Tyler Keevil - No Good Brother

Albert frowned at her, and cleared his throat, and then spread out one hand to stare at the fingernails. The cuticles were rimmed with black: a lifetime’s worth of engine oil and grease. He ran his thumbnail beneath the nail on his forefinger, as if removing some. Then he said, ‘You know we normally head up to our cabin in Squamish for a week at the end of season. Well, we’ll be heading up this Saturday, after we finish, and wondered if you wanted to come.’

‘Wow,’ I said, which was all I could think to say. ‘That’s real kind of you.’

‘Our boy Rick will be there, with his kids, and Tracy.’

Tracy was staring into her teacup, as if trying to read the leaves.

‘That would be really something,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ Albert added, ‘if you got other things going on …’

‘No. No I don’t got anything else. The only thing keeping me here would be my mother. If she needs me, I mean. Seeing as I’ve already been away for a while.’

‘Of course, Timothy,’ Evelyn said. ‘You’ve got to look after your family, too.’

‘It would only be for a few days,’ Albert said.

‘That sounds real nice.’

‘Think about it, anyway,’ Evelyn added.

‘I will. I really will.’

She stood up and began to clear the cups, even though mine was only half-finished.

‘Well,’ Tracy said, ‘I better get back. Shift starts in an hour.’

She was working security at a local college, while undertaking her training.

‘I’ll walk you out, if you like.’

The docks were quiet, aside from a few old-timers on one of the boats, drinking to celebrate the end of season, their voices and laughter echoing across the water. Tracy and I walked in silence until we crossed the gangway. Then she said, ‘I’m sorry about that. They like to play matchmaker.’

‘It’s a nice idea.’

‘Nice is an easy word.’

‘I mean it would be fun.’

‘Well, maybe it would be.’

We reached her vehicle: a classic Jeep that she’d salvaged from the scrap heap, and fixed up. She’d parked in the same spot that Jake had earlier. She unlocked the driver’s door and before she got in I hugged her again. In the dark, away from the others, I could have held onto her longer, and maybe I should have. But it was funny. I still acted the same way.

That night, it wasn’t hard to slip away. I just waited until Sugar and Big Ben were asleep (this was easy to determine because they both snore like bears) and then crept out of the cabin, eased open the galley door, and lowered myself down to the dock. Sneaking off felt shady and dishonest but those were feelings I generally associated with my brother, and any plan of his which involved me.

The Firehall, where we were meeting, is on the corner of Gore and Cordova, just a few blocks away from the Westco plant. It isn’t a firehall any more. It’s an arts centre and performance space now – a fairly well-known one. They produce shows of their own and also put on work by touring theatre and dance companies. The outside still looks like a firehall: worn brownstone walls, glossy red doors, and those high-arched windows.

The night I met Jake, a company called The Dance Collective was performing. The name was spelled in block capitals across the marquee, and on the A-frame board out front a series of posters listed the various dancers and their pieces. I walked cautiously up the wheelchair ramp and stood for a time outside the doors, peering in through the glass.

The place hadn’t changed much. On the left was the box office, and on the right was the bar – a classy-looking affair, with a marble bar top, chrome beer taps, and leather stools. On some of the tables platters of appetizers and hors d’oeuvres had been laid out: smoked salmon and pastries and little vegetable rolls. In the foyer thirty or forty guests – a mix of well-dressed artists, hipsters, and bohemian types – stood chatting and milling about. All of it looked so eerily familiar I felt like a ghost, lurking in the cold and haunting my old life.

I have to admit: I just about turned and walked away.

But my brother was in there, waiting for me. So I went ahead, passing through the glass doors and falling backwards into memory. I knew exactly where to find Jake too: hunched at the bar, ignoring the room and world.

I sat down next to him and he said, ‘So the old man let you loose.’

There were three empty bottles of Molson in front of him and he was already looking a bit belligerent.

‘He said he wouldn’t stop me, if I snuck off.’

‘Better make the most of it.’ He motioned to the bartender, signalling for service. ‘Two more Molson and two shots of Wiser’s.’

‘Only beer, for me,’ I said.

‘Forget that. You just got back from sea, sailor.’

‘I’ll be scrubbing holds at six thirty.’

The bartender – a slim, trim guy with a stud earring – looked at us in a way that made it clear he’d rather be serving anybody else.

‘Do you want the whisky or not?’ he asked.

‘I ordered it, didn’t I?’ Jake said. Then, to me: ‘Get this bartender. I been tipping him big and behaving myself and he still treats me like a dishrag.’

Jake folded a twenty in half and flicked it towards the guy. The bill fluttered in the air like a demented butterfly, before coming to settle in front of the bar taps. The bartender took it reluctantly and smoothed it out before slipping it into his till and pouring the drinks. When the whiskies landed in front of Jake, he nudged one towards me.

‘Drink up,’ he said.

‘I ain’t playing, Jake.’

He shrugged and scooped it up to knock back himself.

‘You been drinking here all night?’ I asked Jake.

‘Hell no. I saw the show.’

I looked towards the stage doors. A few of the dancers were coming out, now. You could tell by the way they dressed – tracksuits or tights and leggings – and also by how they held themselves: that particular upright posture, chins outthrust, heads perfectly level.

‘You watched the whole dance show on your own?’

‘Why not? I know more about it than most of these posers.’

The bartender, bringing over the beers, frowned when he heard that. Jake waggled his head and stuck out his tongue at him, as if to imply some kind of uncontrollable insanity.

‘Was it any good?’ I asked him.

‘It was hit and miss.’

‘Any unarmed turnips?’

Jake snorted and sprayed beer on the bar top.

Before one of our sister’s performances, we’d seen this guy do a modern dance in the nude. He’d swaggered up to the front of the stage, swinging his pecker like a little lasso, and announced that he was an unarmed turnip. That had been the benchmark, from then on, and the kind of thing that Sandy had to rise above: the legions of unarmed and untalented turnips.

‘No – no turnips, thank God,’ Jake said, wiping his mouth with his hand. ‘But hardly any of them were classically trained. You can tell. They just don’t have the range, like her.’

‘Nobody did.’

That wasn’t really true, but it was true enough, in our minds. My beer was still sitting there – I’d been eyeing it but hadn’t touched it yet. Now I reached for it, in a way that felt momentous. It tasted smooth and cold and nice as ice cream. I swivelled around on my stool and leant back against the bar to watch the crowd.

‘I ain’t been back here since,’ I said.

‘That’s because you’re trying to forget.’

‘I haven’t forgotten anything.’

‘Except the anniversary.’

‘I was at sea. The season was late, this year.’

‘On your boat with your little fishing family.’

‘They’re good people.’

‘They ain’t kin.’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’