Sandra Beck by John Lavery

Author:John Lavery
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Anansi Press Inc
Published: 2012-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

“My mother,” said PF in Mr. Hyatt’s car, “says my voice is going to . . . muer.”

“Break,” said Hyatt.

“I woan’ be able to sing in the choir no more.”

Mr. Hyatt remained silent for some time, absorbed with the business of driving. He stopped unevenly at a red light, looked steadily into his sideview mirror as though he were looking into his own past.

“Anymore,” he corrected softly.

The third Sunday after Epiphany.

A special occasion. Paul-François, seeing as his parents had gone skiing at Jay Peak, was spending the afternoon with Mr. Hyatt, who took him to Monsieur Patate, where the cheeseburgers were compressed until they were flatter than two pancakes, and the French fries came in three brown paper bags placed one inside the other.

“Good?” said Mr. Hyatt.

PF rolled his eyes and kept wolfing.

“Want another?” Mr. Hyatt was not likely aware that an unstated moral edict against over-indulgence hovered over the Bastarache family. That you could not, if your name was Bastarache, eat two cheeseburgers any more than you could live two days without an intervening night.

“With the slice of onion this time?” That you could not have raw onion on your second cheeseburger any more than you could pour hot fudge over your first fish.

PF watched as the jaws of his compressed cheeseburger were pried open, displaying its ferocious, stringy, orange teeth. He watched as the machined disc of onion was slid onto the beefy, greyish tongue, and as the jaws were clamped shut again.

“Good?” said Mr. Hyatt. “Our breath is gunna be some-thing-rank. Want another?”

Mr. Hyatt’s apartment was a shambles. Paul-François did his best to smother his astonishment.

“I knew youzid be coming, so I straightened the place upsome. Wannawatcha da toob? D’Iberville is on, je crois.”

PF took a deep breath and waded into the swamp of comatose clothing, banjos, recorders, music scores, magazines, guitars, grocery flyers, expired sneakers, lapsed socks, and climbed out onto the high ground of a worn armchair located immediately in front of a TV filled with murky green water. He turned the set on.

“The reception’s not great, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Hyatt busied himself in the bathroom, leaving the door open so he could maintain verbal contact.

“It’s not D’Iberville,” said PF. “D’Iberville is Saturday. Sunday it’s Shell’s Wonderful World of Golf. ”

“Right. You play golf?”

“I am playing, yes.”

“Any good?”

“Yeah not bad.”

After a time Mr. Hyatt, still in the bathroom, said, “You know, Paul-François, when you sang ‘Silent Night’ at the midnight carol service, just you, no choir, no organ? Hey, you blew ’em away. You knocked ’em dead, kid. Dead. I won’t tell you that Sandra B. said it was the most gorgeousest thing she’d ever heard, because it would just go to your head.”

PF did not answer.

“You wouldn’t mind,” said Mr. Hyatt, “singing me a few bars while I shave?”

PF remained silent. For many moments.

And then it was as if the apartment could not prevent itself, if not from levitating, at least from standing up. It was as if the airspace were set in motion by

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.