The Scars of Others

Richard
By Tim Proser


Addie was visibly disquieted, puttering around from guest to guest and making sure all were satisfied as the fervor of her party departed. Her anxiety had this way of illuminating her in a crowd. All around her was a conglomeration, a mass of bodies, all drinking and laughing and talking, but there was Addie, slender, platinum blonde, with painted nails between her teeth. She jostled her head back and forth, looking around nervously, and shaking her locks so that they fell in random patters around the shoulders of her hand-knit sweater.
         Yvette was sitting across from me, locks of dyed hair falling in front of her eyes, and cold hands wrapped around a rocks glass frosted with condensation. As she gestured, I could hear the ice tumble around the scotch. She was the only woman I had met in Canada who drank scotch. Some of them in the city drank martinis, and in the darker parts, they even drank gin, but never scotch. In the country, especially, they strayed away from everything hard. They drank wine, never before 5 o’clock, and always with a meal, or at least hors d’ouvres. But Yvette did hide a prevalent pint of Swedish blood and belligerence behind her pale skin. It explained a lot.
         We had been chewing over her theories on determinism and the war for the umpteenth time when Addie finally puttered her way over to us, and placed a hand on Yvette’s shoulder, mid-sip. Yvette pulled away her drink and leaned back, her ear meeting Addie’s lowered lips.
         “Richard is at it again,” she said.
         “Well, throw him out,” offered Yvette. She had this calculating, jaded way about her advice.
         “I can’t. She didn’t show up tonight, he lost his car-”
         “You think he has an excuse?”
         “No, I just- I understand.”
         From the living room, I heard effervescent laughter, the kind that starts off with a direction but soon balloons into a void and you can’t remember what the laughter started about because pretty soon, you’re in it. Richard had arrived late, disheveled, and had been the one responsible for the explosions of humor bordering on the inane, and the staccato giggling that had peppered the infrequent silences.
         I felt chilled, suddenly. I couldn’t remember anyone’s last name. Addie shot me a nervous smile.
         “How’s our expat?”
         “He’s a charming one,” Yvette said for me.
         “You need a freshie?” Addie asked, looking from the Swede to me. I looked to my hand. Grizzled fingers, going their third day without a proper shower, held their death grip on a cheap, amber bottle that smelled like a bread factory. I shook it. No sound came from the bottle’s neck. I looked up at Addie, slowly.
         “How about something strong, Ms. Fowler?” I asked, at the risk of imposing or shattering their seemingly paper thin social norms. She smiled.
         “For chrissake, call me Addie. Ill fix you something special.” And with that, she puttered away. Her new task endowed her with a sense of purpose, and she quickly forgot about Richard and his charade.
         I was walking home tonight, and had no reservations about unwinding with a cocktail before I made my way back to Lazlo’s cabin across the lake. I would have to work my way around the path, as I did not have a boat. Staying longer held no attraction to me; the few people I knew had already left, leaving only Yvette and Addie, two strange women, strange even for this strange country. Yvette took another pull and we resumed our conversation.
         “Why didn’t Lazlo come tonight?” she asked, finally.
         “You know as well as I,” I said, smiling to take the edge off.
         “Is he still embarrassed?”
         “Yep.”
         “You know he didn’t even apologize.”
         “That irks me. I’ll apologize for him.”
         “That’s not the same.”
         “You can pretend I’m him.”
         “He’s prettier than you.”
         “But I’m smoother, so it evens out.” At this, she let out an airy chuckle.
         “Go ahead.”
         “I’m sorry, Yvette.”
         “Thanks for that,” she said, leaning back in her armchair. Around us, the party had quieted, except for Richard’s incessant laughter coming from the other room. Addie returned, walking slowly and deliberately as she cradled an unsettlingly full glass. She leaned over and set it on the coffee table in front of me, then stood back up and clasped her hands tightly in pride. Patches of bleached, creamy flesh were interlocked with reddened, flushed splotches. Age had bestowed upon her a few wrinkles in the places where you make fists, the loose tissue along the L of the forefinger and thumb. She smiled at me, then at the drink she had made.
         “It’s called a Mai Thai. It’s vaguely Pacific.”
         “Splendid, what’s in it?”
         “Rum, brandy, pineapple juice and grenadine. Go ahead, Statie.” Before picking it up, I bent over, putting my lips to the rim of the glass, and sipping the level away from the tip. It was delicious. It was barely sweet enough that you could notice through the haze of rum, and the rum made the pineapple juice taste very fine.
         “Topping, as you say,” I smiled at her. She laughed.
         “I’m glad you like it, eh?” she said, putting a deliberate strain on her last syllable.
         I sipped at my drink while Yvette chatted away about Lazlo’s solecism and how he needed to learn self control. I noticed that she wore an unhealthy amount of makeup. In the right light, you could see the bumps and raises that she tried to hide poke through her cake of face paint. Yvette was smart-looking, dressed modestly in a turtleneck and bland jeans. The only thing that stood out was her hair. It was dyed and cut into a half bob, with one eave falling purposefully over her eye. On her nose, I could see a tiny pink dot that was doubtlessly an unused piercing. She seemed like she couldn’t decide just which side of the spectrum of banality she wanted to inhabit; she had a boot in both.
         Richard grew louder. From across the dying party, I could see Addie get anxious again. I felt the strings of tension descend upon the house. There were just few enough people that Richard could be noticed. I wanted to leave, suddenly. I finished my drink.
         “I think I’m going to head home now,” I told Yvette. She cracked a farewell smile.
         “You’re a lovely conversationist. I hope to see you later in the week before you go back.”
         “I’m sure you will,” I lied.
         “Good luck on your walk.”
         I crossed the shag rug to Addie, who was between three burly men, laughing. I nodded at her. She split her party asunder and took me by the arm, bringing me to the corner.
         “Oh, Tommy, are you on your way out?” she asked.
         “Yes, I’m afraid so, it’s late. But thank you-”
         “Could you do me the kindest of favors and see Richard home?” she interrupted. A cold sweat broke out along my spine. I had no desire to ferry foreign strangers tonight. But she was a clever one. She knew I was in her debt. I didn’t even sigh, nor did I display any like sign that her favor would tax me.
         “How do we work this?” I asked.
         “Well Richard has a boat, and I don’t want him using it right now. You’re good and clear, aren’t you, Tom? You’re a clear-headed boy. Couldn’t you maybe take his boat across the lake? You can park it at your dock. He can find his way home from there, and he’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
         I said yes.
         “Oh, that’s damned decent of you. If you’re going now I’ll let you take him. It’s about time he left. I’ll introduce you two.” She took me by the hand and led me through the party, across the living room to the dining room.
         Richard was there. He had crammed his hefty frame sideways into a dining chair and was cradling a bottle of wine by its neck. He had black, shiny hair that was peppered with grains of silver, and a full, bushy beard that you could tell he grew for the express purpose of hiding the scars. Layer after layer of clothing had been discarded around him, obviously torn off as his celebration heated his collar. Even now, I could see twinkling smears of sweat come in at his neck and brow. Beside him stood someone obviously tired of hearing his endless barrage of mirthful stories. He looked up to Addie walking in, me in tow, and cracked a pearly smile that cut brightly through his black whiskers.
         “Hey, sis. Who’s this one?” he croaked. His voice was a fat rasp. Addie smiled and spoke as if to a child.
         “This is Tom Cackler, Richard. He’s gonna ride home with you tonight.”
         “Like hell. I’m fine. I don’t need him. No offense,” he slurred, offhand to me.
         “Richard just do it. Don’t argue.” Her voice was stern and cold. “Do this as a favor to him. I don’t want to make our guest walk all the way around the lake. Let him help you with the boat.”
“Surely, for me good deed.” Richard acted like he was under a trance. “Is it time now?” he asked. Addie nodded. Richard made as if he was leaving work. He slapped a thick, calloused hand against his knee and set the wine down on the table. “Alright, fellas. About time I got goin,” he said to his enamored audience. They grunted farewells and migrated elsewhere. Richard stumbled towards the coatroom. Before I could follow, Addie pricked my elbow.
         “This is damned decent of you,” she said.
         “It’s nothing, really.”
         “Consider us even, then.” I looked at her for a long time, trying to deduce which score she was talking about.
         “Okay,” I managed. And with that, she gave a sullen, almost guilty nod and turned away. No goodbye. I caught up with Richard, who was struggling to jam on a plaid coat. I took my beaten leather jacket from beneath someone’s blazer and helped him to the door. Outside, the night was cool and wet. I could barely see a thing. The canopy of pines blocked all the stars. We wordlessly went around the house, feeling the orange warmth from the active windows into the party as we passed by. A little further down, we came to a testy set of wooden stairs. I helped my new compadre down, taking care as they were still slippery from last night’s rain. At the foot of the stairs, a long jetty extended into the water. I could hear the quiet lap of the tiny waves against the wood. Out over Lac Louisa, I could see the fluffed, violet clouds gather, and I could see the silvery-grey patch behind which lay the moon. Here and there, tiny breaks in the cloud cover revealed lovely stars. We ambled down the jetty, until Richard stopped abruptly in front of a rusty gas boat.
         “This is us, amigo,” he grunted. The motor on the boat looked decades old, and there was more bare steel and rust than paint. It was thin and tinny, looking as if it would surrender to the slightest suggestion of rocks. The gas can was bright orange and strapped to the floor. It looked like it could comfortably seat two. He bent over and began to negotiate with the knots. I put a hand on his shoulder gently, so as not to disturb the obvious fighter within.
         “Let me do this. Just get in.”
         “Alrighty, whatever you say.” With that, the heavy mass bumbled its way into the boat. It dipped a little. I clenched my teeth together; I had only primed a boat once. There was the looming possibility that I would butcher the whole thing and somehow end up stranded in the middle of the lake with no light.
         Carefully, I undid the knot that kept the boat lashed to the dock. I pushed it out a little before hopping in. I stepped too far and the boat got out from under me. My ass hit the hull with a loud thump and the back of my head knocked against the side. Pain seared up and down my body as quick as fire along a trail of gas.
         “Jesus,” I boomed. To my surprise, Richard was already up, caught in a haze of clarity, helping me right myself back to the seat. Even in the dark, I could see a look of genuine concern on his bearded face.
         “You okay, boy?” he slurred.
         “Yeah, I think. That truly bitched,” I answered, condensing my face.
         “Yeah, it must’ve. Here,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. “Take this.” He withdrew a tiny, silver flask and clumsily undid the lid, handing it to me. I grasped it and took a pull. It was powerful, but it lightened the pain.
         “Thanks, brother,” I said.
         “Not a thing. It was damned decent of you to come with me. Addie sure was great to send you.”
         “I got a boat ride out of it.”
         “That you did. And a hell of a bruise,” he said chuckling. I helped him with the engine. It took all of my back, which was already pained, to rip the cord fast enough. Finally, the spark caught, and the propeller bummed to life. We started motoring backwards first, away from the dock, both of us vigilant for rocks. When finally we were clear, I slid the handle forward, turning it away from the jetty. Within moments, Addie’s house was growing ever distant. Richard looked to the bow, letting the wind paste his hair back.
         We went for a while uninterrupted. The spray occasionally flicked at my face, but it was refreshing. I looked at my compadre. Suddenly, he appeared unwell. He doubled over.
         “Stop for a bit,” he shouted over the roar of the engine and wind. I killed the accelerator, and we were floating in the purple silence. He was odd for a minute, and then he lunged for the side and vomited intensely into the lake. He was a full man, and so he kept going for a minute or two before quieting. I heard him lap some water into his mouth to clear it out, and then he bent himself back over and sat down.
         “Feel okay?” I asked in earnest. He nodded.
         “Just sit here a bit. The boating is making me queasy.” There were a few moments of relaxed silence.
         “I shouldn’t have done this tonight,” he lamented.
         “Don’t beat yourself up. It was a party.”
         “I should know better. Did you know I was engaged?”
         I shook my head.
         “Well I was. Her name is Rachel. She was supposed to come tonight.”
         “Why didn’t she?”
         “I think she’s through with me.”
         “You think?”
         “Well she didn’t come.” He paused. I felt sad for him.
         “They’re a rough bunch, aren’t they?” I offered. He looked at me.
         “Who, Canadians?”
         “Women,” I said. He half-laughed, half-agreed.
         “Addie is good to me,” he said. “She was always good to me. When we were coming up, she would always be the big sis. She stopped my pop from doin’ things sometimes.
         “What kinds of things?”
         He looked at his knees. “Bad things.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence. He gazed at the lake around us, the lake he could barely see in the dark.
         “I heard your friend got in the business with Yvette last night,” he said. His slur was lifting.
         “Yeah, he does that sometimes.”
         “He should learn to be more careful. You never know who’s listening.”
         “You would never think that about Yvette, though,” I said. He shook his head violently in agreement.
         “She is the sweetest girl. It was such a goddamned shame. I don’t know how guys can do that sometimes. I don’t know how they can do that to someone sweet and fair like Yvette. Maybe we’re the rough bunch.” With that, he was quiet. I sat for a while, picking my nails and looking at Richard. He sniffed. The wind had strewn his hair around his face, and he had neglected to rearrange it yet. I made to start the engine again, but before I could, he piped up. “You know Rachel would cry every time after we made love? She had some things behind her eyes, too. She had some bad things. I was always gentle with her, every time. Maybe it made her think about things, how good I tried to be.”
         “Maybe when she forgot about them, she remembered that she was always thinking about them. They seem to have a way of coming back,” I suggested. Richard bowed his head to his chest. He seemed like he wanted to stop talking about it.
         “Did I see Addie make you one of her rum drinks?” he said, lightening his tone.
         “She did. It was delicious.”
         “She calls it a Mai Thai. It’s vaguely Pacific,” he managed, before he broke out into a throaty, scraping laugh. I chuckled. He was a good egg.
         Ahead of us, I could see the orange jewels of lamplight where Lazlo’s cabin stood, and the weak, blue fluorescence that lit the edge of his dock. I wanted to get back before it was too late. I peered over the side of the boat for rocks. All I could see were the gently ruffled waters and the reflections of the muffled moonlight shattered on the waves. We were close to shore; if I looked hard enough, I could see the salacious movements of the fingers of seaweed and kelp, the sickly, deep green twitching under the surface. I rose with more purpose this time to start the motor and get my compadre home. As I grasped the line, Richard clumsily smattered a numb hand over his beard.
         He said: “You would never guess that about Yvette. You just would never think it.”