Glen Hoggarth Read online

  “You don't say.”

  “But I shouldn’t be feeling so tense.”

  “Anyway, you don't do that,” Russell grumbled. “You don’t stop a movie to shoot the shit about something that can wait. You could've waited till later.”

  Russell got up from the couch. Hooking his fingers into his belt loops, he heaved his baggy jeans back up to waist level and plodded off to the bathroom. “Might as well take advantage of the interruption,” he said. By the time he returned to the living room, however, he had become more acquiescent. After all, who had paid for the movie rental, the six-pack of Labatt’s and, earlier, dinner at a Mexican restaurant they both liked?

  “Let's hear it then,” he said.

  “Okay,” Glen said, “I’m at a party in an enormous mansion. The rooms are full of people talking and laughing—people who I think must be celebrities, the cultural and social elite. Anyway, they’re all drinking expensive wine and having witty conversations.”

  “Unlike the rotgut and hogwash I get here.”

  “I have to take a piss but no matter which door I open there’s never a bathroom, just more people talking. Naturally, I'm dying to talk to these people, and I think that’s the point of the dream, but I'm distracted by my swelling bladder.”

  “Okay, don’t elaborate. Spare me, please.”

  “One person is talking to me about, say, a novel I really love, but I can’t pay attention because I have to piss so badly. In the end, I just avoid people. I sit by myself on a sofa, holding it in, or I go stand on one side of the room. Against the wall, clenching my teeth.”

  “Fascinating stuff.”

  “Either I wake up or, in my dream, I rush out of the house and find a place in the garden.”

  “Has this ever led to actual bed-wetting?”

  “I started having this dream in university.”

  “At your age to still be wetting yourself.”

  “Shit, Russell. I’m confiding in you here.”

  “What am I supposed to say? You have one tenant downstairs and you're telling me it’s freaking you out? Your mother had something like two dozen buildings.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Isn’t that right?”

  “Fine, forget it.”

  “I’m just giving you my two bits.”

  “Sorry for interrupting the movie.”

  Russell chuckled. “One more thing. I don’t want to tell you what or what not to do, but not drinking any liquids before bedtime seems like common sense in your case.”

  “Thanks. You’re a real pal.”

  “You’re cut off. Hand over that beer.”

  “Jesus, Russell!”

  “Just trying to be helpful.”

  Chapter 4

  “We're lost,” Russell declared. “You got us lost.”

  “I've been going to the ranch for years.”

  “It’s not this far from the highway, is it?”

  “You've made the trip, like, once?”

  “Twice I think.”

  “We're almost there.”

  Rows of trees lined the road but gaps exposed a landscape obscured in the night's darkness. The whole day had been overcast, so even if they had left town earlier not much would have been visible. A shallow valley swathed in scarves of fog and low-lying clouds.

  A chain fence and metal gate emerged from the roadside. Russell offered to unfasten the lock: he stepped aside as the car passed onto the lot, pulled shut the gate, then hopped back into the passenger's seat. Up ahead, an old gravel driveway sloped to a clearing, and the trees marching up to the sides of the car—a floury blur of branches in the headlights—created a bright tunnel effect. Pebbles crunched as the car zoomed forward.

  Once level again, the car's headlights fell on a wide yard with a ranch house at the far end—runnels of water crisscrossing the lawn were revealed then denied in a quick sweep. Rainfall had soaked the ground here, making driving beyond this point unwise. Glen cranked the car hard to the right and coasted in the direction of a swimming pool. He parked on a bed of stones next to the pool house.

  A twelve-pack of beer and grocery bags lay in the trunk of the car. There wasn't a DVD player out here, so on the card for the evening was mainly drinking and conversation, although Glen did have one other thing in mind. He had come to this ranch in the middle of nowhere—or as nowhere as it got between Vancouver and the inland end of the Fraser Valley—to visit his dead father, Colin Hoggarth.

  Russell said, “Never thought I'd see this place again. I always figured that producer guy would end up buying it, or it'd get sold to someone else.”

  Glen guessed his friend was fishing for information about the television producer who had once leased the ranch. That was Russell Clooney all over. He loved money gossip, to hear about the lives of the rich and wealthy, but at the same time wanted people to think he was above all that. Did this make him full of shit?

  “You can't see anything at night, but this place is surrounded by farms,” Glen said. “Martha won't sell until the zoning laws change.”

  “When land prices go up.”

  “The area is still an agricultural zone. Just enjoy the country air while you can.”

  Russell stepped outside the car. “My shoes. Mud. Fuck.”

  “This is farmland, my friend.”

  “It’s a fucking swamp.”

  “You expected sidewalks out here?”

  Inside the pool house, Glen plugged in the electric heater. A large double bed occupied most of the main room, but a narrow space under the window made spreading out a sleeping bag possible. Russell dropped the groceries and beer on the bedcovers, removed the rolled-up magazines from his coat pocket, and tossed them on the bedside table.

  “I'm surprised a big-time producer would want to stay in a place like this. A bloody hour from town and, shit, dig this tacky 60s decor.”

  “It's not that far. But that's one of the things he liked.”

  “I've met a few producers on the movie sets I've worked on. They have huge apartments in Yaletown and mansions in Shaughnessy. Real posh places like that.”

  Yes, Glen reflected, Russell loathed the rich yet couldn't shake his obsession with them. “Our boy liked a more outdoorsy kind of getaway,” he said. “He had all his horses and dogs out here. There are the woods, the riding trails. Believe me, he loved coming back here to unwind.”

  “Guys with money always get whatever-the-fuck they want. I bet the rent for all this land, plus the house and the pool, was pretty steep. How many years was he here?”

  “He stayed until that actor on the show got sick of the rain and wanted the production moved to California. Most people around here were pretty pissed off.”

  “I remember. I was one of those people.”

  Later, Glen went to the room next door, which housed yard machinery and gardening tools, as well as his father's paintings set against the walls. The ghost of his father dwelled here, as ever welcoming his son regardless of the state he was in: good mood or bad, hapless loser or dignified sufferer alike. Before long, Glen was searching the paintings and their imagery for hidden messages—words his father had been robbed of the chance to tell him in person due to his death at a young age. Spending time with Dad was how Glen thought of these visits, amidst old art supplies and gasoline canisters, rakes and hoes and mowers.

  If an artist's work shed light on the artist, his father had possessed the patience of a scholar while being a slave to exactitude. Glen had read up on the replica painting business. A painting often required six weeks or more to complete. Typically, the reproduced paintings were smaller than the original, but the artist nevertheless had to capture an identical look and feel. Incredibly, his father had usually worked from a hand-held photograph. He'd hold the photo of the original in one hand, the brush in the other and, glancing back and forth, go at it.

  The pool house exuded special powers that helped Glen cope with himself. This was the one place he was able to accept his feeble, delicate dispositio
n because of the company he was in: his father, who seemed frail in death and whose life had also lacked signs of a strong, vital pulse. Glen had always imagined Colin as someone who preferred to live apart from human contact and inhabit the abstract worlds or old fictions imbued in the paintings he worked on. The man had been a quiet-loving recluse at heart.

  Glen turned one canvas over—a Caravaggio. Young David fastening a cord around the neck of fallen Goliath; the youth's sedate expression half-masked in shadow while the giant's slack jaw angled towards a shower of light. But shouldn't death be darkened and life instead illuminated? Glen had no idea, but old Caravaggio certainly knew best.

  He examined some of the other paintings in the room. It was the same old gang: Botticelli, Raphael, Titian, the Renaissance masters of both Italy and Northern Europe. Depictions of angels, saints, and apostles together with killers, coveters, and traitors.

  “So did you ever meet that producer guy?” Russell asked.

  Glen had returned to the bedroom. “A couple times. Martha usually dealt with his PA.”

  “And he didn't rent this pool house as part of the deal?”

  “Seems he wasn't a swimmer.”

  “The lives of the rich and famous,” Russell said. “But you're gonna make a bundle when you finally sell the ranch. You'll add a cool couple million to your bank account.”

  “Real estate is Martha's business, not any of mine—whenever she decides to sell and whatever she does with the money is up to her.”

  “Right, I forgot. It's got zero to do with you.” Russell shook his head, looked down at his magazine. “Nice and peaceful here though. I can see why you like it.”

  “Good, I’m glad.”

  Glen trudged out to the car for the sleeping bag.

  Chapter 5

  When Martha's chums canceled bingo night, or TV Guide didn't list anything interesting, there was a good chance Martha would think of her son and give him a call. Normally, the topic of these calls arose from Glen's answer to the question: “So, what have you been up to, lately?” Anything about his life would do. And Martha took a dim view of all of it.

  “Russell Clooney,” she exclaimed. “Believe me, I know a leech when I see one. And don't forget he worked for me those two summers.”

  “I remember, I was there.”

  “If he wasn't begging to take another coffee break, he was asking to go up the street to the supermarket. Getting him to work a whole morning uninterrupted—it was nearly impossible.”

  “We were teenagers. All teens behave that way.”

  “Well, you were a little better,” Martha said. “Better trained.”

  “Anyway, he's working now. And he no longer lives at home.”

  “A leech is always a leech. His parents didn't raise him right.”

  “I don't think his parents have much to do with it.”

  “I bet he still mooches off of you.”

  “Occasionally. Force of habit, kind of.”

  “You shouldn't let him. Treat him like a man instead.”

  Finally, a pause. Glen heard his mother's soft old-lady's wheeze in the receiver. She was sipping on something, probably the usual lemon tea. She kept puckering her lips.

  “If I'd put up with leeches—I tell you,” Martha continued. “You wanna know how things would've turned out? I would've stopped buying properties after the first one, and gone broke.”

  “I guess you're right,” Glen replied—a landlord with a heart of gold wouldn't make it very far in the world. To avoid the burden of a heart, Martha simply hadn't grown one.

  “Every apartment block—and I mean every one—is an anthill of deadbeats, shysters and leeches. Anyway, you were there. You'll remember the quality of human I had to deal with.”

  “There were all kinds.”

  “And then there was you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Floating around in the background somewhere. That's where you always were.”

  “Running buildings was never my thing.”

  “You're running one now, aren't you? That's a good sign.”

  “Please, it's not a sign. Don't look at it that way.”

  “I might just want to.”

  “Don't read anything into it.”

  “Anyway, leeches—Colin was a real spectacle at times.” Martha started to chuckle, signaling that either an anecdote or wisecrack dissing his father was on its way. “This was before you were born, but once we were boating at a lake near Edmonton and your father came out of the water just covered with little black bloodsuckers. He thought he was going to die.”

  “That's a nightmare of mine.”

  “He stood there scared shitless”—Martha was laughing now. “You gotta shave those buggers off with a knife so they don't spit bacteria into your veins.”

  “So you actually used a knife on Dad?”

  “Colin squirmed like a little boy.”

  “Wouldn't anybody, Mom?”

  “The trick is not to wade out into a water when you don't see anybody else going in. But with Colin it was the same in the apartment buildings. The leeches came out of the woodwork and plastered all over him. Then he needed me to pull them off.”

  “Well,” was all Glen could think of to say.

  “The dimwit even let them use our bathroom one time.”

  “That's a little much, I agree.”

  “Some drunk tenant taking a shit in our bathroom.”

  “Yeah, I don't know about that.”

  “And now there's Russell. An overweight bloodsucker leeching off of you. You always used to spoil him rotten and I'm sure you do the same now.”

  “From time to time.”

  “More like whenever you go out.”

  “He's got his own money now. Like I said.”

  “The world's a big lake swimming with bloodsuckers.”

  Chapter 6

  Russell thought he was being clever over the phone. “Let's say I’m open to the idea but am waiting for a worthwhile offer.” The snide tone of voice wasn’t something new to Glen. Was this really how friends were supposed to treat each other? Glen had asked Russell if he wanted to go to the university bookstore with him. As an enticement, he offered to spring for lunch on campus.

  “I could go for that,” Russell replied. "How many books do I get to buy?"

  An hour later they sat face-to-face in Thea's Lounge, an open-air beer garden on the outer edge of the university. Despite the sun’s feisty rays, alpine air from the north suggested snow. The chill shocked the pores on Glen’s face; he tweaked his nose, rubbed his arms for warmth, and zipped up the coat he had on. Still, with the glass of the tall patio doors hurling cheery sunlight on them, he was delighted to be out in the glory of a beautiful day.

  Russell wore only a long-sleeved shirt. Forking grimly at his fries, he listed the changes destroying the film union he was a member of. Nowadays, it was all about who you knew and had zilch to do with seniority. He needed to start wining and dining the higher-ups—an additional expense every month—or run the risk of slipping down the totem pole. As usual, the subtext was: I'm not lucky enough to be a rich and spoiled forty-year-old brat. I’ve got to make my own way in this world. Life can be hard for some of us.

  Glen resented his friend's presumption. He considered it crass. But he managed to get his sweet revenge, making a point of not asking anything about Russell’s trials, merely nodding every now and again and no more. Mutual respect was what was called for here, Glen thought. He would gladly acknowledge Russell’s difficulties, once Russell similarly recognized the pressures that existed in his life.

  “It must seem like I’m talking about the life of insects,” Russell said. “It has about as much to do with you. Someone of your financial standing.”

  “It’s a bummer, what you’re going through.”

  “I’m thinking about looking for another line of work, but there isn't a whole lot in today's work place for somebody my age.”

  “It gets like that.”
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  “So you’ve heard,” Russell said.

  Glen scowled. “Yes, I've heard. I live in the same world as you.”

  “Please. You live on east street, my friend.”

  “You have the wildest ideas about me.”

  “Your constant denials are what's wild.”

  “Not denials. Simple facts.”

  “You’ve never told me what you’re worth. But considering what you’ll inherit from Martha, I see you sitting pretty high in the sky one day. You can't deny that.”

  “Maybe I don’t want her money.”

  “You will when it lands in your lap.”

  “I might want to give it away. I think I’m doing okay without it—just wipe that grin off your face. I’d give it to charity.”

  “Don't kid yourself.”

  “You don’t approve of charity?”

  “Of course, I approve.”

  “So I may be no better off than you. Not in the long run.”

  “How have you been living for the last twenty years? When’s the last time you held down a real job—have you ever had to? There’s always been Mommy’s money.”

  “Do you know, I often feel you're better off than me. At least you’re independent. You make your own money, you’re your own man. Not being able to find a job I can handle isn’t something I’m very proud of, you know. And don’t say I'm just pampered, because it's a kind of problem, a real dysfunction.”

  They had arrived at the usual impasse. Glen stacking up pleas of further implications, a deeper disorder and underlying issues; Russell asserting what he believed to be a straightforward truth, that his friend had always enjoyed a mollycoddled existence.

  Russell grabbed a newspaper off one of the tables and began skimming the headlines. “You hear about this?” he said. “More wonderful news from the front line. God, it's like a bad joke that people keep telling over and over again.”

  Glen knew a tirade was imminent. It would last the rest of lunch. Russell began reading from an article which bore only the slightest relation to the rant that followed. Soldiers nowadays should have uniforms like soccer jerseys, he said, with their names printed across the back in bold lettering and the logo of the corporation they fought, killed, and would probably die for featured prominently on their chests. That way the media could keep track of their exploits and convert them into points like player statistics in the sports page. How many kills they got in battle, how many kills they assisted on, how many comrades died per number of missions participated in. An award for the campaign's most valuable soldier; an award for the soldier best demonstrating soldier-like conduct in battle: obedient, murderous, patriotic.