The Antagonist by Lynn Coady Read Free Book Online Page A

ever step off the screen, or out from behind the glass, and blunder his way into your life.
    That, as they say, is entertainment.
    It’s weird because I’ve held this stuff in my head for so long, been so consumed and convinced by it, but when I pour it out onto the page, into you, it emerges as this completely different thing, like juice turned to cider, or cider to vinegar — I’m not sure which is the better example in this case, but my point is: it’s the same thing but it’s changed . It’s not worthless — you wouldn’t necessarily throw it away as a result — but it’s changed , and now you have to figure out what you’re going to do with it, because this is not the end result you had in mind.
    The other thing is, after feeling the whole time I’ve been writing you like I’d rather shove both hands beneath a lawn mower than write about the Icy Dream, about five seconds into it I realized I was enjoying myself.
    And finally, I know I vowed to keep you away from Sylvie, but I’m starting to figure out that if I keep digging into this, it’s inevitable that my shovel has to scrape against my mother’s coffin at some point.
    So what do I do then?
    Do I do what you did? Do I yank Fred Astaire from his mausoleum, force his cold, dead fingers around a can of cola, put on some music and waltz him round the graveyard, calling, Come one, come all ?
    06/02/09, 12:01 a.m.
    How about you just trust me when I tell you she was perfect? Can’t we just take that on faith and move on? How would you feel if your mother died? Well, that’s how I felt, even three years after we buried her, when I was nineteen and you and I became acquainted with each other. Maybe you even know what I’m talking about — for all I know, your mother has passed on too by now. So think about how that felt and get back to me. Was it bad? Okay, well it was bad for me too. It’s never good, obviously. But it was worse for me — I don’t care what happened on your end of things — it was worse for me and we both know why.
    It’s important we get this right, Adam, the story of Gord and Sylvie. It’s important because you presumed to write a book that featured you-know-who. Let’s just go with the name I came up with earlier, let’s call him Danger Man: a terrible guy who performs a terrible act. An act with a flat-out crappy outcome, an act that is shocking and horrible — but also, here’s the kicker — inevitable. Why inevitable? Well, it’s built into the character’s DNA, you see. They don’t call him Danger Man for nothing. According to his creator, the guy has an “innate criminality” swimming around in there. A born thug, born bad, born to lose. It’s fated: the guy’s a biker tattoo waiting to happen.
    That was me, Adam — in your book and nineteen years ago. You’re not going to deny that it was me, right? I notice, for all your whining, you still haven’t denied it.
    And here’s the gravy: Danger Man? Oh yeah. His mom died, by the way .
    It’s not enough, is what I’m saying. Insult to injury is what I’m saying, Adam.
    Anyway, on to Gord. Poor old Gord who didn’t even merit as brief a cameo as Sylvie-the-corpse in your magnum opus.
    Picture redneck wed to goddess. Finally Dad finds himself in charge of something, in a domestically ordained managerial position all his own, and he makes his authority felt. No, Adam, he doesn’t hit. Gord is not a hitter of ladies, he is at heart a courtly little bugger, as I’ve already said. But he sneers. Croft had the smirk, Gord had the sneer, every bit as infuriating to the observer. He berates. He insults.
    If I give you specific details then I have to give you Sylvie, which I am still not willing to do. But I’ll give you this much.
    Picture a sort of spark. A flicker of light — there’s a flaw in the film. The glare of the projector comes blazing in. It’s startling, but after a while you get used to it, the way you can get used to a fuzzy TV channel if