Featherless Bipeds (9 page)

She pauses. “I'm not going back to Faireville this summer, Dak.”

“What? Why not?”

“I'm going to take a couple of intersession courses at the university, and look for a summer job here in the city. I've given this a lot of thought, and, as much as I feel nostalgic for Faireville, there are just more opportunities here in the city than back home.”

“But I thought that maybe we could, you know, get . . . ”

“I know, Dak,” she says. “I know what you've been thinking. And part of me is thinking it too. Becoming friends with you again over the past few months has been . . . positive.”

“But, Zoe, I . . . ”

“Don't say it, Dak. I need you to understand something, okay? It's my parents. They're the reason I can't go back to Faireville.”

“You can tolerate them for the summer, can't you? I can take you away as often as you want.”

“It's not getting along with them that's the problem. It's
becoming
them that I want to avoid. My mom and dad both grew up in Faireville, married the first person they ever had feelings for, then settled there for life. They were high school sweethearts, and look at them now. They never talk about anything or do anything together, and on the rare occasion that they do, all they can do is get into horrible fights over totally meaningless things. Neither of them is satisfied with their lives, and they blame each other for their unhappiness. I'm not sure they even sleep in the same bed together anymore.”

“But you're not your parents, Zoe.”

“No, I'm not. And that's why, unlike them, I'm going to see a bit of the world, live in different places, experience different things, date lots of different kinds of people, so I know what I want out of life, rather than settling for the first thing that comes along like they did. I want to explore my options.”

“Date lots of different kinds of people?” I repeat.

“Look, Dak, I know how you feel about me. You've never exactly been subtle about it. And part of me feels the same way about you. I'm sure my parents felt the same way in the beginning, too. But I need to be sure. I need to be sure that the people and things I choose to be part of my life are the right fit for me. And I can only know that by trying different people and things on for size. Do you know what I mean?”

“But, hey,” I say, trying to sound light and breezy, my heart sinking like a cannonball into the cold depths of the ocean, “what if
I'm
the right fit for you?”

She sighs. “You have to let me figure that out on my own, Dak. I need you give me some time. And some space. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” I say, “I can do that, I guess.”

The waitress brings our bill. I toss a twenty on the table, then Zoe and I walk together through the cool night in silence, our footsteps falling into synch.

“We're almost back at my place,” Zoe finally says. “What was it that you wanted to talk to me about, anyway?”

Oh, right. That. Like it matters now.

“Jimmy T, Lola, Akim and Tristan want me to take a year off from university to play in the band full time.”

“Hmm. That's a tough one,” she says.“On one hand, your parents will freak out if you quit school, especially your dad, I'll bet.”

“It would only be for a year,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says, “but statistics show that most students who plan on putting off school for a year never go back. And, since you've already lost a year because of your injury, well . . . ”

“I guess the responsible thing to do is to go back to university next year,” I say.

We stop in front of the entrance to her apartment building.

“On the other hand, though,” she says, with a sparkle in her eyes, “You do look kind of sexy up there on stage behind those drums.”

“I do?”

I lean towards her to kiss her. She hovers in front of me for a moment, and her eyes close slightly. Then she takes a step away from me, toward the building.

“See you later, Dak,” she says, “Thanks for dinner.”

“Call me if you come to Faireville over the summer, okay?” I say, trying to sound as cool and unaffected as possible.

“I will,” she says, “
if
I come back to Faireville.” She disappears inside the building.

A streetlight buzzes and crackles to life above my head. I stand under its flickering glow for a moment, then turn and begin to walk away. Behind me, there is the sound of a window sliding open. I spin around.

“Hey, Dak, listen,” Zoe calls down to me through the open second-floor window. “All any of us can do is to follow our hearts. If we do that, I think we'll eventually end up where we belong.”

One by one, up and down the sidewalk, other streetlights begin humming with light.

“Goodnight, Zoe,” I say.

“Goodnight, Dak.” She recedes into her apartment, leaving the window open.

I spend the rest of the night wandering the city alone, passing under streetlight after streetlight, trying to imagine how I will navigate myself to the right future from here.

Wander

Lyrics — D. Sifter, Music — A. Ganges, T. Low, D. Sifter
(From the album
Socrates Kicks Ass!
recorded by The Featherless Bipeds)

I have this dream of snaking roads

And freeway metaphors

Kind of like those TV ads

For cars I can't afford

It draws me out into the dusk

In search of substitutes

Into the shadows of opaque towers

Past fountains of other mens' youths

I walk downtown and have myself

A drink from a frosted glass

Park myself by a windowsill

And watch the statues pass

Listened to a street band play

You really should come see 'em

Toss a quarter in their jar

It's all I have to give 'em

Watch the spirits hurling fire

Hear wind in wires ring

Taillights streak across the bridge

Missing everything

S
ET
T
WO

L
OST
A
ND
F
OUND

I
love this beach. I love the tentative trickling sound of the current against the shore on still nights such as this one, and the way the smoky light of the lighthouse swings overhead like a blade through the haze of humid air. I love the cool feel of the sand as it half-absorbs each footstep I take, and the hollow, gurgling sound of distant boat motors, and the way I can stop in my tracks here and be aware, for what seems like the first time ever, of the sound of my own breathing and the rising rhythm of my heartbeat. I love the crackle of smooth marble-coloured pebbles and the clip-clip-clip-pluck sound of a thrown stone skipping across the water. But none of these loves are the reason I have come to this place.

I am here because Zoe is here.

Of course the other guy is here as well. The companion of the moment. The one who would also have her if he could.

This morning, Zoe left a message for me on my parents' answering machine. There are only three weeks left of summer, and I've hardly heard from her since the term ended at university. My heart thumped wildly as soon as I heard her voice, and it hasn't stopped yet.

“Hey, Dak, it's me,” her voice played back from the tape. “I just wanted to let you know that I'm coming home to Faireville for the weekend. Kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing. I thought you might like to get together for a coffee or something. You won't have to meet me at the train station — I'm, uh, getting a ride with someone — a friend I met at one of my summer-school courses. I think you'll really like this person. You two have a lot in common. Anyway, I'll give you a call when we get into town. ‘Bye!”

Hmmm. She will be “getting a ride with
someone
.” “A
friend
.” “This
person
.” I am worried.

My worst fears are confirmed a few hours later, when Zoe calls me from the pay phone and tells me to meet her at the Faireville Times Café in fifteen minutes. I run the whole way there, then stop, catch my breath, and stroll coolly into the musty coffee house.

She hasn't arrived yet. I sit down by myself at the booth by the window that Zoe and I always used to share.

Jo, the perpetual waitress at the Faireville Times, wanders up to the table. Jo was the waitress at the diner back when my parents were dating. In a moment of nostalgia, my dad mentioned that Jo was the best-looking woman in Faireville back then, quickly adding, “next to your mother, of course.”

“Hi there, Dak,” Jo says. “How ya doing? Heard you had a pretty adventurous first year away at school.”

“You could say that,” I say. The scar on my abdomen hummed with dull pain, as if it knew that Jo was talking about it.

“So, where's your girlfriend?” she asks.

“Oh. I don't have a girlfriend at the moment.”

“What about Zoe Perry? You two are still dating, aren't you?”

“Well, not exactly. We're sort of taking a break, I guess.”

Jo shakes her head.

“Too bad. You made a nice looking couple, always laughing and having fun. I loved serving you two.” She straightens. “So, what'll you have?”

“Not sure yet,” I say.

The bells above the entrance jingle. It's Zoe, and, sure enough, the “person” with her is a guy. Wearing a friggin'
blazer
.

“Oh. I'll give you a minute, then,” Jo says, and she scurries away behind the counter.

Zoe runs over and hugs me, then she and the “person” sit down beside each other, across the booth from me. I can't see because of the table between us, but I'm pretty sure his hand is resting on Zoe's thigh. The blood throbs in my temples.

“Dak,” she says, glowing, “I'd like you to meet Jerry. He's a grad student, and he's helping to teach one of the summer courses I'm taking.”

“Hello, Jerry.” I say ‘Jerry' with the same tone of voice I might use to after stepping barefoot in fresh dog droppings. “Did Zoe mention that she and I used to come here all the time when we were dating?”

“She may have mentioned it in passing,” he says, peering at me over his artsy-fartsy little glasses. “But that was back in
high school
, right?”

“We still go out for brunch every once in a while at
university
as well,” I say. “Have you heard of Jafo's?”

“Ah, yes,” he sniffs, “an
undergraduate
hang-out, isn't it?”

“As well as other members of the Proletariat,” I say.

“Hey, Dak,” Zoe interjects, too brightly, “did you know that Jerry is a musician, too? He plays the violin.”

I show some post-secondary maturity and refrain from pointing out that Jerry rhymes with
fairy
. Zoe turns to The Fairy and says, “Dak plays the drums, Jerry.

He plays in a rock band. They're really good.”

“Ah,” Jerry says. “I've mostly played with string quartets. I had my training at the Royal Conservatory of Music. How about you?”

“Oh, I had my training in my parents' garage, mostly. Maybe we can go over there later, and you can play your fiddle for us, and we'll have us a little hoe-down. Hoo-doggy, that'd be a hoot, eh?”

I think I just saw Zoe grin, only for a second.

“Well,” Jerry says, playing the easy-going guy, “I don't play much music any more. Working on my Art History thesis takes up most of my time these days.”

“Did Zoe mention that she and I used to work together as tour guides at The Faireville Gallery of Reproduction Masterpiece Art?” I ask Jerry.

“I was aware that Zoe had more than a passing knowledge of visual art, but . . . ”

“Maybe we could all head over to the gallery for the afternoon,” I interrupt. “Wouldn't that be fun, Zoe?”

“Well, actually, Dak . . . ”

Jerry interrupts Zoe. “Thanks anyway, but with my gallery connections, I can arrange for Zoe to have private viewings of
original
artistic masterpieces.”

“Oh, I wasn't talking about the paintings,” I say, grinning, “I thought Zoe might want to show you the coatroom at the Faireville gallery, relive some old memories.”

Zoe blushes, and flashes an angry look at me. Oops — shouldn't have crossed that line, I guess.

“Well,” Jerry wheezes, “it's been wonderful meeting you, Dick, but . . . ”

“That's Dak,” I say.

“But we really should get along. Zoe has promised me a tour of her hometown.”

“
Our
hometown,” I add.

“The day is slipping away from us,” he says sharply, “and Zoe claims that the local beach is stunning at sunset.” His voice drops a little, and he looks at Zoe. “And quite romantic.”

“Oh, it is,” I tell him. “Zoe and I used to go there all the time. When we were dating.”

“Awfully sad that you aren't dating anymore,” he says.

He puts his elbows on the table and folds his fingers together into a tight ball in front of his face, one huge gold ring glinting in the dusty afternoon sun. I noticed that the letters BA are embossed on the ring.

“Say, Jerry,” I ask, “what do the letters on your ring stand for?”

“Beta Alpha,” he sighs, “my fraternity.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” I say, “So you're a frat boy.”

He closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head.

“No, I am a member of a
fraternity
. A
brotherhood
. Saying the word ‘frat' is almost as offensive to one of us as saying the word ‘fuck'.”

“Oh. Well,
frat you
, then!” I say. “Ha ha, sorry, just kidding, Jerry. I thought BA maybe stood for something else.”

“Couldn't expect you to know any better,” he says, rising from the table and sidling toward the counter. “I'll go settle our bill, and we can get going, Zoe.”