The Agony of Bun O'Keefe

by Heather T. Smith

  “Bun,” said Chris. “I know this is hard. But you have to tell us.”

  I stared at the floorboards. Had I really been worried about a beating heart underneath? Silly, stupid me.

  Big Eyes sat me down. “Say something. Please.”

  I started at the end ’cause it was easier. “He pushed me away and said, ‘Tell Tonto we got acquainted,’ and I thought, Wait, don’t you want to hear a story? Wasn’t that a weird thing to think?”

  Suddenly it was winter inside and Busker Boy’s words stormed around me like ice pellets and when they hit me it stung. “Start at the goddamned beginning and tell us what happened!”

  “Can I have my oatmeal first?”

  The bowl crashed against the wall. “What the hell happened up in that attic?”

  Who was this person who threw things and whose voice went up and down and whose eyes looked scared and mad all at once?

  Chris went to him, held his arms. “Calm down. This isn’t helping.”

  Busker Boy dropped his head on Chris’s shoulder. His voice cracked. “I just need to know.”

  My constant was broken and I needed him fixed.

  “Nothing happened. I made it up. I’m sorry.”

  He left Chris and knelt by my side. “Nishim. You can do this. Please, be brave.”

  Maybe this time Jimmy Quinlan will find the courage to get off the merry-go-round.

  “If I tell you, will you forgive me? ’Cause you said forgiveness heals and I need to heal. I really, really need to heal.”

  “Whatever happened was not your fault. I can promise you that. With all my heart.”

  No one ever promised me anything with all their heart before.

  I decided to be brave.

  “He patted his lap. And I sat on it.”

  “The landlord?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what?”

  “He touched me under my Wonder Woman bottoms and my Wonder Woman top. He put his mouth on my mouth and…”

  Busker Boy stood up and, with my head in his hands, pressed his lips against my forehead. Then, he bolted up the stairs.

  Chris ran after him.

  Big Eyes pulled me tight to her chest and said, “Oh, Bun,” and I said, “I blamed Wonder Woman, but it was my fault; I should have stopped him,” and Big Eyes’s voice was really shaky and she said, “How could you, you’re a child.” We heard yelling then laughing then yelling then laughing then a smack and a slap and a “Calm down” and then a thump and a thump and a thump and a “Stop, you’ll kill him.”

  Then, footsteps on the stairs.

  “We need to pack, Nishim.”

  Chris looked at Big Eyes. “Us too.”

  Busker Boy put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”

  She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Chris took her hand. “Come on. I’ll help you pack.”

  Everything we owned went in Busker Boy’s duffel bag. He whizzed around the room like a maniac while I stood in the corner, staring at the crack in the wall. I spoke in my best narrator voice.

  “Four days out of seven start like this. They wait for a new day in one of the back alleys of Montreal. They spend most of their lives in back alleys. Jimmy Quinlan, aged thirty-eight, has been drunk for twelve years.”

  “Nishim. Please.”

  “There are about five thousand Jimmy Quinlans on the streets of Montreal, maybe even more in Toronto and Vancouver. No one dares guess the exact number of derelict human beings in Canada.”

  “Help me zip this up.”

  “The Old Brewery Mission—seven hundred beds for five thousand human beings.”

  He grabbed me by the shoulders. “Can you just shut up? We need to get out of here! What don’t you understand?”

  Everything was on fast-forward and I didn’t like it so I pressed pause.

  “Braid my hair? Please?”

  His grip softened.

  Chris and Big Eyes appeared in the doorway. “We’re ready.”

  Busker Boy turned me around and combed my hair with his fingers.

  Chris shifted from foot to foot. Big Eyes bit her nails. But Busker Boy took his time. He gathered every strand and wisp loosely at my neck. I closed my eyes. After a few gentle twists and tugs a long braid hung between my shoulder blades.

  His voice was a river. “Are you ready now, Nishim?”

  “Yes.”

  Outside, I could see my breath. I was going to explain about the moisture in our breath versus the moisture in the air but their foreheads were creased so I didn’t.

  Busker Boy said we should leave town and Chris agreed. Big Eyes said, “That’s all well and good but where will we bleepin’ go?”

  “I know a place,” I said. “But it’s a bit messy.”

  Chris said there was a car in his father’s garage with our name on it.

  “No stealing,” said Busker Boy. “Not on top of everything else.”

  “Who’d write our names on a car?” I asked.

  “It won’t be stealing,” said Chris. “It’s mine. I walked away from it. When I walked away from everything else.”

  He snuck into the big white house with the black trim and took the key. As we drove away from Winter Place, Busker Boy said, “If it’s your car, what’s with all the secrecy?”

  “It’s just easier this way.”

  I sat in the back with Big Eyes. She held my hand but stared out the window. Before we left St. John’s, I asked if we could go up to Signal Hill. Busker Boy said, “No, we should get out of town,” but Chris said, “Ten minutes, okay, Bun?”

  We parked overlooking the ocean.

  “He asked me what it was all about,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Who does?” said Chris.

  I asked Busker Boy to sing Chef’s song, the one he said was the best ever. So he did.

  And the rest of us, we sang the la-la-las and the na-na-nas.

  —

  Busker Boy and Chris talked up front in low voices, and I wished there was a narrator in the car providing commentary ’cause nothing they were saying was making much sense.

  “You okay?” asked Chris.

  “Not really. You?”

  “Shook up. But he deserved everything he got.”

  “I didn’t think he’d do what he did. I thought, if anything, he’d try to use her, like he used Shekau.”

  “He did it to get at you, the bastard. You should have split, after you got her out.”

  “I made a deal,” said Busker Boy. “I had to stay.”

  “Well it’s over now.”

  “Is it? Did you see what I did to him?”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “He wasn’t moving.”

  “He probably came around, after we left.”

  “I’m screwed either way.”

  “He wouldn’t go to the police, not with his history.”

  When Busker Boy spoke next his voice shook. “I told her to leave the room…”

  Chris took one hand off the wheel and squeezed his shoulder. “None of this is your fault.”

  “I should never have brought her home. She would’ve been better off on the streets.”

  “She would have been eaten alive out there, you know that.”

  “So instead I bring her home to that monster?”

  “You did what you thought was best.”

  “I failed her.”

  “She’ll be okay. We all will.”

  —

  We turned off the highway onto gravel, a tree-lined road that I hoped would lead to my house.

  “Jesus, Bun,” said Chris, “you sure lived out in the boonies.”

  “Anyone else live on this road?” asked Busker Boy.

  “There are a couple of summer homes, but that’s it.”

  “So there’s no one else living here right now?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good.”

  A summer home family knocked on our door once. I was home alone and wasn’t sure what to do so I just watch
ed from behind a curtain. Two little girls in bathing suits stood waiting with their mom and dad, and just as they were leaving, my mother rounded the corner, dripping in sweat and pulling a load of garbage bags in her wagon. She spoke to the family, just for a minute, and when she came in I asked her what they’d wanted. She said, “They asked if any kids lived here. They got a big blow-up pool apparently.” I waited for her to tell me more but she told me to unload the wagon. I’d never been in a big blow-up pool, so when the wagon was empty I said, “Did you tell those people a kid lived here?” She lay in her garbage bag nest with a twelve pack of doughnuts. “Nope.”

  We passed the laneways that led to the summer homes. “Now we keep going,” I said. “For ages.”

  The car windows were closed but we could still hear the gravel popping and cracking under the wheels.

  “There,” I said. “Up on the left.”

  We turned up the drive and there it was—all gables and moldings and fancy trim.

  I nudged Big Eyes awake. “Wow,” she said. “I forgot you were rich.”

  The inside of my head felt jumbled. Why would she think I was rich?

  I looked at Busker Boy. Didn’t he tell them about the article? About the big fat hoarder?

  I pressed rewind. I said she liked to shop, once. Was that enough?

  We hid the car in the back and walked round to the front.

  “Do you have a key?” asked Big Eyes.

  A key? I barely left the house. “It’ll be open.”

  I could feel myself changing as I walked to the door. With every step I grew a new layer of skin, each one thick and hard and tough.

  I pressed rewind and walked in reverse. ’Cause how could I be Nishim through all those layers? Maybe with each step they would peel away, one by one, like an onion.

  I walked backward into Busker Boy. He put his hands on my shoulders. “There’s no rush. Let’s sit in the car awhile.” Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 was on. We listened from number ten (“Everybody Have Fun Tonight” by Wang Chung) to number four (“Walk Like an Egyptian” by The Bangles). If Big Eyes and Chris were wondering why we were all sitting back in the car again they never said. Big Eyes just curled up in the passenger seat and drifted off again while Chris sang along to the radio. Busker Boy sat in the back with me and waited.

  I waited for Chris to finish doing the weird Egyptian arm-dancing thing and then said, “Okay. I’m ready.”

  When Busker Boy smiled the lines around his eyes went crinkly. Maybe, I thought, I don’t need layers to be tough.

  —

  We stood squished in the front hallway.

  “Ugh,” said Big Eyes. “It smells like someone died in here.”

  She apologized right away. “Sorry, Bun.”

  “For what?” I said. “It’s a fact. But the body would be gone by now. What you’re smelling is a load of old junk.”

  We squeezed through the boxes and bags that lined the hall, and when we got to the living room, Chris said, “Jesus Christ, Bun. A bit messy?”

  I think I grew up with fogged-up eyes because for the first time I could see the place for what it was. It looked like something out of a television news report. This is Bun O’Keefe reporting live from the scene of a devastating tornado.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Big Eyes.

  “You never asked.”

  A mountain of junk filled the room. On the top of the heap were plastic garden chairs, stuffed toys, cases of canned goods, empty pop bottles and random pieces of sporting equipment. Underneath were half-crushed boxes of old books, musty magazines and broken toys, all of it thick with dust and spilling across the floor. I allowed my eyes to go to her corner for two Mississippis. Her mound of garbage bags was still there, overflowing with clothes and with a large indent in the middle. I used to pull her out of there when she’d get stuck. It was the only time we ever touched.

  I wished I had my old eyes then, the ones I could barely see through.

  Chris said the place was making his skin crawl. He picked up a can of potted meat. “No wonder you were malnourished when we met.”

  Big Eyes sneezed. “And had a nasty cough.”

  Chris flicked on a light switch. “Power’s still on.” He climbed over an old sewing machine table and reached for the thermostat. “It’s friggin’ freezing in here.”

  “You can turn it up,” I said. “But it’ll still be cold. I think it’s ’cause of all the old junk on the vents.”

  He checked the phone on the wall. “Dead.”

  “It was never alive,” I said. “We had no one to call.”

  Busker Boy started throwing things left and right, making a path from the living room to the kitchen.

  He reminded me of Dig Dug, the video game character who dug underground tunnels. I only played it once ’cause the Atari she’d brought home had a broken fire button so I couldn’t kill the meanies. The music drove me crazy and now it was back, all beepy and high-pitched and providing the soundtrack for Busker Boy’s frantic tunneling.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Chris.

  Busker Boy plowed through the junk. “This place, it’s not good for her asthma.”

  “I packed my inhaler,” I said.

  “Which you hardly need anymore. And we’re going to keep it that way.”

  He threw open the back door and started chucking stuff outside.

  “This will take weeks,” said Chris.

  Busker Boy lobbed a garden chair into the backyard. “Then it takes weeks.”

  —

  We spent the afternoon looking through the piles of food for stuff that was in date.

  Chris picked up a can of spaghetti hoops. “Chef would be appalled.”

  We had beans and crackers for lunch. Busker Boy barely paused to eat. He just kept dig-dugging his way through the house.

  “I found flashlights,” he said. “But someone needs to find batteries.”

  “Why do we need flashlights?” asked Chris. “We have power.”

  “We’re supposed to be in hiding. The last thing we need is this house lit up like a beacon.”

  “We could make a secret annex with a secret door hidden by a bookshelf,” I said. “That’s how Anne Frank hid. If we made it windowless, we could use lights and everything.”

  Busker Boy’s face got red. “We don’t need a friggin’ annex. We need goddamned batteries!”

  He had sweat on his temples and his hands were shaking.

  “Are you scared?” I asked. “You look scared.”

  Somewhere in the house something fell over. Busker Boy jumped. He looked at Chris. “I can’t take this.”

  Chris reached out, placed his palm on Busker Boy’s cheek. Busker Boy leaned into it and closed his eyes. He didn’t look scared anymore.

  I was thankful, then, for my unfogged eyes. Seemed I could see the good stuff as well as the bad.

  —

  There were three bedrooms in the back and two in the front. I said I’d take my old room, which was in the front. I even promised that I wouldn’t use a light ’cause I’d be going straight to sleep anyway.

  “Are you sure?” said Busker Boy.

  For some reason I said yes.

  Chris asked if there was a washing machine ’cause the blankets and sheets made his skin crawl. I told him it was somewhere in the basement under a pile of junk and when I suggested he wash everything in the bathroom sink with a bar of soap ’cause that’s what I used to do, he said, “Jesus Christ, Bun, you poor thing.” We decided to sleep in our clothes. Chris was so bundled he said he felt like the Michelin Man, but a dapper version ’cause he was wearing his fancy wool coat. I said, “Did you know the Michelin Man is also known as Bibendum?” and he threw his scarf around his neck and said, “I am Bibendum, Michelin Man’s gay alter ego,” and I said, “Don’t you have a show at Priscilla’s tonight?” and for a second he looked sad but said, “Whatever. It was a fun job but the pay was shit.”

  We helped each other clear th
e rooms of junk. Big Eyes wasn’t talking so I asked her questions ’cause I wanted to hear her voice, but she answered everything with “Um-hm,” even if it didn’t make sense.

  I wrapped my arms around her waist and said good night.

  “Um-hm.”

  Busker Boy told me to get ready for bed and when I was done he came in and said, “Are you sure about this?” and I said yes, but as soon as he left Dragon Man slithered under the crack, so I left my room and went to his and said, “Is it okay to change my mind?” and he said, “Of course it is.” He left the room and a minute later he and Chris came in with my bed, first the frame, then the mattress. Our two beds were side by side just like at our temporary accommodations.

  As I lay in bed I got the familiar feeling of the space around me getting bigger and bigger. I was a little kid again and I didn’t like it. The room, the town, the country, the world, they all grew while I shrunk. I was a tiny speck in the universe, nothing.

  “You doing okay over there?”

  And just like that I was reminded. I wasn’t a speck anymore.

  “I miss the crack on the wall,” I said, which wasn’t really an answer to his question but it was what came to mind.

  He left the flashlight on till I fell asleep.

  —

  What happened in the attic was on replay and it wouldn’t stop no matter how many times I jammed on the button.

  Dragon Man could slither anywhere.

  I could just make out Busker Boy’s shape in the dark.

  I liked that he was in a bed and not on the floor.

  A car horn beeped in my head.

  Make sure you tell Tonto we got acquainted.

  The whole thing was on loop. The stairs, the spindles, the chair.

  I turned on my side to keep Busker Boy in sight.

  —

  There was no paper in the morning but he sat on the end of my bed anyway.

  “Why didn’t you tell them?” I asked. “About my mother?”

  “That was your business.”

  I pressed rewind to the shock on their faces.

  “This is a horrible house, isn’t it? I’m glad I never realized it when I was living here.”

  “Every cloud.”

  “Every cloud, what?”

  “Has a silver lining.”