It’s a warm night, considering the time of the year. We run across the street in an effort to beat the traffic light. There’s not a lot of traffic, but it’s something we used to do as kids. I look at where I parked my car out on the street and think about moving it to the underground parking, but decide against it. It’s the middle of October and the trees are at the point of turning, so they’re littering the sidewalk and the cars under them with their dead leaves. I look around and think how everything looks like it’s something Ronnie might’ve painted way back when she was in the second grade.
At least the rain stopped, I tell myself.
The grass in front of the hospital is covered in what looks like a patch-work blanket of dead leaves. I can see the mountains peeking out from behind the buildings — I’ve been looking at the mountains for so long now, I think I’ve started to take them for granted — because they’re all lit up with lights for night skiing even though the season hasn’t started yet.
I tell myself I have to start paying attention to what’s going on around me and appreciate the little things in life. And where did that come from? Am I thinking the beauty of my surroundings will make up for the fact that I’m starting to question my own mortality? Does this have to do with Dad laying upstairs in a hospital bed?
Seventy-six isn’t too long from now, is it?
When I was a kid, it was always cold at this time of the year. The rain would start some time in late September and not stop until April, or sometimes later — April showers bring May flowers, we’d sing when we were kids — and then we moved to San Francisco when I was about ten. We lived there for four years. I don’t remember too much except that I hated everything about it, and I guess Mom and Dad did too, because the first chance they got, we left and came back here. That’s when Dad started his own charter business.
This is the only place I’ve ever really wanted to call home; it’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to live. I work in the movie industry and luckily for me, it’s blossoming up here. I used to work in a sawmill, but quit once I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. It was the right choice because the money’s good, and the people are great.
Russell ended up staying in L.A. for another eight years. He’s always done his own thing, and his thing is music. He says the music industry up here’s better than down in the States — this was back in the days of Brian Adams and Loverboy — back in the eighties with all the hair bands, Crocket and Tubbs, big shoulder pads on your coats, along with big lapels. All I know is that when he finally moved back here, he never applied himself — not like I did when I forced my way into the film industry — so he picks up the odd gig around town waiting for his big break. It still hasn’t come.
He does carpentry, and while I throw whatever work I can at him, he’d rather play music. As long as I remember that, he won’t screw me over by forgetting to show up for any jobs I might get him. He has in the past, and it’s a sore point we try to avoid.
We find the sandwich shop easy enough. It has blue tinted windows and four old kitchen tables pushed up against a dirty wall. We enter, and I can see the floor is dirty and the tables haven’t been wiped. I’m thinking we’ll eat outside.
“Oh, this must be the original Greasy Spoon,” Russell says as we approach. “Like Cy’s Café in Whalley.”
“Like you’d know that.”
“Hey, Kathy’s grandpa came in through here.”
“What does that mean? ‘Came in through here’?”
“That her family’s lived in New West for as long as New West has been here. That they lost everything when it burnt down a hundred years ago and had to start over again. That’s what I know Mr. Shit-for-brains.”
“When was that?” I ask as we step up to the counter and order our sandwiches. The lady behind the counter is polite, but she looks bored, and we stand off to the side and wait in silence as she makes the sandwiches.
“What year was the fire?” I ask again as we go outside to sit down. I take my coat off and fold it so that I can sit on the bench; it’s still wet from the rain. I brush the puddles of rain off the seat and throw my coat down on top of it. Now I’m thinking we should’ve stayed inside.
“I don’t know when it burned down any more than I know who started the Chicago fire —”
“Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.”
“What?”
“The Chicago fire was started by Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Everyone knows that,” I smile. “Bessie. Kicked over a lantern.” While he was listening to Zepp on his headphones, and Smoke on the Water, I was watching old black and white movies on the Channel Twelve Sunday Night Big Show.
“I don’t know about that sort of shit man, and I don’t care. I just said Kathie’s grandfather used to live here. I don’t know when it was, or how long he was here — I just know it was like, a hundred years ago. I don’t even know if you could even call this a part of the city back then. What is it they call this place? The Royal City?”
“That’s not this part. That’s over by the bridge, near City Hall. That old house — the one on Royal Avenue? It’s a museum now. It’s one of the original houses from before the fire.”
“You mean up where the cannery used to be? Remember the cannery under the bridge? Wasn’t that the Royal City Cannery? Why the hell would they even call it that? The Royal City? What a dumb fuckin’ name.”
“Queen Victoria picked it out,” I say.
“What? The Royal City?”
“No. New Westminster. She named it.”
“And what about this place? Sapperton? She name that too?”
“How would I know?” I laugh.
“I could sure use a beer,” Russell says slowly. “How about you?”
“I’d better not,” I say. “I might have to drive Ronnie home, and Caroline hates it when she can smell beer on me.”
“What’re ya, pussy whipped?” Russell laughs.
“No,” I say with a smile. “Divorced.”
My cell phone rings just then, and I look at Russell, offering a sad smile as I reach into my pocket for it.
It’s Caroline.
She’s on her way down she says, but first she wants to change and get a bite to eat.
“I’ll be about forty minutes.”
“Take your time,” I say. “They’re doing tests right now and we’re just waiting. You’ll take Ronnie back with you though, right? I don’t know how long I’m staying; I can’t leave Mom right now.”
“Of course. I’m not totally insensitive to what’s happening. How are you doing?”
“I'm managing.”
“I love you,” she says, and hangs up. Rather than letting what she said add more confusion to my already addled brain, I decide it’s probably better to ignore it.
I hang up and look at Russell.
“Do you want to phone Kathie?” I ask, and offer him the phone.
“She’s not home,” he says as he takes a bite.
“What do you mean? It’s almost nine o’clock. How long do her classes go?”
“She’s not at a class,” he says around the bite.
“She’s not? But you told Mom —”
“We split up. I moved out. Not too far from here actually. Just off Kingsway.”
“Moved out? Why? What happened?”
“What happened? A lot of things happened — too many to get into here — but it’s definitely over.”
“For good?”
“For better or worse,” he says with a lop-sided grin as he takes another bite. “I don’t know how to tell Ma, though. It’s been a couple of weeks.”
“A couple of weeks! Never mind telling Ma, you never told me? What the hell’s the matter with you? I’m your brother. We’re supposed to take care of each other. Remember?”
“Like when you told me you and Caroline were breaking up?”
“That was different.”
“Why? Because it was you? Why’s that different?”
I bark out a quick laugh, telling him he’s right. I didn’t want to tell anyone that Caroline and I couldn’t make a go of it — especially Mom and Dad — because they loved her so much. Everyone said we were made for each other. Mom still says Caroline’s the daughter she never had, but the problem is, she always said it in front of Kathie and Russell. Kathie’s never been the sort of woman to care if a person likes her or not, but I’m sure it bothered her. Almost as quick as I can think it’s maybe the strain of not having in-laws that liked her that might have been too much for Kathie, I dismiss it. I don’t know of any relationship that broke up because someone’s parents didn’t like their son, or daughter’s, choice of a spouse. I’m sure it happens, but not in my circle of friends.
I tell myself Russell will tell me about it eventually. I figure it’s the usual excuse, that unholy trinity of money, sex, and work — or the lack of it — which sort of takes it right back to the first reason, doesn’t it? Life’s a vicious circle.
“We better get back,” Russell says, jumping up and picking up his coat. He crumples up his sandwich wrapper and tosses it toward the garbage bin, missing by a foot.
“How about a rain check on that beer?” I ask.
“A rain check? Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“Why? What’s wrong? You don’t want to have a beer with me?” I ask, bending down to pick up his wrapper.
“You always take a rain check with me, so we never go out for drinks anymore. And why’s that, by the way? Too busy? No time? Is it the way I’m dressed? Maybe you’re embarrassed to be seen with me? I don’t wear the same fancy clothes you do, but then, I don’t work in an office — I don’t have a London Fag raincoat —”
“It’s London Fog, and it’s an overcoat —”
“— and I don’t hang out in the same pretty bars. I like strip clubs. I drive a battered up Camero, not a two seated Beamer."
“No!” I say, pulling at his arm and looking him in the eye. “That’s not it.”
“Then what? A rain check? I’m your brother, goddamn it! Why do I always get the feeling you’re trying to brush me off?”
I feel like a balloon someone suddenly lets the air out of. I can feel myself sagging in front of him. He needs me, I tell myself — especially now — and I guess he’s right as far as me trying to avoid him goes. I do. It’s gone beyond the sibling rivalry of our youth, to simple neglect. We don’t even meet for lunch anymore since my divorce came through.
That’s because he hangs out in seedy bars and the worst kind of strip joints. It’s not that I’m a prude about that sort of thing, but I have a clientele that expects some sort of class: producers, directors — even writers and actors — and they don’t want to be hassled by drunks and hookers, not unless it’s on their terms. I work sixteen hours a day sometimes — not that it’s hard, because I’m waiting most of the time. I’m waiting on sets; waiting for conference calls; waiting on big shots for luncheons and dinners. I’m always flying out of town at a moment’s notice — I think it’s one of the contributing reasons I couldn’t make it work with Caroline. Now it looks like I’m pushing my brother away, too.
I pull out my cell phone and push the speed dial. Caroline answers on the third ring. I tell her to bring us a bottle, and when she asks me what kind, I says it doesn’t matter, as long as it is rum.
“Maybe Mom’s right?” I say with a smile as I put the phone back in my pocket. “Maybe we do need to get drunk?”
“Why not? That’s what Dad and his siblings did.”
THE DAWN PATROL