on me. The day before she abandoned her apartment and disconnected her mobile phone we’d spent a lovely afternoon together. But the following evening when I walked over to her place I learned from her neighbour that she had sublet her apartment and moved to Spain. How could I have not known that? Who keeps that kind of thing a secret from the person they’re sleeping with? Distraught, I staggered back home, shattered by the news. I vomited twice and broke two fingers when I punched the front door of my walk-up…

Ripped from love’s embrace by a tempest torn, I hated her for leaving me. It was such a toxic way to end our intimacy; it poisoned me with cynicism and infected me with doubt. Rejected, I felt like damaged goods. All the mojo and joie du vivre I’d been tapping into suddenly felt like nothing more than an illusion and a mirage. No matter how I tried to convince myself otherwise, I couldn’t escape the truth: only assholes get dumped the way Molly dumped me.

I couldn’t face the fact that she wasn’t coming back. Days, weeks, months and years went by… but I couldn’t stop pining for Molly. Even worse, losing her made me feel like a complete and utter failure.

The fortress around my heart that Molly demolished was brick by brick, re-erected. Only this time the walls were fortified with doubt: capped with barbed wire and manned with snipers who aimed their sights on Eros and his advancing army of love.

Molly’s Houdini-deception corroded the blood within my veins, fermenting it into piss and vinegar. The magic carpet that had lifted my spirit turned out to be nothing more than a rug that had been pulled out from beneath my feet. Set tumbling I plummeted back to earth. The crimson-coloured splat where I smacked against the pavement was all that remained of our intimacy.

Five years: no phone calls, no emails, nothing. I was so distraught that I tried to hypnotise myself into believing that I never wanted to see her again. But the moment she strolled through the bistro door where I had been enjoying a lunch, my resolve began to crumble.

In the middle of buttering a baguette, I thought I was hallucinating… drawn into a flashback a half-decade old. The knife I was holding fell out of my hand, bouncing off the table before it somersaulted onto the floor. Alarm bells started to ring. Loaded with a weight of woe and not knowing what to do, I remained perfectly still, as petrified as a sculpture of Buddha.

Fearing her eyes, I pulled my gaze away from her immediately. But it only took one glance to see that she was even more delicious than she was before.

To calm myself I began drawing long draughts of air into my lungs. Five years without a word! Five years since those icy blue eyes caressed me. In through my nose, out through my mouth, I tried to keep my breathing slow and deep. Remain cool, I told myself that Molly’s Titanic beauty was no match for my glacial will… that my heart was now an iceberg.

She was staring right at me. I could feel her blues washing over me, making assessments, sizing me up. If she was hoping that I would acknowledge her, I was determined to disappoint her. It felt deliciously cruel. Ignoring her, not meeting her gaze is exactly what she deserved. But the alarm in my head wouldn’t stop clanging. In close proximity, Molly was her most dangerous. I had to be careful or the IED’s she’d left behind in me would begin exploding up and down the roads leading to and from my heart.

I had long since convinced myself that there was no salvation in her watery ways. As five years of the anger and bile percolated through me I steeled myself against her.

Gratefully she veered straight towards the counter. Her majesty uncontested, she floated through the bistro on air divine while the gazing eyes of the men around her undressed her with their eyes. Latent jealousies exposed… my blood began to boil.

She sat amongst the early afternoon drinkers, slurping pints of homely brew that never ceased to flow. I vowed not to turn towards her, willing myself to transcend her proximity. To acknowledge her, I believed would empower her, leaving me weak and vulnerable. After a five year absence, all redeeming memories of Molly had been vanquished from my psyche. What remained were cannibalistic recollections of a succubus who’d pillaged the sacred within me. I vowed to be stronger than her, to never be drawn into her web and feasted upon again.

In retrospect, the only person I was hiding from was me. As much as I tried to convince myself that the opposite was true, I was incapable of resisting Molly. Like water feeding into a basin, I was drawn to her depths… carried by her undertow far from the shoreline.

The impending tsunami was on its way and my head kept tolling the alarm. Sonorous through the shaded air it rang, urging me to fly towards freedom. It was beyond comprehension. I’d given up hope and now here she was sitting at the bistro counter not twenty feet away from me. The earth was shaking, water levels were rising and as much as I wanted to run, the fool in me felt compelled to remain exactly where he was.

I had fallen so completely and utterly apart after Molly left… I gave up on painting. I gave up on hope. I gave up on love. I gave up on myself. Bleak days and even drearier nights; her absence blanketed me in darkness. And now here she was sitting at the bar in ‘my café’ looking as nonplussed and cheery as ever. It unnerved me. I didn’t know how to react.

Haunted by the shower of sorrows shed, I felt like we were characters out of a Hollywood movie; spiralling into a Bogart and Bergman cliché. Rudderless and cast adrift, after she disappeared, I felt so empty and worthless all I wanted to do was drink. And like the cynical and heartbroken Humphrey in Casablanca I found my version of Rick’s café.

For a long time I played the role of a barfly. Tripped by fate, I wallowed in black doom, marked by the kiss of death. Seeking the company of Jack Daniels, the firewater, punctuated with cocaine almost made me forget. But the amnesia I craved was never sated. No amount of liquor, narcotics or indiscriminate sex could truly free me from Molly. It took me more than two years to learn that truth. And if it wasn’t for a beating that knocked some sense back into me, I may have never escaped the inebriated fog that had wrapped its arms around me.

I wasn’t a happy drunk. Instead, I was one of those bitter drinkers who took great pleasure in needling others about their foibles. Striking nerves, I was looking for trouble. Fury burned on my careless tongue… what cruelties it conveyed. A powder-keg of raw emotion, my combustible state was exasperated by the dragon fuel I was consuming. Although my intoxicated belligerence made some, at the watering hole where I numbed myself, laugh, those being carved up by my uncensored wit were much less appreciative.

I’d been warned on more than a couple of occasions by bartenders that my sense of humour was rubbing the wrong people the wrong way and that if I wasn’t careful there would be some unpleasant consequences.

I needed someone to teach me how to seek redress for all my woes. Unfortunately, that learning curve was violent.

The brute that set me straight had some mixed martial arts experience and had been waiting to unload on me for a long time. He was a bigot and a bully and every word out of his mouth smelled of fascism. One night while he was pontificating to the regulars around the bar about same sex marriages and the will of God, I foolishly and drunkenly decided to wind him up. When he groaned: I hope all faggots burn in hell I couldn’t resist the temptation to make him the butt of my bourbon-soaked sense of humour.

I think that the lady doth protest too much. Some of the patrons began to laugh. Albeit nervously. The look on the brute’s face, unable to accept that he was the object of ridicule, suddenly turned ugly with rage.

What is that supposed to mean?

I staggered forward. Stop fighting it, dude. Just come out of the closet already.

To my right, the bartender shook his head and muttered to the client opposite him. Uh oh, he’s gone too far this time. And no sooner had that sentence has been uttered than a fist cannonballed straight towards me, clubbing me on the side of the head. I was sent reeling backwards. But the terror wasn’t finished with me; a second blow caught me flush on the nose. And as I folded up onto the floor, blood pouring out of my beak, a half-dozen foot-stomps rained down on my ribs before the gathering throng of patrons finally managed to pull the badger off of me.

The woes unnumbered sent from heaven and fate! To be both broken hearted and beaten like a dog.

When I woke up the next day I hobbled towards the bathroom. The person in the mirror hardly resembled me. My nose was a swollen pancake and both my eyes were bruised blue and black. Dried blood was clogging the inside of my nose and if I wasn’t already having enough trouble breathing, my bruised ribs stabbed with pain whenever my lungs expanded. Adding to my humiliation was the dreadful magic of a commanding hangover. Standing there in front of the mirror, I knew what type of tragedy was waiting for me if I continued down the alcoholic path I was traveling. I’d turned my back on my art and my spirit was being extinguished. The drugs and the drinking weren’t going to get Molly back. I had hit rock bottom, and I vowed to the face in the mirror that I was going to stop feeling sorry for myself.

To have remained a swine that grovels, I would have never heard the lion’s roar…

It wasn’t easy, but I finally returned to painting. After such a long absence my art instincts had atrophied. It was hard going at first and I equated my situation to that of a stroke victim struggling to redevelop use of a paralyzed limb. But turning my back on the bar was my first step towards recovery and gradually my creative rhythm and discipline returned. But despite sobering up and reinvesting some blood, sweat and tears into my craft; the ghost of Molly remained determined to haunt me.

She spooked me: a deer in the night suddenly materializing before a car on a dark stretch of highway. That’s how Molly would appear to me. Always when I least expected it, when I was my most vulnerable… while I slept. I couldn’t tell you how many nights she guest-starred in my dreams. But it was often enough to be unsettling. Dream-Molly was a poltergeist who entered through the portals opened wide and lingered about my sleeping. And on those mornings following her visits, I always felt possessed by an uncanny presence: and I would yearn for the life of the barfly I had left behind.

The problem was that for those brief moments of dreamtime when Molly and I were together, I willingly suspended my disbelief and surrendered to the illusion. That’s how lost I was. No matter how obscure or obtuse, my heart ballooned with hope whenever I dreamed of her. But when the alarm clock chimed and my eyes opened, my loneliness would feel more acute than ever.

To grisly Pluto and his gloomy bride, I mined the underworld frantically searching for her. In dark caverns, in the uncharted regions of the mind I found reoccurring motifs constructed around an unrequited theme. Two dreams in particular repeated ad nauseam. In the first I would find myself divided from Molly by a sheet of glass: the type of one way glass used in police stations. I was able to see her, but the window kept her from seeing me. I’d bang frantically on the glass, hollering out her name, desperately trying to get her attention… but no matter how hard I hammered my fists, she would never hear me.

In another recurring theme I’d find myself on the floor of the sea where Molly would be sitting at a piano. She would smile at me longingly, conjuring a Chopin nocturne from the ivory keys. The music, always mellifluous and divine, would swim coolly along Neptune’s currents. Hypnotized by the sound of her playing, I would remain underwater holding my breath; a sailor caught in a mermaid’s web. But Molly, who had no difficulty extracting oxygen from the sea, would regard me with mother of pearl eyes that begged me to remain with her. The dream would always conclude with the same suffocating ending. My lungs would begin to burn, but rather than surfacing towards air and life, I would hold my breath until I could hold it no longer… and like clockwork I would wake up, surfacing out of sheets and linen towards the white curls of wave above, gasping and fighting for air, the vexed ocean still roaring in my ears.

Months turned into years and the dreams just wouldn’t stop. There seemed no getting over her. The wall was just too high.

Molly’s unexpected presence in the bistro was an intense reminder of all that I had lost. All the anger and hurt she’d inflicted upon me immediately began to well up again. Stunned, I was held in a grip of overwhelming awe and shame.

Revenge and doubt were alive in my chest; she deserved to be ignored!

I needed her to know that I was the better, smarter swimmer now. That I wasn’t going to be carried away by the pull of her beckoning blues and their seductive undertow. I wanted her to understand that the tides she commanded no longer held power over me.

Resembling Venus in her irresistible state… I vowed that she was no longer my navigational center, no more my morning star.

It was her nonchalance that blew me away. She was so full of life and promise; it made the piss and vinegar churn inside my veins. Five years without a word and suddenly Helen of Troy returns. Seemingly indifferent to the scale of destruction her betrayal caused, she appeared cool and casual and not the slightest bit self-conscious about being so close to me.

Did she have no shame, I wondered. Why didn’t she just turn around and leave the café? Her cruelty, I naturally assumed, knew no limits. After such an epic absence I had grown blind to her redeeming qualities. Where once I believed her modest and void of guile, now all I saw was someone who was as incapable of remorse as I was forgiveness.

Her head was tilted towards me and I could feel the tide in those pale blue eyes rising. The lunar pull of her gaze was compelling but I knew that if I dove back into those blue pools I’d risk drowning. But like a heroin addict I couldn’t say no to a fix… just one quick glimpse.

Of course her eyes were waiting for me: sea blue and flickering with sunlight. She had untied her hair and a waterfall of blond splashed down upon her shoulders. By all the deathless powers that reign above, I swear the shock of contact was a lightning bolt that seared through my defenses. My heart skipped a beat and I was pulled back under.

Her eyes have always commanded me: soulful magnets, topaz blue, as blue as the blues of Muddy Waters, mermaid eyes that harbour the deadliest of deadly illusions. With just one look Eros’ dart hit its mark. It was beyond the pale, in that one second of contact… she smiled.

Panic-stricken I turned away. Could she have been any more audacious and galling? Not a word from her in five years and now she was smiling at me like she’d never left. It was sinister. I felt like prey squirming in a lion’s jaws. I shifted in my seat, turning further away from her…

Of course I was fighting a losing battle. As much as I wanted to impress upon Molly how little she now meant to me, both of us knew it was just a bluff. There was no hiding from the fateful chemistry between us.

But in my mind it was better to fall upon my sword rather than acknowledge that I still loved her. And although I had rehearsed this moment ten-million times, now that she was this close, the levy that was holding back a flood of contrary emotions began to crack.

Fearful whispers bouncing around my brain kept insisting: run… hide… seek cover. She’s going to eat you alive.

Of course I hesitated. I couldn’t pull myself away. When I closed my eyes I could almost smell the lilac in her sun-streaked mane. And her smile: I was still swimming in its opiate afterglow.

My heart seeking redress for all my suffering wanted to live again… But my head would have none of it. Where once I believed in her... now all my brain craved was amnesia.

The memories I had cloistered away were now picking locks and escaping from their holding cells. Rewinding, I found myself returning to that fateful day when we first met… I was jogging along Olmstead road on Mont Royal when I found myself pacing beside her.

I recognized her right away; she was the same woman who shared a smile with me at a vernisage a week earlier. It was at a group exhibition of photographers in the Mile-End gallery. The exhibition space was jam-packed with visitors and when our eyes met from across the room blue waves of electricity flashed through me.

She offered me the same bashful smile on the mountain path that I had savoured seven days earlier. I recognize you. Her words were punctuated by steady breathing... inhaling and exhaling long drafts of air.

From the photography exhibition, I huffed and puffed.

Exactly, she kept a pretty quick pace: her running was smooth and economical.

I extended my hand towards her: My name is Valek.

We shook hands on the run. Molly.

What did you think of the show?

I thought the photographer who exhibited the triptych of the woman eating a hot dog had a wonderful sense of humour.

Molly giggled. Thank you.

Those were your photographs?

She nodded her head.

I had no idea. I sucked in air. You’re good…

She smiled happily.

I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time. It’s quirky stuff. That series reminded me of Diane Arbus.

She blushed: the compliment plus the heat of exertion reddened her shoulders, neck and face.

On the wings of wind, we sailed along the tree-lined path. When we reached the stairs at the Peel cutoff Molly pointed towards them and I nodded my head. We climbed them two at a time ascending towards the mountain summit. At first neither of us said a word as we climbed the hundreds of stairs sculpted into the cliff’s face. We ran side by side up the lower section, but then Molly giggled: Race you to the top.

She bolted ahead, gaining a six step advantage on me. By the time we reached the half-way point, she’d pulled ten stairs ahead. It stayed that way until the three-quarters mark when I began to sneak up on her, reaching deep inside myself for the extra energy required to catch her. And when only thirty or forty steps remained we were dead even. With twenty left I’d pulled ahead by two. We ran that way till the final four steps when I allowed Molly catch up to me and we both reached the summit at the same time.

We were both huffing and puffing trying to draw as much oxygen into our lungs as possible. Molly was standing still but I had to keep moving or I feared my heart would stop from the shock.

You let me catch you. Molly brushed strands of blond off her face.

I was running on the spot and sucking in air so hard I could barely talk. I shook my head and winked. That nearly killed me!

Normally I don’t take a break… but today I’m thinking of stopping for some ice-cream, she pointed towards the snack bar. Care to join me?

I’d love to. I smiled and tapped the empty pockets of my jogging shorts. But I didn’t bring any money with me.

My treat.

At the concession stand near the lookout we ordered ice cream. Montreal was stretched out beneath our feet. Cones in hand, we stood near the outpost that offered a view of the downtown core. Molly pointed at the skyscrapers in the valley below. She was a mix persuasion and eloquence. Standing there on the top of the mountain Molly said it was her favourite spot in the city.

After we finished our cones we found ourselves wandering through the cemetery that connects to the park.

At one point, I looked at Molly and couldn’t stop myself from smiling stupidly.

What’s so funny?

I shook my head and opening my arms with an expansive gesture I answered. This, I go out for a run and I end up eating ice-cream and walking amongst the dead with a beautiful stranger.

We were near the polished marble of Anna Leonowens, the resting place of the king of Siam’s governess.

Molly blushed and looked at her feet. I worried that my comment made her uncomfortable because she just kept her eyes focused on the ground. But when she finally looked up, she smiled timidly. Would you like to have dinner with me?

I gulped. Sure… When?

How is tonight?

I nodded. Compelled, I leaned forward and kissed her. She kissed me back, sighing.

When we unwound from our embrace, she laughed nervously: Whew, déjà vu.

I laughed: I think it’s just the cemetery talking.

Is this where you take all your dates?

I sputtered and coughed.

Outside, on St Laurent, a honking horn drew me out of my reverie back to the present. Beyond the window a bicyclist flipped a motorist the bird. The driver rolled down his window and uttered obscenities français, Tabarnac! Va chier idiot! He squealed his tires and sped away.

It was at that moment that I knew I had to leave. Hanging around was weak, futile. So I waved towards the waitress, gesturing for the bill. She smiled as she shimmied over to my table: It’s already been taken care of. My consternation apparent, the smile on the waitress’ face disappeared. The woman at the bar, she gestured with her head towards Molly, paid for your lunch.

Dumb went my voice and mute the tuneful string. Light-headed, I could hardly breathe. I stood up and moved towards the door with neither purpose nor pride. It was 22 Celsius outside: the skies were the purest blue, smog free. I held my head high, face tilted towards the sun, soaking up the rays. I didn’t dare look back in Molly’s direction.

Chapter 8 The Trickster

1:14 pm

Two rows of books behind me I hear a hushed voice. Mom, I don’t know what to do. It’s a young man; his throaty words are dry, hoarse and broken. I’m scared.

Pause.

The voice is fighting back tears. A woman was shot in the head. I can practically reach out and touch her. Another long pause before: What should I do? His voice rises, then, catching himself, he brings his volume back down to a trembling whisper.

Pause.

Maybe I should run for it. I can feel his panic.

Pause.

No, I don’t see the shooter.

Pause.

The voice breaks: I love you too.

I hear him drawing in huge draughts of air. I’m going to run for it.

Pause.

I won’t hang up.

I hear the sound of slapping feet against the linoleum floor as the owner of the faceless voice races towards the stairs. I hold my breath, anticipating the worst. But no hammer slams down: no gunshot resounds.

That’s when I see it… hovering over me… holding a gun. It’s bleeding: shot in its leg. How?

Dude, you’re not looking so good. It wipes blood off its brow with the sleeve of its shirt.

Sliding to the ground, it unbuckles its belt and makes a tourniquet for its leg.

When I try to sit up, I begin to cough and sputter.

It puts its hand on my shoulder. Chill bro, stay still. There’s compassion in its voice… something that I’ve never detected from it before. It pulls its hoodie off and covers my chest with it. You need to press this into the wound to slow the bleeding.

Chapter 7 of The Trickster

Prelude

Molly's hand rests upon my back: Val, it’s alright, you’re having a dream.

I’m sitting upright in our bed. Still trapped in sleep’s net, it takes me a moment to orientate. I sigh; no longer surrounded by the turbulent current of unconscious tides. Molly’s baby-blues are sleepy but reassuring; as warm and welcoming as the soft kisses she arouses me awake with. We laugh and I surrender into her arms. That was a weird one!

We spoon together. Restored safe through weary wanderings tossed, I settle back into the deep, fluffy down, curling close to her belly.

I was with my ol' dog Shirley and we were chasing a fox through the cemetery.

I lower myself and lay my ear against Molly's tummy. My father was there. There were these crows... no, I correct myself, they were harpies and they started eating Shirley. I tried to save her. But my father warned me about the fool I’d become. He pointed a gun at me… I sigh… and then he shot me.

Molly chimes sympathetically. That’s horrible. She strokes my hair.

Maybe I should tell her about the fox. But I’m still ashamed. I was eighteen when I killed her; old enough to know better. We were at my friend Frank’s family cottage in the Township’s. We had been drinking heavily and when Frank suggested we try some target practice with the  .22 his father kept on the premises.

It was all fun and games when when we were taking target-practice at trees. But when a red fox appeared from behind a bush, Frank challenged, I bet you can’t hit it.

Without hesitating, I raised the gun and fired.

It was only a dream Val.

I want to disagree but an unexpected kick to my head prompts me to segue. Hey, she just kicked me in the ear. I listen even more carefully to the sounds emerging from her belly womb.

Molly laughs: Did you know that my great grandmother's name was Shirley? It’s a nice name. Molly laughs and repeats the name again: Shirley. What do you think? She speaks in a singsong voice as much to me as the stirring fetus. Is she a little Shirley?

We’ve been getting along so well lately. I hope this lasts. Maybe we’re finally over the hump.

We change positions and Molly lays her head upon my shoulder; smooth her perfect skin is lilac-scented. Her silky hair filled with flowers. I’m savouring our intimacy, happy that we can share moments like this again.

Molly whispers in my ear: Are you nervous?

What should I be nervous about? I know what she’s getting at, but I still want her to voice it. She rolls over and pushes her belly against me. About becoming a father? About what’s going to happen to us?

No, I smile. I’ve never been more certain. I caress her cheek and kiss her forehead. She snuggles into me and we caress each other lazily and tenderly.

Sharing my life with you... having a baby together, I'm sitting on the rooftop of the world.

I reach for the loony-sized sun that dangles from a gold chain that hangs around her neck. I twirl the pendant that once belonged to my grandmother between my thumb and forefinger. It was destined to find a home with Molly.

Happy astonishment radiates from her smile. Enriched with merit, fortified with hope my heart leaps when she pulls me close. You make me so happy.

I do?

More than you’ll ever know. She kisses me on the mouth and then pulling away. I have an idea. Don't go to work today!

What?

Let’s stay in bed together all morning. We’ll order in lunch… it’ll be just like old times.

I laugh, tempted by the offer. Sure, why not?

Even better, she continues, why don’t you just quit that stupid job?

It’s so unlike the normally pragmatic Molly, I can’t believe my ears. Did you just say what I think you said?
She laughs at me, I'm serious... you hate that job.

Oh I get it, I'm still dreaming. My pregnant wife wants me to quit my job before our first child is born. I roll my eyes. Clearly you’re hormonal.

Molly slaps me playfully, then her expression turns sheepish and she blurts out. My parents want to buy us a house in Hudson!
In Hudson!
Before you say no, just think about it. We would have a back yard.
It's an hour away from Montreal. What about my job?
Quit.
And what will we live on?
I’ll still be a freelancer for The Star.
Yeah, I squint. What about me?

You're almost making as much money from your painting as you are from the library. And I know you're going to sell like crazy in New York.

We can't be banking on that. What if I don't sell a thing?

Don't be ridiculous. Besides we won't need as much... my parents are going to buy us a house. She claps her hands together excitedly. And think of the extra time you'll have to paint.

What about my studio?
The house has a garage. We can convert it.

Just the thought of Hudson’s rural quaintness makes me nervous. Suburbia in all its mind-killing glory; it’s everything I fear. It’s a conformist story plagued with future woes: And where is this mansion with a back yard and studio slash garage?
It's on the golf course. Molly smiles guiltily.
Oh no… don't tell me!
You'll be able to play every day.
Where, exactly on the golf course?
It’s the little Tudor two doors down from my parents.
No... no... no... I moan. I don't want to be a part of the cult.
Think of the baby.

Molly… You said it yourself, your parents are meddlesome and your sister and Steve never shut up. It's unnatural. It wouldn’t be good for the baby. I rub Molly’s belly. Do you really want to turn little Shirley into a member of the Manson family?
Molly shoots me an angry look.
Hey, it’s what you call them. I defend myself.

Yeah, well, they’re my family and I can call them whatever I want.

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Ever since I've known you, you've complained about Judith’s smothering nature. And now you’re telling me that you want us to make house right in the heart of the hornet's nest.

Impatience and anger contort Molly's features. It's an incredibly generous gift... and I'd rather that you stop pointing out the negatives.

I sit up, laughing. Weren't you the one who was taking the piss out of Kelly just last month for living across the street from your parents? What was it that you called Steve... something neutered... oh I remember, you called him the steer.

Hoisted by her petard, Molly’s face is red with rage. She turns her back on me.

Well if they want to buy us a house why can't they buy us something around here?

They're buying us the house so they can be closer to their grandchild.
I don't know. Tell them we need to think about it. They're putting in an offer today.

What are you talking about? I shake my head.

Molly bows her head. I only found out two days ago. They said it’s the wedding present they would have given us if we'd formally tied the knot.

I know she’s lying. Her parents hate me. A wedding present… Come on, you can do better than that.

Molly’s sheepish posturing speaks volumes. I can tell just by looking at her that she’s holding back. They’ve already put an offer in haven’t they?

She nods her head. Please don't be angry.

I stand up. I want nothing to do with their cursed house. Why do you always spring these things upon me? Just once couldn’t you be straight forward with me.

We’re talking about it now. She’s on her feet, following me out the door.

Yeah, now that the damage has been done, I’m losing my patience. And was the offer accepted?

She nods her head. Please, let's just go back to bed and talk about it.

Talk about what exactly? It sounds to me like I don’t have a choice in the matter. Within a month her mother will be nagging at me give up painting and look for a real job. I shake my head. She’ll never leave me in peace to make art. With her everything is about fucking appearances! I can just hear her: - A man who stays at home all day painting in the garage while his wife goes off to work, I can only imagine what the neighbours must think? Soft in the head is what he is… a freeloading gigolo?-

You don’t think we’re going to make it. I turn away from her. That’s why you want a nest right next door to your parents.

This is all her sisters, Kelly’s fault. Ever since she learned about our troubles she’s been encouraging Molly to dump me… The thought of living across the street from her is a real pisser.

You’re being paranoid.

I shake my head.

I walk through the kitchen towards the bathroom. Molly is right on my tail. I’m flabbergasted by her desire to drag me into her family's lunacy. Look, I love your parents... on holidays and anniversaries. But the thought of them, every day for the rest of our lives strikes me as a recipe for disaster… Don't you see how sick and incestuous it is? I'm raging, not meaning half the things I’m spitting out, but the desire to vent is greater than my need to be tactful.

I hurry into the bathroom, seeking sanctuary. I shut the door behind me and lock myself in. My head is a mess. I can’t believe Molly didn’t even discuss this with me. I need to cool off. Stepping into the shower water sprays over me, but it doesn’t lower my temperature. I remain under the water longer than I normally would; inured by this new melancholy I am forced to bear.

I know I must sound like an ungrateful douche. They are buying us a house. But I see through the pretext. Molly and I have been here before and I’m always the one who ends up burned by her surprises. Stay calm, I tell myself: concentrate on breathing. But I can’t stay calm… I can feel Molly on the other side of the door, stewing... waiting.

It’s important to stay centered, not to be flung from the path. Maybe I should be happy about this? But how can I be? Two doors down from her parents! In Hudson! Except for the members of the cult I don’t know anyone out there. It's the principle of the thing that pisses me off. It's a foible of Molly’s: she’s always springing things on me. She never lets me into her plans unless she has to, only unveiling her intentions to me after the process has already been set in motion.

And frankly it's an absolutely crazy set-up. Her mother is such a judgmental control-freak. She'll be over every single day bulldogging her snout into our business. And they'll be no way of keeping her out. She'll regard any attempt at privacy as a snub. It’ll be one endless guilt-trip, with an endless barrage of reminders that she and Claude purchased us the house. Christ, I’ll end up neutered out there or chased from the pack. My only ally will be Steve, the steer.

By the time I unlock the bathroom door twenty-five minutes have passed. But when I step into the kitchen, just as anticipated, Molly is standing by the counter ready to pounce. As I walk past her, she ambushes me. I shake my head as she pleads for me to sit down with her and hammer out an understanding.

I hold up my hand denying her windy explanations. I’m too pissed to talk right now.

Why?

The house is for you. Your family doesn’t want me to make it. You could at least tell me the truth. I walk towards the bedroom.

Please don’t shut me out; I understand you’re upset, but I know if we talk it over you’ll see what a wonderful opportunity this is.

I’m rushing now: I scramble around in the closet, hurrying into clothes, shoes and a jacket. What a wonderful opportunity: I’m going to have to quit my job, give up my studio and set up shop right next door to my in-laws.

Molly’s frustration is reaching a tipping point and shifts from pleading to a new tactic... aggression. As I slip into my hush puppies she calls me a selfish son of a bitch. Have you forgotten that we're having a baby? Things are going to change whether you like it or not.

Of course things are going to change. But they don't have to change into this. You and your parents are making decisions that are affecting my life and you don't even talk to me about it. I thought that we were supposed to be a team. I open the front door and inhale the freshness of the fanning breeze.

Molly loses what is left of her composure. Only a coward would walk out the door.

Ignoring her, I scamper down the stairs. When I hit the pavement I look back up at her. She's standing on the porch in her tee-shirt and panties. We'll talk later after I've had some time to digest what's happening. We'll both be calmer then.

I know that you're off to see that whore of yours, she spits.

It’s a low blow... her wrath ill-grounded, her suspicions base! I have to fight back the desire to really lay into her. I repeat: Like I said, we'll talk when both of us are a little cooler. I walk away.

Molly continues to hiss. Your dream was right. What did you say your father called you? A fool wasn’t it? Well that’s exactly what you are! As she returns inside she slams shut the door. Across the street a man walking his dog turns and regards me with the kind of expression that makes me feel like I’m some kind of abuser. I'd like to wipe the contempt off his face. I glare at him and he turns away.