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Robert sat on the edge of the bathtub holding his roll of toilet paper, waiting for the blood. His grandfather slapped the straight razor up and down against the leather belt. The stropping sound stung the boy with excitement. It was much better than being in Sunday school colouring pictures of holy things.
Robert went to the Presbyterian Church once. Gladys Potts took him along after convincing his grandmother that his spiritual education wasn't up to snuff. He liked all the decorations but wondered why the church needed such a high roof. When it was time for the sermon, the children went to the basement with a Sunday school teacher to get little drawings to put crayons on and learn about Jesus. There was a photograph of Jesus on the wall. He had blond hair, red lips, rosy cheeks and looked like a woman with a beard. If that's the son, Robert thought, I wonder what the daughter looks like?
When Will Coutts found out his grandson had been in church with that Mrs. Potts bitch, Robert's spiritual education came to an abrupt halt. So every Sunday morning after that Robert had to stay home and help his grandfather with his weekly shave.
Robert felt nervous today though. It was Monday morning. His grandfather had never shaved on a Monday. He shaved on Sunday. What if his grandfather shaved differently on a Monday? Or what if the toilet paper dropped from his hands and bounced over and landed on the cellar door?
In the middle of the bathroom floor was a heavy hinged door. Down below was a ladder that dropped straight into a dirt cellar full of coal and potatoes and chicken blood.
His grandfather had brought a chicken home once. He carried it into the bathroom and put its head on a block of wood that he'd brought in from his wheelbarrow. He clamped the head with one hand and yanked the screeching bird away from its head, squeezing and stretching its body from between his knees. After rubbing his fingers up and down the bony neck, he took his knife from his overalls and sawed through to the block of wood. He cut the chicken's head off. Right off. And the head stayed in the bathroom as the chicken ran all through the house. With no head. His grandfather couldn't chase after the chicken body because Will Coutts couldn't see. He had to wait until the chicken body ran back into the bathroom to find its chicken head. And it did. And it died. Right there with its head on top of the cellar door. Robert ran out to puke on the caragana bushes outside the front screen door.
He spent the rest of the afternoon killing Koreans on Billy Palmer's woodpile but when Billy's mum wouldn't invite Robert for supper he had to go home. He looked into the bathroom but saw no sign of the chicken body or the chicken head. He figured maybe the chicken blood had leaked through the hinges of the cellar door and sunk into the coal and potatoes. He decided he'd never step on that cellar door again. Or eat potatoes.
Robert held on tightly to the toilet paper waiting to do his duty, hoping that his grandfather didn't feel as nervous as he did. Today was different. Today was Monday. There was no room for mistakes.
Will Coutts turned on the tap and undid his overalls so they could drop to his waist. He took two white facecloths and soaked them in the stream of very hot water. He brought a chair in from the kitchen, sat down in front of the sink, and stirred with his hard bristled brush, dropping beads of water onto the bar of shaving soap inside a bowl. Like an alchemist, Will Coutts' slow round-about motion began to transform the unyielding yellow mass into lush and gentle fog banks. The steam from the sink began to fill the room and Robert felt intoxicated with the softness of the world. He loved the wet magic of his grandfather's incantations. He loved his grandfather.
Will Coutts towered six feet above the horizon as he pushed his wheelbarrow, guiding his memory through the streets of
Biggar, Saskatchewan. He'd been totally blind in one eye for years and the other had a cataract that made it hard for him to see anything but shadows. A doctor in Saskatoon told him he could go to Rochester, New York, to have the cataract removed. Will was pretty close to going several times but always changed his mind at the last moment. Now his eyesight was so bad he thought it might be his last chance.
The smell of soap filled the bathroom as the swelling foam began to drift off the ancient medicine bowl, surrendering to the alchemist's touch.
Robert's grandmother stood in the kitchen adjacent to the bathroom chewing the left side of her lip. She stood paralysed with confusion and dread. Usually at this time of the day on a Monday morning she was in full battle with the tight suck pull of the wringer washing machine in the corner of the kitchen. Will Coutts had finally caved in and installed plumbing -- the last house on the block to take the plunge. He left the outhouses out back though, just as a precaution. Who knew if those fancy pipes could stand the test of time?
For a few months after the installation, Flo was happy. A toilet, a bathtub and even a kitchen sink with hot water! It was a pity all seven children had left home and couldn't enjoy the luxury of the whole thing. Now it was just her husband and grandson. The old man slept in the back bedroom with the boy, and she in the front off the living room. They met in the kitchen at twelve o'clock for lunch and five o'clock for supper. That was it. That was the routine. And that suited her just fine.
Flo chewed her lip. Monday was her laundry day and having the old man in the house was very unnerving. She held onto the kitchen sink and breathed heavily. She didn't know if she was more afraid of him going to Rochester or chickening out and not going at all. A week without the old man would be grand. But she worried about him returning to peer beyond the shadows of his eye and seeing her two hundred and fifty pounds of rolling flesh in all its glory. She knew his blindness and was comforted by it. It gave her room to live in her own shadows. She stood frozen, breathing heavily, knowing the Happy Gang would be "KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKING" on the radio by now. She hated her sisters for making her marry the old man in the first place. "WHO'S THERE KNOCKING? ... DA DA … DADA … IT'S THE HAPPY GANG ... WELL COME ON IN!"
Will Coutts lifted the two scalding cloths from the sink and let them fall onto his face as he leaned his head back against the chair. Robert breathed into the mist cloud and said a silent goodbye to the comfort of the swimming eye -- a pale blue sun through the fog bank whiteness, veiled and oozing wide to the back of the head, promising that the universe goes on forever. There are things in this world you can't even imagine, his grandfather always said.
The old man leaned forward to let the white mask drop from his face and onto the edge of the sink. He pulled his full mane of shocking white hair back off his face and reached his chin to the ceiling. With eyes closed, he placed his fingertips on his hard bone cheeks and slowly brailed through the valleys and canyons of his stubble. Robert felt his grandfather's body growing larger in the steam. The huge muscular thighs, the hard stomach, the long hairy legs, and the brown spots covering the tight elastic vastness of his grandfather's skin like war medals.
Robert's grandfather dipped his horsehair brush into the water, stirred it in the bowl of foam, and lathered the right side of his face. He draped a linen cloth over his left shoulder. Pulling the skin from his right ear towards his chin with his left hand, he began to scrape the straight razor down his face towards his jaw line. After each careful scrape he wiped the foam onto the linen cloth. The transformation had begun. Rochester was waiting.
Robert could hear the deep sigh breathing from the kitchen. He wanted to let go of the toilet paper. He thought he could feel slippery eels oozing down his back ready to slide into the bathtub.
Will Coutts was obsessed with good health. Several years back he discovered his hair was thinning. That was when he began to participate in a cure for the balding little circle on top of his old man head. This ritual also involved his grandson. Every Sunday afternoon.
Robert would hold the slimy blood soaked tin, red gobs of shapeless liver, arm stretched toward his gagging grandfather. Cannibals and hearts of buffalo, lifted from the tin, sliding down like raw egg, blood dribbling in the corner of Will Coutts' mouth as he accepted the wide-throat sacrifice, the medicine man's cure for falling hair. Down it would go -- slippery easy like an eel.
Robert was sure he could hear the red gobs of raw liver growing in the tin on the side of the bathtub, but remembered it wasn't Sunday. Today was Monday, he reassured himself. It was Monday.
His grandfather's hair started to grow back at the same time as a marvellous new beard began to grow from the bottom of his chin, joining the hair on his chest. Will Coutts was healthy man.
Noises of pots and pans moving about began from the other room. The breathing became faster and heavier and loud footsteps pounded on the linoleum kitchen floor. The old man started to scrape away the stubble on the left side of his face.
Robert knew he'd never be as healthy as his grandfather. He figured he'd probably be bald and crippled over with polio by the time he was thirty. And he knew it was his own fault. His grandfather had tried to give him a healthy start to life.
Every morning Robert was bounced cold-turkey awake by squeaky springs and a flip-flopping mattress. When he snapped opened his eyes he'd once again see his grandfather's hairy legs pedalling high in the air as he began his morning exercises. Robert wondered how he survived the earthquake and wasn't squashed flat when he was a baby.
Every morning it was the same routine. When he finished his exercises on the bed, Will Coutts would stand and stretch his colossal arms in homage to the cracked plastered ceiling, groaning like the trains moving in for repairs down at the roundhouse. Then he would run, double time, up and down, on the spot, knees to hands, counting loudly, slap slap, to one hundred and fifty. Robert would watch him take his overalls, the same ones he wore everyday, out of the wardrobe. After he put them on he'd pick up the big pot and throw his night-time piss out the window. Now the day could really get going.
Will would go into the kitchen and start the porridge cooking on the stove. He'd return to his grandson with a cardboard box. Robert would sit up. From jars and bottles came spoons full of magic substances guaranteeing years of good health and lush hair. Black thick molasses, gobbed and clinging for dear life onto the spoon, coming closer and closer to Robert's mouth. Swallowing it -- awake! Cod liver oil -- awake! Wheat germ -- awake! Brewers yeast, powdered garlic, lecithin - awake, awake, awake! Then the parade of little lady bug pills and brown tablets. Vitamins A and B and C and D. Calcium and potassium and magnesium and zinc. Niacin and Pantothenic Acid. On and on and finished off with a large bowl of porridge, eaten lump by nourishing lump. Then Robert was allowed to get out of bed, stepping with bare feet onto the cold Saskatchewan floor. Now could a grandfather try harder than that?
Robert found out pretty early on that it was possible to trick a blind man. He still had to swallow the thick gobby stuff but the vitamins and pills found their way into a hole in the plaster. Year after year. When the capsules became permanent insulation against the long draughty winters and rose to the top of the hole, the crime was uncovered. Will Coutts still had an acute sense of smell and the evidence was absolute.
Added years to his life -- down the drain! Protection from disease -- wasted! Brain power -- squandered! Robert's shame was met with stony silence and an unusual home improvement act as the plaster hit the hole. Robert would have preferred the shit to hit the fan. He learned about the power of his grandfather's silence. Yes, he would surely be bald and crippled over with polio by the time he was thirty.
Robert hoped he would never disappoint his grandfather again. He held on even more tightly to the roll of toilet paper as Will Coutts began the final campaign in his conquest against total blindness. He gently pulled up his nose with his left hand and with the certainty of a surgeon began a series of miniature downward slices towards his upper lip. The steam was lifting. The time was getting close.
A scream came from the kitchen -- a high screeching wail as the kettle boiled over on the stove. The razor sliced down into Will Coutts' lip. "Goddamn you woman," he bellowed.
Goddamn yourself, thought Flo, pouring the water into her tea pot. Goddamn you yourself.
Robert started whipping the toilet paper off the roll. No, it's not time -- it's not time, he told himself. His grandfather thrashed down the razor and plunged his face into the sink. Robert started rolling up the loose toilet paper, careful not to rip a square, as his grandfather drenched the second face cloth, twisted the water out, slapped it on his face, and leaned his head once more against the back of the chair.
I'll have my cup of tea, thought Flo. I won't be a prisoner in my own house. The old man'll get dinner on the twelve o'clock. I'll make some soup and me and Robert can sit down when he gets back from the station.
He can catch the train to bloody hell for all I care.
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Flo sat down at the kitchen table and stewed. She wondered if he'd actually get all the way to Rochester -- or if he'd get off in Saskatoon. Well either way was fine with her. At least he'd be out of the house. She was going to carry on. Mrs. Potts and Mrs. Jenkins could come over at two and she'd read them their tea leaves. Mrs. Jenkins could bring her Pekinese this time. The dog had made it through eighteen Saskatchewan winters. She'd stop over and tell her when the old man gets out of her hair.
Or maybe she'd read the cards. Flo hadn't the heart to show Mrs. Potts the ace of spades when it reared its ugly head the last time. It wasn't about any of her husbands. They were all dead thank God. It was about the niece she kept in her basement with a washing machine. The cards kept spelling out disaster for the poor girl. Flo didn't know how Gladys was going to manage the laundry business if something happened to Edna. She'd probably have to work harder at getting another husband.
Flo looked at the cardboard boxes on the kitchen floor. At least if he gets his eye fixed, she thought, I could throw out all that damn lotion and eye-drop shit. She bit harder into the side of her mouth. I hope to God he does it.
Will Coutts leaned towards the sink and let the facecloth drop off. Then he took a clean white towel and once again sat back against the chair with the towel falling onto his uplifted face. With the palms of his hands he patted the moisture into the flannel like the gentle expert coaxing of a baby's burp. He stopped.
Robert nervously fingered the end of the toilet paper. He waited. Will Coutts stayed seated and
swiveled towards Robert. He raised his body in the chair, stiff like the tomb mummy in Saturday afternoon serials down at the movie theatre. The bandaged skull ... what was there? ... what was there?
Robert was ready. His grandfather pulled at the bottom of the towel and unveiled the naked terrain of his conquered face, glistening in its magnificence. Robert sat there, tense and concentrated, the pale blue jellyfish floating wide beneath the deep shadow river of the eye ... waiting for it ...waiting.
One by one, tiny little blood beads popped out from all over Will Coutts' face and started their migratory journey down to his neck. Robert revved into action.
Rip, lick, paste. Rip, lick, paste. Faster, faster! Rip, lick, paste. Rip, lick, paste. The blood beads were coming in battalions.
Not for a moment did Robert lose his concentration. He could handle anything. He worked like the dickens. On and on until the task was done.
And when he was absolutely certain the well was dried up, he sat back on the bathtub and surveyed his victory. He counted seventeen
blood-gobbed shrivelled little pieces of toilet paper decorating his grandfather's chin, cheeks, forehead and nose.
Step one had gone without a hitch. Step two would be pulling them off.
Will Coutts stood up tentatively, careful not to let any of Robert's work fall off his face. He left the instruments and remnants of his Monday morning massacre strewn all over the bathroom. Robert followed him as he walked through the kitchen and into his bedroom at the back of the house. Robert glimpsed his granny, tight-lipped and staring into her tea.
Will sat down on the edge of the bed and started putting on his boots. Robert helped him. As he finished lacing, Robert looked over and saw his grandmother standing on the kitchen side of the doorway, peering in at her husband as if she were trying to solve some great puzzle. It made the boy feel nervous all over again.
After his grandfather put on a starched white shirt and notched up the top of his overalls, he lay his huge body, boots and all, down on the bed. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. Robert slipped up on the bed onto his knees and looked down at his grandfather's face. He wondered if this was what a corpse looked like.
When Robert began the painstaking task of tugging off the seventeen little bloodsuckers, he looked over again at his grandmother. She was now standing with her arms stretched against the frame in the doorway, looking as if she were holding up the inside of the house, just like the arms of the caragana bushes looked as if they were holding up the outside. He hoped to goodness she wasn't going to take one more step into enemy territory.
Robert picked and peeled, picked and peeled, careful not to leave any paper bits or start the blood flowing again. He felt the shadow at the door and heard his grandfather breathe more quickly as his grandmother sighed more deeply. It was a stand-off.
I wish I had a TV, thought Robert. Pick and peel. Pick and peel.
The muscles of his Will Coutts' face were as disciplined as a ventriloquist. He threw his voice out of his body and over towards the door. "Goddamn you woman, get out of my room."
She threw her voice back in. "I'm not in your goddamn room you old bugger. I'm at the door and I'm not
budgin'." And she didn't.
Pick and peel. Pick and peel.
During the past summer, the modern world had snuck over from the Rocky Mountains and settled in Saskatchewan. A couple of old-timers with no kids had purchased the first Biggar television set. They were operating it down at the bottom of Second Avenue. The machine was placed in such a way that if you stood by the fence outside their yard it was possible to see the reflection catching in the window. You couldn't see the picture but you knew something was moving and it was great. A sign went up in their front yard late in the summer. PLEASE DON'T LEAN ON THE FENCE. Crowds of drooling children used to start gathering at around seven-thirty every evening. When the fence tumbled over, Melanie Perkin's skirt went flying right over her head. Television is great, said Jimmy Higgins' older brother Gary.
Ron Hayes and Jane Leikam's parents both bought television sets for their kids in the fall. Robert knew there was no hope in hell that his grandparents would ever get a TV.
When he'd finished picking his way through his grandfather's face, Robert glanced over to see his granny still holding her ground. She hadn't moved. Robert saddled over to the window sill at the edge of the bed not knowing where to look. Behind him was his grandfather's backyard. He couldn't look out there. Robert hated the secret ice-bumpy shapes that always thawed out and tried to get him ... rusty tin cans, spiked two-by-fours, greased axles, tin slabs, wound wire, coils, tires, frozen rat shit, old piss and rhubarb. In the springtime, even the robins stayed out of the backyard. Robert decided just to close his eyes.
He heard his grandfather get off the bed, put on his parka and pick up his suitcase. He heard him walk over to the door. He didn't hear his grandmother budge.
In the blackness of his eyes he saw the chicken body running through the house like a crazy bird looking for its chicken head.
"Goddamn you woman, get out of my way!"
Still nobody moved.
Robert could hear his heartbeat pounding. He felt as if he were at the Saturday afternoon movies just when the hero gets sucked into the foaming quicksand and the action stops and the screen flashes
"WILL THE CAPTAIN BE RESCUED? ... COME BACK NEXT WEEK FOR THE EXCITING CONCLUSION OF CAPTAIN INCREDIBLE AND THE ALLIGATOR PIT!"
Robert couldn't stand it any more. He banged open his eyes. There they were. His grandparents.
Standing a foot away from each other. Nose to nose.
Nobody budged.
Just as he decided that it might be easier to look over his shoulder and into the backyard, his grandmother spoke.
"Good luck, Will," she said, and went back to her tea at the table.
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