Thirteen Crucifixions 39

It had been for Glen a troubled night.  Even though he’d slept right through he still didn’t feel properly rested.  It was early.  He couldn’t tell how early, since he didn’t have a watch and there was no clock in the room. Of course, he had forgotten to plug in his clock radio that was still hidden in his duffel bag, along with his midnight blue oversize coffee mug.  These alone, outside of his clothes and a few of his most cherished books, remained of his earthly possessions—these, his paintings and some art materials.  He had survived his first-ever eviction.  He could not pay the rent.  His mother had invited him to stay with her as long as he wanted.  It had been for them both a comfortable co-existence.  He was even able to paint, and his mother was very supportive of what he was doing.  But, at 45 Glen was too old to be living with his mother who, at 71, was still relatively youthful and in robust health, therefore not in any great need of his assistance.  But for the odd painting sale and the work he did for Randall and Barbara’s second child once a week he had no income to speak of. Which had made Bruce and Sue’s offer all the more tempting—free everything and pocket money besides while staying in their palatial home.  They wanted a mural, and so he was going to be looked after and given money for doing what he enjoyed the most.  Too good to be true.  He knew he should not have rushed into this arrangement—he hadn’t realized that he’d been so eager to get away from his mother.  It was the next morning, when Glen, lying awake in bed was greeted by Bruce walking into his room without knocking, wearing nothing but a royal blue silk robe and one of the smarmiest smiles he had ever seen.  Bruce announced that Glen was expected in the bed that he shared with his wife for a little morning refreshment.  Glen sat up, mustering all his strength not to betray the alarm that he was feeling.  He even managed to force what he hoped came across as a convincingly eager smile.  He said, “Can I just have a shower first—I’m feeling pretty grubby right now.”  Bruce volunteered to join him in the shower.  Glen countered that it would only feel right if Sue was in there with them, which wouldn’t be very practical since there wouldn’t be quite enough room for all of them.  Bruce saw his point and told him that he would get his wife all warmed up for him.

            He didn’t have to think hard or long.  Fortunately he had not unpacked, had learned already where the phones were, as well as the bathrooms.  Jumping into his clothes he went into the bathroom, phone in hand, turned on the shower and called a taxi.  They never saw him leave.  The next stop was Pierre’s, who gladly put Glen up for the next five days.

            He supposed that he’d been guided to Sheila who he had not been expecting to invite him into her home.  They had got on together very comfortably.  And now, after all these years, he was engaged in more than a passing acquaintance with her son Michael.

He liked them both, enormously, but he was also well aware of the hunger for him that her son still entertained.  This worried Glen, as well as Michael’s connection with Pierre.  He had dreamed all night, but now he couldn’t recall anything, except that someone, or something, kept trying to force entry into his room. That’s all he could recall.  And that he felt really and truly frightened.  Maybe it was the house, which didn’t really feel creepy, but there was something here.  He couldn’t name it, and he wasn’t sure if he could even call it a presence.  Perhaps it was the apple tree outside.  Sheila had mentioned that the tree was sacred.  Michael referred to it as nasty.  Perhaps it was both, and was it because of this tree growing on this property that Glen’s sleep had been disturbed?  How could he tell?  He couldn’t.  Did he need to know?  But now his mind was beginning to wander into some pretty ridiculous places again. He opened his duffel bag and dug out his clock radio which he plugged in and his midnight blue coffee mug.  The radio was always set to CBC Radio 2, as was his mother’s radio, but hearing it in his own room from his own radio which he’d inherited from Stephen Bloom when he died ten years ago, while drinking dark French Roast coffee from his own favourite coffee mug –this was how Glen had coped with being homeless.  He sat quietly on the bed, waiting for the newscast.  Then he would know what time it is.  He always wanted to know the correct time, as though it mattered, which he realized it didn’t.  The World at Six came on, and Glen knew it was earlier than he’d thought.

            He tried to remember where Sheila kept the coffee filters—she had shown him last night, and of course!  In the cupboard directly above the automatic coffee maker.  A thoroughly practical woman.  The coffee he found in the freezer.  Sumatran.  His favourite after dark French. Glen had landed very well in this house, all things considered.  Sheila wouldn’t be up for another hour.  Glen had the kitchen to himself.  He looked over his shoulder.  A large white cat rubbed against his leg.  He picked up the cat and held it, all purring blue-eyed white-furred warmth.  The cat went limp in his arms, resting its head on his shoulder.

            The early light was strong, cool, golden and white—the radiance of everything almost hurt his eyes.  The blossoming apple tree was an incandescent, frightening grace against the luminous wall of cedar.  The azaleas shone like the precious, sacred and redeeming blood.  With his blue mug replete with steaming and strongly-brewed Sumatran and the white cat licking his paw on the step behind him, Glen stepped into the cool and flaming morning.  He didn’t notice at first the white wooden bench, nor the youth curled up asleep on it.  He approached the apple tree, inhaled the fragrance, and a sleep-laden voice said, “Got the time?”

            Glen looked at him without speaking.

            “Sorry man, is this your house?”

            “I’m only staying here.”  Stefan sat up.

            “Hey, you’re the artist guy.”

            “From the café?”

            “Yeah—you do awesome work.”

            “Who are you?”

            “Stefan.”  He put out his hand for Glen to shake.

            “I’m Glen.”

            “Cool.  I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

            “I was wondering, actually.”

            “I got lost.  Just sorta ended up here.  Don’t worry, I was just about to go.”

            “Would you like a coffee first.”

            “Hey, could I, please.”

            “I’d invite you inside but this isn’t my house.”

            “That’s cool.  I understand.”

            They sat side by side on the bench, Stefan drinking from an equally large mug, white with a rainbow sweeping across its side.

            “I just got off the street, thanks to Melissa.”

            “Melissa?”

            “My girlfriend.  Green hair.  She was in the café with me yesterday.  She got me off the street.  She was on the street herself, had some money so we got a room together.  That was, like, a few months ago.”

            “So she was on the street, and by being on the street she could get you off the street.

            “Yeah, something like that.”

            Glen heard the back door open and there was Sheila in a pink fuzzy housecoat, towering above the white cat. 

            “Good morning Sheila, I’d like you to meet Stefan.”  She said nothing, but only looked at him, not really glowering, not quite comprehending.

            “Hey, I was just going”, Stefan said.

            “Finish your coffee first”, Glen said.

            “Look, I’m almost done—see?”  He swallowed carefully the remains of his hot coffee, then handed Glen the mug.  “Thanks man.”  He shook Glen’s hand, glanced at Sheila who hadn’t moved nor given any indication of not being a waxwork, and looked for a way out.

            “The only way out is through the house”, Sheila said.  “Come up the steps here.”  Stefan obeyed, and she showed him out through the front door.

 

            Glen and Sheila sat at the kitchen table.

            “How did he get in?” she said.

            “He told me he was lost and that he’d penetrated in through the cedar hedge.”

            “Oh God I hope not.”  No one had ever penetrated the hedge.  It had become notoriously impregnable.  But it wasn’t any damage being sustained by the hedge that was worrying Sheila—it was that it was such an act of violation.  Something whole, intact and complete had just been invaded, ravished, undone.  This would be the beginning of new sorrows.  She knew this, how could she not know this?

            “You would need a very good and extremely sharp set of clippers to even make a dent in that thing.  Are you sure that’s how he got in?”

            “That’s what he said, anyway.”

            “Where did he come in?”

            “The hedge?”

            “No”, she snapped irritably.  “Where in the hedge, what part of the damn hedge did he come in?”           

            “He didn’t say.”

            “Well, surely you would have noticed?”

            “I wasn’t looking, really.  But nothing looked damaged.”

            “Let’s have a look.”

            While robins and other birds sang volubly across the neighbourhood Sheila led Glen along the cedar hedge, like the Queen and Prince Philip inspecting the palace guard.

“Nothing”, she was muttering.  “Nothing, nothing, nothing.  He’s lying, that little skinhead punk must be lying.  Look at this.”  She made a sweeping motion with her hand. “No damage.  Nothing.  No damage anywhere.  He’s lying.  Or he was dreaming it.  Probably on drugs.  But how could he have got here without having first to go through the house.  Glen, did you or Michael let anyone in last night?”

            “No.”

            “The front door was locked, the windows?”

            “As far as I can tell they were.”

            They walked back toward the corner.  “Hey Sheila, have a look.”  The grass, still heavy with dew, showed a single set of footprints leading from one spot of the hedge—just as intact and unviolated as the rest.  Together, Glen and Sheila followed the prints to the white bench.  “That’s where I found him.”  They followed the prints back to the hedge.

            “The little bugger”, Sheila was saying, “How did he do it.  How—did—he—do—it?”  She looked at her watch.  “If I don’t get out of here now the Westwind opens late today.  Have you eaten?  No?  Then come to the café with me, I’ll make us both breakfast there.  Glen—promise me one thing please.  Tell no one about this. Not about that little creep, nothing about the footprints or the hedge—just pretend it didn’t happen.”  Beseechingly she laid her hand on his arm, a look of horror and alarm suddenly and briefly overtaking her usually calm face.  “Just pretend that nothing happened.”

            “What should I say to Michael?”

            “Especially don’t say anything to Michael.”