1979 Read online

  1979

  Also by Ray Robertson:

  Home Movies (1997)

  Heroes (2000)

  Moody Food (2002)

  Mental Hygiene: Essays on Writers and Writing (2003)

  Gently Down the Stream (2005)

  What Happened Later (2007)

  David (2009)

  Why Not? Fifteen Reasons to Live (2011)

  I Was There the Night He Died (2014)

  Lives of the Poets (with Guitars) (2016)

  1979

  RAY ROBERTSON

  BIBLIOASIS

  WINDSOR, ON

  Copyright © Ray Robertson, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright license visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  FIRST EDITION

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Robertson, Ray, 1966-, author

  1979 / Ray Robertson.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77196-096-0 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77196-097-7 (ebook)

  I. Title. II. Title: Nineteen seventy-nine.

  PS8585.O3219A62 2018 C813’.54 C2017-906991-8

  C2017-906992-Edited by Daniel Wells

  Typeset and designed by Chris Andrechek

  Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and the financial support of the Government of Canada. Biblioasis also acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,709 individual artists and 1,078 organizations in 204 communities across Ontario, for a total of $52.1 million, and the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  The author acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Toronto Arts Council.

  D.W.

  For making it better

  M.K.

  For making it possible

  H.

  Naming these things is the love-act and its pledge

  —Patrick Kavanagh, “The Hospital”

  Chapter One

  I was the paperboy, so there wasn’t much I didn’t see or hear. A thirteen-year-old paperboy is just there, like the weather or today’s date or your own life. And if anyone did happen to notice me, everyone knew that I was the Buzby boy, the boy who came back from the dead. People tended to tell me things they wouldn’t tell anyone else, let me see things no one else was allowed to see. When you’ve been dead and then you’re alive again, people like to believe you know something no one else does. But I was just a kid—who was I to tell them any different?

  My father wasn’t always the tattoo guy. Before he opened his shop on William Street down by the train tracks, next door to the old man who sold old bottles, he worked at Libby’s, he worked at a junkyard, he worked at Bidell Tires, he even worked at Ontario Steel for awhile, where some of my friends’ fathers worked. But that was before I can remember. For almost as long as I could recall, my dad was the tattoo guy. I could still sort of smell it when he worked at Ontario Steel—fingernail grease and underarm sweat and the grilled cheese sandwich and bowl of steaming Campbell’s tomato soup my Mom would make for him when he came home for his eight p.m. lunch break when he worked the four-to-midnight shift—but that was so long before, that was when they were still married. For as long as I was me, Dad was the tattoo guy and Mom was the woman who used to be a stripper who married Bill Buzby and then got religious and divorced him because he was a sinner.

  “Your father is proud,” she said when I was seven and I asked her between sobs why she wasn’t going to live with Dad and my sister and me anymore. “The Lord has offered to forgive him for all of his sins and to give him eternal life, but he’s too proud to accept His unconditional love.”

  Later that night, after all of her lotions and nail polish and perfumes weren’t on the bathroom counter anymore where they were supposed to be, I asked my older sister Julie, who was sitting cross-legged on her bed doing her homework through the camouflage of her long brown hair, what Mom had meant, because pride was something I’d always thought was a good thing, like when Mrs. Jackson, my homeroom teacher, would say that neat handwriting was something every student should be proud of. Julie looked up from the black binder open in front of her like I’d just asked her the stupidest question anyone had ever come up with. It was a look I was used to.

  “She’s lost it,” she said.

  “What do you mean? What did she lose?” Whatever it was, maybe that was why she talked so funny lately and why she was at that church downtown all of the time, the one where the pet store used to be.

  Julie fingered her parted hair into two equal strands behind her ears, her signal that she was about to give me her full attention, so I’d better listen up because this was a limited time offer. I made sure that the toes of my white stocking feet weren’t touching the blue carpet of her bedroom floor. One morning at breakfast, a few years before she’d announced that since she was now eleven everyone needed to start respecting her privacy as someone who was practically almost a teenager, and that in the future no one was allowed to enter her room without her permission. As Dad wasn’t there when she’d made her declaration and Mom still made her bed and did her laundry and put it away, the new rule seemed to apply exclusively to me.

  “Mom’s a Jesus freak,” she said.

  That was something else that didn’t make sense. Although we never went to church—and still didn’t, because Dad wouldn’t allow Mom to take Julie and me with her to the Cornerstone, one of the main things they argued about until she moved out—everybody knew that Jesus was a good thing, just like a freak was a bad thing, like the way Tommy Ecclestone at school was a freak when he would catch flies at lunchtime and get everyone to dare him to eat them.

  “Does she love Jesus more than she loves us now?” I said.

  I didn’t know I was crying until Julie told me to come in her room and sopped up the tears from my face with the baggy sleeve of one of Dad’s blue plaid flannel shirts which she’d taken to wearing.

  “Sit at my desk,” she said, getting up and going to her combination record player/eight-track tape/AM-FM Sears Candle stereo. “You can sit there while I do my homework. But you have to be quiet. And do not touch anything. I’m serious, Tom.” She selected an album from the red plastic Sealtest milk crate that Dad had gotten her and carefully slid the LP from its sleeve, put the album cover on top of the crate, and placed the black platter on the turntable. The only record that I could call mine, that I actually owned, was the I’d-Like-to-Teach-the-World-to-Sing-in-Perfect-Harmony 45 that Mom had sent away for when I was five years old. It was also the only song I knew all the words to. All you had to do to get a free copy was write to the Coca-Cola company and ask because they wanted everybody to sing in perfect harmony while they drank their Cokes. Coke was the real thing.

  Although I was always pestering Julie to play her albums—if entering her room without her consent was forbidden, listening to her records when she wasn’t there was unfathomable—I didn’t feel like hearing music right now. I missed Mom and wanted to keep talking about her, even if talking about her made me miss her that much
more.

  But the Beatles, the one Julie knew I liked best, the one with the song about the girl named Lucy and the one about the pepper band and the other one with the rooster and the horse and the dog sounds in it and the whole thing a great big ball of bright happy colours, even when the songs were slow and made you feel sort of sad for no good reason. When both sides were finished, Julie shut her binder and got up but didn’t take the album off the record player.

  Looking down at the still-spinning disc, “You know how records, when they’re over, they make the arm of the record player lift up?” she said.

  I didn’t, but, “Yeah,” I said.

  “This one is never over, the Beatles made it that way. If you didn’t take it off yourself, it would just keep playing forever.”

  “Wow,” I said. I didn’t know what forever was either, but “Wow,” I said, again.

  “Emotionally Deserted” Husband Asks Wife to Move Out of House

  “I Had to Do It for the Children”

  SHE’S GONE. GONE. But, then, there wasn’t much of her left to leave anyway.

  Ghost limbs that look and feel like flesh but which disappear when touched and don’t desire back. Mute reproof where there used to be a cheering voice. Absent—when not avoiding—eyes. And impossible to file a missing person report because, that’s right, officer, Tracy Buzby (nee Lawton) is still here, it’s just that I don’t know where the hell my wife went.

  Not that it was ever perfect—what is? But a better marriage than most, that much was obvious, even to the two of them. The first time he saw her she was swaying for pay at The Rankin. Strip clubs he could take or leave, but it was Stan Jackson’s birthday and all of the guys from Bidell’s had headed over after work one Friday—and, yes, initially all he’d felt was what he was supposed to: a stirring everything, a messy mind movie, a bulge. But when he returned alone two nights later and talked to her—first, during and after a three minute lap dance; later, over coffee at the Satellite Restaurant down the street—her dancing blue eyes and vigorous laughter and head-bobbing enthusiasm were what moved him most. And she listened. When he told her that what he really wanted to do was open his own tattoo parlour, she said he had to do it, he absolutely had to do it, that everyone needs a dream and if that was his dream he shouldn’t let anything stop him. Or at least stop him from trying. When he asked her what her dream was she said she wanted to be normal. “I want all of the normal things I never thought I’d ever want,” she said. He didn’t ask her what she had wanted before. Eight months later, they were married.

  For a long time, normal was enough. Saving up for the shop; a daughter and later a son; and finally, by the fall of 1971, William Street Tattoos, which demanded most of his time, admittedly, but which was worth it, obviously, was his business and no one else’s—and hers, too, he’d remind her when she’d feel lonely and claustrophobic stuck at home with just the kids. It was their dream come true, don’t forget. Without her support, it would have never been more than a pipe dream, remember that. And normal doesn’t happen all by itself—takes a lot of hard work to get it and keep it that way—and it’s difficult to cry for no good reason when there are diapers to change and laundry to do and meals to make.

  Going to extremes to avoid going too far quite often works until it doesn’t. The first time he noticed something wrong was seven years after they were married, during the Canada-Soviet Summit Series, the entire country TV-tethered and O Canada O.D.ing, granted, but she wasn’t sleeping at night, every Soviet victory a hair-shirt nightgown, every Canadian win a twitchy reason to talk and talk and talk in bed until Hon, seriously, we’ve got to get some sleep, I can’t go to work a wreck and the kids will be up in a couple of hours. And she’d never even liked hockey. Once they were dating she’d admitted to him that when she was young and stupid and growing up in Windsor she’d briefly gone through a Benzedrine thing, but swore she hadn’t touched any drugs, not even aspirin—even when she was stripping, even though most of the other girls were all on something—since she’d turned twenty, and he believed her. But when she came home one day after setting out for Pet World to buy goldfish food but returned with a handful of blotchily mimeographed material that stank of fresh ink and which kindly informed humanity of, among other things, the imminent end of the world and the necessity of accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior, he wished that she was on drugs. At least there are professionals you can talk to and treatment you can receive when you’re a drug addict. Who do you call and what do you do when your wife has discovered the hallowed truth and found everlasting peace?

  The newly converted conversion rate: in direct proportion to how much her every day is made that much more miraculous by the euphoria-inducing power of directly experiencing His perfect love, the more despondent he becomes because she seems to care less and less about him and the kids every day—the insistent offer of eternal life not nearly as satisfactory as an hour on the couch at the end of another long day with a couple of gin and Winks while watching All in the Family, a ten minute homily on the blood of Christ not nearly as nutritious as two school lunches you don’t forget to pack for your kids for school. (But what the hell, who was he to tell her what to believe? Who knows what someone else needs to make them whole? And nothing lasts forever, especially not unbounded happiness, so if he just kept quiet and had a little more patience…) But if only faintly condescending at first in the way she wished that he and the children (never “the kids” anymore, always “the children”) could only feel what she felt, only know what she knew, better, anyway, than the eventual smug silence that echoed throughout the house by the time the Cornerstone became not just an indulged Sunday excursion but her all-but-literal real home, Pastor Bob eventually interchangeable with Jesus as the most important man in her life.

  Pastor Bob: he couldn’t lie, he couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t just his wife’s soul to which the Pastor was so assiduously tending. But the only time he capitulated to his wife’s pleas to visit the church (not to feed his soul, but to satisfy his curiosity), the bare tubes of florescent light and the smell of long-gone guinea pigs and rabbits still stuck in the carpets convinced him, at least on that score, that he had nothing to worry about. When you spoke to him, Pastor Bob used your name in every other sentence and his eyes never wavered from your own, like there was nothing he’d rather be doing than talking and listening to you, but why he never stopped smiling was the real miracle. Nine parishioners, a front window with a long crack in it, and a church that stank like dead pets: these were not the credentials of the kind of man with which his wife would cheat on him.

  Except that she did, although he didn’t know it until after she’d moved out of the house. He’d been willing to wait out everything—the pea-brained theology lectures at home; the evangelizing to strangers on the street; her refusal to sleep with him until he was born-again clean—but when he discovered Tom crouched and crying in his bedroom closet and coaxed him out and asked him what was wrong and discovered that she’d told their son that unless he and his sister could convince their father to let them go with her to church, they would go to hell where their eyes would boil in their sockets and their skin would melt like candle wax and their mother, who was going to heaven, would never see them again, he gave her twenty-four hours to pack up and get out. She was gone by supper. Pastor Bob’s station wagon idling in the driveway, she told him she felt sorry for him, she really did. “That makes two of us,” he said, and shut the door.

  ~

  I climbed into the hole because that’s where my ball was. It was a Super Ball—small and clear but flecked with blue specks and silver sparkles and extraordinarily bouncy—and was really only good for banging off the blacktop at school to see how high it would go. To bounce it like an ordinary ball was asking for trouble.

  It was just after my mother had left home and we still lived on Vanderpark Drive. August afternoons usually meant a street full of suburban
bedlam, summer-holiday-sprung children of every age running and screaming and racing around on bicycles or tricycles or roller skates or else sitting on the curb in dejected packs being preternaturally bored. That day, there was no one else around. It was hot—Southwestern Ontario August hot—breathing meaning swallowing air so humid it felt thick travelling down your throat, body sweat in places you wouldn’t have suspected could perspire—but only a few houses had air conditioning, so that couldn’t have been where everyone was and why I was alone. And if I hadn’t been alone I wouldn’t have climbed down the sewer hole, someone would have told me it was a bad idea, that the ball cost forty-nine cents at Woolworth’s and wasn’t worth it and to forget it and anyway I think I hear the Dickie Dee coming.

  But no one was around. Why wasn’t there anyone else around? If I wasn’t supposed to go down there and get lost and then be found, why had I ended up in the sewer?

  Later, I remembered how easy it was pulling the partially displaced manhole cover free the rest of the way and climbing down the metal ladder, which had felt surprisingly cold at first but good on my overheated fingers, even if slimy and dirty and slippery in places. I remembered how much quieter it became as I lowered my self down, an entirely different kind of silence from the hazy stillness of the empty street above. I remembered hearing the sound of my running shoe dip into the water, and realizing I had a choice: to put my foot back on the rung and climb toward the light, or to get my feet wet and find the Super Ball in the semi-dark, which, I figured, had to be floating nearby.

  The water only came up to my ankles. It would have been too cold and rotten-egg smelly, the tunnel too dark and frightening, if I hadn’t been so focused on finding my ball. My mom had bought it for me and she didn’t live with us anymore and I wanted my ball. I thought I saw it more than once, but it was always something else: a rotting clump of leaves, an ice-cream wrapper, an orange hockey ball. There wasn’t enough light to see that it was orange, but I knew it was a hockey ball by its size and smoothness. You got them from Canadian Tire; that was where my dad had bought me mine.