by Ron Thompson
But rather than tell Genny anything, I reached under the bed and pulled out, from where I had stashed it that afternoon, my Grade Twelve yearbook. I settled back against the headboard of the bed, wiped my eyes, and offered it to her.
CHAPTER 22
Genny looked uncertainly at me. Finally she opened the book and found my picture. “You looked so sweet,” she murmured after studying it. Then she flipped pages, found the one that Tammy was on, and peered at it closely too. A second later she noticed Clinton. “He needs a shave,” she said.
I didn’t respond.
She moved on and found me on the football page, in random shots in the hall, in school assembly. Finally she came to pictures from graduation. There I was in a suit, in a photo labelled with my name and “Winner, Grade Twelve Proficiency in Math, Sponsored by Hardcastle Accounting.” I was on stage, shaking the Hardass’s hand, both of us looking into the camera, straightfaced and intent. Genny brought the book closer for a better look. “So that’s the famous Mr Hardcastle.”
“That’s him.”
Genny looked up at me. Finally she returned to the book and flipped the page. There were more awards, a picture of theprincipal, the class valedictorian mid-speech. Another flip, to atwo-page montage of the graduation party. Her fingers tracedthe photos and came to stop, as I knew they would, on one picture. It was a scene of hilarity, a crowd of graduates, the world their oyster that night and forever, looking oh-so grown up, well dressed and sophisticated in rented tuxes and glossy gowns, their young chests bursting, faces smiling, mouths open with shouts and wisecracks and giddy laughter; eyes on the camera, eyes on each other, eyes on the spectacle at the centre of the picture—for a magnum has just popped. The camera catches the action: the cork a blur, a tiny sputnik in a trail of vapour, and its launch pad, the bottle’s neck, overflows in that instant, and forall time on film. Reggie Lafleur holds the bottle, and those around him, glasses extended, reach towards the eruption, their expressions eager, anticipatory. And there, centre left, just beyond this inner scene, my younger self stands in the crowd, serious and unsmiling in my graduation suit, face to face with a girl in a white satin dress, a beautiful young woman with long dark hair and liquid, almond-shaped eyes. And her expression is the same as mine, one in sharp contrast to those around us, one of hurt and sorrow and loss. “That’s Tammy . . .”
I felt a burden falling away, the weight of a secret, of recrimination, guilt, and grief. I felt unexpected relief that willing, understanding hands were at last reaching for me, and they would catch me before I tumbled like the magnum’s cork. I was no longer alone.
Genny studied the picture.
I swallowed. “It’s not what you think.”
* * *
We sat for a moment while I gathered my thoughts, considering where best to start. “Well,” I began, “that fall, the fall before graduation, the Lakers won the—”
“Hold it right there. You keep going on about that stupid football team. I know what you’re doing. I know the trick. It’s not—”
“It’s all about football. I’m trying to tell you something. Maybe I’ve been trying to tell you all along, and I didn’t realize it myself. It’s about what happened.”
Genny flinched at my vehemence and saw that my eyes had welled with tears.
“I’m sorry . . . Go on.”
I told her about Clinton’s brilliance that year at quarterback, and how it led to our championship; and about his angry moods—and the tangible lift in his spirits when he started going out with Tammy. That he was going out with Tammy was news to Genny, for previously I had led her to believe it was Reggie Lafleur who had gone out with Tammy (true—albeit briefly), and that Reggie and I were friends (false). Now she nodded as if Clinton with Tammy had always made sense—but there was that picture of Tammy and me, star-crossed and sad. I knew she was thinking of it. She listened as I filled in gaps I had previously glossed over, for they were important now. I told her how Clinton and I had chummed together for years, but in that final year of school we did so less and less. We were drifting apart and we both knew it. There was tension now between us, unspecific and vague but always present.
I told her how Clinton was banking on a football scholarship in the States; and that not long after his tryout, the Hardass told him that the college was impressed and that a scholarship was a virtual shoo-in. Nothing was official yet, but the offer was sure to come in May. Clinton told me this in a deadpan voice, his face blank. And that was a good day. As winter wore into spring he slipped into a deep, brooding funk; he seemed on edge, moody and perpetually irritable with his mother, with me, with Tammy; with everyone with whom he was close—with everyone who loved him. Even Tammy, it seemed, could no longer brighten his spirits.
* * *
And then, in mid April, he turned on me.
We were in his basement, and I had just beaten him at bitch slap, and I was hopping around him, circling, arms raised, crowing my victory.
“Dickhead,” he said and rubbed his cheek.
“You the bitch!” I taunted, and he glared, his expression so comically dark it made me laugh, and I taunted him again with “Suck it, quarter-boy!”
He sent me reeling with a hard shove to the chest. I danced backwards, caught my balance and pointed at him, still laughing. “Whatza matter, princess? Did you lose?”
His face became a rictus mask, and he shoved me again, this time into the basement wall, and he followed to pin me across the throat with his forearm so that his face, red and contorted, was close to mine. “Shut the fuck up!” he screamed. “Shut the fuck up!”
My celebratory grin must have been fixed on my face for hegrew even angrier and pressed his forearm across my neck. I began to choke but he took no notice. He spat out a string of curses that grew harsher, more pointed and hateful. We abused each other regularly with taunts and insults but this was different. This was intense and cutting and far beyond anything that had gone before.
So was the fist he flung at my head. I reacted at the last second but it struck just above my ear, a glancing blow that surprised me with its force. I yelped “Hey!” and straightened and he punched me in the stomach. I crumpled, and he fell on me, pummelling wildly. “Cock sucker!” he shouted. “Loser! Faggot! You fucking queer!” Wedged into the crook of the wall with his full weight on top of me I could not fight back, so I rolled into a balland absorbed the blows until they slackened and I could shift my weight, roll to the side, and aim a kick. There was little on it yet it dislodged him, but I had nothing left with which to follow-up. Instead, I went on all fours, as though praying to a beaten boxer’s Mecca, and puked.
When I looked up he was propped against the wall, heaving for breath, huddled in the shelter of his own elbows. He began to rock back and forth. A moment later he began to beat his head with his fists. He grabbed a clump of hair in each hand, tugged,and screamed through gritted, bared teeth.
I don’t remember everything he blubbered then. Things like I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I lost it. He accused himself of being the loser, the fuckup. I’m fucking drowning, he sobbed. I need some purity. Do you understand that? Some purity . . . Do you understand what I’m saying?
As he bawled, I straightened onto one knee. Him and his goddamn purity. His temper had run amok. Now he was drowning all right—he was drowning in self-pity.
He was crying. His face was contorted, his body limp. I lost it. I’m sorry. Please. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m sorry. Don’t you understand? Don’t you understand?
Tears ran freely down his cheeks. I got painfully, shakily to my feet.
“Don’t go. Please. Don’t.”
“Asshole,” I said. I staggered up the stairs and out of his house.
* * *
After that, I had nothing to do with Clinton—until weeks later. It was May, and our short prairie spring was well advanced; and when I came home l
ate one Saturday night I found my mother waiting for me at the door. It was after midnight, and I immediately assumed I was in trouble; I straightened up tall and ran a hand through my hair to tame it but she took no notice. “There’s someone here to see you,” she said softly. “A girl.”
I came into the kitchen and my heart skipped a beat. Tammy was sitting at our table. Her eyes were red, one cheek was swollen, and she sat toying with a half-full teacup. Half full, half empty, she was in my kitchen with tears in her eyes. She sniffed and looked from me to my mother.
“Dad’s upstairs,” Mom said. “I’m going up now. But if you need anything, dear . . .” Her voice trailed off. “If you need any help . . .” She looked back at Tammy.
“I’ll be fine now. Thank you. Thank you for the tea.” We waited for Edie to get upstairs. “Are you okay?” My eyes were on her cheek.
Her hand went to the spot and traced it lightly.
“It’s not me. There’s something the matter with Clinton.”
“You can say that again.”
She looked down at her cup. The welt on her cheek looked like it would bruise. I suddenly realized its source.
“Oh, jeez . . . Oh my God! He did that.”
“I know you’re mad at each other. But there’s something going on. Something’s really wrong.”
Clinton (she told me) had been at Hardcastle Accounting all day, and after work he went home for his mother’s car. (That much I knew—the car was gone when I went out a little later.) Clinton had driven out to the farm to pick Tammy up, and he was in a bad mood when he got there, answering everything she said with monosyllables. It had annoyed her but she had thought he would lighten up.
They drove around town for a while then went to a house to meet some of the Ice Dogs. There were girls there, but they weren’t anyone’s girlfriends, and the guys were making jokes about gangbangs. They were all drinking and smoking, the girls as well as the guys. The girls seemed unfazed by the way the Dogs were talking, but Tammy didn’t think it was funny. She pulled Clinton aside and said they shouldn’t talk that way about anyone, that it was disrespectful, and she wanted to leave. He tried to talk her out of it but she insisted.
“I thought he’d be better on his own, away from those guys. I thought we could talk. We needed to anyway. He’d been so moody and tense. But he wasn’t happy about leaving. He took a bottle with him and drove out to that place where he likes to watch trains.”
I knew the place. Of course I knew the place. Ortona Forest, where I had played as a kid. Clinton and I had sat out there many times with a case of beer, watching trains pass, counting orphan boxcars from the Soo Line, Union Pacific, the BurlingtonNorthern. “Those things have seen a lot of country,” he once remarked. “Tomorrow they’ll be far away, and you and me, we’ll still be here.”
I never knew he took Tammy there, but it made perfect sense. Out there they could be alone. No one ever drove that road at night.
She knew he liked the place, and he was always different when he wasn’t around the Dogs. She assumed he’d be all right once they were there, once he calmed down a bit and relaxed. But he stayed angry. He wanted to argue, and she wasn’t going to back down either. The way the Ice Dogs had behaved had disgusted her.
“Why do they have to talk like that?”
“They’re just having fun.”
“What’s fun about a gangbang?”
“It’s just talk. No one’s gangbanging anyone.”
“You shouldn’t hang around with them. They’re not nice people. You’re totally different when you’re around them.”
He was getting more irate as they talked. “Stop nagging me about my friends,” he snapped.
“You’ve only got one real friend,” Tammy said. That’s when he hit her.
She was stunned by the blow, and the fact he had delivered it; but not so much that she missed the look on his face, the flash of ugly rage that dissolved instantly. Into what, she could not be sure, but it looked like fear. And rightly so, for now she was mad. She wasn’t going to put up with getting whacked. “You bastard!” she shouted, pummelling him with the flat of her fists. Hefended off the blows but did not strike back. She got out of the car and started walking.
“Tammy!” She kept walking.
He got out of the car and started after her. “Come on. Get back in the car.”
“Leave me alone,” she called over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” She kept going.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No.” She knew the way into town. She was angry. She would fend for herself.
He ran to catch up and grabbed her by one arm. “Get in the goddamn car.”
She pulled away and they struggled. He grabbed her by both wrists but she broke free and pushed him away.
“Leave me alone!”
They stared at each other in the moonlight, him standing, her backing away. Before she turned she registered his expression. It chilled her to the core.
She half-ran to put some distance between them but was so struck by his expression that she turned to look back. He was still standing where she had left him. It was too dark to see his face.
She walked into town, thinking she would call her father to pick her up. But she was worried about Clinton and that look she had seen as she broke away. She thought of me. She knew where I lived—on the same street as Clinton, a few houses down.
“What are you worrying about him for?” I asked now. “He’s been a total jerk.”
“But he’s not a jerk. You know that. Something’s wrong. That look on his face . . . He needs help.”
There was no way I was going to help Clinton Sturgis. “I’ll take you home,” I said.
I went upstairs and told my parents I was driving Tammy home.
“Everything okay?” Dad asked.
“It will be.”
A long moment passed as he studied my face.
“Have you had anything to drink?” Mom asked, aware of what her boys might get up to on a Saturday night.
“Not a drop.”
“You smell of smoke.”
“It must be second hand. I don’t smoke.” Dad considered things for a moment. “Take the Ford, and drive careful. There’s too many yahoos out this time of night.” I had never been to Tammy’s farm. She gave me directions and we rode in silence. When we arrived in her yard she opened the door to get out then turned back and grasped my arm. “Will you go find him? Will you help him?”
“He doesn’t need my help. He’s made it pretty clear what he thinks of me.”
“You’re wrong. He needs you. Please. I don’t know what he’s going to do.”
The look on her face, her eyes shining in the light from the dash.
On the way down her drive I had no intention of looking for Clinton. On the way into town I recalled every detail of our fightand everything he had said. Take care of yourself, I thought bitterly. I crossed the rail line, passed the elevators, and drove slowly through the downtown core, not going anywhere, not wanting to go home. I passed the King Edward Hotel, its sign for the Grizzly now turned off, cruised past the Brownstone Hotel, its partly-lit sign reading “OFF SALE, COLD BE R AND WIN .” Next to it was Hardcastle Accounting, lit in neon blue, and I thought suddenly of the Hardass. “You never leave your quarterback,” he’d lectured time and again. “You go back when he’s in trouble. You go back and help.”
I almost dismissed the thought but I remembered the time the Hardass reamed me out for abandoning Clinton in a game. Clinton had got creamed on the play but he’d shrugged it off with a sardonic joke. That was my friend, the ironic, mocking Clinton, the guy I had known before he turned so dark. Now he was out at the crossing in Ortona Forest, where I had played as a little boy, where more recently he and I had stopped on our endless drives to watch trains roll past to Somewhere Else.
>
So that was where he took Tammy when they wanted to be alone.
That would make a mess, he had once said, parked astride the tracks, nodding towards an approaching train. I felt icy fingers tighten around my spine.
Instead of turning towards home I kept straight and headed out of town. A few minutes later I turned onto the side road that connected with the narrow gravel one that passed through Ortona Forest. When I turned onto it my lights reflected off a setof tail lights. It was Claire’s car, and it was parked in front of the crossing. I rolled up behind it and got out. The night was still. I walked to the passenger side and got in.
Clinton glanced at me briefly before looking away throughthe windshield at the crossing and the road ahead. He had a bottle of vodka between his legs. We sat in silence.
“You been smoking?”
I hadn’t expected that as an opener. “I was at the Grizz,” I said.
Another silence.
“So what brings you out this way on a Saturday night?”
“You know why I’m here.”
“No. Why?”
“You hit her.”
“Are you the law now?”
“Asshole. You hit her.”
“It was just a love tap.”
“Fuck you, a love tap.”
“Fuck me!” he said, mimicking my intonation. He nodded. I realized he was very drunk. “Why not?”
“Fuck you,” I repeated.
“Get in line. Everyone fucks Clinton Sturgis. Hardcastle, for one.”
Selfish prick. He’d hit Tammy, and all he could talk about was his scholarship! But was it true? The Hardass had always been Clinton’s biggest fan. He’d virtually promised him a scholarship in the States. Now, if he hadn’t delivered—that would explain Clinton’s mood; though it was no excuse for hitting Tammy.
“So, what? You didn’t get the scholarship?” Clinton took a swig. “Oh, I got the scholarship.”
“And you sit here and talk about love taps. You prick.”
“I meant in the literal sense.” He was drunk and talking gibberish.
