Sweet Jesus (2 page)

Fenton was back at school, attempting to please his father by doing a law degree. He already had an
MA
in art history and been halfway around the world. They arranged to meet for lunch the next day. They sat and talked for hours. Fenton told him later he’d loved Zeus’s curiosity and determined independence, a lightness about things that seemed to cover something needy and sad. After a while, their friendship took a romantic turn.

It would be hard, years later, to separate the birth of their romance from their initiation into the world of clowning
because it was around this time that Fenton was walking through a park in Chicago’s West Town and came across a small crowd gathered to watch a short film projected on the cement wall of an old warehouse. It was black-and-white footage from the 1950s, a brief skit of two clowns, dressed like tramps, trying to share, with as much exaggerated dignity as they can muster, a bottle of vodka in the open air, under the watchful eye of a policeman. When at last the bottle is empty and all the vodka gone – after using it first to wash their hands, then gargle with and spit on the ground, to prove to the policeman that it’s just water – they still haven’t drunk a drop. In the end, all they have to share is a crust of bread. Fenton discovered later it was a clip of Yuri Nikulin, the famous Russian clown, and his partner, performing with the Moscow Circus, but at the time, he had simply been entranced. He told Zeus that nothing he’d ever seen had so thoroughly captured the struggle between pleasure and authority, or expressed the poignant and humiliating nature of life, and what could be more noble – or more representative of his own truest feelings – than to become a clown?

The movie haunted Fenton for days. He seemed constantly distracted. Then he seemed to reach a state of contentment that was almost conceited. He stopped going to class. Zeus didn’t know where he was spending his days. What the hell’s the matter with you? he yelled.

I’ve joined the Chi-Town Clown Academy, if you must know, Fenton said. And he knocked Zeus between the eyes with the heel of his hand. Who’s the comedian now, eh?

Clown academy? It seemed like the most outlandish place for a man of Fenton’s temperament and background.

That’s right, Fenton said. I’m studying to be a clown.

You’re already a clown, Zeus said with a sneer.

You should come with me.

Ha ha.

Fenton shoved his hands into his pockets. I think it’s a good fit.

And if the shoe fits.

The shoe will never fit! Fenton said, throwing his hands into the air. That’s the whole point. Fitting implies a level of comfort and respectability this profession will never allow, or even endorse. And I happen to be in full agreement with this line of thinking. Wear your underwear on the outside of your pants the next time you go to the corner store to get a carton of milk and you’ll see what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the soul here, Zeus! The power to transform lives, provide relief, to point out the silly path towards decency. I’m talking about being an outcast, a social critic. I’m talking about saving lives!

Okay, okay, Zeus said. Take it easy. You’re freaking me out. Zeus chewed his lip.

You have to come with me, Fenton had said. I know you have this in you too.

And so Zeus had gone with him and fallen, as Fenton predicted, under the academy’s spell. He loved the crazy antics and the open expressiveness of clowning, and finding a place to belong, where loyalties were formed around common goals and common opinions, and not because of blood ties, or the lack of them. Besides, it’s where Fenton was spending his time, and Zeus wanted to be with him. As he did now. But, over the last few months, Fenton had grown so listless he seemed indifferent to everything, even to his art. He’d lost muscle mass. His movements had become rigid and tentative. About a month ago, Zeus had seen Fenton cry on the shoulder of a bald child with a tube coming out of her nose and both arms wrapped in bandages. Her mouth had a mashed look and her eyes were too big for their sockets. They’d sat side by side on the edge of her
bed, his head on her shoulder, while she held a pale hand to his white cheek. It was like being comforted in hell.

Or maybe this had been a dream.

It was as if only a thin membrane separated him from his subconscious these days. He’d woken up two days ago and heard himself say, Where’s the other man? Lately, his dreams had become very ordinary. One night he dreamt about sharing a doughnut with Fenton, and the next day didn’t know whether or not this had actually happened.

The L-train was coming.

He saw the silver square of its flat face shift slightly from one side to the other and knew that it was barrelling down the tracks. The screech of its brakes as it came into the station was an angry lament that reminded him of his own frustration. Zeus got on the train and stood by the doors. Dressed even as he was, most people didn’t seem to notice him. He was always stunned by what other people ignored. He tried to cheer himself up by pulling a pocket watch, the size of a cup saucer, out of his pants and opening it up. A small brown terrycloth dog, perched on top of a flexible wire and attached at the base to a wind-up mechanism, sprung up and flew around in circles, chasing its own tail. Zeus shrugged and closed the lid and wound it up again. He leaned away from his pocket and, holding it open, lowered the watch by its chain back into his pants. This normally got a laugh. Sometimes someone would throw a few coins at his feet and he would make a show of fawning over the money, clasping his hands together against his chest like an ardent suitor in a silent film, but never stooped to pick it up.

Halfway to the hospital, a man got up from his seat and lumbered towards the doors. When the train stopped, he swung out onto the platform, hesitated, then swung back into the train. Zeus thought the man must be drunk, but he smelled
reassuringly of aftershave. The man sat down again. His dark hair was pulled back into a short comma at the base of his skull, and he wore a gold corduroy jacket over a white shirt with a maroon tie. He removed a bottle of cologne from his pocket. A cut-glass bottle with a German label in blue and gold. He yanked off the atomizer nozzle and took a swig. Now Zeus realized the man’s hands were dirty, his fingernails cracked. His clothes were scruffy and stained. Zeus had let his sense of smell obscure his eyes. This was an observation Fenton would normally appreciate, but Zeus wondered if he’d even bother telling him when he got back home tonight. He felt a pang of something like feeling sorry for Fenton, but then he recoiled. You can’t pity a clown. As soon as you pity a clown, he’s done for.

Zeus was two stops from the hospital now and an argument had broken out between the guy drunk on German cologne and a wiry young man with an enormous gym bag. The young man jumped up and yanked the older guy’s corduroy sleeve. Come on, he said, that’s enough. Get the hell outta here. The drunk man was pressing his cologne bottle against the collarbone of a dark-eyed woman sitting next to him. She looked frightened and harassed. Put some of this on your pussy, he said. Might freshen you up.

The young man said, That’s it, and pulled the older man up and dragged him to the doors and pushed him out as soon as they opened. The man braced himself in the doorway, one last arc of protest, his gold jacket flaring open like the wings of a moth. The young man kicked him in the back of the legs and he fell out of the train. Zeus saw him land on his shoulder, his face like a wedge, shoved between his momentum and the platform. That’s gotta hurt, someone said. The man lay still for a moment amid the indifferent traffic of busy feet. Then he picked himself up proudly and made his way to the exit. He
lifted his leg as if his foot was encased in cement and, listing backwards – his hand shooting out for the railing – descended onto the first step of the stairwell. Zeus heard a whole stadium applaud. The doors slid shut and the L-train moved down the track. The young fitness enthusiast who had thrown the man out turned around. He had sweat on his upper lip. He looked at Zeus – the wig, the wide eyes. Got a staring problem?

You talking to me? Zeus said and raised his eyebrows.

You look ridiculous.

Thank you very much, Zeus said politely, and the painted birds relaxed back onto their perches.

What’s with
this
guy? the young man said, looking around. His chivalry was all defensive bravado now.

Pick on the clown, tough guy, Zeus thought.

What an idiot, the guy said, walking back to his seat. Fucking clown suit, he said under his breath.

L
ast year, Norman Peach had gone hunting in Newfoundland and come back to Toronto with a hundred pounds of frozen caribou meat. Hannah Crowe had never known anyone to hunt. He’d left her the keys to his apartment and two hundred dollars and called her halfway through the week. Go get me a chest freezer. So Hannah had gone around the corner from where she lived to a secondhand appliance store on Queen Street West and chosen a little freezer that had been painted white on the inside to cover its imperfections. Two middle-aged men, one Jamaican, grey at the temples, and the other a thin Ukrainian in flat dress shoes, carried it up the steep fire escape to Norm’s apartment. When the Jamaican man heard what it was for, he joked, I’ll bring a two-four round, man, in a couple of weeks and we’ll have carry-bou steaks on the barbie.

Hannah was impressed that Norm had gone into the woods alone, found a caribou, shot it down, gutted and quartered it, then carried the quarters to where his old Toyota Tercel was parked, somewhere on a woods road. He was only about
half a mile from his car, but it took him five hours to lug the meat out. This was proof of a kind of courage, self-reliance, and physical endurance that she admired. She wanted to admire herself for the same reasons – so, this time, she’d gone with him. They’d flown to Norm’s hometown of St. John’s, rented a car, and picked up the keys to the house of a friend who was away on vacation. In the morning, they drove to a quarry forty-five minutes outside the city, to sight in the rifle and take a few practice shots. Hannah was nervous about the kickback. She’d seen a picture of Norm with a dark bruise on one side of his chest, just below the shoulder.

They got out of the car and Hannah lifted the gun out of the trunk and slung the strap over her head so the rifle hung diagonally across her back. She’d never carried a gun before and it was thrilling. Wearing the first warm clothing of the year, she felt like some glamorous Russian spy from an old Bond film, about to ski down an alpine slope in a tight, white one piece, with fake fir trees bouncing behind her in the background. She had an accent.
You know nussing about me, you only sink you do
.

Coming? Norm said.

You know, Hannah said, we could turn around and go home now and I’d still feel like we’d been on a pretty satisfying adventure.

Yeah, but there’s shootin’ to be done.

Norm was drawing a circle the size of an eyeball in the centre of a square of cardboard. He paced off fifty yards, set the cardboard at the far end of the quarry, and walked back. He showed her how to flick the safety on and off and check the barrel for cartridges. The bullet’s going to arc, he said, and there’s a bit of wind from the south, so aim higher than the crosshairs in your scope and a bit to the right. Norm could sense that Hannah was stalling.

Do you want me to take the first shot?

No, I’ll do it, she said.

She planted her feet and aimed, but looking through the scope was like looking through a blurry magnifying glass. A little juniper growing out of the gravel exploded into focus. Okay, I got it, she said. It was like binoculars. You had to get the angle right. Hannah panned an inch to the right and the target slid out of sight. She panned back and caught the cardboard in the crosshairs. It looked small. The bull’s-eye smaller. Her arm was trembling from the weight of the rifle.

You can crouch, Norm said. Like this.

Hannah squatted, put her elbow on her knee. The Lee-Enfield was sighted to hit dead square at both fifty and two hundred yards. The target was fifty yards away so all Hannah had to do was centre it, but the view through the scope still floated.

Breathe out, Norm said. And squeeze.

Now the picture sat still. She had the bull’s-eye lined up. She hesitated, just to be sure, then ran out of breath. She lowered the gun and yawned.

Take your time.

She glanced back at him. Norm had his fingers in his ears and his eyes were wide open.

She tried again – concentrated, aimed, held the butt firmly against her shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. Holy fuck. The noise shocked her. It was very loud and very fast. You almost doubted it after you heard it. Now she understood how a gunshot in a movie sounded fake. It sure ain’t cracked celery in a sound studio, that’s for sure.

Norm said, That’s gunpowder for you.

Hannah’s ears were ringing and adrenalin was prickling in her fingertips. There had been no kickback. Her heart was racing. She put the gun down as if denouncing the power of it.
She shook her hands loose at the wrists. I have no idea, she said, whether I hit that or not.

They started off at a walk, then Hannah broke into a run. Not only had she hit the cardboard, she was two inches shy of the bull’s-eye at fifty paces.

Norm said, I think you’ll be fine.

Hannah took two more shots. Neither shot was as close, but good enough in Norm’s opinion and closer than both of his, though he took his standing.

They got into the car and headed back for the city, where Norm’s friends were expecting them for dinner. But then Norm pulled over at a spot where the trees thinned out and you could see the long clearing of a run of power lines. I’ve seen caribou in here before, he said, so they stood at the edge of the highway and got geared up. It was mid-October and they had rubber boots and rain pants and rain jackets and sweaters. They had orange toques and Hannah had bought a cheap plastic orange safety vest that was so large she had to tie it in a knot at the front. How do I look?

You look like you don’t want to get shot.