The city bus in downtown Niagara Falls is quiet. Tourists take the casino buses. It’s just me, some teenagers and an elderly woman with her shopping basket on wheels. My nerves are in my throat; I swallow them, but it doesn’t work. The tension slides down to my belly, and now I’m worried I don’t look right…that I should save this night out until next month and make myself practice how to be social.
I pull the bell and get off on Stanley Avenue. I make myself take deep breaths to calm down and pray there’s a chair for me. I pray it’s near Vicky because I won’t know anyone else.
The pub is on the corner. I stop for a moment allowing the buzz of all inside to draw me in. They’re talking and drinking and have already made their bonds. I walk to the window and see Vicky immediately. She spots me, lights up and waves. Here we go.
“You came!” she screams as I remove my coat and take a chair she has saved for me right beside her. “Everyone, this is Robena Finch. Robena, this is everyone.”
Before me: a sea of beautiful people. They smile widely in welcome, set after set of gleaming white teeth. They’re all dressed in dark clothes in a way that speaks to their style, not their solemnity. Vicky tells me that they all went to college together in Buffalo. I sit down next to Vicky as she introduces me to each person. Ellen is a sign-language interpreter, Stephen is a teacher, Candy is in marketing, and Ethan is a sports agent. The last person I see is Serge, and he’s already watching me.
“And you met Serge,” says Vicky, winking at the rest of the table for some unknown reason. He says nothing. He’s the furthest away from me, so I can barely read his expression.
Who needs him anyway? I’m here to drink a ridiculous amount of beer and gorge myself on four-cheese spinach dip and forget about heartache for ten goddamn minutes.
And then I remember he’s just lost his sister and I feel like an asshole.
Ethan, the Sports Agent, interrupts my guilt. His hair is black, slicked back. His eyes are large and kind. “So, Robena…”
“You can call me Bean.”
An eyebrow raise. “Okay, Bean, so what brings you to the Falls?”
I sigh. “I moved here to be with my dad. My mother passed away a few months back. It’s been tough.”
Ethan appears unmoved as if he knew about this already. “I see,” he says simply. “And how is that going?”
His interest appears to be genuine, so I indulge him. “It’s been alright. I miss my friends and my life back in Toronto, but my dad needs me. And really, I suppose I need him too. Mom being gone has left a huge void.”
Ethan nods. I sip my beer. It’s not easy for me to share these things with a stranger. As nice as Ethan seems, we’re not friends. It’s always taken me time to make friends. My best friend Christy says I have a wall around me. She also said that she never gave a shit about the wall; she just charged on through it.
I clear my throat, feeling unprepared for tonight. I’ve been living inside my head for so long. Maybe the best thing is to dive in. I look up at Ethan to see him drawing swirls in the condensation of his pint glass.
“So you’re a sports agent?”
He beams. “Yeah, I live in Buffalo. A lot of my clients play for the Bills. It’s not always easy being in this industry, but I know for sure I don’t want to be doing anything else.” He pauses, looks briefly to the end of our long table and asks in a low voice, “Do you know Serge?”
I shake my head.
“He keeps staring at you.”
My cheeks flare up. “Well, we met earlier today. I wasn’t very nice to him.”
Ethan laughs out loud. So much so that now the whole table has stopped their conversations and turns to look at Ethan and me. I venture a look at Serge. He shifts uncomfortably, raises his eyes to mine and then quickly looks away. There’s no trace of humour in him and again I feel rather than see his sadness. If I knew what his sister looked like, I could imagine her figure floating above his head, haunting his thoughts, ruling his memories.
“What’s so funny?” I ask Ethan through gritted teeth. I don’t like being embarrassed, but now I feel Serge is being involved in this too.
Vicky pipes up. “Yeah, Ethan, tell us. What’s so funny?”
Ethan immediately looks sorry. He apologizes for the interruption and neatly avoids an explanation. He’s smooth without being smarmy. As everyone returns to their conversations, he reaches across the table and grabs my hand gently.
“I really am sorry, Bean. Your comment just caught me off guard. No one dares challenge Serge. Ever. It was just really funny to hear that you did.”
Why wouldn’t anyone challenge him? I look down the table out of the corner of my eye. He’s good-looking and standoffish. Is that why? Beautiful people don’t often take crap. But it’s more than that. He’s someone who doesn’t get crossed, I think. He’s in charge somehow.
Being here with these strangers makes me yearn for my friends in Toronto. Everything seemed so much easier then. I woke up, went to work, went for drinks after work, went home to bed, and did it all over again the next day. I worked with my friends and partied with them too. We’d drink draft beer at dive bars or order pizza at Christy’s place. It was fun. It was simple. No parents were dying. I want a lifeline back to that time and place. I want to be pulled through all of this density.
I’m not good with new people. Being myself takes far too much self-awareness and maturity. I feel like I just recently figured out that I’m not a kid anymore. Moving beyond that takes more energy than I can muster at this point. It’s tiring being me.
Vicky gets up to go to the washroom, and someone sits next to me in her place. It’s him, Serge.
“Will you come out for a smoke with me?” he asks in a voice so low it’s nearly a whisper.
I tell him yes and grab my coat from around my chair. Ethan shoots me a look that says, Be careful.
I follow him through the throngs of people to a side door leading onto a tiny patio. There are black, wrought iron tables and chairs stacked haphazardly in the corner with snow piled on top. The patio has been shovelled, and a heat lamp is glowing beside us. The redness of it lights up Serge’s face. He offers me a cigarette, but I refuse.
“In Quebec, everyone smokes,” he utters.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Is that true?”
“No,” he says, taking a puff. “But that’s what everyone else thinks.”
“It’s true. We do. We also think you’re rude and entitled,” I counter.
“Entitled? Mon Dieu, mademoiselle.” His mischievous grin is barely there. Damn, he is handsome. And sexy. Can’t forget that. He reeks of it, sex appeal. This man would throw me against a wall or take me in a taxi.
“Maybe some things get lost in translation,” I say.
He likes this. “Maybe they do. For instance, if I were to describe you in French, I would say: ‘T’es canon.’ That could get lost if someone didn’t have any more than tenth-grade French.” I feel that personal blow, but I took French all the way to twelfth grade, merci, and I tell him so. “D’ac, but you have not told me what it means. What did I say?”
I go red. “You’re trying to trap me.”
“Who me?” he proclaims, grinning widely.
“You said that I’m hot.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “No, no mademoiselle. I think you must have heard me wrong. I clearly said you were a cannon.”
I roll my eyes. “Listen, I admit my French is rusty, but it’s not that bad.”
“Hm,” he says and looks me up and down. I shiver, thinking he can see beneath my clothing. We stand in silence for a few moments. He lifts his head to the moon and smokes slowly, revelling in each inhale and exhale. He smokes in a manner unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. Most smokers I know are quick about it; as if the shame is so thick, they must get through the experience as fast as possible. Not Serge. He draws it out with confident pleasure. I envy that.
With my boot, I trace small infinity circles in the light dusting of snow on the ground. It’s unconscious. He catches me and asks me what they are.
“Really? You’ve never seen the infinity symbol before?”
“Of course I have,” he replies. “I thought it might be the number eight. My sister used to draw the number thirteen incessantly. I wondered if you might have the same habit.”
“It’s not easy, is it?” I remark, referring to recalling pastimes of the dead.
He shakes his head in response and takes one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it on the ground and stomping it out. The pain in his face is clear; as I observe it, I have to swallow a sob. He keeps his gaze on the ground as he asks, “Shall we get back to the others?”
“Sure,” I say and follow him inside.
