Whale Music by Paul Quarrington Page B

relations?”
    “Absolutely. He’s great.”
    “What, you manually stimulated his little apparati?”
    Claire shoots me a look, rolls her eyes towards the door. “Nope. We do it all.”
    “All?”
    “We fuck, we suck, usual stuff.”
    “Desmond? Is this true?”
    “Well …” We fuck? We suck?
    “He’s modest. Take my word for it. He gave me head for about eight hours straight yesterday.”
    “Are we talking about Desmond Howl?”
    “Yeppers.”
    “Desmond? Is this true?”
    “Eight hours seems like an awfully long time,” I say.
    “Sure is,” agrees Claire. “Dr. Fockette out there would have creamed his jeans in about three minutes.”
    “Young lady, I demand that you open the door. You could be doing severe damage to my patient’s psyche.”
    “You
could be doing the fucking damage, buster. It’s his house, and he doesn’t want you in it, so fuck off.”
    “Desmond, I’m telling your mother.”
    “And tell that douche-bag to stay away, too.”
    Ooh, what nasty language they have up on Toronto.
    “He’s insane, young lady.”
    “So the fuck what?” shouts Claire. Suddenly she is crying. She reaches out, touches my fat arm, and then runs away.
    I follow the alien, alarmed by her weeping. She should not be crying on my behalf. I am the Whale-man, I live in an ivy-encrusted manse with my tiny bag of shadowy memories. I am not worthy of so many vicious tears.
    And here, in the living room, the alien is destroying things. Vases are pitched against walls, the shrivelled husks of flowers rendered to dust. Empty glasses and crumby plates are dashed to the ground. An automatic card shuffler is mangled. Record albums sail through the air. This gives me an idea.
    “Wait!” I shout.
    The alien does wait, her breathing heavy, her face twisted.
    “Watch!”
    I disappear into the gold and platinum hallway, select one at random. “
Catch a Ride.”
A biggy, crates to Crete. The back of themounting is cheap cardboard (the popular music industry is all gloss), I poke my fingers through and tear out the argental disc. I waddle into the backyard with the thing. This must be satisfying when your innards are on the boil, because Danny did it. I cock my wrist and let fly. Look at it go! The sixties weren’t a waste of time after all, everyone learned how to toss a Frisbee. The thing climbs regally into the sky. The platinum catches the sun and sends it splashing. The record lilts to the right, it loses its loft and slices through the air, there is a very satisfying noise as it is dashed upon the rocks below.
    “Say,” I comment, “that
is
fun.”
    The alien is right behind me, a golden platter in her hands. She elects to use the two-handed delivery, which adds distance but takes away from the graceful flight. Each to its own. The record clears the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. It bounces among the foamy waves and disappears.
    Claire and I run back into the house, we gather up gold and platinum records.
    The alien’s tears turn to laughter. I, on the other hand, am reminded of my brother Daniel, and my eyes begin to sting.
    When Danny was fifteen years old, he fell in love with a girl named Brenda Mackey. This was a bit odd, because Brenda was no beauty. She was a big girl, a bit pot-bellied, large-breasted in a doleful fashion. She had a tattoo on her left forearm, one of those faint blue institutional jobs. It was merely a crudely drawn cross—it might have been of a religious nature, it may have been a dagger. Both arms were covered with scars. Fine, straight scars. Orderly, arithmetical rows of scars. Brenda’s face was pleasant enough, except she had a repertoire of about twenty-two frowns and sneers, from which she made her selection of facial expression.
    The thing about Brenda Mackey was, she was the owner of a reputation. Her reputation was like a huge slobbering St. Bernard that followed along behind her, occasionally woofing its cookies. I have no desire to be cruel, especially to someonewho