Gargoyles Read online

  GARGOYLES

  GARGOYLES

  BILL GASTON

  Copyright © 2006 by Bill Gaston

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First published in hardcover in 2006 by House of Anansi Press Inc.

  This edition published in 2007 by

  House of Anansi Press Inc.

  110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801

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  House of Anansi Press is committed to protecting our natural environment. As part of our efforts, this book is printed on Rolland Enviro paper: it contains 100% post-consumer recycled fibres, is acid-free, and is processed chlorine-free.

  11 10 09 08 07 1 2 3 4 5

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Gaston, Bill, 1953–

  Gargoyles : stories / Bill Gaston.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-88784-749-3 (bound). — ISBN-10: 0-88784-749-8 (bound).

  ISBN-13: 978-0-88784-776-9 (pbk.) — ISBN-10: 0-88784-776-5 (pbk.)

  1. Gargoyles — Fiction. I. Title.

  PS8563.A76G37 2006 C813'.54 C2006-902827-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2007927970

  Cover design: Bill Douglas at The Bang

  Text design and typesetting: Sari Naworynski

  Author photograph: Clownbog Studios

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).

  Printed and bound in Canada

  For Dede Crane

  CONTENTS

  I. Wrathful

  The Night Window

  Gargoyles

  The Kite Trick

  Forms in Winter

  II. Beneficent

  The Beast Waters His Garden of a Summer’s Eve

  Freedom

  A Work-in-Progress

  Honouring Honey

  III. Mercurial

  Point No Point

  The Walk

  The Green House

  The Gods Take Off Their Shirts

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Wrathful

  THE NIGHT WINDOW

  Tyler’s librarian mother has brought home two for him. He hefts them, drops them onto his bed. One is on fly fishing. The second is Crime and Punishment. Tyler suspects Dostoevsky is a writer he will read only if made to — for instance, if it’s the only book he brings on this camping trip.

  Tyler knows that what he is actually weighing here is his degree of insubordination. Yesterday his mother’s boyfriend — Kim — went through all their gear, inspecting wool sweaters and cans of food. Peering into Tyler’s hardware store plastic bag he shook his head and pointed in at the new reading-light with its giant dry cell battery.

  “It’s a natural-light camping trip,” he said, unpointing his finger to waggle it, naughty-naughty, in Tyler’s face. Tyler saw how he could fall to an easy hate of his mother’s boyfriend, except that Kim was just always trying to be funny. His mother had explained this early on.

  “Umm . . . no lights?” his mother began, half-coming to Tyler’s defence. “If I have to pee in the middle of the night? Kim, you want some on you?”

  It was this kind of statement (which had Kim laughing over-loud) that made Tyler turn away blank-faced, that made him not want to go camping, and let his mother go wherever she wanted without him. It must be exactly this sort of statement that offends her co-workers at the library; it’s the reason she fits nowhere, and dates someone like Kim Lynch.

  Natural light. Why, he thinks, plucking up the Dostoevsky, should he take orders from Kim Lynch anyway? Kim has red hair and see-through skin, is short and muscular — even his round face acts like a muscle. Tyler’s mother is at least an inch taller, and so thin that Tyler knows he will be thin for life too. And: “Kim.” His mother should reconsider on grounds of name alone. Tyler secretly agrees with him on this business of natural light, how its spirit probably goes with the quiet of fly-fishing. But Tyler doesn’t want to take orders. If there’s one thing he’s learned about his mother it’s that no one that age — no one — knows what’s going on and everything is up for grabs. At first this depressed him, then not. Like in the animal world, it’s a big jungle-mix of hunger and wits and power. Accepting this is the difference between turning adult and remaining a child, which is how he explained it to his mother a month ago. She listened attentively, relishing his braininess and such, then rose from her kitchen chair, patted his shoulder, said, “I have been released from my duties as a mother,” and left the room. His mother tries to be funny much of the time too.

  Tyler tries to read Dostoevsky during the drive, which is three hours north then an hour west on gravel to a lake. Kim’s SUV is not as roomy as one is led to believe from the street, where its design suggests shoulders and size. Tyler is forced to listen to Kim being forced to listen to his mother’s harangue about SUVs polluting twice as much as transportation needs to and how their owners never drive them up impossible mountains like they do in every ad on TV. Kim is sweetly pleased for he gets to say, “The word is ‘off-road.’ That is what we’re doing — we’re going‘off-road.’” But Tyler mostly agrees with her. It’s wrong to contaminate fly-fishing with an SUV. Fly-fishers should walk.

  In any case reading is difficult three feet from his mother and her new sexual partner. He has seen Kim, even while driving, glance down at her breasts. This morning, loading the car, when they thought Tyler wasn’t looking they performed a quick leering pantomime of zipping two sleeping bags together. Even their discussions of which gas station or favourite chocolate bar or how much sugar in the diet or is beer the same kind of sugar or are the Republicans trying to take over the world or blindly receiving it by default — here in the SUV all of his mother’s lilts of voice sound to Tyler like minor variations on one basic sexual position. All this veiled eagerness makes him want to be home alone.

  Why is he here? Mothers don’t go camping with relatively new boyfriends and ask the sixteen-year-old son along. Tyler sees that she doesn’t love Kim all that much, not in the way he’s seen her with other boyfriends, she as obvious as a puppy panting over doggy-dish dreams of a nice nuclear family. He has seen her want some men that badly, where eventually she takes the deep hopeful breath and offers Tyler up as part of the package, hauling him out like an extra 130-pound arm she’s been hiding behind her back. It isn’t like that with Kim, though. So what is this about? Why is he along?

  It seems that his mother has decided to be his friend. And that she sees this trip to be exactly this: Three friends, going camping. Tyler wonders if anything could be more naive.

  “Tyler? Here it is. It’s right around this long bend.”

  “Here what is?” Tyler takes his face out of the book. She’s talking to him and he’s finally been pulled in by Dostoevsky, whom he has decided is basically an entertaining neurotic. Taken a step further it would be paranoid comedy.

  “The giant elf! The twenty-foot face! The one that really freak
s me out!”

  They round a bend and Tyler keeps his head out of Russian neuroses long enough to see that whatever it is his mother wants him to see is gone. She pretends to wail like a child. Kim knew of the statue too and recalls now that it was removed because of cars slowing to look at it and causing accidents.

  His mother turns to Tyler. “He had this giant pointy hat. One arm pointed right at you, there in your car, and the other pointed at their driveway. It was a go-cart place or something. But the thing was forty feet tall! It was totally unnecessary and really, really ugly. I mean it was all face! It was like —”

  “It was really stupid-looking,” Kim affirms.

  “— It was like some kid made it out of papier mâché. It used to really freak me out.” She gives Kim a look. “When I was Tyler’s age, it used to really freak me out.”

  His mother means drugs. Kim gives her a sly smile back, as though he really understands. Tyler can tell he really doesn’t.

  It’s maybe the main thing he hates about his mother, how everyone she meets has to be informed what an extreme hippy she was. Tyler has several times been with his mother and one of her old friends and they’ll see some rainbow-clad extrovert skip past in bare feet with bubbles drifting from her dreadlocks or something, and Tyler will snort, and the friend will say, Well, you should have seen your mother back then. At this his mother laughs and revels as if the sun is on her face.

  His mother doesn’t have many friends left from “back then.” Tyler thinks they avoid her. He’s told her about it, how “back then” looks like the only thing that was ever important to her and she can’t shut up about it. Even the way she can’t shut up about it. Sometimes she says “back in the daze,” pronouncing it with a grimace so the spelling is understood and implies how much she used to get stoned. And Tyler will watch the friend answer with that first nervous stoned-memory smile and then it’s all smiling one-upmanship, competing little stories about seeing personality in foliage, etc.

  One thing in particular that his mother says sickens him. If someone asks her where she came from, her answer, “I came in through the bathroom window,” Tyler knows was in a Beatles song. It makes him shrink and wince. He’s heard her say it at least twice. It sums up what’s worst in her, how she makes like there’s this huge mystery to her when it’s clear to him and everyone else that there’s no mystery at all. None. Where she’s really from is Vancouver. She pronounces it Vankewver.

  What Tyler figures is that she never really was a hippy. Real hippies were too damaged to read. She went to university, she’s a librarian with staff under her. Now, when people see her coming, with that old-fashioned smile on her face, they see a librarian who’s still trying to be someone she never was.

  After Campbell River they leave the highway to drive smaller and smaller logging roads, then reach a clearing beside a lake. A homemade picnic table marks it as a place to camp. They set up two tents about ten feet apart, and throw sleeping bags into each. When they’re done, Tyler’s mother points and says, “Hey, not fair. Tyler has a tent all to himself,” and Kim gamely smiles and pretends to be annoyed at this too.

  Leaving his mother to sort through the food, Kim takes Tyler off to fly-fish. Tyler has spincast for trout before and he’s fair at it. Though he lacks biceps he has strength when needed. Kim leads him along a path for maybe a hundred yards, saying nothing except the curious, “Not a lot of birds, eh?”

  They emerge into another clearing at a small gravel beach. Tyler is disappointed to see another picnic table. This isn’t quite the wilderness spot he assumed. Searching the ground he notes the telltale curls of old line and the faded neon cardboard of fishing lure packs. Kim places the gear on the table and begins assembling the rods.

  “These are cane,” he explains. “They’re the real thing.”

  “Great,” Tyler says.

  “We’ll try a nymph replica on yours, and I’ll start with a . . . with an alien express.”

  “Sounds good.” He hears what he thinks is an owl, but knows it might be a dove, and doesn’t want to ask.

  “So this is your first time, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no such thing as an ‘alien express.’ Made that one up.”

  “Ah. Right.”

  Kim laughs, possibly because Tyler doesn’t.

  “I should have caught that,” Tyler says. “Didn’t sound much like a fly.”

  “Gotta watch me, Tyler, I’m fast.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Kim pulls off his long-sleeved shirt and they take their rods and wade into the lake on a finger of gravel. It’s extremely cold, but since Kim seems not to notice, Tyler is careful to step bravely. Kim begins to cast, describing the basic movements. The wrist, he explains, stays stiff. When he first learned, he says, he let his wrist “get into the game too much,” and it made the line whip and the fly snapped right off. “It landed right beside my leg.”

  Tyler doesn’t like the sight of his mother’s boyfriend’s body. It’s compact, what you’d almost call little except that he has overt muscles and he wears a tight sleeveless shirt — well, a tank top — to show it all off. Plus on one shoulder a tattoo that reads “Digger.” Plus he has no grace. Casting, his arms look too short and his neck stiffens and he lurches like he’s throwing boulders at something he’s mad at. Reddish hairs drift out from under the muscle-shirt straps on his back.

  Tyler tries a few casts. He can see he would improve if he ever spent the time. The breeze, though, stymies him while it doesn’t appear to affect Kim’s casts at all. But this breeze means no mosquitoes. All in all it’s a beautiful day. Tyler can see one snow-capped peak to the west.

  “What’s ‘digger’ refer to?”

  “Old friend.” Kim’s tone is the badly acted tragic one that says, I don’t want to talk about it. But he adds, “We were in the military.”

  “You were in the military?”

  “I grew up in the Maritimes, gimme a break,” Kim says, and then laughs loudly.

  And now Kim has hooked a trout. His face deadens and he is serious. It’s the first time Tyler has seen him like this, all business. You would swear he’s angry.

  Over the next hour or so, Kim catches three more rainbows, which he deposits in the nest of ferns in his creel. Finally Tyler hooks one. It’s fun to play; it’s almost shocking on this thin rod. The fish looks maybe a foot long, exactly the same size as Kim’s, and as it splashes around Tyler’s knees Kim suggests they release it.

  “Why?” asks Tyler. He’s horrified Kim will claim that this one’s too small, which would reveal far too much about the man his mother likes.

  “Well, we have enough. Your mom brought that chili for tonight. All we need’s a little side dish.”

  Tyler watches Kim gently unhook the trout with the needle-nose pliers he wears Velcroed to his leg, his motions so expert that Tyler understands that of course Kim would know exactly how much trout everyone would want with chili. But Tyler sort of wanted to keep his trout and Kim should have asked him. Also, he doesn’t like to discover that, already having enough fish to eat, they’d simply been casting until Tyler caught one. He hates it that Kim has been waiting patiently for the unlucky dim-wit.

  At the campsite his mother exclaims about the trout, which Kim has laid out on some fresher ferns. All agree how plump and bright and perfect they look.

  “He got a few and I got a few,” Kim lies with no prompting and without looking at Tyler, as if he’s committing some kind of golden self-sacrifice.

  “He got four and I got one,” says Tyler.

  “We had a good time,” Kim offers.

  Tyler’s mother murmurs something about their wide open eyes, about their expressions not changing even when you kill them.

  “Can you have a beer, there, Tyler?” Kim asks him in a stage voice, even cupping his hand to one side of his mouth. Winking as if to say, You can have a beer no matter what your mother says, he pops the rings of two cans and places them on the t
able. Then he removes a fish-knife from a sheath on his belt along with a sharpening stone from its own little case also on the belt.

  Tyler is still angry with Kim but has said nothing, preferring instead simply not to speak to him at all. On the path back to camp Kim had shouted “Cougar!” and scared the hell out of him. It was such an easy juvenile prank that it wasn’t funny at all, despite Kim’s minute of laughter and pointing. Tyler is dreading tonight. How long can you sit around a campfire with your mother and a man named Kim Lynch?

  “He can have one beer,” his mother says, just as overloud, though she is serious.

  Something in him wishes she had said no to the beer. But mostly Tyler wonders if anyone besides him is aware of the absurdity of this discussion at all, how since he turned fifteen his mother, convinced of his social awkwardness, encouraged him to “have a couple and relax” at any of the infrequent parties he went to, whether there would be alcohol there or not. In any case he has had his share of beer; once he had two plus a shot of rum.

  “I don’t want one,” Tyler says. He has turned his back on the opened beer can and is about to add that beer doesn’t seem to go with the art of fly-fishing, but then Kim would have to respond to this, and Tyler doesn’t want him to talk.

  It’s by far the worst thing his mother has ever said. They are sitting around the picnic table, finished with chili and trout, which was excellent together, and they are quite jolly. Tyler has silently gone to the cooler himself, twice, and he is finishing his second beer. His mother and Kim have had more than that. They have been trading repulsive romantic glances and such for a few minutes now, and then she says it.

  “Time for you to take a little walk, Tyler.”

  His mother looks at him like a buddy. She might as well have thrown him a shitty wink. Tyler is so tight in the stomach that he can’t talk.

  He goes to his tent for a few deep breaths and a sweater. Maybe socks and runners instead of these sandals. No. Maybe the Dostoevsky. No. With a foot he kicks his pillow and is surprised by what is under it. He stoops. Still in the hardware store bag, his forbidden reading light. His mother has smuggled it along and hidden it here for him.