The Good Body by Bill Gaston

Author:Bill Gaston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Anansi Press Inc
Published: 2012-03-22T00:00:00+00:00

He drove home with a kink in his neck after an awkward snooze in the library reading room. The chairs there were designed for sitting up; a guy should complain. Downtown at an intersection he found himself staring at a pack of kids. It took him five seconds to register that they were dressed as a witch, a Darth Vader, a what might have been Robin Hood. Jesus, Hallowe’en.

He pulled into a convenience store and spent far too much money on their whole stock of Mars bars. Screw the bags of little Hallowe’en-size bars, it was one night you could be a hero for not a lot of money. A real bar falling heavy from your hand, surprised muffled shout through the monster mask: Wow, thanks.

Marg and her sister and Toby were home, Marg and her sister on their way to a costume party. It was also a Friday night. In her white robe and pants, black belt and headband, Marg was a karate person, while her sister was a Bad Santa — your basic Santa outfit but with stitches on the face, toting a machine gun, bottle of whisky sticking out the pocket. Toby, slumped in the living room starting a bottle of wine, and who Bonaduce realized was a sort of natural Bad Santa, wasn’t going anywhere.

“Wanna come, Robert?” Marg asked, martial artist forcing down a quick beer at the kitchen counter.

“Don’t think so, thanks. I don’t have a costume.”

At this Toby snorted, and Marg shot him a look, the exchange making Bonaduce see his creased pants and tight haircut. Not bad, Toby lad.

The invitation was tempting, especially as he’d be here alone with Toby otherwise. But he wouldn’t know anyone, and Marg’s voice in asking hadn’t been enthusiastic. He found an old salad bowl in a kitchen cupboard, dumped the bars in it and came back to the living room with that and an empty glass. Because Toby would offer him some wine, he would accept, and Toby would say, Well, go get yourself a glass then. Bringing the glass in advance risked looking presumptuous and might lose him his offer of wine, which would be fine. He set the bowl of bars on the floor by the front door and switched on the porch light. He found the Yahtzee score sheet and the dice, one still lost. He hated playing with four, you had to reroll one die and remember too much. He did like solo Yahtzee, however. It gave you a feel for averages, and the duration of luck, which felt less like stamina than grace.

“No kids’ll come,” said Toby matter-of-factly, in the act of rising to fill Bonaduce’s glass.

“Why not?”

A car crunched into the drive, Marg and her sister banged beer bottles on the counter and rushed out the back door, calling goodbyes.

Toby answered as though Bonaduce were a kid himself.

“It’s the Trans-Canada Highway, there’s no streetlights, there’s a house only every hundred yards. The people around here are poor and they drive their kids to the rich suburbs.

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