Thirteen Crucifixions 31

            The foundation cream deftly concealed Stephen’s five o’clock shadow.  His heavy beard alone inconvenienced his otherwise formidable talent for cross-dressing.  He didn’t really feel like working but Tanya wanted to come out screaming this evening.  Pierre was crouched in front of the TV.  He was smoking a joint.  “All In the Family” was still on.  In his perfectly bare feet, black track pants, and vaguely soiled white t shirt with its “Corona Beer” logo, Stephen thought him to be the sexiest piece of trailer trash that he’d ever seen on his bed.  “Zip me up, stud”, he said, crouching down and showing him his back.

            “Whereya goin’ tonight?”

            “Burst Arteries.”

            “Can I come?”

            “Maybe—Ow!  Don’t pinch!

            “Then hold still, you big-breasted trollop.”

            “Watch yo’ mouth boy, or the trollop’s gonna whallop.”

            “Promises, promises!”

            She stood up and twirled in her white cocktail dress.  “How do I look?”

            “Mouth watering.  Can I have a bite?”

            “No.  You’re a fag.”

            “I can dream, can’t I?”

            “You can be my date.”

            “Maybe.”

            “Give me a toke, you greedy pig!”

            “Here.”

            Stephen sucked hard on the half-spent reefer.

            “This stuff’s potent.  Where’d you fuckin’ get it?”

             “From our dancing boy across the way.”

            “He actually spoke to you?  I’m jealous.”

            “He just wanted to sell me a bag.”

            “I didn’t know that he deals.”

            “It came as a surprise.”

            With his foot Glen turned over the dead raven.  There was no sign of blood or wounding.  Perhaps it had been sick, or poisoned.  Maybe it had simply died from old age.  But why did it land at his feet?  And why a raven, at that?  Was this a bad omen? A good omen?  Was it an omen at all?  Perhaps everything just happened randomly in a very random universe?  Perhaps God had sent this as a warning?  Or maybe a sign of blessing.  He felt puzzled, disturbed and divided within himself.  Glen didn’t know what to make of it.  He should maybe phone the SPCA?  Did they deal with dead birds?  Maybe he ought to bury it, or take it home with him?  He didn’t want to touch it.  It was dead.  But also it was sacred.  It was a raven.  It had fallen from the sky and landed right at his feet at twilight.  He sat down on a rock, and stared at the dead raven.  Glen didn’t know much about ravens, except that they weren’t exactly crows, being larger and somewhat mysterious.  The Trickster? In Native mythology.  Or a bird of prophecy, or of ill omen.  Intelligent, the most intelligent of birds.  Bird of shadow and mystery.  Glen sensed that he was being given a sacred charge that carried a great burden of responsibility.

            He felt for Bryan a sudden pang of remorse.  Margery’s showdown with him at the Pitstop was a little intense for everyone.  Small wonder that Carol ended up punching Randall, even without good reason.  Glen had often spoken to Margery at the House of Unconditional Love.  Like the other women there she wore too much make-up.  They all groomed themselves like they had starter kits for hookers.  They dressed cheaply and conservatively, like office workers at a temp. agency.  Glen thought that she looked like a wild animal in a cage.  He couldn’t dispute the connection that he felt with Margery, that regardless of his professional status, they were peers, and more so than Glen could so allow with Bryan nor any of his co-workers.  She had special status with Bryan, who regarded Margery as a model resident.  She seemed obedient, pliant, and co-operative.  She seemed almost submissive to Bryan, whose word was usually taken, however grudgingly, as law.  But Glen could tell that Margery knew better.  Even through her anti-psychotic medicated haze Margery had given him such a look as to tell him this—that they lived at a similar frequency, they were peers.  Then Margery moved away, and Bryan ceased from even mentioning her, as though she had died.  Glen saw Margery again, six months later.  She was about to get married to Peter.  She looked well.  He’d never seen her look so well before.  She was no longer wearing make-up.  She was dressed in tight jeans and a huge bulky gray pullover.  They stayed in touch.  Bryan knew nothing.

            “All In the Family” was still on. Alice had missed the peace march.  She usually did.    She didn’t care for demonstrations, for which she apologized by hosting the potluck supper after the rally.  This had become tradition.  Now that every cup, saucer and plate had been washed and dried and put in its correct place she had only to go home, down the hall, to her own apartment and a well-deserved sleep.  Neither Glen nor Marlene had turned up, which was no surprise to her.  They had their own lives.  Still, Alice found her daughter, Marlene, deplorable.  That was the only word with which she could describe her.  Deplorable.  Absolutely no social conscience. Whatever she’d had of a mind had been poached out of existence on drugs and bad living.  Glen had been quick to remind Alice that Marlene did have, finally, a legitimate job;  but what, she wondered, could be possibly legitimate about running a sleazy coffee shop that catered to drug addicts, drug dealers, prostitutes and homosexuals?  She didn’t suppose there could be much wrong with being homosexual.  So many people were these days, and after all, Glen—but this was never mentioned between them.  Alice would never betray her son.

            Sad about that nice Jim Larsen being turned away at the border.  Alice had read one of his books.  He wrote on the theme of interconnectedness, which she supposed to be a Buddhist teaching.  That even how and where she directed her breath might have an impact, a lasting cataclysmic influence upon the world.  Glen, her son, had mentioned something similar.  Her poor boy had never been the same since nearly dying in that fire.  He had actually been, momentarily, dead.  No brain damage, still there were things that only a mother could know.  She found Glen incomprehensible. A complete and utter mystery.  He said that he’d had a near-death experience, which he himself only vaguely recalled.  Her beautiful son, who would never make her a grandmother.  Marlene was already thirty, and no man in her life.  She seemed to be in no hurry.  She had gotten away from that awful German cocaine dealer. No, he was Swiss.  Rescuing Marlene had cost Alice prettily, forcing her to cancel her own vacation plans.  If Marlene was thirty, then that made Alice—fifty-three?  Fifty-four.  An aging woman.  Sixty in seven years.  Seven years ago she was still in her forties.  And there was Brent, her other son.  She was seventeen?  Eighteen, when she had him.  She still couldn’t think of Brent without clenching her teeth and fighting off—why had Alice ever given Glen the address of Brent’s father in Toronto, and why did Glen have to tell her what great friends he’d become with his half-brother?  Almost she met Brent again while visiting Glen in the hospital.  She had missed him by only five minutes, but she was almost sure that was him in the elevator.  He looked so much like Glen and—better to forget.

            Alice had yet another young man in her life, who clung to her like a mussel on the hull of the Titanic.  She absolutely swore that Derek would be her last.  Glen didn’t approve of him.  Marlene, after flirting with him once or twice, to Alice’s relief, lost interest.  Glen refused to meet him.  Alice thought that Carol, that protegee of Doris’, had exhibited the most appalling bad taste when she made of Derek such an openly public spectacle today during her otherwise eloquent speech.  She just hoped that it wouldn’t appear on the news tonight.