The Homeless Millionaire

Putting James on my night table wasn't a good idea.

I forgot he was there. I hit him with my hand and swept him off the night table when I was stretching in bed with my eyes still closed, luxuriating in my hangover-free state. I was feeling great.

There must have been a bit of tension left in the spring of his clockwork mechanism, because when he hit the floor he uttered a short screech. I instantly sat up in my bed with eyes popping, and knocked my head on the sloping ceiling.

I got up and saw James lying face down on the carpet, and was tempted to give him a kick. But I still intended to give him to Julie, and kicking someone's present felt wrong. So I sat him down on the corner of the table where I put the newspaper. Seated there, he could look at the pictures and read something if he felt bored.

I was a little shocked to discover that it was already past nine o'clock. The Noyces were gone for the day; the house was silent. I went through my morning routine, observing repeatedly that life took on a new beauty when I wasn't hungover. It actually felt naughty to light a cigarette.

I drank a couple of coffees and went out to eat breakfast, and get the day's paper for myself and James. It was unpleasant outside: there were gusts of wind accompanied by bursts of drizzle. I walked very fast. I had the impression I was walking almost twice as fast as usual. Of course! I wasn't hungover.

I had intended to revisit the place with all-day breakfast, but the weather was so unpleasant I went to the A&W instead: it was much closer. By the time I got there it was already nearing noon, so I got a standard burger combo. Then I got another, and then yet another to take home. I was reminded of the time I ate there regularly while working at Robinson & Klein. It made me feel weepy.

I ended up with a lot of change, buying all those burger combos. When I was leaving the A&W I stopped by the payphone and I was dialing the number to the old family home in Toronto before I fully realized what I was doing.

I was about to hang up when my mother answered the phone.

She didn't expect it to be me. Fuck, I didn't expect it to be me. We exchanged greetings shakily and I went on automatic and delivered suitably warm New Year wishes. I asked about my father and heard that he was at the office that day. There was a big pow-wow about a visiting head of state that he had to attend.

She was alone at home, and she sounded differently. She was calmer and less aggressive than usual. We actually had a normal conversation. I told her I was moving to a new place and something got into me and I told her that I'd get a phone of my own, and call with my new number the moment I had it installed. It did cross my mind this could mean I'd never get a phone.

I was trying to force myself to ask about Josh when she said:

"Josh has broken his leg."

"No," I said gleefully. I added quickly:

"Are you sure he isn't making this up? He's done it before."

It was true. A couple of years earlier, Josh claimed he'd contracted a serious illness in order to extend his Acapulco holiday. It was something he'd eaten, he had to hit the shitter every hour and there was no way he could travel. Then there was the business of booking a new flight and all in all, he managed to hang on there for an extra week.

As it transpired later, he'd scored with a girl whose holiday ended a week later than his. He had really bad luck because a friend of our father's spotted them on the beach. They were oiling each other with suntan lotion and doing it with such fervour that they drew attention. Once our father got the news, he applied his professional skills to winkle the truth out of Josh upon his return home.

He couldn't really use the same reason twice, and since he was skiing in Vermont a broken leg sounded good. He was to go straight to his college from there and by the time he returned home for the spring break, the leg would be fully and miraculously healed.

But my mother was convinced he was telling the truth this time, I could hear it in her voice. People had this tendency to believe in whatever made them feel good. I said:

"Well, please make sure to pass on to Josh I was really sorry to hear about his leg."

I knew Josh would read it the right way, and that he'd be furious to have pleased me. I was gratified to hear my mother promise she'd pass on the message.

We actually chatted about silly things like the weather for another minute—the first time we'd done that in ages—before I ran out of coins and hung up. It was really mystifying and I smoked a cigarette while looking at the weather outside: it was getting worse.

I half-ran, half-walked to the convenience store. I bought a lot of stuff in addition to the newspaper. Among other things, I acquired yet another of those cheap, folding umbrellas that fell apart after a few weeks. It was a fucking stupid move. For starters, it had become so windy outside that if I tried to use that umbrella on my way home, it would have turned inside out instantly.

When I'd settled down back in my room, I began to read the paper. The big news was Britain, Ireland, and Denmark joining the European Common Market as of New Year's Day. The rest of the Commonwealth wasn't too pleased. We had Queen Elizabeth II on our money and postage stamps, and they were getting buddy-buddy with the Europeans! I wondered how the Brits themselves felt about that: while I was living there, I'd heard the opinion that the wogs began at Calais.

There was absolutely nothing about the museum robbery, and there was absolutely nothing about Schmidt. Although it was a Thursday, there was a lot of rental ads. I looked through them and of course I found a couple of places that sounded interesting. I began cursing myself for always jumping the gun when looking for a place to live. Then I saw this:

'Charming studio on the top floor of a quiet family house. Next to Montrose Park, just a short walk away from stores, restaurants, and other amenities. Communal bathroom and kitchen, use of backyard–'

I skipped the rest to the phone number and sure enough: the Noyces had already put the place up for rent. They weren't wasting time.

It was silly, but suddenly I felt like an impostor waiting to get kicked out. I folded the paper, and began to prepare the stage for another major work effort. It involved moving James; it was too distracting to have him reading the paper on my work table. I put him on top of the cupboard, next to Captain Morgan: he could watch me work from there.

It was raining really hard by then, it was the sort of weather that encouraged a swift slug of something highly alcoholic. But I resisted bravely: I sneered at the jolly Captain Morgan, and gave him the finger.

I'd decided earlier that I'd go the watercolour route right from the start, maybe because that made the preparations last longer. I was really apprehensive that once again, I'd find myself incapable of doing anything good.

It quickly turned out that I'd been right to be apprehensive, although for the wrong reason. Something took hold of my hand, and I painted a portrait of my mother from memory.

It wasn't great, but it was good. Maybe it wasn't great because inwardly, I resisted painting her. But I continued because to my great surprise, she turned out rather well. I'd caught the wistful air she sometimes had when she thought no one was watching her. She was looking at something beyond my left shoulder and she wasn't sure if she was pleased to see it.

When I was done I was shocked to discover how much she resembled me, or rather the other way around. I had to make an effort to get a grip on myself, and evaluate the painting from a purely professional angle. It was good enough to show to Chaz, but suddenly I knew that I wouldn't.

I would buy a stout cardboard tube and put her portrait inside it and mail it to her. That of course meant that sooner or later, I'd have to do the same thing for my father. Not Josh; that was going too far. And it didn't make sense. If I painted a portrait of Josh and gave it to him, he'd probably want to kill me. It was a pretty safe bet he saw himself very differently from the way I did. He wouldn't be pleased with my vision.

I ate the food I'd brought from A&W and smoked a couple of cigarettes by the window, waiting for the picture to dry. Then I rolled it up, and put it together with Klein and Detective Moore.

Sighing heavily, I began painting a portrait of my father.