and a small potato. It’s more satisfying to watch Nikky eat. I wish I could still cook for him the way I used to. It’s been a long time since I’ve managed a soufflé or a tourtière. After dinner is done and the dishes are all washed I bring out a couple of bottles of my finest bourbon, setting them down on the coffee table with two crystal glasses. Nikky lounges on the sofa, I sit in my chair and we watch television. He changes the channels so quickly I don’t know what we’re watching. It doesn’t matter.
I feel warm and hazy. My eyelids are heavy. I awake, hoping I’ve only nodded off for a few minutes. I smile at Nikky and push myself out of my chair. I trace my finger along the smooth hallway wall, but I don’t wobble. I’m as steady as bourbon. I open the linen closet door and rummage for the spare pillows. Nikky begins talking softly on the phone. I set the vinyl storage bags down and try to hear, but Nikky’s voice is too quiet, almost monosyllabic. Not a friend or a parent. Perhaps a girl. I pick up the bedding and head for the guest room. Nikky’s other room. I made up the sofa bed for my grandson many times when Nikky was small and his parents were fighting. Or tired. Or away. I used to read to him to help him fall asleep. After he drifted off I would watch over him, trying to protect him from bad dreams. He slept on his side, curled like a snail, blankets bunched up over his back like a little shell home.
I wrestle with the sofa bed mattress. I don’t remember it being so heavy. I sit down on the edge of mattress to rest and smell something damp and pungent. Nikky’s bag festers in the corner by the closet. It’s a smell that lingers in my nose, even after I retire to my room. I tuck a French lavender sachet under my pillow and made a mental note to run a load of laundry the next day.
I wake up thirsty. I peer at my clock radio, but I can’t decipher the numbers. I guess it’s long after midnight. On my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I pause at the guest room door, expecting it to be open so I can peek in at my grandson, watch him sleep in his blanket shell. The hallway nightlight glows green. I stand in ghastly pea soup shadows and press on Nikky’s door with shaky hands. For the first time, the door is shut tight.
In the morning I make a big breakfast of toast, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and beer. Nikky is quiet, and every time I think of a question I want to ask, I hesitate. I want to know whether his apartment is decent and if he has a girlfriend. Instead, I offer him more blueberry jam, another egg, the last slice of bacon. When his plate is finally empty, I stand.
“Now dear,” I say, looking at him over the rims of my glasses. “Would you like to go for a walk with my neighbour Charles and me?” I don’t wait for his muffled reply before walking to the front door. I reach into the metal umbrella stand and hand him my spare. I know the beer will soften him up. Once downstairs, I start out by popping my umbrella open. The mist still gets in everywhere, but it’s my ritual.
Charles eyes Nikky’s black military-style steel-toes. “Those are some sturdy-looking boots,” he says. I’m surprised when he doesn’t comment on the metal spikes sticking out of Nikky’s leather jacket.
“Thanks.” Nikky flips up his collar over shrugged shoulders. Charles walks on one side of me, Nikky on the other, both silent. I imagine how the neighbours see us meandering down the path together: an elderly man in a ball cap, a shaky old lady in a proper cashmere twin set and matching silver overcoat, and tall Nikky, clad in black from head to toe, like a cartoon villain.
I stop at the beach park and point a gloved hand at a new circle. Clean round rocks surround a miniature organ, a framed photo, and a small, freshly planted tree. A dozen small stones clustered in the middle are each painted with a black musical note. A card-sized plaque reads: IN MEMORY OF MRS. MARILYN MANSON, WIFE, MOTHER, GRANDMOTHER, ORGANIST.
“It should be the other way around,” I say. “Organist first, then grandmother, mother, and wife. That’s how they’d write it for a man.” But when I look up, Nikky is smirking. I’m indignant. It’s unlike my grandson to be so rude. Charles chuckles to himself and translates for me.
“Marilyn Manson is also the name of a horrific-looking Goth rock musician.” He places his hand on my shoulder for a moment, a reassuring tap. “I saw him on MuchMusic the other day. Quite the sight.”
Nikky snaps a photo of the plaque with his cellphone. “I can’t believe this old dude gets it.” He looks approvingly at Charles.
Charles whistles a little tune into the wind on the walk back to the condominium. Emboldened in the presence of my grandson, I invite Charles in for coffee. I keep the invitation casual, as though it’s something that happens all the time. If Nikky notices the chuffed look Charles gives me, or my own coy expression, he keeps it to himself.
I like how Charles looks seated at my dining room table. He sits up straight in his chair and places his linen serviette properly on his lap. Nikky lounges in his chair, but doesn’t dare lean back like his father would. I taught him not to. I bustle in the kitchen as the coffee perks. I serve Charles black coffee, on account of his diabetes, then, instead of cream, I slip a shot of Baileys into the china cups for Nikky and myself. I whisk up a double batch of dough, and then re-emerge a dozen minutes later with fresh blueberry scones piled high on my special Limoges platter. When I finally sit down I find myself unable to think of a single thing to say. Charles strikes up a conversation with Nikky about music videos and horror movies, which they both seem to know a lot about. I try to follow along. Even though I watch a great deal of TV, I’m partial to BBC mysteries and Coronation Street reruns. I know about the English countryside and British pub slang. What is this emocore business about? A kind of seafood? Like abalone? No. Of course not. I fight the urge to get up and do the dishes, tidy the kitchen. I am mindful of the fact Nikky will only be in town for a week. I think of Geoff, then sit and listen, hoping neither Nikky nor Charles will mind the clatter of my cup against its saucer as I sip coffee with tremoring hands.
“I have to get that.” Nikky stands up suddenly, reaching for something in his pocket. “It’s important.” I hear an electronic blip as Nikky grabs his cellphone. It’s hardly a ring. The device is not at all like a real phone. Charles and I watch as Nikky strides through the living room and out onto the balcony I almost never use. The sliding glass door snicks shut behind him. He paces, head down, staring at beige vinyl deck flooring instead of the sea. Charles looks at me. I shrug, wishing I knew what the call was all about. Charles stands.
“I ought to go.” He bows lightly and pats my hand. “Thank you kindly for the coffee, my dear.”
I try to stand.
“Oh, don’t get up, I’ll let myself out.” Charles turns, then pauses to look back at me. “We should do this again.” He gestures at the table. “After our walks.”
“Have a beverage and a biscuit?” I smile to myself.
“B&B, I suppose we could call it. Like the classic cocktail.” Charles disappears into the hall. I listen to him whistle as he puts his shoes back on. I recognize the old jazz standard as a CBC radio favourite: “Oh, Lady Be Good.” I feel the wings of a very old moth flutter in my stomach.
The door clicks shut. My cup rattles in its saucer and tips. I shake my head, annoyed by my infuriating tremors. I check to make sure the cup hasn’t chipped. I begin clearing the dishes. By the time Nikky re-emerges from the balcony twenty minutes later, there’s a fresh linen cloth on the table and four bottles of fine liqueur lined up along the sideboard: Crème de Cacao, Grand Marnier, Chambord, and Crème de Menthe. Nikky shivers. Sea mist glistens in his hair. He smells damp. I hand him a delicate blue liqueur glass.
“This will warm you up.” I lift trembling hands and struggle to pour Chambord into the glass without spilling. “We’ll try each one of these and you can tell me which one is your favourite.” Nikky sits down and takes a sip.
