Break in Case of Emergency

by Brian Francis

  “Arthur!” Shirley slams her hand down on the table.

  I can’t believe what he just said. I’ve never heard anyone talk about Grandma Kay like that before. He’s more than just a drunk. He’s a cruel drunk.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, saying something like that,” Grandpa Frank says. “We didn’t have to open our door to you.”

  Arthur’s head tilts. “Then why did you?”

  “Because we thought it might do some good,” Grandma Kay says. “And it could’ve. If only you hadn’t wrecked it. Showing up here like we’re all supposed to bow down to you or something. Like you’re walking on water. In ladies’ high heels.”

  “Don’t you trivialize my art.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Grandpa Frank chuckles. “Dressing up in ladies’ clothes? An art? I had no idea.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Oh, I have a very good idea,” Grandpa Frank says. “And if it were up to me, you wouldn’t have a place setting at this table. I don’t sit with . . .”

  “With what?” Arthur crosses his arms. “Say it, Frank.”

  Grandpa Frank scoops more potatoes into his mouth, pretending not to hear.

  “Then I’ll say it,” Arthur says. “Frank doesn’t sit with faggots.”

  Shirley gasps. The word hangs in the air, heavy and full. I can practically see it settle in the centre of the table, next to the bowl of red Jell-O. I grip the sides of my chair to stop myself from running away. I need to escape from this table, these people.

  “Look at you all, sitting here,” Arthur says. “Acting high and mighty when I’m the only one who’s been honest. I left here because I couldn’t stand the hypocrisy. I couldn’t stand the suffocation, the sameness. The dead dreams. Your beige lives. What did you expect me to do? Buy into the lie you all told yourselves?”

  “Who are you calling a liar?” Grandpa Frank says.

  “You’re the liar,” Shirley says. “You’re a frigging drag queen. You spend your life wearing makeup and prancing around in dresses, pretending to be someone else. That tells you a lot.”

  “I am not a drag queen!” Arthur yells. “I am a female impersonator. One of the most famous female impersonators in the world.”

  “I’m sure the competition is real stiff,” Shirley says.

  “At least I had talent. At least I made something of myself.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Shirley says. “You certainly made something. A fucking mess.”

  There’s a sound, something torn and jagged. When we turn to look, it’s coming from Grandma Kay. She’s sitting there, her shoulders sloping downwards, her face all crumpled. She looks so pathetic. I should go over to her, tell her it’s all right. But I stay frozen in my seat. So long as I stay sitting, I’m safe, I tell myself. Invisible. I’m not part of this scene.

  Grandma Kay’s eyes are tightly closed, disappearing into her face. A shiny, thin stream slides out her nose and stops at her top lip.

  “What you did to Heather,” she says. “I can never forgive you.”

  It’s the first time anyone’s mentioned my mom since Arthur arrived. She’s here too. Like the awful word Arthur said, heavy as a water balloon.

  “We will go,” Bruno says.

  Arthur pulls a package of cigarettes from his shirt and lights one. He blows the smoke out in a thin, flat line. “I’m not responsible for what Heather did,” he says. “Don’t you try to pin that on me.”

  “You’re a vicious, horrible man,” Shirley says.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Arthur says.

  “Finish the cigarette,” Bruno says. “Then we go.”

  “Where are you going to go?” Shirley asks. “And with who? The only way I’m taking him anywhere is if I’m dragging him from the back bumper.”

  “But then you’ll mess my hair,” Arthur says.

  “The Eye-talian fellow is right,” Grandpa Frank says. “You’re not welcome here.”

  It-talian, I say inside. It-taly.

  “I’m devastated, Frank. Really I am.”

  “Arthur, be quiet,” Bruno says sternly. “For once.”

  Arthur stubs out his cigarette on a plate. “Sorry about this, kid,” he says to me. “As usual, the past got in the way.”

  I almost look up at him, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. I keep my eyes down.

  * * *

  They leave. I refuse to watch the car pull out of the driveway and back the way it came, a reverse of what had taken place just a few hours earlier. When there was hope. Instead, I get up from the table, walk out the back door and look at the shapes of the evergreens, swaying in a soft evening breeze.

  He didn’t notice my new top.

  Tomorrow night, I’ll take all the pills. They won’t get down my throat fast enough.

  I stay there, watching the trees, until I hear my grandmother calling my name and I go back inside.

  Chapter 16

  Grandma Kay comes to my room later, after we’ve washed and dried the dishes and put everything back into the cupboard. We worked in silence. It was easier that way, not to mess things up even more with words. It was just, “Pass me the tea towel,” and the clatter of dishes being put away. The leftovers were wrapped, some in tinfoil pie plates with a double layer of plastic wrap and aluminum foil and placed in the deep freezer in the basement. Grandma Kay stuck a piece of masking tape across each and wrote out what was inside.

  ham potatoes peas

  I’m not surprised by her knock. I’ve been expecting it. I know that Grandma Kay wants to speak to me, that she won’t be able to get through the evening without saying something about what happened.

  “Come in,” I say.

  Grandma Kay slowly enters and sits down at the foot of my bed, her hands on her knees. She looks straight ahead at my closet door, where the pills are, inside their hiding spot, and I think again that she knows.

  “I had some idea of how this might go,” she says. “But in my wildest dreams, I didn’t think it would go as badly as that. Arthur brings back so many painful memories. I shouldn’t have set myself up like that. I don’t have the patience. I don’t have that kind of goodwill. It’s long gone.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I can only imagine what it was like for you, hearing all those things come out of his mouth. I don’t know what Heather saw in him. But she was so young then. A girl’s heart can be a dangerous place. Maybe she wanted an escape. Maybe she wanted someone like her. I don’t know. Your mom, as you know, wasn’t well. She always had problems with her mind. Heather heard voices. Voices that told her to do things. There were times when I was sure that I’d lost her to her imagined world, but I always managed to bring her back. Eventually. Arthur made her feel less like a weirdo. That’s what she told me once.”

  “Why didn’t he ever come back?” I ask.

  “That depends on who you ask,” Grandma Kay says. “If you ask Arthur, he’d say he wasn’t welcome. That’s not true. He was welcome to come back any time so long as he understood that meant behaving like a normal person. No alcohol or drugs. And no carrying on with the other thing. You know what I mean. But if you ask me, the reason he didn’t come back was because he was scared. Sometimes, it’s easier for people to pretend they’ve done nothing wrong, like putting on a blindfold, than to admit the truth. Arthur had a lot of people to reconcile with. Me, your mom, Shirley. You, most of all. But it was too much for him. Arthur had a good voice. I’ll say that much. But with talent comes weakness.”

  “He won’t come back.”

  I mean this as a question, but the tail end of my words falls flat. Instead, it’s a sentence. A fact.

  “I don’t think so,” Grandma Kay says. “But you never know. Maybe we’ll all try again one day. How do you feel? About everything? Now that you’ve met him?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “In some ways, he’s just a stranger, someone from my mom’s past. It’s not like he means anything to me. Not now. He’s no one spe
cial.”

  I can tell Grandma Kay is trying to figure out if she really believes what I’m saying. I lock eyes with her and don’t look away. I know this is important. I know she’ll think about this moment later, once all the pills are gone, and she’ll ask herself, “Did Toby really mean that?” I need her to believe that I’m being honest.

  “Maybe he’ll call sometime,” Grandma Kay says. “Christmas. Or your birthday.”

  “I know I’ll see him again,” I say, almost wishing it were true. “Some day.”

  “When the time is right.”

  * * *

  Trisha calls later, wanting to know all the details.

  “What did he look like? What were his first words to you? Was he wearing makeup? I’m dying here, Toby. You were supposed to call, remember?”

  “Sorry,” I say. I didn’t forget to call. I just didn’t want to talk about anything. “I got distracted. It’s been a busy day.”

  “Duh. No shit.”

  I don’t even know what I’m going to tell her, but I have to make something up.

  “He’s . . . different than what I thought he’d be,” I say, trying to make my voice sound lively. I have a job to do—tell a lie, make Trisha believe it so she doesn’t suspect anything, and then get off the phone. “More animated. Kind of like a comedian only not as funny.”

  “Okaaay . . . ,” Trisha says. “A non-funny comedian. Not exactly a promising start. Was he really gay?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, did he wiggle his hips a lot? Or did he kind of gallop?”

  “He’s not a horse, Trisha.”

  “You know what I mean. God, it’s like pulling teeth with you. Let me put this another way. Was he Rock Hudson gay or Liberace gay?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere in between, I guess. Who’s Rock Hudson? We didn’t really talk that much, with everyone else around. Shirley was here. And his manager.”

  “Oh my God! He has a manager? Was he wearing sunglasses?”

  “The manager or my father?”

  “Either.”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t remember. Everything happened so fast.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Kind of average, I guess. Curly hair. Not tall, but not short.”

  “Toby, you’re making this very difficult for me.”

  “I’m sorry, Trisha. It’s just a lot for me to take in. It . . . it hasn’t been easy.” I want to confide in Trisha, tell her how horrible everything was. The sight of him in that brown blanket, his white arm, how he came into the living room almost naked in that tangled wig. The cruel words he said, like grenades exploding in the kitchen. But I can’t say anything. I’m too ashamed and I can’t deal with more questions.

  “Of course,” Trisha says. “Look, I shouldn’t be grilling you like this. This is your father. Your gay drag queen father. Who you’ve never met before. And here I am, asking if he wore sunglasses. I’m an insensitive asshole.”

  “You’re just curious.”

  “Hold on a minute. My bitch mom is calling me . . . What?!?”

  I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

  “I’m on the phone with her now! Yes, I’ll ask! Stop bugging me! God!”

  Trisha sighs. “She wants me to remind you to pick a date for the cabin this summer.”

  Suddenly, I have an idea. The cabin would be a better place to take the pills, away from here. I don’t want Grandma Kay or Grandpa Frank to find me. I couldn’t do that to them. Not after what happened to me. The cabin is perfect. I’ll find a spot in the woods. No one will ever find me.

  “Sure,” I say. “We can figure something out. Maybe mid-July? By the way, is there anyone at the cabin right now?”

  “You mean like renters? No, it’s empty. Who’d pay to stay at that dump? I hate it. Nothing but bugs and the sound of raccoons having sex. Sometimes Mike goes up there. God knows what he does. Sacrifices animals and compulsively masturbates, no doubt. So when are you seeing your dad . . . I mean, your father, again? And, more important, when can I meet him?”

  “Soon enough,” I say. “I promise. I just have to take care of a few details first. Thanks for caring about this, Trisha.”

  “Uh, that’s a weird thing to say. Of course I’m going to care. I’m your best friend, remember?”

  She must be so tired of me and all my problems. She’ll be so relieved when it’s over.

  “How could I forget?” I say. Then I tell Trisha goodbye for the last time and hang up the phone.

  Chapter 17

  The time has come. And Mike will be the one to help.

  He has his car, and I know I can trust him. He won’t make this complicated, like Trisha. He won’t ask a lot of questions. He’ll do what I want him to do because it’ll make him feel important. And that I still have feelings for him.

  Which I do, but I also don’t. I can’t figure it out.

  I feel bad about manipulating Mike like this. But I can’t let my conscience take over. I need to be determined. I have a job to do and it needs to get done as quickly as possible. There’s no time for second-guessing.

  This morning, while I help Grandma Kay prepare breakfast, I watch Mike from the kitchen window as he’s moving bales of hay. When it’s time to eat, I help bring out the BLTs, juice and coffee. Mike grabs a sandwich from the platter, turns his baseball hat around and burps into his fist. I notice there’s a piece of hay stuck to his shirt. I start having second thoughts about asking him, but when no one is looking, I pass him a note. He thinks it’s a napkin and starts wiping his mouth with it before I tell him to stop.

  “Read it when you’re alone,” I whisper.

  So of course he opens it up and starts reading it at the table. I’m ready to smack him in the head. At least he holds the paper under the table so no one else can read it. The note tells him to meet me by the hay bales in a half-hour.

  “TELL NO ONE,” I wrote in capital letters with three lines under each word.

  After he folds the note back up, Mike looks around casually and slips it into his front pocket. When he reaches for his glass of juice, he gives me a quick wink. I know what he’s thinking, and I don’t blame him. But I can’t let that bother me. Or what his new girlfriend might think, whoever she is. Besides, it isn’t like that at all, and little does he know what I really have in mind.

  * * *

  He’s standing next to the hay bales when I get there.

  “Hey Tobe-ster,” he says coolly.

  “Hi,” I say. I look down at my feet, at the crushed-up pieces of hay scattered across the barn floor. Anywhere but his face.

  “What’s up?” He takes a flattened package of cigarettes from his back pocket. If Grandpa Frank catches him smoking around the hay, he’ll hit the roof.

  “I need your help,” I say.

  “Oh?” He strikes a match and lights his cigarette.

  “You can’t say a word of this to anyone. Please. Not to Trisha. Or my grandparents. Not your parents.”

  “I don’t tell my parents shit about me, let alone someone else.”

  “I need you to take me somewhere. In your car.”

  “Anyplace special?”

  “Your family’s cabin.”

  “Why do you want to go there?”

  “I need to get away for a few days. There’s been a lot going on.”

  “I saw that. Who were those guys?”

  I’m not about to tell Mike about Arthur and Bruno. I can only imagine his reaction.

  “Some distant relatives. Anyway, I need to get away. Be by myself for a day or so to figure things out. I can’t ever find time here. I have a problem that I need to think through. I just need some time alone. Even one night.”

  “Okaaay,” he says. “When do you want to go?”

  “Tonight,” I say, and I can tell he’s surprised. “I know it’s last minute, but it has to be tonight. It has to.”

  “You can’t wait a couple of days?”

  �
�No!” I say, too loudly. I try to calm down. “I can’t take another minute here. I’ll leave a note for my grandparents so they won’t worry. I just . . . I just need to get out of here. Can you help, Mike?”

  “I’ll think about it,” he says.

  “Please,” I say, grabbing his arm. It’s the first time we’ve touched since we broke up. “Can you drive me there tonight or not?”

  “Okay, Toby,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

  * * *

  My grade nine English teacher, Mr. Duzzy (everyone called him Mr. Dizzy), told us once that the destination in life isn’t what’s important. It’s the journey. Most of the time, he said, you think it’s the place you’re going to that’s the best part.

  “But you don’t think about the days leading up to your trip or the airplane or the car or however else you’re getting there,” Mr. Duzzy said. “You only think about the place. But it’s not just about the place. It’s about getting to the place.”

  Me and my grandparents have never gone anywhere for vacation, on account of the cows. But one time, we went to Niagara Falls for Grandma Kay’s birthday. I think I was around eleven. It was the year after my mom died. I was looking forward to the trip because my class had recently talked about the Falls and I thought there was nothing more exciting than going to a place that you’d ever only known as a photo in a book. We went on the Maid of the Mist. We visited some of the wax museums, even the scary ones, which Grandma Kay said would only give me nightmares, but I reminded her there was nothing scary about neon-orange blood. We ate fudge and I bought a snow globe that I kept on my dresser until black fluff started to form in the water and I had to throw it out.

  It was only when we got back from Niagara Falls that I realized how disappointed I was. Not by Niagara Falls, but because I didn’t have the getting-to-Niagara Falls in my head anymore. It was like opening a present before Christmas and rewrapping it and trying to tell yourself you don’t know what it is. But you can’t. Because you know. And a wrapped present is always better than an unwrapped present.

  Sometimes, when the shadows in my mind go from grey to black, I think of my mom in the same way. That because she’s dead she’s a better mom than she’d be in real life. I know that’s a horrible thing to think, but what would we be doing now if she were still alive? She’d go to work. I’d go to school. We’d eat dinner at the end of the day. Watch TV. Sometimes the voices would take over inside her head and she’d have to go lie down in her bedroom while I waited to get her back. It wouldn’t be like commercials, where you see moms and daughters laughing and hugging and acting like best friends. It wouldn’t be like we’d be different from any other mother and daughter. I wouldn’t know the flip side. What life would be like without one of us there at the dinner table. That, without having it taken away, we never really know what we have, or who we have, sitting across from us, quietly chewing their french fries.