Mean Boy (16 page)

I’m wondering if I should call Jim, admit defeat, when the man behind the desk says, “Oh, absolutely, sir. Absolutely we have rooms,” and I release my breath. Schofield’s enormous shoulders shift beneath his parka. He seizes a pen in his catcher’s mitt and begins to fill in the paperwork.

“How long will you be staying, sir?”

“Just the one night.”

“On your way somewhere for Christmas?”

“To Nova Scotia, yes.”

I peer at the desk guy to see if he’s an American hippie. But he’s leaning on his counter, getting comfortable, prepared
in that Maritime way to talk all night long about geography and weather systems.

“Where in Nova Scotia, now?” His accent grows folksy now that he knows he’s not dealing with an Upper Canadian or someone from the States. “I’ve got a sister up in Yarmouth,” he proffers.

“Down Antigonish way,” Schofield obliges.

“The Highland Heart of Nova Scotia,” recites the desk guy, quoting some tourist brochure from days gone by.

“That’s right,” smiles Schofield, passing the pen and paper back across the counter. The man scrutinizes it.

“Now, Schofield’s not a Scottish name, is it?” he inquires, nearly scolding. “I thought it was all Scotsmen up that way.”

I could curl up on the floor with ennui. Give me a hippie any day over this. It’s like Todd after a couple of beers: What’s your mother’s name? Nope, Protestant, don’t approve. What’s your father’s name? Catholic, good, check. What part of Scotland,
exactly?
Hm, nope, a shame. If it were a mile farther south, I’d be buying your drinks.

“Just your basic English name,” admits Schofield, “with Dermot tacked on for my mother’s side of the family.”

The desk guy squints. “Irish?”

“That’s right.”

North Irish or South Irish? Black Irish or Purple Irish? Up Irish or Down Irish? I can just see the guy gearing up for a cross-examination. But the paperwork stops him. He remembers we’re here to do business.

“Of course we’ll be needing a deposit,” he tells us with a gesture of embarrassment.

“What?” I say. “What?”

“A deposit?” repeats Schofield. He’s as surprised as me.

“It’s policy,” explains the desk guy.

Schofield is nodding. I peek to see if he’s pursing too. Yes. He’s pursing.

“Excuse me,” I say. “But I—I’ve worked in the hotel industry and I’ve never heard of having to give a deposit.”

The desk guy stares as if he’s just noticed me and wonders why I haven’t been thrown out yet. “It’s pretty common these days,” he says.

“Well, it seems a little mercenary.”

He raises his eyebrows at me. “This
is
a business.”

I realize, with that bob of the eyebrows, that the desk guy is not going to give in. I feel hot and desperate like I’m having a poem scrutinized in class. He doesn’t see anything at all wrong with asking for a deposit.

“Well, I’d just like to know what the world is coming to,” I hear myself barking.

“You would, would you?”

“Yes,” I bark. “I would.”

“Mr. Schofield,” says the man behind the counter. “Is this your
son?”

It’s the only time I’ve ever really wanted to punch someone, aside from my grandmother.

“How much?” say Schofield.

“That will be thirty dollars, please.”

“Gah!” I say.

“That’s fine,” soothes Schofield, reaching into his back pocket.

My mind is flopping around like a dying trout. How much can the room be if the deposit is thirty dollars? Did Jim know how much the room would cost when he booked it? But of course Jim never booked it. He must have forgotten in all the pre-Christmas bustle. I look down and see that I am tugging on Schofield’s arm like a child, which is pretty much what I feel like, standing beside him.

“Mr. Schofield,” I say. “Jim will cover this. I mean, the university will pay you back for everything.”

“That’s fine, Larry, really.”

“I’m so sorry,” I bleat, aware I have lost all credibility now. So much for keeping my cool. So much for showing him who’s in charge. “I wasn’t expecting any of this.”

“Larry,” says Schofield, avoiding my gaze as he hands a fistful of tens and fives over to the desk guy, who stands like he’s hearing none of this. “It’s not your fault. These things happen.” Relieved of his cash—probably all the cash he has on him—Schofield looks down at me and smiles. “Okay?” he inquires. He is waiting, patiently, for me to tell him it’s okay. It strikes me as a weirdly maternal thing to do. I wonder if he’s going to touch my leg again.

And now the man is buying me dinner at the inn.

I fought it. I demurred. And then I veered into outright reluctance when Schofield persisted. So the reluctance became balking. Still Schofield was adamant. The balks were then upped to a series of objections—I lingered there for a while—Schofield must be tired, he must be sick of me, he must want time to prepare for his reading. Soon I found myself writhing and shouting and gnashing my teeth in the Crowfeather lobby. No! It was insane! We were supposed to be his hosts! And here he was having to pay for his own hotel room! I couldn’t ask him to buy me dinner on top of all that! I almost got him killed by a snowplow!

The whole time Schofield rocked back and forth on his heels—uncomfortable standing up, uncomfortable with my discomfort. He explained to me that in fact he
was
tired, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use some company. He would be reading pieces tonight he’d read dozens of times in the past. He required no time to prepare.

“I only get nervous about the reading,” Schofield told me, “when I’m left to myself. What I need is distraction. Conversation.”

But I’m a
cretin
, I wanted to protest. For the past hour all I’d been able to think about was getting the hell away from Schofield on the assumption that he wanted nothing more than for me to get the hell away from him. I couldn’t just let go of this conviction all at once.

“Think about it,” I pleaded. “You don’t want to sit around talking to me before your reading. My God, you’ve done that for the last hour on the drive over here.”

“This is different, Larry. Now we can relax. Have a bite to eat and some wine and relive our triumph over the elements.”

Agonized, I looked around the lobby for a pay phone. “I could call Jim for you.”

Why can’t I be rich, I was whining internally. Why must I be poor. I don’t even have money for Christmas presents. Why can’t I be a hippie from the States with nothing to do but buy up patches of New Brunswick. Why can’t I be the one lavishing money on the visiting poet instead of the other way around.

Schofield started laughing then. I could tell it was from a kind of frustration. “Larry,” he said.
“You’re
here. For the love of God, man, just come and have a bite to eat with me. Are you going to make me beg?”

Schofield asks if I like white wine or red and, because I don’t like either, I toss a mental coin and say red. It comes and we sip. All of a sudden I am tired. I am thoroughly tired, having driven myself on fumes and nerves for the past few hours. A basket of bread arrives. Schofield takes one bun, cuts it in half with his knife. Butters it, eats it in small bites. Meanwhile I have polished off the rest of the basket.

“Sorry,” I say, idly shaking the basket.

“Growing boy,” remarks Schofield.

That word again.

The nice thing about being this tired is, I don’t have the energy to be nervous anymore. After a few more sips of wine, the nervousness drains away. I don’t even feel bad about eating all the bread. The wine tastes like nothing to me—dusty nothing. It tastes like the English Department. I seem to be experiencing it somewhere inside of my nose instead of my palate.

“So you’re a student of Arsenault’s,” says my host. With that word, with that
Arsenault
, my defence system attempts to creak back into gear. Am I dining with the enemy here? Was this some kind of plan—wear a guy down, invite him to dinner, pour wine down his throat, and then—

“Yeah. Yes. I’m in Jim’s poetry seminar.”

“How are you liking it?”

“It’s
absolutely wonderful,”
I enunciate.

“I’m sure,” says Schofield.

“Absolutely. Wonderful,” I repeat, looking him in the eye, trying to penetrate my gaze through the thick lenses of his glasses. I wonder if they’re the kind of glasses that make your eyes look bigger. If so, Schofield’s eyes must be pinpricks. Beady little pinpricks.

Suddenly the word
pinprick
appeals to me so much I have to dig out my journal, making apologies to Schofield as I do. I realize, as I envision it on the page, my preference seems to be for words that are meant to be two but that become more interesting merged into one. Deadwood. Showdogs. Pinpricks. It seems to intensify yet open up the meaning all at once.

Schofield watches me write, for lack of anything else to do. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.

“I get these words in my head,” I explain, feeling that it’s my job to break the silence. “It’s not like I ever get ideas for entire concepts or phrases. It’s just these single words that I like. And I don’t even know why I like them. My journal is full of words, all by themselves.”

“That’s valid,” says Schofield. I don’t know what to make of his response. Is he being condescending? I peer at him. His glasses flicker in the candlelight.

“Anyway,” I shrug, stuffing my journal away, “I go with it.”

“Some poets are word-oriented,” says Schofield, dipping his head like a sage, “and some are image-oriented. I’m word-oriented, like you. I see the words on the page before I write them.”

“Yes!” I say, leaning forward.

“Arsenault is image-oriented,” adds Schofield.

I sit back again at the mention of Arsenault.

“Well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that,” I say.

“Certainly not,” agrees Schofield.

“I mean, have you read any of Jim’s work?”

“I’ve read a great deal of Arsenault’s work,” is Schofield’s reply. “I’m his biggest fan.”

This confuses me. It confuses me because Jim clearly hates Schofield, and I assumed there had to be a good reason why. But after reading Schofield’s poetry and meeting him, the only logical reason left for Jim’s dislike is that Schofield must dislike Jim every bit as much—or at least his poetry, which, let’s face it, amounts to the same thing.

“Well—” I say after a moment of sitting with my mouth open. And then it just comes out. “Jim’s mad at you, you know.”

A mirthful little crease appears between Schofield’s big cheeks. “Arsenault,” he says, “has never been shy about letting people know when his feelings are hurt.”

I fold my arms. So here they are at last—Schofield’s fangs. Admitting to have hurt Jim’s feelings, and having the audacity to snicker at it on top of that.

“What did you do to him?” I demand.

Schofield’s bulky mass sort of jumps minutely up and down in its chair. Laughing. The man is laughing.

“It was entirely my fault, I have to admit. I committed the cardinal sin, Larry. I reviewed a friend’s work.”

“You reviewed
Blinding White
? Where?”

And what kind of soulless thug would Schofield have to be to give a bad review to
Blinding White
?

“Atlantica
, a year or so ago. If anything,” he says, dabbing behind his glasses with a napkin, “it was biased in Arsenault’s favour. I was afraid I’d be accused of pulling my punches. Because of our friendship.” Schofield puts the napkin down and blinks a few times. He seems to start when my face comes into focus.

“Don’t worry, Larry,” he assures me, arranging his features into ersatz seriousness, as if in mockery of mine. “Arsenault has already put me soundly in my place.”

I think about Jim swinging his arms around in fury the night we all had dinner at his house.

That the man would sit here
laughing
.

Our food comes, and I look at it. I’ve ordered what was described on the menu as a Rustic Chicken Stew. It’s tomatoey. I’ve never heard of tomatoey chicken stew. Is “rustic” supposed to serve as a code? For tomatoey? Don’t the hippies realize this is New Brunswick? Everything is rustic here.

We’re eating now. I haven’t responded to Schofield’s last remark, and probably am coming across as snotty.

“I read
Malignant Cove,”
I tell him, eating around the tomatoes.

“Did you?” says Schofield. He sounds surprised.

“I liked it,” I admit. “I liked it a lot.”

“Thank you very much, Larry,” he says in one breath. I look up, and he’s staring intently at his plate, chewing a mouthful of food. He must have expelled the words in such a manner so as not to slow down his fork’s progression toward his mouth.

“The poem about the man words and woman words … It was really amazing,” I say.

Schofield looks up at me, his expression boyish. “Oh,” he says, smiling quite a bit. “I like that one too.”

I can’t help but smile back. Delight, that’s what Schofield is feeling. A grown man and a published poet experiencing delight when some nineteen-year-old compliments him on a piece of writing he’s particularly proud of. I want to be him so bad all of a sudden.

“It must be great being a poet,” I say before I can stop myself.

Schofield starts bouncing in his chair again, pinprick eyes squeezed shut.

“Well,” he says, “you’re a poet, aren’t you, Larry? You tell me.”

“I mean a
real
poet,” I say, giving him something of a warning look. Don’t patronize me, Dermot. We both know the difference.

He stops bouncing as a result. “You mean published.”

“I mean published,” I agree. “Reviewed, acknowledged.
Known
. Celebrated.”

“I don’t know if I’d call myself
celebrated,”
Schofield demurs.

“You’ve won awards,” I insist.

He nods. “I have.”

“So?” I say. “This is what I’m talking about.”

“It’s gratifying,” Schofield acknowledges after a moment.

Gratifying?
I open my mouth in exasperation.

“Of course, there are always reviews like Arsenault’s to be endured,” Schofield smiles.

My face goes hot, I don’t know why. Jim was the one who wrote
mucus-like sheen of mendacity
, not me. On some level, I guess I must have had myself convinced that Schofield could never have read it. How could he have accepted Jim’s
invitation to come here after seeing himself compared to a smelly, stagnant swamp, a wasting sickness in the body of Canadian poetry?