Blood Sports (5 page)

“Hey, that’s a first,” Tom said.

“Is it?” The bald girl seemed tickled by this.

“Americano’s up, Tom-tom.”

“Thanks, Kate. Wave bye-bye, Mel. Bye-bye.”

“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!”

Mel blew kisses at the pedestrians and cars. When people ignored her, she stopped, sitting back. She braced her feet against the snack tray, wiggling her toes in her sandals. They rolled across the street. Grandview Park was on the side of a gently sloping hill, and from the top had a postcard view of downtown and Grouse Mountain. Houses crept up the distant blue of the mountains on the North Shore. Unlike Toronto, which could sprawl in all directions on the relative flatness of Southern Ontario, Vancouver was hemmed in by the mountains and the ocean. With space so squashed, downtown Vancouver glittered with skyscrapers and mushroom-like clusters of condos. Grandview Park had a playground shaded by tall trees, a wide stretch of grass near the local high school that was currently occupied by some junior gang-bangers smoking up.

Bongo Man was going at it under a tree near the corner, grooving to his own rhythm despite the obvious irritation of nearby backpackers. They were stretched out on their sleeping bags on the other side of the tree, giving Bongo Man nasty sideways glances, muttering among themselves. Bongo Man had waist-long blond dreads dyed an uneven shade of purple. His eyes were half-closed, and an unlit joint spit-stuck to the side of his mouth. Mel was not interested in Bongo Man. He was old news. The water park held her full attention, causing her to sit up and bounce in her stroller.

Tom parked the stroller near an empty bench. On another bench nearby, a pale girl with kohl-rimmed eyes and flat-black
spiky hair nodded at him as she breast-fed her baby girl. He nodded back. She was in his parenting group, but he could never remember her name, just her kids, Seraph and Truman. She shared the bench with an obese blond woman in black stirrup pants and a blue T-shirt, and a man in tight acid-wash jeans and a wife-beater who was sucking on his cigarette like he needed it to breathe.

“Brendan, that’s enough. That’s enough. Let your brother have a turn. I mean it,” said Shirl, a petite woman in a tie-dyed sundress, a matching handkerchief holding her hair back. Paulie had met Shirl in a rehab years ago, and when they bumped into each other at a drop-in centre, they’d bonded over bad birthing stories. Shirl saw Tom and waved, walking toward the bench.

“Hi, Shirl.” Tom swung Melody up.

“Mwah!” Mel said, bouncing.

“Oh, come here, kissy face,” Shirl said.

“Where’s Jim?” Tom said.

“Dental appointment.” She squinted. “Brendan, get off the swing! Brendan Nathanial Dodson, you get your ass off that swing right now!”

“But Mo-om.”

“Don’t make me come over there!” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to kill them if they don’t kill each other first.”

“Gotcha covered.”

Shirl stuck her nose in Mel’s hair. “I get an estrogen rush just holding her. Want to trade?”

“Come by at three in the morning and we’ll talk.”

Shirl laughed, moved Mel to her hip. Tom sat on the bench and sipped his Americano as he watched them walk toward the water park. Eric pumped his legs. Brendan swatted his brother when he swung near.

“Higher!” Eric demanded.

A group of singing Hare Krishnas danced up the sidewalk, giving Bongo Man a run for his money. A couple of women spread blankets near the sidewalk and put out books and clothes for sale.

Because of its slightly seedy reputation, East Van was one of the last affordable places to live in Vancouver, so it attracted a mix of anarchists and activists, blue-collar families and immigrants. The hippies who couldn’t afford Kitsilano had also migrated east, bringing organic co-ops and hemp shops into the mix. There were mom-and-pop restaurants everywhere and you could find a Jamaican jerk shack beside an Ethiopian vegetarian café beside a hydroponics bong palace.

Gentrification creep had started with a few condos, some spas and upscale junk stores, and a Starbucks, which had been bitterly petitioned against by the coffee shops on the same block. You could always tell the new condo owners, like the couple walking up the path – the slim woman wearing a chino pencil skirt and paisley blouse, the big guy wearing a chino suit and navy dress shirt. They stuck out like narcs at a boozecan.

“Hey!” Tom said. “Stop punching Brendan! Eric! Did you hear me? I’m going to call your mom.”

The twins stuck their tongues out at him and ran to the slides.

Tom downed the rest of his Americano and walked over to the trash can.

“Look who escaped from Fraggle Rock,” Chino Guy said.

Tom ignored him and walked back to the playground but Chino Guy blocked his way, grinning down at him. Something about him – the reddish brown hair, the freckles, the pointy chin – rang a bell, but Tom couldn’t place him.

“Do I know you?” Tom said doubtfully. He didn’t know that many human tanks.

“I hear it’s good luck to spot one,” Chino Guy said.

“Mike,” Chino Girl said.

“McConnell?” Tom said. “Holy fuck.”

“How the hell are you, Bauer?”

“What the hell have you been eating, man?”

“You haven’t changed at all, shrimpola. You should start working out.”

“I think the steroids have given you brain damage.”

Mike laughed, his ratcheting hee-haw bringing back memories of lunchtime in high school, when they used to hang out in the hallways or cut class together.

“Just a sec,” Tom said. “Eric! What did I just tell you?”

“He started it!”

“Liar!”

“You’re begging for a time out, guys.”

The twins waggled their bums in his direction.

“Yours?” Mike said.

“Thank Christ, no. They’re my friend Shirl’s. She’s over there with my daughter.”

Chino Girl cleared her throat. “I’m Greer, Mike’s partner.” She had a frank stare, unsettlingly light grey eyes, and a sculpted bob. She held out her hand, gave a firm, dry shake. “Pleased to meet you.”

“You must be a very patient woman, Greer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mike said, “you’re still a riot, Bauer.”

“Ah, shit. Just a sec. Put the rock down! Eric, you put that down,” Tom said.

“So how have my monsters been?” Shirl said. Shirl and Mel were soaked. Mel reached for him.

“Pretty quiet.” Tom lifted Mel. She yanked excitedly at his hair.

“Their colds are slowing them down,” Shirl said.

“Hey, Shirl, this is Mike and his girlfriend, Greer. Mike, Greer, this is Shirl, and this is my girl, Melody.”

“Hi. Er-RIC! Put the rock down!” Shirl shouted. “See you tomorrow, Tom. Now, Eric. I mean it!”

“Bye, Shirl.”

Mike and Greer stood staring at him and Mel.

“Are you hungry?” Tom said as Mel chewed on his sleeve. He reached in the stroller for a Ziploc bag full of Cheerios. They sat on the bench. Mel stuck her hands in the bag and grabbed fistfuls and threw them on the ground. Tom pulled the stroller closer and rummaged around for a bottle. Mel leaned against him while she drank.

“She’s adorable,” Greer said, sitting beside him.

“Takes after her mother.”

“Is she around?” Greer said.

“No, she’s at a meeting.”

“Where do you guys live?” Mike asked.

“We’ve got an apartment a few blocks from here. What are you guys doing in this neck of the woods?”

“One of Greer’s friends has a show at Havana.”

Ah, Tom thought. Havana was a popular Cuban-themed hipster restaurant. It had a small gallery exhibiting paintings and photographs of up-and-comers.

“It’s Serena’s first exhibit,” Greer said. “She took Mike’s picture –”

“All you can see are my knees.”

“She’s working with some haunting juxtapositions, the perfect and the disfigured –”

“She’s into scars.”

Greer checked her watch. “Compelling, very moving. We should get going, hon.”

“Are you in the book?” Mike said.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Pleasure meeting you, Tom,” Greer said.

“Likewise. Say bye-bye, Mel.”

Mel popped the bottle out of her mouth. “Mwah!”

“Well, that was a blast from the past,” Tom said, watching them leave.

Mel tugged on her ear, yawning. Tom changed her diaper, put her in fresh clothes, and brought her over to the swings. They swayed back and forth as the kids screamed through the park.

Paulie had wanted Mel to listen to Mozart, but Mel wasn’t interested in the classics. She didn’t pay attention to the children’s tapes either, not a Barney fan, no Elmo. Paulie had played the radio one day around bedtime and discovered that Mel relaxed best to The Tragically Hip, Radiohead, and R.E.M.

Mel and her moody boys, she had said.

Tom sang a Hip song, low and slow, altering the lyrics to make them Mel-friendly. She knew the swing trick too and squirmed.

“Melo-dy-ee! Honey, are you mad at your dad?”

She found a comfortable spot, heaving a great put-upon sigh. Her eyes drooped.

“Honey, are you mad at your dad?”

An early afternoon breeze sent the leaves into a tizzy. Mel shut her eyes as the light on her face flashed gold and green, gold and green.

1 JULY 1998

“Either your feet are freakishly small,” Paulie said, lifting his left foot and pressing the sole of hers against it. “Or mine are freakishly big. Look, they’re the same size.”

“I love your elephant feet,” Tom said.

Paulie kicked his foot and he laughed. She reached for her shirt, but found his instead and pulled it on.

“We should do something,” Paulie said.

“Now?” Tom said.

“Get up.”

“You go,” Tom said.

Paulie bounced on the mattress. “Come on. Up. Up.” She punched his leg.

“Ow.”

“Come on.”

Tom pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Paulie, you’re killing the relaxing part.”

“We’re wasting the day,” Paulie said.

“Paulie,” Tom groaned. “I can’t stay awake. You go. Bring Mel in here. We’ll nap together.”

She pulled on her jeans, leaning back to do the zipper up. She sat cross-legged beside him. His eyes slid shut.

He heard a high whine, felt the bed shake. Paulie ran the vacuum cleaner by his head. He turned over and put a pillow over his ears. Eventually, he heard the vacuum cleaner move down the hallway.

“I’m doing the sheets,” she said, giving his ass a sharp slap. “Get up for a minute.”

Tom stumbled to his feet and waited until she stripped the mattress before lying back down.

Mel woke him by sitting on his chest, reaching forward and lifting his eyelids.

“Daddy’s awake,” Tom said. “You can let go now.”

“Hah,” Mel said.

The tattoo artist’s bare chest and back were covered in tsunami waves, blue and green with white foam. The waves undulated when he moved, a human ocean. His earlobes were stretched to his shoulders, loops of pink flesh. The tattoo artist shaved the downy hair from a spot on Paulie’s right forearm, halfway between her wrist and her elbow. He wiped the skin with an alcohol tow-elette and pressed the transfer paper against her skin. When he lifted the paper, a blue template of the tattoo she wanted was in place. The tattoo artist revved the tattoo gun, pumping the ink into the needle. “Last chance to back out.”

Paulie flexed her hand, squeezed it tight, and then relaxed it, staring at the template for the tattoo, “1 July 1995” written in cursive script, bordered with a black ribbon banner. Paulie
reached out to Tom with her free hand and he pulled his stool closer. She smiled at him. Her hand was clammy. He smiled back.

“I don’t have another day one in me,” she said. “I’m tired of going back to day one.”

The tattoo artist nodded. “Strength, sister.”

“I’m good to go,” Paulie said.

He moved his reading lamp and spotlighted the tattoo. The needle drew tiny beads of blood that the artist dabbed away with a paper towel.

Paulie grimaced. “No more day ones.”

A squat, orange moon hung low, rippling as it hit the mountains. Downtown lights jittered in the heat. People sat on their porches and balconies, doors and windows open hopefully, ready for an evening breeze. A pack of kids ran around a front yard, screaming through the sprinkler. Traffic slowed on The Drive, cars crawling along to avoid the jaywalking pedestrians.