SS Glasgow Castle 16 Chapter Sixteen

I hit the university campus downtown first, targeting all the bulletin boards I could find. I raided vocational colleges and libraries, schools of design and computer training centres, prepared for any eventuality with my small roll of tape and a box of pushpins. I penetrated into a school board building, scandalising a couple of patrolling matrons. I even buzzed briefly into the no-fly zone around Donna's law office building to score a hit on the promising arts college just a block away.

At twelve sharp, I presented myself at my doctor's. My physician is an elderly East Indian gentleman who had spent the first half of his life in Uganda, moving to Canada when Idi Amin began slitting non-black throats. When he heard that I proposed to visit Africa, he shook his head sadly: the water... the food... He had a wonder vaccine right in his office - a lethal c.o.c.ktail guaranteed to immunize the adventurous traveler against pretty much everything but AIDS. However, he urged me to satisfy my yearning for a.s.sorted tropical delights by visiting the Caribbean - he recommended Aruba. When I told him Aruba wasn't on the menu he sighed deeply, and proceeded with a meticulous examination, following which he injected me with the vaccine. He warned me that I might not feel great over the next couple of days, and told me to avoid alcohol during that time. I was happy to learn that overall, he didn't think I drank too much.

Two o'clock found me aboard a mostly empty bus bound for Peterborough. This unpretentious city is where my parents chose to spend the rest of their lives: my old man likes its inland Ontario location because after forty years of looking at the sea he doesn't ever want to see it again (he doesn't mind lakes). My mother likes it because, as she says a little too often, it reminds her of her childhood home in southern Norway ('only there is so many more trees and bushes here'). They even both claim they like the horrific winters.

It was getting dark when I arrived at their bungalow, half-hidden behind the advertised trees and bushes; it stood in the back half of a large lot surrounded by a white picket fence. I disliked that fence. I had been made to paint it every other summer, which meant not only applying a new coat but also being responsible for the irresponsible Todd. There had been several dramatic scenes involving him and and myself while we painted that fence.

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There was no light showing in any of the windows. After I had pressed the doorbell a few times at civilized intervals, I heard footsteps shuffling towards the front door; it sounded like all the ghosts of my past approaching.

He had been asleep; the hair on one side of his head was turned the wrong way by the pillow. He opened the door, saw it was me, grunted, and went to the kitchen. By the time I joined him, he'd already poured two half pints of coffee. His hand hovered by the cupboard in which he kept brandy, which suggested my mother wasn't home.

"You hungry?" he asked. I shook my head. He nodded thoughtfully, and took out the brandy. I wasn't supposed to drink following my vaccination, but what could I do? I'd come to ask him for a lot of money. No discordant notes - that was the recommended policy, and anyway my old man never had more than a couple of drinks in one sitting. He did make each one count, though.

"Thanks," I said, accepting a gla.s.s with what looked like a triple. "Where's mum?"

He had a drink and looked out of the window for a while before he could bring himself to speak.

"Frieda's had a stroke," he said finally. "She'll be staying with her for a while."

Frieda is my mother's sister. Properly speaking, my aunt, but she doesn't feel like one: I'd never even met her. She lives in Narvik, Norway - judging by the photographs I'd seen, one of the most desolate spots on earth. To make things even more depressing, she married a mining engineer. He went too deeply one day, and she'd been a widow for some time. Well, now you know where guys like Ibsen, Strindberg, and Bergman get their ideas. I said:

"I'm sorry to hear that. Are you managing okay?"

He nodded, and had more brandy. I had some too in order to lubricate by voice-box for what I was going to make it say: it wouldn't be easy.

"Well," I said eventually, "I'm not doing great myself. It looks like I've f.u.c.ked up. I'm sorry, Dad." He waited, sipping.

"Donna and I are divorcing, and I still haven't found a job," I said.

"That's sad," he said.

There was a longish silence, punctuated by the dripping of the kitchen tap. He was out of his chair before I could move, twisting it properly shut. He sat down again.

"Have you got another woman?" he asked. I shook my head.

"You should get another woman," he told me.

"I probably will. Eventually. Right now I don't feel like getting involved with anyone, if you know what I mean."

"You should get laid," he told me. That was rich, coming from a guy who went about the marital business maybe once a month; I could watch, listen, and count no worse than any other teenager.

"Right now I'm getting along fine with a w.a.n.k every Sunday," I said. "I know they told you it makes hair grow on your palms, but it's not true. And I find it's less demeaning than f.u.c.king someone I don't really want to f.u.c.k just so I get my rocks off. It's also less expensive."

"It's sad you don't want anyone," he said. In my opinion, fatherly wisdom is much overrated. I took a swig, took a deep breath and said:

"Dad, I need money. Can you help me out?"