Carter V. Cooper Short Fiction Anthology Series, Book Five
264
Carter V. Cooper Short Fiction Anthology Series, Book Five
264Paperback
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781550964905 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Exile Editions |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2015 |
| Series: | Carter V. Cooper Short Fiction Anthology Series , #5 |
| Pages: | 264 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CVC Carter V. Cooper
Short Fiction Anthology Series Book Five
By Gloria Vanderbilt
Exile Editions Ltd
Copyright © 2015 Authors, and Exile EditionsAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55096-493-6
CHAPTER 1
Veronica Gaylie
TOM, DICK AND HARRY
Tom lies in St. Paul's Emergency, pacemaker jumping like a sockeye salmon while he teaches two nurses four verses of "Danny Boy." They release him and by the time the taxi pulls away eight nurses stand outside waving to him. He says, Cordova Street's the best home he ever had. Three square meals, a radio and people who listen to him sing Hank Williams: lawyers, hockey players, priests and shrinks. My mother says, Ach. He doesnae see the neighbourhood, he jist looks at the flowers.
He spends his days at the courthouse, gets free coffee from the court coffee lady who never in her life gave away anything for free. But Tom has a way about him. He was in fact up to three free coffees a day, overdid it a bit, and the coffee lady had to say, Eh, Tom, I didnae mean it quite like that. Said, I mean, I didnae mean three free coffees noo, and Tom looks up at her and says: You're right, Mother. From now oan, it's only wan.
By the time McSorley's hockey trial hit he was back up to three and that day, court packed, standing room only, the guard said to Tom, Okay, big guy. Go on in. And Tom looked aroond, Big guy? Who's eh talking tae? The way Canadians say things, Tom jist loved it. People in line looked at Tom, who wasnae tall, and said, Hey, why does he get in? And the guard stared back and said, Because he's one of the family.
And Tom went right in.
Later Tom was interviewed on CBC about the trial from an old-timer's point of view, except they got Tom who looked straight into the lens with his blue eyes and snowy white hair. Standing there with his free coffee, he said, It was tae hard te see oan TV. Ye really couldnae get a good angle oan things.
The reporter told Tom to walk into the sunset, an old-timer shot to close the show, Folks, there goes the old-timer, walking into the distance, walking slow, but Tom, camera rolling, live TV, walked slower than they wanted him to. Behind him the camera rolled, the reporter's voice slowed and slowed, tried to keep pace with Tom walking slow: Folkss ... there goes the old-timer ... walking ... walllkingg ... But Tom walked slower than slow. Tried to drag it out, you know. By the time he pressed the button to cross the street, they liked Tom old, but not so slow.
Now Tom has a way of walking slow. Not like he was before. The night he staggered in circles around the backyard drunk, shouting,
I'm a fucking Scot!
I'm a fucking Scot!
Before that, he made everyone laugh. Found cigarettes in his ears, made coins disappear. When Granda died Tom handed in his gloves at the bus mechanic depot and walked and walked and did not stop. All the way to New Westminster.
They gave him electric shock. (I did not care what the neighbours thought.)
Back in Glasgow, he might have been the one with a football kick called The International, but in Canada, he did magic tricks, alone, on the living room loveseat.
Tom, Dick and Harry wanted to leave Scotland forever.
Everyone nodded. It was understood. Fish and chips only went so far; life was dull. Souvenirs of Rome over the mantelpiece, a papal plate, a little ceramic dog that changed colour when it rained; knick knacks only went a certain way 'til notions of New York called you away.
On the morning the boat left, waving goodbye to the three raw loddies, Tommy still in boy scout shorts, the mither saw
the little blue light on the back of her hand
that she always saw before bad news.
Over there, the way people leave. You tried and tried but could not get away. You'd stare at a dripping sink for years, thinking you had lots of time then, one day, you'd turn around, see dust falling slowly in the living room sun and suddenly you'd know a whole life could pass while that dust fell slow, settling on the shoulders of a bottle of HP. Then you'd know. (Time to go.)
In the living room after the others left, their cousin Tom wondered if he'd ever see North America, the Fraser River, the Pacific Ocean. He wondered if he'd ever see film star Nelson Eddy as an RCMP walking out of the Canadian evergreens.
Thoughts trickled like this in a world of fish and chips and arguments over where a picture of a soldier should go, over the mantel or under the bed because a generation before in Ireland they knew what a picture of a soldier meant. And up and down from the wall the old picture went: the father up, the mother down, no time for it to even leave a mark of where it might have been. It was a smoky world.
My mother worked for a chimney sweep in a shack in a lane because alone, in the coal dust, she could read.
To dream of tap dance shoes, ruby red, in a black and white reel. To leave a place of chest pains called carbuncles of the heart. A place of meat-pies, neeps, sprouts, cabbage, and the potato. Later that day the mither peeled potatoes for chips, golden,
how the sun streamed in.
How anyone understood a word the faither whistled through his toothless gums: Where's meh wallies?
He lost the real ones picking up chairs with his teeth to impress the ladies.
Generations stood on the mantelpiece in photos, in bright hats on vacation: big smiles, crooked teeth.
Other times it was just the clock in the living room, ticking. And dust falling. You waited for a sign. Sure enough someone said,
The day Tom, Dick and Harry left,
the blue light on the mither's hand was lit.
Tom went. Dick went. Harry went.
It was easier for Dick who was tall, suited his clothes, a Dapper Dan, presented himself well. He worked as the corner man in a vaudeville show. Americans liked personality. Put it there went over big and with his suit and that height, Dick landed Maître D' in a fancy restaurant.
Dick fell in.
Everyone said they couldn't do enough for him. Good tips. They said,
Ach, the lad did well fer ehsel over in America.
Aye, Dick wi ehs fancy new teeth.
At home, the mither beamed in her new red woollen coat while they three raw loddies flew over the ocean. Imagine. America. All that smart chat, just like you see in the pictures. Ach, the variety. The selection on the shelves.
The get up an go.
One day after work Dick went out the back way and was never seen again (murdered – for his tips). No one really knows how he got lost but he was found in a river no one had heard of:
the Hudson.
Back home Sam the head of the family put the phone down, then picked it back up again and called Harry in New York.
Yer comin haime right noo.
An bringing Tammy wi yeh.
But Harry, in his new fly chat, said:
No can do.
Sam put the phone down. Dust fell slowly back home in the living room sun, first time in months. The room filled with it. Sam closed his eyes.
Small world it is.
An tha silly sun oan all days as this.
Back in New York, Harry felt bad. He was just a kid. He knew you didn't move to America to dwell on things and if back home you're killed going out the front door, in America you're killed going out the back way,
this was no matinee.
No Nelson Eddy. No RCMP walking out of the Canadian evergreens. No Fraser River you learned about in school, but a brother, gone.
Harry in New York put down the phone. Got on with things. Sam got down and prayed, and Mary, their sister, left.
You think, Mary's there. Mary with her good heart and head. Mary in her brick Bronx bedroom. Visiting Mary went like this. You'd knock, then hear her walking down the hall saying,
Just a minute!
Unlocking bolts and turns,
Just a minute!
Unhinging chains and locks and ties,
Just a minute!
Finally she'd shove the big dresser out the way, the door opened, and Mary stood, smiling, saying,
Come away! Come away!
With that black hair. The whole place smelt like chips. To the kitchen, the red, shiny tablecloth, the kettles, ironing boards, armchairs covered in clothes,
red, white and blue
the look of rooms where people leave for work every day.
Outside she was just the same. Mary in those black heels, serge suit, lapel brooch, walking down the street, back straight. She had a way of striding, that Toibin walk, handbag tight under her arm. She said,
It's after three, the trade schools are oot!
And right on cue, you'd see faces peek around corners but with Mary striding that way with her purse, blue eyes meaning business, they left her glittering brooch alone.
And then, even with Mary there, even with Mary all put-together, it happened to Harry.
For a long time the story went:
Ach. Flamin black soot came doon tha tunnel
an choked ehm dead.
(Ah was jist waitin oan it).
Harry was a driver for the old New York subway system, night shift. Back home, Harry had been the one in uniform, the one with a good job,
no like Dick wi ehs head a way up in the clouds,
flyin roond wi aw tha money.
Bad fellas waitin fer ehm oot back.
Ach. Wi ehs beeg reed open face an aw.
Someone said,
It's no good over there in America.
Tommy, Ahm tellin yehs.
Jist look at Harry.
Dead of emphysema.
Doon tha hole night an day wi oot a bit ay air.
(Jist like the coal mine).
As if he never left.
Dick went. Harry went. Now one left in New York not counting Mary. Tom. Tommy, the eldest, was different. Tall, lean, a scout leader, he wore short pants and laughed at everything everyone said
when eh wasnae oan ehs knees, praying.
America. He loved it over there. But for Tommy, last one left, it didnae look good.
One day he asked Mary,
What are the odds that oot of three brothers ...
what are the odds, Mary? Aw three?
Mary stood, handbag under arm, blue brooch glittering in the afternoon sun, and told him.
The other Tom's father, Willie, was in the first war, on watch, Vimy Ridge. Stood in the middle of no man's land beside his friend Archie Geddes, who he looked out for, who looked out for him. Archie's father had his head blown in two in the same war months before.
Willie on the battlefield, moonlight on the back of his hand, smoked cigarettes to make time fly, and when he lit a match he'd say:
Make sure yer hands donnae shake
so yeh donnae upset the other man.
Always keep yer hands steady fer ehm.
The faither wouldnae have said donnae. Though that night, all the wouldnae, couldnae, shouldnae, didnae, hadnae, wullnae, cannae, disnae and wisnae in the world didnae matter because just then, at the base of their post, a shadow appeared.
It wisnae tall
an it didnae hae a head.
Jesus, said Archie Geddes under his breath, while Willie turned white. Was it man or woman? It reappeared, seemed to float just above the ground and then it floated across no man's land where it disappeared,
like the toot.
If it had been raining, it could have been a soldier running from the rain, but it wasn't raining. If there had been fire, it could have been someone ducking bullets, but there was no fire. Just the two men in no man's land saying,
Tha wiz a big yin.
Willie's face went aw peelly wally. He stood poker straight and said,
Tha wasnae a yin.
No, said Archie.
Yeh couldnae hae a square go
wi an apparition such as this.
A sight like that could make the mind wander and hours later, Archie was still talking about it, lighting matches, hands shaking.
Hey, Wullie, why don't yeh fling yer wallies, aye yer teeth, doon there.
Kinda provoke the thing.
Willie went for a look through the mud. Nothing there. Not even a footprint. He went back to the post and told Archie, who stood and held his rifle in such a way so his hands would not shake,
No point callin tha in, eh?
No, no point, said Archie.
How yeh gonnae explain te yer CO
yeh saw a figure runnin headless
through no man's land
an it didnae leave a footprint?
It could have been an apparition. They'd seen a lot of death. It could have been a dream. But that night, at post in the middle of no man's land, Archie asked Willie,
Ehm,
What are the chances
ay a faither an son dyin in the same war
the same way?
The night was clear and Willie said,
Ehm,
let me see.
Two men ... wan war.
Same family.
He counted on his fingers, like there was a method to it.
Ah'll tell yehs tomorrow, Archie.
The next day the battle was over.
Later someone told Willie about Archie:
Ehs two legs
jist ran oan ahead.
Wan, two,
wan, two.
Mary says,
Jist donnae ask, Tom.
Yeh know how it is.
Oh ach, the old blue light, says Tommy.
The mither's superstition.
Cannae a fella escape?
In America they'd call it a coincidence, Mary.
He stormed out the back door, jacket flying over his shoulder, American fly chat gone,
Wull yewz aw no go away noo! The lot ay yehs!
He left Mary in the kitchen with the dripping sink and the falling dust, and Tommy and Granda Dick back home was still talking about the allnew Tommy, over there in America.
Sam told her over the phone,
Ach. Mary. Why did yehs let ehm go?
That could have been it. But the story goes. Tom went out as the handsome one – the dancer, the talker, the crooner, the kind that made people say,
Too bad. Eh could sing.
As a waiter at a private club up the Hudson River he did well
well fer Dick wi ehs tips
well fer Harry
wi ehs burnin eyes
an burnin lips
and at the end of the night there was drink with the other waiters, all the champagne that was left.
Ach. Tommy.
Eh wasnae tall but eh had lotsa pals.
And the night they were all driving home, singing away, that black hair in the wind (inherited from the Gallachers, McNamaras and McNamees) the driver hit a tree and everyone died but Tom.
Forehead sliced on metal, brains burst open like a soup tin, and when they found the wreck Tom was gone. He just walked away. They found him in a field, sitting up (still in his good suit). When Mary heard the news, her voice just went. Back home, Tommy and Dick said,
Ach. New life in America.
Two dead – wan wi no voice.
Wan wi no head.
In Tommy's last letter home, he said he had a toothache. Back home that was it. Show over.
No more ay this family's goan te America.
Over the bodies ay Tom, Dick an Harry.
When it was all over, someone said,
Wan thing Ah'll say aboot America:
it may be violent
but they know how tae look after their dead.
And the other Tom, cousin Tammy, Gallacher's brother. Not as dramatic (but nonetheless). Tom's brother Willie, who was tall, left for the front at Union Station in Glasgow; the whole family went to see him away. Willie had that black hair like the highlanders, and in a uniform,
ach.
Aw the women were looking over.
He had his cousin Tommy's teeth. Granda Dick's cheekbones. He played violin.
The mither said,
Willie. You'll play the violin on yer maw's deathbed.
At the station Willie took Tom aside and told him man to man,
Tom.
Between you an me brother.
Ah know Ahm never coming back.
For a second they stood smoking, eye to eye, Tommy holding it in. Like Jimmy Cagney in Angels with Dirty Faces. He already knew the rest. So he said,
Don't tell meh, Wullie.
Let's jist leave it like this.
Poor Tom. One minute smoking a cigarette with your best friend, and the next.
The one who left.
The next one who left.
The mither dabbed her eyes and God knows Willie waved his arm outside the train and she waved back with that white hanky right to the end of the railway bend.
And that could have been it. Later when two soldiers showed up at the door
clock ticking
dust falling
everyone in the neighbourhood heard. The mither fell to her knees. Gallacher screamed. Someone said in the last months of the war, they sent all the Scots in. The Glasgow Highlanders.
That night the faither's hair turned pure white in his sleep. Gallacher lost her sense of smell. Couldn't eat.
Willie. Who suited his clothes. He always knew what to say.
Played the violin.
Brave.
The way he left that day.
Tall.
Christine Miscione
SPRING
The day Joan Rivers died, I received an email from Hybrid-Co Canada offering me free Internet for four months if I removed my irate blog post examining the current degree to which they are fucking idiots. I made the post seven months prior, in the dead of winter, when I was brokenhearted and holed up in a new apartment for six days. "We would like to apologize for any inconveniences we may have caused you between January 30th and February 5th of this year. We understand you were not satisfied with our services at that time."
Later that day, Eric and I had sex on the floor. The TV was still on in the background. From underneath him, I couldn't see, could only hear it. A drum circle emerges at Times Square in Joan Rivers' honour. Joan Rivers is remembered for her anti-feminist humour. Joan Rivers loved aging elephants. Joan Rivers' acid cackle as he came inside of me.
Afterwards, washing myself in the bathroom, I noticed scraped skin on my back, right along my spine. The blood was beginning to seep and it reminded me of what it might be like to bleed through cheesecloth. He was apologetic. He took my hand. He said he just got carried away, and next time we'll use pillows, and he's just so "madly" turned on by me. How could I blame him?
Things that make me wish I could live forever: Summers in Montreal. Wine and careé pistache in Parc La Fontaine. The sun setting behind the factories in Mile End. Gypsies dancing around the fountain in Square Saint-Louis. "Scarborough Fair" with all the windows open, the leaves beginning to change.
The Plateau sparkled the night of Joan Rivers' death. It was hot. I was walking back to my apartment from Eric's thinking, Does this go on forever? Then my mother called.
"I'm going to break up with him," I told her. "It doesn't sing the way past love has."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from CVC Carter V. Cooper by Gloria Vanderbilt. Copyright © 2015 Authors, and Exile Editions. Excerpted by permission of Exile Editions Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Preface by Gloria Vanderbilt,Veronica Gaylie,
Christine Miscione,
Josip Novakovich,
Hugh Graham,
Nicholas Ruddock,
Bart Campbell,
Priscila Uppal,
Leon Rooke,
Maggie Dwyer,
Jane Eaton Hamilton,
Lisa Pike,
Bruce Meyer,
Linda Rogers,
Lisa Foad,
Authors' Biographies,