Toby (22 page)

“I can find my way out.”

Harry wheezed. Reporters with sheets of paper whirled about them. “You don’t want to work here?”

“I’d love to work here. But the maple syrup.”

“The what?”

“We just sat in a restaurant for an hour and a half. I didn’t say more than three words to you and Astrid. I haven’t actually pitched the idea.”

“We’re pretty clear on the idea.”

“How?”

“Our boss, William, was the best man at Adam Demsky’s wedding. If you shit the bed, you’ll be on the first train back to the sticks. But you have your shot. You’re in.”

“I’m in.”

“I have to call Stanhope. She’ll piss herself that you didn’t know.”

Harry led him to a small conference room populated by three people—two writers and a producer, all women. The final confirmation that this was more advanced than an audition was when the team showed him mock-ups of
Toby a Gentleman,
a daily segment on
Wake Up!
that would, in the producer’s words, “Consider fashion and etiquette in the broadest way possible.”

“You’re basically Martha Stewart,” said the senior writer.

“But a fellow,” said the junior writer.

The producer rubbed her hands and looked up at the exposed vents and ducts in the tiny boardroom. “You’re presenting, and ultimately selling, a lifestyle.” With that statement, greased with brightness and confidence, Toby knew two things: these people were smarter than anyone at the station in Montreal; and sometime over the next year or so he would sleep with his producer. “Metrosexuality was riddled with flaws, and that’s why you don’t hear about it anymore.
We’re after something more timeless. Our mission is not to teach effete New York professionals how to dress. They already know how to dress. You’re addressing, primarily, the wives and girlfriends of dirt bikers.”

“Yobs,” said the junior writer.

“Firefighters,” said the senior writer.

“Chinos, pulled up super-high.”

“Wife beaters.”

“Contestants on
The Price Is Right.
”

“McDonald’s eaters.”

“Gamers.”

“They have those yellow Support the Troops ribbons on their cars.”

“Trucks.”

“Goddamn trucks.”

“SUVs.”

“They take up both armrests on airplanes.”

“Hockey watchers, basically.”

“Professional wrestling.”

“Oh God, yes.”

“Are you familiar with our electoral system, Toby?”

Harry Bennett, who had listened while balancing the right side of his face on one hand, stood as abruptly as a man of his age, physical condition, and relative sobriety could manage. “All three of you, please, shut the fuck up.”

They did.

Toby’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He removed it and peeked at the incoming caller.
Dad—cell.

“Don’t listen to them,” said Harry. “Not a word.”

The phone stopped buzzing.

Harry walked around the table and leaned on the chair
backs of the writers. “Do not let them strip the dignity from the Middle American. There’s nothing clever about it, despite what they think.”

“Come on, Harry,” said the producer.

The phone began to buzz anew. Again, Edward’s phone.

Harry informed Toby that he had only three weeks remaining at the network, that this industry and this city no longer interested him. They were a revolving door, the two of them, Toby in and Harry out. He was off to Connecticut, where he belonged. Books and liquor, long walks in the perpetual autumn, cocktails for the exquisite hour. Eventually, he would hire a very young housekeeper from Russia who would have trouble with his tendency to take off his pants during the exquisite hour. “This is an industry for women now.”

The producer rolled her eyes and said, “Here we go.”

The phone stopped buzzing.

“What’s left for a man to do, really? Let alone a gentleman. Play dress-up? As you said, we’re after the wives and girlfriends of dirt bikers. We’re
after
them.”

The phone showed two voice-mail messages. It began to buzz again, a third call. Edward.

“When’s your first day?” said Harry.

“I just learned I had the job from you, a few minutes ago, in the newsroom.”

“How attached are you to your name?”

“Ménard?”

“
Maynard,
” he said.

“It’s fake.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Mushinsky.”

“Ouch. Seriously, ouch. How about Marshall?”

“Whatever you think.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m off to get drunk with my dog, Gretel—real name.”

They waited for Harry to leave the boardroom and made plans to meet for dinner and drinks that night, to celebrate. The producer, whose name was Jill, led Toby up the elevator and into the corporate offices. “That was impressive in the boardroom, letting your phone go like that.”

The walls of the office were rounded and covered in plates of hammered steel. The floors were oak, stained dark, splashed with track lighting.

Jill introduced Toby to the human resources director and extended her hand for a shake. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Perfect. Perfect.”

For the next hour and a half, Toby filled out forms and half listened to an explanation of his work visa. There were several opportunities to excuse himself, to listen to the messages on his phone. He had taken too much sparkling water at lunch; a trip to the washroom was in order. But he chose to remain in the office. He was a man of extraordinary ability, an O-1 visa, like Hollywood stars. The network would take care of it. Two weeks at the most, before he could operate as a consultant. He’d be perfectly legal by February. If he could start officially in early January, the eleventh or so, for a week of planning with his team, it would be grand.

“Any family?”

The phone buzzed again. “A son.”

“His name?”

“Hugo.”

“Hugo Ménard?”

“Hugo Brassens, at the moment. Maybe Mushinsky, maybe Marshall.”

The human resources director swallowed. “Oh. How old is he?”

“He’ll be three soon.”

“I have a couple myself.”

The HR director showed him pictures of her children. The view out the windows behind her was of rain-soaked prewar buildings. Beyond them, he imagined, Central Park. He would jog there, pushing Hugo in a stroller of some sort. They would stop for lunch, in the summertime, and throw something back and forth. They would leave hockey behind and settle in the land of football and musical theatre. She described the furnished 1,200-square-foot two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side where he would live for up to four months. It had a maid’s quarters but, sorry, no maid. Cleaning services were once every two weeks. Just off the lobby, what was once a ballroom was now a vast children’s play area. But he couldn’t stay forever, ha ha. As soon as he was settled, in January, he would meet with an ABS relocation consultant who would find him and his son a more permanent place to live, child care, parking, and anything else he might need.

The phone buzzed. Four voice-mail messages. Five.

Broadway was too noisy to hear not his father’s but his mother’s recorded voice, so he walked a few blocks east on Seventh Avenue. It was only marginally quieter. Montreal had always seemed a big city to Toby, but next to the ambient roar of nineteen million people, it was a quaint French village.

The first call was Karen, frantic. “Toby, it’s happening. Please call back right away. It’s happening sooner than we thought. Call me, please, no matter what you’re doing.”

Businessmen rushed past, their briefcases swinging. Young women dressed like extras in a Madonna video, smoking and waving their long arms like ribbons. Men in layers of brown and green, slathered in filth, mumbling and hooting. The mental illness equivalents of vintage wines.

Karen again, her voice quavering and raw. The extra cigarillos she had been smoking. No longer frantic. “The chaplain’s in here, and Hugo. The chaplain’s going to pray with me. I asked him not to make it Jesusy, because I know Ed wouldn’t like that. It’s your last chance to say goodbye to him, Toby, or I love you, whatever. Whatever you can manage. It’s like I’m watching myself.”

To hear the hospital room, with Hugo chattering in the background, Toby replayed the second message. He turned south on Forty-Ninth Street.

The third message was short, little more than a whisper: “Your dad is dying.”

A man danced to music that was not there, unnoticed by the pedestrians. Toby the tourist, the rube, looked him in the eye. The man stopped dancing, abandoned his pile of items, and walked next to Toby down Forty-Ninth Street. “All I need is three dollars. Three or four, to change everything tonight.”

Toby gave the man a five.

“Here he is.” The dancing man kissed the bill. “A good man! Behold!”

The fourth message was difficult to hear. Toby crossed Avenue of the Americas with the phone on one ear and his finger in the other. Karen and a man speaking in a low monotone. “May His great name be blessed forever and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the name of the Holy One. Blessed is He.”

He had never been to Rockefeller Center, but he decided to continue past it, to look down and avoid eye contact with the dancing men and keep walking. It started to rain again. The prayer went on for some time, with plenty of interruptions by Hugo. “You’re hungry.” “What am I doing, Grandma?” This was new:
Grandma.

Toby did not listen to the final message right away. He waited until the crowds with shopping bags thinned on the other side of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

“Don’t bother calling back.” He did not recognize this tone in his mother’s voice. There were no hospital sounds in the background, no Hugo. A long silence, with a faint crackle.

Toby had never been well schooled on what counted as art deco. He usually pretended. If someone was with him now, in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria, he would say it was art deco. He stood in the lobby. He did not move. If he moved, he would throw up. A porter stood next to him, speaking. Hector. The name tag said
Hector.
There had been this stop-motion animated show on, when he was a kid, about a bear named Jeremy, and one of his sidekicks had been a raven named Hector. Growing up in Montreal, he could watch the original French version, too. The bear’s name, in French, was Colargol. Colargol wanted to travel the world and sing in the circus. But if Toby remembered well, he went to the moon. Somehow, Colargol was also Polish. The summer light harsh on the television, dust in the beams, Edward and Karen talking in the background, making meals, plans, putting on the day’s clothes, aftershave, hard shoes on shag, blue smoke hanging in the air.
Have a wonderful day. We love you. See you at
—.

“Excuse me,” said Hector, the porter, very slowly. “Are
you a guest at the hotel, sir?”

Hector the porter helped Toby through the check-in process and up to his suite, which had a view of the Chrysler Building. It looked fake. On the upper floors, the rain had turned to snow.

There was a message from Mr. Demsky. Toby phoned up to his mentor’s room.

“How did it go?”

“You didn’t tell me it was a done deal.”

“I wanted to surprise you, Tobias.”

“There’s nothing I could ever do to thank you properly.”

“Just promise you won’t fuck it up again.”

“I promise.”

Mr. Demsky coughed for a while, and took the Lord’s name in vain, and spit into either a Kleenex or a handkerchief. “Are you free for a cocktail in an hour or so? William and I are going to the opera tonight. He doesn’t have a third ticket, you lucky bastard, but he did want to meet his new discovery.”

Toby nodded.

“Jesus. Are you crying?”

“No.”

“You can’t cry.”

“All right.”

“It reflects poorly.”

“Of course.”

“Five o’clock in whatever the mahogany bar’s called. Bull and Bear, I think, or Bear and Bull. Is that kosher?”

“Kosher.”

“You sure everything’s fine?”

“I’ll wear my best suit.”

“Good boy.”

Furman et Fils was the largest funeral home
in Dollard-des-Ormeaux. The hands of the head mortician, who greeted Toby and Hugo at the door, were white dumplings lined with tiny blue veins. Arctic air had installed itself over the island for Christmas, but even so, Wally, the head mortician, dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead. Behind Wally, the funeral home’s carpet was thick and soft and white. The smell of chemical lemon filled the foyer. Toby removed his shoes and watched the other Furman et Fils employees. The undertakers wore dark business socks and floated on the carpet like movie-of-the-week prophets in polyester blazers. Wood tables on each side of the minty leather chesterfield twinkled with varnish. Giant vases exploded with white and cream roses and carnations, baby’s breath. Wally assured Toby that he was dealing with the head mortician, the principal Furman, because Edward Mushinsky, “a very important man in Dollard,” deserved no less. Wally’s laboured breathing was audible within a three-metre radius and added to the symphony of softness in Furman et Fils—organ music, the tick of a grandfather
clock, distant whisperings of Wally’s junior colleagues and, presumably, sons. For a year in university, Toby had dated a woman who followed daytime soap operas. Whenever characters suffered a near-death experience, they seemed to come here, to Furman et Fils, heaven in soft focus.

In Edward’s will, he had expressed a desire to be cremated. The document had not been updated since the discovery of his Jewishness, and this had instigated an argument. Toby thought he would want to be buried in Jewish fashion, in a simple box, though he was not Jewish enough to be considered by the burial society. Karen wanted Edward cremated so their ashes might together be strewn, upon her death, from a rocky outcropping at Lake Memphrémagog. The argument had taken Toby and Karen to their own rocky outcroppings, so Toby had allowed his mother her wish.

Hugo had been stricken silent by Furman et Fils. In the urn and casket showroom, something about the products on offer inspired him to hug Toby’s leg and bury his face. Toby employed his wine-list strategy: he agreed to purchase the second-cheapest vessel, the second-cheapest obituary notice, and the second-cheapest urn. The polished urns on the mahogany shelves featured engravings of eagles, pine trees, retirees in love, and the American and Canadian flags waving in tandem.

“Do you have a plain urn?”

Wally pointed out the eagle urn. “This is one of our most popular.”

“I prefer plain.”

“You don’t find the eagle suitable?”

Toby picked up Hugo.

“There’s no extra cost for engraving. Some folks like a poem or a saying about life’s journey. We have some of those in the back that might fit your dad.”

“No engraving.”

Wally chewed his bottom lip and messed Hugo’s hair, absently. He pulled a leather-bound book from the shelf and mumbled and tsked. “Actually, due to the vagaries of supply and demand, the plain urn is a mite bit more than the engraved models we have on hand.”

“How much is a mite?”

“In the neighbourhood of thirty dollars.” Wally linked his hands. “Thirty-three seventy-five, plus tax, of course.”

How does a gentleman negotiate the price of an urn? There were a number of tactics he had learned from Edward, at the farmers’ market. The secret was to wait. Wait and then walk away.

“In addition, the plain urn might take an extra day or two to arrive. You see—”

“With respect, Wally, I wouldn’t be honouring the memory of my father, paying more for less.” The theme of the segment spread out before him: the man of taste is socially and financially punished for an interest in design, in minimalism, in simple beauty. “Do you understand?”

Wally puffed his cheeks and looked up at the ceiling, painted to resemble that of a pink chateau. Nearly a minute passed. “Furman et Fils is happy to absorb the cost for a man like Edward. And we will have it here by tomorrow afternoon, so you can inspect it.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Furman.”

“I appreciate your trust, Mr. Ménard.”

“My father would be honoured.”

“The honour is all mine.”

“You need the potty!”

Edward Mushinsky had been involved in just about every community organization in Dollard, including the Elks, the Kinsmen, the Lions, the bingo and casino associations, minor hockey, minor football, the Dollard Centre for the Arts, and the Optimist Club, so Toby chose the only large public hall available at short notice on the Friday before Christmas: the First Church of the Nazarene.

The event was two hours away and Toby was still not dressed. He sat in the blue recliner and wrote Edward’s final requests on a slip of high-quality paper, careful not to forget any of them:

Look after Karen A mother for Hugo Mushinsky Find God Get that fucker

Toby found several unpopped kernels in the folds and grooves of the recliner. He stared at them for six full minutes in a ray of solstice sunshine, and decided he was unable to throw them in the garbage. Toby had never looked for God. He believed neither in ghosts nor in any of the music video versions of love, but it was clear to him that the dissolved spirit of his father inhabited every item the man had ever touched. Toby dropped the lost popcorn into a clear sandwich bag and vowed to carry it for the rest of his life.

The minister of the home congregation at the First Church of the Nazarene performed an interfaith introduction
to the ceremony and delivered a short pitch. He quoted with authority from the packet of background material Toby had provided. He lifted his hand to demonstrate emotional commitment, and pulled at his goatee, flared his nostrils, paused for dramatic effect. Toby saw that in his heart the minister knew as little about the fate of humanity and its hope for transcendence as a men’s etiquette commentator.

Rabbi Orlovsky took the stage and recalled his own meetings with Edward, a dutiful searcher, endlessly curious about the most important question that has ever been asked: What is it to be a human being? One of Edward’s best and oldest friends, a man who now lived in Seattle, played an acoustic guitar and sang four Cat Stevens songs in a row. The current Exalted Ruler of the Elks lodge compared Edward’s death to the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks in New York City and the Pentagon.

“What the hell is he talking about?” Toby whispered to his mother.

“Don’t say ‘hell’ in here.”

Toby had written his eulogy the night before, with a box of Kleenex, a bottle of Beaumes de Venise, a large bowl of Neapolitan ice cream, and a foxed paperback edition of
Roget’s Thesaurus.
During the meeting at Furman et Fils, Wally had mentioned that every son regrets it if he does not write and deliver his father’s eulogy, and Toby had accepted it as truth. He walked up the steps to the raised platform at the front of the church, with a small stage set up for a band, a jolly version of a crèche, a lavishly decorated Christmas tree, and on the wall a giant blanket with the word “Jesus” in an early seventies font that reminded Toby of the Christian Archie comics in his elementary school library. In normal
circumstances, the tacky sweetness of the church would have cheered him—the way kindly fat people in floral-print polyester shirts and unpopular haircuts cheered him—as the contrary of his own existence. But the quality of his discomfort, on the stage, was unprecedented. Acidic, curled.

Public speaking was not among his fears. At the podium, he unfolded his notes and looked out upon his father’s friends, relatives, and acquaintances. He looked out upon the lonesome and crumpled in the back row who attended every public funeral in Dollard. Toby intended to begin with a gentle anecdote about his father’s interest in trestle bridges, then ease into a litany of resonant facts. For instance, Edward Mushinsky would drive five hundred kilometres to Toronto, in a blizzard, to save three dollars on a jazz album.

The speech, double-spaced and in sixteen-point font, lay before Toby on the blond podium. He looked down at his father’s mourners, at their crimes: unkempt hair, Gore-Tex jackets designed for cross-country ski trips, slouching, texting, neckties featuring cartoon characters. In the front row alone, three men had cellphones and pagers attached to belts that held up khaki trousers. Karen and Hugo. Mr. Demsky, instantly recognizable by his hair. Toby wet his lips and, in an instant, the wood and stained glass of the walls and ceiling turned pink and brown. The large waiting area at the back fell away and the First Church of the Nazarene revealed itself as an ancient, echoing cave, steam and bones on a soft floor, roiling in slow rhythm. Old flesh swung and dripped from skeletal beams above and splashed on the soggy tongue between the pews. Toby and his father’s miserable friends, relatives, and acquaintances were inside a leviathan, and the beast was dying all around them. And they, too, in Wal-Mart black and tan, were moments away from their own painful deaths. They had already been swallowed.

Rabbi Orlovsky helped Toby down from the podium and eased him onto a bench in a basement hallway. Toby had been breathing through his mouth because the smell inside the whale was a marriage of rotten fish and diarrhea. Once he was alone, and once he could hear the echoing voice of the rabbi reading his eulogy, Toby attempted to open his eyes. He breathed through his nose. A small window at eye level revealed Dollard, a layer of dirty snow upon it.

For the occasion of his father’s funeral, Toby wore his only bespoke suit, a classic black designed by a British tailor who travelled through the northeast once every three years. Those in the know met him for one-hour appointments in the conference room of the Hotel Omni on Sherbrooke Street. Karen Mushinsky walked down the stairs one by one in a pair of high heels, holding Hugo’s hand. She sat next to Toby. Hugo reached up for a hug and Toby lifted him. The crowd laughed at one of the anecdotes he had written.

“So.”

An airplane roared low overhead. They waited for it to pass.

“What happens when I’m old and sick, Toby? Where will you be?”

He examined his fingernails, which needed attention.

“Where will you be, Toby, when I’m dying?”

Hugo’s fingers were short, like Edward’s. The boy said nothing.
When you die, you sleep. Grandpa sleeps on clouds in heaven.
Karen’s fingers were long and thin, a pianist’s fingers. Rabbi Orlovsky had an American accent, and cleared his throat right before the funny bits in the eulogy. The mourners seemed to like the jazz-albums-of-Toronto item. Several dust bunnies had sneaked under the bench opposite Toby, where the big brooms could not reach.

“You’re all I have now. You and this boy.”

“I understand.”

“This will happen to you, too, someday. It seemed like a long way off to me when you were Hugo’s age.”

“The church wasn’t a church.”

“What was the church?”

Karen coaxed him upstairs and they resumed their places in the front pew. To spare everyone the need to dish him sympathetic looks, Toby avoided eye contact. He concentrated on Rabbi Orlovsky, a tall and thin man, stooped just faintly, bearded without appearing unfriendly. He waved his large hands about as he spoke Toby’s words. “My father,” he said, again and again, at the beginning of statements, “My father.” Hearing it aloud, there was a hint of affectation about it, fear, even dishonesty. Toby wished he had referred to Edward more honestly as “My dad.”

My dad mowed the lawn with his shirt off, with bug spray in one hand and a beer in the other, pushing the machine with his belly.

The bungalow on rue Collingwood was too small for what Karen called the “after-party.” They had been planning to rent the community centre until Garrett offered up his house in Westpark. He had hired caterers and a bar service, and when Toby arrived on Papillon Street immediately after the funeral, with his mom and Hugo, he sat in the car and marvelled.

“Garrett did say it was big.” Karen leaned into the back seat of the Chevette and pulled Hugo out of the Westchester.

It was a two-and-a-half-storey brick-and-stone mansion, four or five thousand square feet, the sort of suburban house that inspired skepticism and suspicion in Toby. One lived in Dollard to save money, not to spend more of it. For two million dollars, Garrett could have bought a fabulously restored
historic home in Westmount or Outremont. The house next door and the house next to that were built according to the same design envelope. The style and materials were identical.

What would a single man need with all of this? Toby might have asked Karen, but she was already ringing the doorbell, with Hugo. Garrett opened the door, welcomed them in, and looked over their shoulders at Toby—who opened his hands to heaven. Garrett shrugged.

Inside, a massive red Persian rug led to an open staircase. The floors were oak, the walls were white. A crystal chandelier hung over the foyer, and the house smelled of pie. “What sort of lawyer are you, Garrett?”

Garrett took Toby’s jacket and led him to the salon, where Rabbi Orlovsky and the musician from Seattle chatted with three women from the Optimist Club. Servers in red slacks and white shirts moved through the house with trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. A wild-haired young man in a tightfitting velvet suit played a Schubert sonata on a polished black grand piano. The furnishings were modern, if unimaginative. Hugo ran his hand along the wainscotting and said, “Pretty.”

The second floor of the house had five bedrooms. Only one of them looked and smelled as if anyone had slept in it in the past several years. There was also a small library, with two leather chairs and a rolltop bar with Scotches and tequilas. Rather than endure several more embarrassing expressions of empathy from people he barely knew, Toby sat in one of the chairs and told a story of a spy dog, loosely based on
The Bourne Identity,
until Hugo fell asleep. It was three in the afternoon, past naptime. There was no way to move out of the chair without waking the boy, and he could not reach any of the books on the shelves. For a minute or two, Toby panicked. To
sit and stare at a wall and think quietly, an activity prior generations had considered essential for mental health, terrified him. The quiet led him to Edward in the burning Oldsmobile, Edward in the final moments of his life, his Black Sea skin the colour and consistency of beeswax. He takes a deep breath in and Toby waits for the exhalation, holding his hand. The fantasy of holding his father’s hand. Silver wedding ring, the rough swirls of his fingerprint pads. Somewhere in the hospital, faint ragtime piano. He touches his head to his father’s head.