Gargoyles (11 page)

It was okay.

No you loved it. It's that almost-licorice taste in it. Fennel. The bulbs in the grocery store cost almost five bucks each to buy. So I'm growing fennel. And tons of lavender. It's Carol's, actually, she wants to do these silk pillows, these miniature silk pillows filled with dried lavender, it's supposed to help you sleep, you put it near your nose in bed. It's a what's-her-name, the insider-trading trouble-lady —

Martha Stewart.

—it's a Martha Stewart thing, Carol wants to give one to everybody for Christmas presents this year. You guys are getting one.

For Hanukkah?

Right. Anyway there's a field of lavender this year, and it's me who waters it. It's what I like to do, water my garden.

I've seen you stand there.

Always handheld. Whenever I'm really angry or need space or hungover, I just —

You're off the wagon, Rich?

It's not a problem. Once in a while.

You sure?

I'd tell you if it was.

The first step is telling yourself.

My only addiction these days is I water my garden. Carol has to call me in for dinner. Sometimes I overwater. I told her it feels like nurturing, like I can feel the plants just drinking it up, and being sort of thankful, it's a bounteous feeling I get. Once I told Carol it was my only opportunity to feel as nurturing as a woman and she asked if I pictured the water coming out my breasts.

I like Carol.

She's good, sometimes she's good. Anyway, I take my little failed-moustache problem with me out to the garden and water it. I'm standing there watering the lavender, and then I'm in the tomatoes, nurturing away, and then I switch hoses and move to the flowers, and next I'm at the fence surrounded by beans. Right?

I'm picturing you with this weird smile and water coming out your breasts and it's too early in the morning for this.

Fine.

I'm going to be blunt and ask you to get to the point, and then I will do whatever it is you ask me to, Rich.

Fine. Here it is. I'm watering the beans. I'm watering the beans for a long time. Thing is, I've long stopped thinking about the beach, and shaving, and “Eeeuuu” and what I might be “making of myself,” and being invisible to Carol. I'm just watering beans and feeling pretty much okay now, because the beans are soaking
it up and thanking me. And along come Heather and Tom Lavoie, next-door neighbours, out for their walk.

Okay. Yeah?

Get it?

Get what.

We talked.

Yeah?

I'm watering my garden. We talk over the fence. But things feel very weird. Guess why.

Oh. Jesus.

See?

You talked with your neighbours with your Hitler moustache on?

Even
I
forgot I had a Hitler moustache. In the end even
I
didn't notice.

Holy.

Yes. I'm watering. We chat but not long. Suspiciously not long. They said they were tired or something from their walk but in retrospect I saw that they basically ran from me.

Must have been quite something for them.

Indeed. The Beast out watering his garden of a summer's evening.

They didn't say anything directly?

Nope.

But for sure they saw it?

Yup.

But Carol didn't.

No, they saw it. They ran. And then you can bet they talked about it all night.

You'd think they'd make a joke. You know, to acknowledge yours. You'd think friends would say something.

Well they aren't friends, they're neighbours. The other thing is, they didn't see it as a joke.

How do you know?

They ran away from me
.

Right.

It gets worse. It wasn't just them. I kept watering. I didn't
get it yet. A few others crawled by in cars and we waved. The MacCarthys came by with their dog and we talked. One car contained a man name of Wolf Heisl. Wolf Heisl — what the hell did
he
think? But then, the
grand fucking finale
, Richard's drama teacher with two bags of groceries. I mean, he was ten feet away. We only ever say hi — we said hi. But you should have seen the look on his face. It was this look that, that, finally made me remember. What was on my face, out there in public.

Man.

Do you know what Richard's drama teacher's name is?

No.

Joel
Green
berg.

Oooo.

Greenberg
.

Ouch.

I've been up all night.

I guess I can see why.

Do you?

Neighbours, teachers, it's embarrassing.

It's more than that, man. It's more than that.

Ouch. So what did you want me to do?

A man can be a nut in our neighbourhood, and nobody says a thing.

It's polite times.

A man could be
on fire
, and people would just say hi.

Right.

Hitler could be
living on our street
, and nobody would say a thing.

You're pretty much right.

Our politicians are conducting evil —
evil
— and everyone knows it, deep down, but no one
says anything
.

Well, maybe, but you need some sleep, brother.

No one laughed. Ergo, they thought I was serious. They thought
I
thought I was Adolf Hitler. And nobody said a thing. As far as they are concerned, Hitler lives on their street and nobody's saying anything. A man named Greenberg didn't scream at me, didn't try to get at me and rip my face off.

I see your point but you might be getting a bit extreme with —

Well, I've been up all night.

Things won't seem so bad after you sleep a bit. They really won't. You might even see some hu —

But they
are
saying something. All I can picture are my neighbours calling each other, maybe even organizing a meeting, all of them talking about me, about me wanting to be Hitler and what are they going to do about it, all my kids' teachers and Carol's yoga friends and checkout girls and —

You have to calm down a bit, man.

—calling the police, and my work, calling my
partners
, can you imagine that? Can you picture that? I mean I'm not the only Jew in our firm, right? It's really quite something this time, I really can't —

Rich?

—see a way out of this one. I mean I'm just waiting for the eggs to start hitting the house, the people with fucking
torches
outside, painting, you know, a pink star or something on our door.

Rich?

Yeah.

Hitler's door didn't get painted. He did the painting.

Well, there's my first point. Hitler's alive and in the neigh-bourhood and nobody's doing anything about it.

Well, why don't you organize a mob and go get him.

Okay, sure, touché, mock me here.

You really need some sleep. Then you need to make a couple of calls.

Calls.

Call up the people who saw you and explain to them. No harm done. But get some sleep first. You're a maniac right now and you'll scare them.

What the hell do I say to them?

Just explain what happened. Tell them what you told me.

Yeah, right.

Why not?

I tell them I had a Hitler moustache on purpose?

Well, that much they already know, Rich. You're just clarifying for them that you had no, you know, evil intent. You were playing a joke.

I tell a man named Greenberg I was playing a joke? Having a little, what, Hitler-fest?

Isn't that what you were doing?

It was a private, family thing.

Okay Rich, whatever. It's an idea. Telling the truth is an idea. I didn't want to say this, but being straight with people isn't your forte, never has been, and maybe it'll hurt to work at it, but there might be no other way this time. Either that or, yes, chances are people will talk a bit. Not like what you're imagining, but for sure people are going to, you know, marvel over it. Who wouldn't?

You're right but . . . I had another idea. A favour.

Okay, shoot. I love you, but my ear is getting sore. And I need to go for a walk. Then start work.

You still write at home?

Always.

You working on that, what, that historical novel still?

That and a play.

Stories?

Not lately.

Well, that's my idea. My favour to ask you.

Yeah?

You've always been the creative one, right?

Okay, sure.

I mean from day one.

I guess. So?

So tell me what to say. Create something for me.

Rich, that isn't what —

Write a story about this.

Hmm. I'm not sure I get —

It's even a good
idea
for a story.

It's not my kind of story, Rich. I wouldn't have a clue what —

Well,
that's
what I want you to do.

Why?

It'll solve everything.

How?

Well, lots of people read your stuff. I mean I talk to —

They really don't.

I talk to people every day who ask, “What's your brother writing now?” and “I sure loved his last one,” and —

Rich. Hardly anyone reads my stuff. Seriously.

I know you don't make a dime but, no, they really do. And they will. When even one neighbour reads the story, or even
hears
you did a story about a Hitler moustache, word will get around and they'll know it's about me and I'll be absolved.

This is supremely confused on your part.

It's a good story. It'll work.

Why don't you just tell them yourself?

Because in the story I'll come off better.

How so?

Well, in your story I'll be conducting an experiment about, about “modern Jews,” you know, in North America, and neigh-bourhood attitudes, and what people would do, or more to the point wouldn't do, if they encountered Adolf Hitler. It's a noble experiment I'm doing.

You want me to make all that up?

Well, I was sort of doing that.

You weren't remotely doing that.

In an after-the-fact way, I sort of was. But in your story, that's what I'm doing, and everyone's fears are quelled, and I even come off as sort of — I don't know — “interesting.” “Brave,” in fact. It's a risky thing to do.

What a lawyer.

I'm taking that as a compliment.

Rich, c'mon, it's a dumb idea and I'm really not going to do it.

Fine.

Please.

I have to add that this is maybe the most indirect —

I didn't want to remind you, but I will, of those times back in the not-so-good old days when you were having some problems meeting your, you know —

You paid my rent a few times, I'm eternally grateful, I paid you back. This is years ago, Rich. And you keep reminding me.

And now I'm asking you for the return favour.

I've never once mentioned that you charged me interest, Rich. Rich: you charged me interest.

That's not an abnormal thing. If you find it so, I apologize.

And you own twenty percent of everything I will
ever make.

It's a contract we signed. It's business.

Not even an agent charges that. I'm your brother.

I bailed you out.

Some rent money. Years ago. Ratty little
basement suite
.

Where would you be now if I hadn't?

Anyway — Rich? — it's not my kind of story. Lacks a certain ring of truth.

You're kidding.

And there's no, no punchline to it. There's no meaning. Not my style.

Maybe he encounters the mob and . . . and talks them down. I don't know,
make it up.
You're a fiction writer. You lie all the time.

Actually I don't.

What's the big deal? I'm asking you a favour. I'm worried here.

I don't think it'll work.

It'll be hard-hitting. It'll be entertaining.

I think you should just tell the truth.

I can't! How?

I think the truth would make a better story. It might be kind of funny. Maybe even a little touching. Human, anyway.

I disagree.

I'm the writer.

Well, I'm a strategist.

That's for sure.

And I'm extremely good at it.

In that case I'm going to ask you what Richard asked you: what are you making?

Oh, come on.

Maybe you need some help making your self.

What do you mean?

Rich? I'm having an idea.

What.

You ever hear the concept, “holding a mirror up to nature?” It was Shakespeare.

No.

You know how I always used to carry that little tape recorder with me? For dialogue? Tape conversations?

No, but sure.

Well, I found it so helpful, I've been taping my phone calls. For a couple of years now.

What? Even this one?

It comes on automatically. Sometimes I review the tapes. It helps me with cadence and stuff. New expressions. And people say the most revealing things about themselves, but always in the most . . . indirect ways.

I'm sure they do. Fascinating.

Actually, I'm serious, Rich.

About what.

About the truth. About how the story is the conversation we've been having.

No way.

Well, “way.” Maybe it's a story.

I'm a lawyer. I won't let it happen.

Ah, who gives a shit.

You're serious.

Let's just tell the truth.

Don't please.

It'll solve both your problems. You explain yourself to everyone, and you tell the truth for a change. Start making yourself.

I don't think so. Don't, please.

Everything you've said, everything you will say next, is the truth. It's just — a mirror.

I don't think so.

The truth is all it can possibly be.