Free Burridge Unbound by Alan Cumyn

now!”
    Joanne tips him well. “This is for Charles too,” she says, stepping out.
    The gallery is small, glassy, new-looking, in an old building sharing a block with upscale coffee shops, boutiques, and stores with Third World crafts. Several people are already inside. I see my parents through the window, am surprised. Joanne has also seen some people she knows but stays outside with me for a moment. I ask her what happened to Jeremy.
    “He had some story about a flat tire. I told him on the phone he almost got me killed.”
    “Did you see him for long?”
    “Pretty hard to with him in Nigeria and me in Rwanda. My nerves were jangled by then anyway. I heard he’s gone back to England.”
    Occasionally Joanne will talk about some of her old boyfriends. There was an American serviceman (“God, he was pretty”), a Dutch boy who wore his blond hair over his shoulders and brooded even on good days, a Frenchman who was too pure. “He didn’t even drink wine, for God’s sake!” Joanne said. “You have to wonder about someone who’s so far removed from his own culture.” She seems to me the kind of woman who never goes for long without a man – it takes no effort, they gather of their own accord. And yet she admits that she chooses badly. The flaws that later are so obvious hide in the heat of the moment or appear worth the gamble.
    Heads turn as soon as we enter. Conversations lull or stop, the focus shifts to me and Joanne, the survivor and the striking beauty. My mother crosses the room and hugs me. “You haven’t been eating!” she says. She glances harshly at Joanne, just the once then not again. Somehow she seems to have reached the conclusion that Joanne stole me from Maryse, is performing the duties a good wife should be performing. I tried to tell her that Maryse and I mutually agreed to separate, that I hired Joanne much later, that everything is strictly professional. It doesn’t matter what I say. She believes what she believes.
    “You don’t look like you’re eating so well yourself,” I say. She has sagged visibly, is ashen except for two pathetic spots of rouge on her cheeks.
    “I’m doing the best that I can!” she announces. “Say hello to your father before he wanders off.”
    He’s hiding by a tall, skinny tropical plant. He looks worse than I do in a suit: his hands shake and his face wasn’t properly shaved this morning, his eyes are sunken and glum.
    “Hi, Dad!” I say, gripping his hand just to keep it still. “What do you think?”
    She hasn’t been trimming his eyebrows. They droop over his eyes. Is this what happens when your brain goes under? Things start growing out of control?
    “It’s quite a party, isn’t it?” I say.
    I let go of his hand and it resumes shaking. He doesn’t look at my face but down at my shoes.
    “My son painted these,” he says, still looking down.
    “Not your son,” I say, too loud.
“I’m
your son. It’s your daughter-in-law who painted these paintings.
Maryse.”
    “My son did,” he says.
    “I’m
your son. I’m right here in front of you, Dad!”
    “He painted all these.” Still looking down at my shoes. He backs away from me, bumps into the skinny plant, knocks it over.
    “Careful!” I say, grabbing him too hard. “Here, do you want to sit down?”
    Maryse is with us in an instant. I smell her before I see her – the scent of her hand lotion. She holds him by his elbow and shoulder. “Come on this way, Dad,” she says, and he goes with her meekly.
    “Did you see my son’s paintings?” he asks her, and she finds chairs then sits beside him for a bit while I awkwardly right the skinny plant. She’s taken my place, I think. They love her like a child. I’m the one who has fallen out of the family.
    Someone brings me a drink and asks me about the situation in Santa Irene. We talk about it while I hold the wineglass, which is too full, I have to be careful. The man is brusque and worldly, his grey hair so neat, like a