Strangers in the Wind

Strangers in the Wind - Cut Copy (listen in new tab)

In the half empty church parking lot, K scrapes the windshield of his car. A thin layer of dusty particulate ice had crawled across the glass during the service and his stay at the reception.

The car rumbles and clatters under the layer of snow on the hood. The exhaust hangs low in grey white clouds by the muffler.

Since Jenny died, it had snapped cold, turned to blizzards, and this is the first clear day. The sky is a crystal blue glacial lake spilt across it. The old woman would be interred in the spring. The graveyard is frozen.

K stops, ponders up at the spires of St. Jerome’s Cathedral. The gargoyles, high up, look out sternly, obscured for a moment by the thin fog of his breath. The rose window is a Byzantine eye of tenebrous glass. He thinks: people will never build them like this again.

Maura comes out to him. She’s bundled into a dark grey wool parka. It hugs her curves. “You’re leaving?”

K: “Yeah. Well, I don’t want to impose on your family or anything.”

She casually knocks some snow off the roof; it falls in light streams, sliding down to the wipers. She watches it fall. “You’re not imposing.” Her face is ashen against the black scarf knotted around her neck. Her eyes look at him from far inside her. White breath escapes her mouth, her lips red in the cold.

K: “Well. I mean I don’t know my footing at these kinds of things.”

Maura shrugs off his words: “I don’t think anyone does. Half the people in there acted like I didn’t exist until three days ago. So awkward. Like all the time”

K opens the drivers side door, throws the scraper in. A little music escapes. He shrugs and smiles consolations. “Families are weird. You look exhausted.”

Maura: “I am.” She looks back at the Cathedral. It reaches up. Her feet feel fastened to the snow, locked in ice. She thinks for a moment. She wants to move. “Can you take me home?”

K: “Now?”

Maura: “Now.”

K: “No problem.” He slides into the driver’s seat, reaches across and unlocks the other door. Maura yanks, breaking the weak ice that had sealed it.

A little later, K is pulling his car on to the 401. Jenny’s cathedral is in a neighbourhood near the edge of the city. The expressway is the fastest way back home. The Cavalier resents having to speed up, and rattles in protest.

Maura had been quiet for a while. “I don’t think your car likes that.”

K: “It’ll be fine.” He pets the faded and stained dashboard lovingly. “You’re a satisfying machine, and you know it.”

She smiles, lets out a little laugh. It floats on the currents of warm air that push out from the vents. It twists and falls and rises into his ears. Settling there it rings loud in his head.

Maura: “I’m surprised there weren’t more people from the library.”

K: “There were some there. Jenny was well known. I mean, she had been there about as long as anyone. She had a real impact on the place. But, I think a lot of them are on the picket line today.”

Maura: “Right. How is that thing going?”

K changes lanes, moving out of the way of a speeding SUV. “The strike? Hah. No one in the city cares. The branches are all open and us contract workers get to cross the picket lines. Listen menopausal women can be scary. And, when they’re fighting for their pensions. Oh man. Jenny would have loved it. She was such a– Oh. Hey. I’m sorry.”

Maura is crying. Tears fall in rivulets from the corner of her eyes. She rubs her nose with her sleeve. “No. Sorry. I just. Well, you know?”

K is silent for a moment. “Yeah. Jenny was special. Hands down. A real dame.”

Maura sniffles a Yes. She puts her hand on his thigh. He puts his atop hers. The car jerks suddenly, skidding on some black ice, forcing him to grab the wheel tightly with both hands.

K: “Hah. Always turn into the skid, right?”

Her hand is still there when he pulls into the plowed clearing in front of Maura’s building. The entrance has the same yellow-white sheen it had months ago.

Maura: “Do you want to come up?”

The car rumbles as it idles. She squeezes his leg. “I’ll make tea. You can park down there.”

K: “Ok.”

She will put the faded white electric kettle on. And while he looks at her bookshelf, she’ll touch his back lightly, not with her full hand. It will make him turn around. And their eyes will meet and push into each other’s head with unrestrained, abandoned force.

The world spins on their axis as his hand finds the side of her face and her arms reach around his neck. The planet crashes to a halt, throwing them together, so that when they kiss it feels like the inertia of their isolate world is on them.

And as they kiss: the kettle rumbles and whistles, and they ignore the click.

Saturdays

Saturdays – Cut Copy(listen in new tab)

Gregory Tours knows when K needs to get out and let off steam. He can see around his corners, over his horizons, or however you put it. K won’t ask for it, but G.T. always knows when to bring up this kind of night. Whatever he feels about Shannon being back, he knows whose side he’s on. He has never been against them as a couple. He has just always been for K as a person. And sometimes, he needs to be G.T.’s wingman and get a little (a lot) drunk somewhere.

G.T. takes K to an old favourite. Called, utterly pretentiously, OOOOO, everyone just calls it the 5-0. It’s a dark whole in the ground, a green and red-lit basement. But, it has three things going for it: a good DJ, cheap (decent?) drinks, girls. When it gets busy, it gets hot, the air thick with sweat, spilt beer, and later the spoilt smell of vomit. An atmosphere of tepid indiscretion. The music is loud. The beat buries itself in their chests.

G.T.’s not decked out, not showing effort, but he would describe himself as “having it going on.” K’s wearing his library clothes, which pass for nerd chic in this place. Cords and short sleeve collared shirts are fine. He’s not here to pick up anyways. No. His head bobbing slightly to the music, K has chosen tonight to bitch. It’s what he needs.

G. T. listens as best he can through the music. He’s looking over K’s shoulder, keeping his eye out. Normally he’d be hunting for a prospect, but tonight he’s waiting for someone specific. He casually checks the time on his cell phone.

G.T.: “Listen. Listen.” His tongue is loosening from the rums and cokes. It’s been two weeks since Shannon came back. From what he’s been able to gather from K and Claire, there were a few good days. “K. If she’s that unhappy she should talk to someone. Like someone who can really help her… Whoa.”

K looks to see. “Yeah. Well. Yeah. I’d say 7 at best. But look at the hair. It’ll drag her down to a 6 or a 5 by morning. All hair-do, man.”

G.T. “You wouldn’t need her by the morning.”

K: “You wouldn’t need her after 30 second, but you’d still have to pay to have the front of her dress cleaned, quick draw.” His speech is getting lazy, too. His vowels start to sound the same. His consonants round out. He looks like he’s on a good mixture; its starting to pulls him up.

G.T. smiles. He holds his drink to his face and then looks at K’s. “I think we’re due for another.”

The bar has a chain link fence around it. The bar staff hand drinks trough large holes cut in the woven metal wire, giving it the appearance of some of a distopic bank wicket. It’s crowded. They squeeze in to get the bartenders attention.

G.T.: “I can’t believe Shannon stopped drinking. She could really pack ‘em away.” He holds up his empty glass, rocking it back in forth.

K: “She said it was to save money. Anyways, she’s been sick all week, so I don’t think she’d come out anyways. Claire said she’d come later. After she closes.”

G.T., dismissively: “Whatever.” He checks his cell phone again. Should be around now. He waves a twenty at the sweaty man behind the fence. “Two rum and cokes, my good man.” He watches K. He knows from experience when he’s trying to look like he’s not looking. Tonight, it’s more than just checking out women as. From the way his head jerks at the movement, he’s either looking for someone or to avoid someone, maybe both.

It not long after they wade away from the bar, that G. T. finds who he’s looking for.

K doesn’t realize and continues his diatribe. : “G.T., I knows she’s been back only a short time, but I just have no idea how to handle this. She demands space, and then yells at me for ignoring her. And she sick, like most of the time. And she’s too embarrassed to be back to go out. Hey. Hey! Where are you going?”

G.T. looks back. “Be cool. Remember how it goes; help, don’t hinder.”

He walks up to a short curvy blonde. Her hair is cropped short in the back, long bangs frame her face. She hugs him excitedly. But she’s drunk and pushes him off balance. K puts out a hand to steady him. Her drunkenness manifests as unbridled, adorable excitement. “Gregs! 5-0! Wooo!”

K: “Gregs?”

G.T. “Shut up. K, this is Brae.”

Brae: “Hey. He’s cute. I bet my friend would like him. She’s at the bar.” She stumbles a little, falling into G.T. She wraps her arm around his waist to steady herself.

G.T. winks as K. “Yeah. No doubt.”

K: “Well. I don’t know.”

Brae: “No, she’s cool. Seriously. There she is. Hey! Maury! Over here!” She’s waving frantically.

K: “Oh Jesus.” He looks like he wants to sink into the floor. Maura is standing there with two beer bottles in one hand, and two shots in the other. She smoothly, miraculously dodges the elbows and flailing arms that strike from all sides. She looks good, casual, put together. She makes K feel all the frayed edges in his life.

Maury: “Hey Brae. This the guy you were waiting for?” She looks K over as she hands Brae her share of the drinks. Does the shot. K doesn’t look her in the eye. “Wassa matter K, don’t own a phone anymore?”

K looks up finally. He’s a little drunk, so maybe he looks at her breasts longer then he normally would. “Well.” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, unable to keep his eyes from stumbling into hers.

G.T.: “Hey, you know each other? Don’t you go to Ulysses’s sometimes?”

K and Maury reply together, their eyes knotted. “Yeah.”

And then just Maury, her words bite facetiously and scathe: “But he’s a jerk that can’t use a phone.”

G.T.: “What?”