Sticky Notes

by Dianne Touchell

  “Okay,” Mom said. “Fifteen more minutes, no story.” She didn’t seem as delighted as Dad, though. Foster felt the win of the position like a free-wheel bike ride down a big hill.

  “However,” Dad said, “having people respect your position is far more likely if you talk with them about it. Respect their position too. No more answering Mom with a no, okay?”

  As Foster sat in his room rearranging his soldiers he thought about his position now. He thought about Sophie’s questions to Mom, because she would be answering them and he didn’t trust what she would say. She was the one who wanted to hit Dad sometimes. Would Mom tell Sophie that? Would Sophie write that down? Dad just wanted a man he didn’t like out of his house. Foster had thought finding a position on this would be easy. He felt he must have one ready even if he was never asked for it. It would stop him from getting lost in everyone else’s. He didn’t want Dad swinging at people, but he didn’t want Mom on her knees on the floor either.

  Foster carefully placed the general under the clothespin basket on his pillow. He could hear Dad and James laughing in the bathroom. He suddenly realized that having a position really just meant taking a side.

  “They’re all so old,” Aunty said. “Did you see anyone there even close to Malcolm’s age?”

  “No. And yes, I know,” Mom replied.

  “I still think it’s the right thing. You can’t cocoon him here. It’ll drive you both insane. And with this sort of help, you can get back to some sort of normal life.”

  “Normal life?” Mom asked.

  “You know what I mean. This is it, right? This isn’t temporary. It’s not going to get any better. And having him registered for this will surely make it easier when you have to start considering some sort of residential facility.”

  “That’s nothing for you to worry about,” Mom said. “That’s still a long way off.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Aunty said. “That’s your bloody mantra, isn’t it? Will recent behavior have any impact on…” Aunty didn’t finish the sentence, just sort of tapered off into a wary head cock in Foster’s direction.

  “I haven’t done anything!” Foster said.

  “No, of course you haven’t, Fossie,” Aunty said quickly. “No one’s talking about you.”

  No one talked about him much at all anymore. Even when he was naughty. Mom and Aunty were just back from visiting the Day Program—Aunty for the first time—and James had just left. Mom had left Foster behind with Dad and James this time. Foster knew why, but nothing had been said. He almost wished it had been. He would have felt better had he received a bit of a lecture in the car on the way home last time. But still there was this carefulness around him, this unwillingness to waste emotion or energy on him. There was such a shortage of energy in everyone lately that Foster could hardly generate a sour look with deliberate rudeness.

  “You talking about Dad’s behavior, then?” Foster asked.

  “No, Fossie,” Mom said.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Fossie. Go and play.”

  “Does so matter,” Foster said. “You almost got messed up, Mom.”

  Aunty started to laugh quietly.

  “That dog’s in the yard again!” Dad called out. “Better call someone! Who do you call about something like that?”

  He was standing at the kitchen window. They were all in the kitchen with him, so Foster wasn’t sure why he was yelling.

  “I’ve already called the police,” Mom said. “They’ll be here soon.”

  Mom hadn’t really called anyone, but the lie was good for all of them. James had explained that to Foster. He said they weren’t really lying to Dad, they were just telling him a story. Like Dad used to tell Foster stories. Telling Dad a story was sometimes kinder than arguing with him and making him upset. So Foster didn’t interrupt with truth anymore when he heard Mom tell a lie.

  Foster liked it when James came around. There were others who came. Sophie, of course, who was all smiley business. She was nice, but there was something about that smiley business Foster thought was a bit phony. She probably had that face everywhere she went. There were a couple of others on an unpredictable rotation whose faces Foster could never quite remember once they had left. They were just hands and voices and efficiency. But Foster really liked James.

  James was younger than the others. Foster had heard Mom complaining to Sophie about his age. Not in a bad way, but with the same fretful voice she used with and about other people she thought were too young to be doing what they were doing: the girl who served her at the shops, the boy who came to fix the leaky toilet. James was short too, and had a curlicue of piercings that went from his earlobe all the way up and around to the top of one ear. Most were studs, but there was one small gold hoop that James would sometimes spin when he was talking.

  “Can I get my ear pierced like James?” Foster asked Mom.

  “No,” Mom said. “You’re too young and it’s not nice.”

  “I think it’s self-expressive,” Foster replied.

  “I don’t even want to know where you heard that. Find another way to express yourself,” Mom said. “Draw a picture or something.”

  James had told Foster that body art was a form of self-expression, just like anything else we do to show people more about who we are. The stories we tell, the clothes we wear, the things we create. James was particularly impressed with Foster’s stories—the ones Dad had told him so many times he had memorized them, as well as the ones Foster made up. James encouraged Foster to make up more. Sometimes they would sit together—Dad, James, and Foster—and Foster would tell a story. Foster wouldn’t always know where the story was going to go, but James said that didn’t matter. That it was actually a good thing. That the only thing that mattered in any story was what was happening in the moment of it being imagined. If Foster got stuck, James would ask him a question to push him forward, and he always remembered where Foster had left off if they had to wait a day or two to continue it. Foster began to look forward to James’s visits more and more.

  Foster thought Dad liked James too. Of course, it was hard to tell what Dad really liked, but Foster thought it was a good sign that even though Dad still didn’t like strange men in the house, he had never taken a swing at James. James never called Dad sweetheart like some of the other helpers did, and rather than stand over Dad to talk to him, James would sit cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Foster would join them and nod along, and between the three of them it felt like a real conversation was occurring, even though James did most of the talking.

  One day Mom returned home to find all three of them—Dad, Foster, and James—sitting cross-legged on the floor, applying brightly colored temporary tattoos to each other. James had brought them with him because the story they were continuing with was about ancient warriors who decorated their faces and bodies before going into battle. Foster ran to Mom feeling strong and happy, proudly presenting his motley arms for inspection.

  “Look at my woad!” he said excitedly.

  “Your what?” Mom met the moist onslaught with a combination of disinterest and irritation. “You’re all wet, Fossie,” she continued, peeling his arms away from her body. “James, clean all this up before you leave.”

  Then she went to make a phone call, her position clear.

  For as long as Foster could remember, he and Dad had celebrated their birthdays together. Their birthdays were only one day apart, and Dad said that Foster had been the best birthday present he had ever received. Mom would decorate the house with balloons and streamers, and Foster would invite his school friends. Mom would invite some family—the only part of the whole thing she really didn’t like. It was the only day of the year Foster would see these family people. He didn’t know who they were, only that they stood in a small group slightly separated from everyone else, as if clinging to each other. They’d have a few drinks, shake Dad’s hand, and then leave.

  Foster’s excitement about his
birthday would usually begin to bubble about two weeks beforehand. Mom and Dad would start making sly references to it, little teasers. Foster would get wide-eyed with anticipation as Mom began planning the nibbles and cakes. There were always two cakes—one for Foster and one for Dad. Foster had the ice-cream cake and Dad had the one with lots of booze in it. Dad would watch Mom slapping the batter from one side of the bowl to the other and say “Come on! Fill ’er up!”

  A lot of the family people would have left by the time Mom lit the cakes and dimmed the lights. She would put the cakes next to each other, and Foster and Dad would line up behind them, Foster heel-toeing as if preparing for a sprint. They always blew out each other’s candles. Foster didn’t know why exactly, only that it was a tradition. And Dad said tradition was very important.

  So when the birthdays were two weeks away and Mom hadn’t said anything or even bought any invitations for Foster to hand out, Foster began to get nervous. There was increased interest in his birthday party at school this year. Boys Foster had not even intended to invite began coming up to him and asking when it was going to be, which he thought was strange. But he answered them all with the same gusto, promising ice-cream cake and invitations any day now.

  Foster waited as long as he could. Then the week before, feeling as if he would burst with the anxiety of nonpreparation, he asked about it at dinner.

  “Mom, what day are we having our party?”

  “Oh, Fossie. We need to talk about that.”

  “Are we having a party?” Dad asked.

  “Yes, Dad. For our birthdays. Remember?”

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Mom said.

  “Is it our birthdays already?”

  “Next week,” Foster said, looking at Mom with a scold in his eyes.

  “Malcolm, is that dog in the yard again? Better check,” Mom said.

  Foster couldn’t believe it. He stared at Mom for the longest time, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t believe Mom was using Geraldine as a distraction. They weren’t supposed to do that. James had said so. They weren’t supposed to encourage the things Dad got wrong. They were supposed to ignore them and move on to happy things. A party is a happy thing. Dad had left his seat at the table and, leaning on the kitchen sink, was surveying the backyard. Foster knew right then that Mom was trying to trick them both on purpose, and it made him very angry.

  “Don’t see it,” Dad said. “Do you think it’s out there?”

  “What shall we eat, Dad?”

  “When?”

  “At our birthday party,” Foster said, anger turning to bravery.

  “Is it our birthdays already?”

  “Foster, that’s enough,” Mom said. “I promise we’ll talk about it later.”

  “Pizza!” Foster said.

  “And red sausages!” Dad said.

  “For now, let’s just eat dinner,” Mom said. Then she leaned across and placed her hand on top of Foster’s, saying, “You will not get what you want by using your dad to manipulate me.”

  “But you did!” Foster said, breathing a bit faster, anger turned to bravery turned to fear. “You used Geraldine. You’re not supposed to do that,” he finished quietly, looking down at his plate.

  “Who’s Geraldine?”

  “Malcolm, sit down and finish dinner.”

  “And cake,” Foster said softly.

  “Two cakes!” Dad said, returning to his chair. Mom reminded him to eat again, so he picked up his fork before continuing. “Always two cakes, right, Fossie? You blow out mine and I blow out yours.”

  “Tradition,” Foster said. But the excitement was gone. The excitement of a party, the excitement of besting Mom, the excitement of two cakes, all twisted up now into a funny, sick feeling. Foster understood that having no party was taking the position of defeat, taking the side of everything being changed forever.

  They ate in silence. Well, Foster and Mom did. Dad ate with the sounds in his head. The sounds he often mumbled along with. There was a time when Mom would have asked Dad what he was saying, or what he was hearing, but not anymore. Dad just became frustrated that no one else could hear what he was hearing, and Mom became frustrated that Dad was hearing things that weren’t there in the first place. Once when Mom was feeling particularly sensitive to the muttering, she turned on the TV as a distraction. They couldn’t see it from the kitchen, but they could hear it. That didn’t last long, because Dad went into a frenzy thinking there was someone else in the house. He jumped up from the table and crept around with a frying pan, convinced they had an intruder. It took ages to calm him down, even after Mom turned the TV off.

  Foster liked the tiny, squeaky sounds Dad made. They were like a fairy language: the thrum of wings spinning around dragon eyelashes. It meant Dad was still telling stories on the inside. Foster could relax into the rhythmic hum and trill of Dad’s small noises, but Mom always got to a point where she dropped her fork loudly and deliberately on her plate.

  “Malcolm, can you please just eat!” she said.

  “What have you done to my food?” Dad asked. Foster noticed the plate was still nearly full.

  “Nothing,” Mom said. “I haven’t done anything to your food.”

  Dad shoved the plate away. Dad’s plate shoving wasn’t as impressive as it used to be. Before Mom started putting his plate on a rubber placemat, Dad had been able to skid that thing right across to the other side of the table, where it would slide into Foster’s own with a hardy chink. That had always made Foster laugh.

  “Poison,” Dad said.

  Foster had finished his dinner and noticed a thick, untouched piece of sticky, glazed meatloaf still shimmering on Dad’s plate.

  “Can I have that?” he asked.

  “No, Malcolm. It’s not poisoned.”

  “You’re trying to kill me.”

  “Mom, can I have that piece?”

  “No one’s trying to kill you.”

  Mom stood quickly and began collecting plates. Foster watched as she scraped Dad’s meatloaf into the trash and dumped the dishes into the sink.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Dad asked. Mom stood stock-still where she was, staring out at the jacaranda. Without turning around she said, “Hey, Malcolm, we should talk about the party for your birthdays.”

  “Is it our birthdays already?”

  Foster spent a long time making Dad’s present. James helped him. Foster had done all the hard stuff. He had written the story and drawn the pictures, but James had bound it with stiff card and split pins so it looked like a real book. The way James had bent the card made it open like a real book too. Then he had helped Foster glue the cover picture onto the front so that it was straight and fitted properly. Foster had spent the most time on the cover picture. Writing the story had been easy. He had been telling it and acting it out on Pillow Top Mountain for months. James had just helped with some spelling. But the cover was particularly important. Dad had always said book covers are what draw us first to a story, like smiling eyes in the face of a stranger. Foster had looked at lots of the covers of Dad’s books to see what sort of smiles Dad was drawn to, and then created his own cover with all the elements of color and design most likely to draw Dad in. Then he wrapped The General, first in tissue paper, then in bright red wrapping paper left over from Christmas. There was birthday wrapping paper, but Foster’s general wore red.

  Foster didn’t show it to Mom. He wanted it to be a surprise for her too.

  It was going to be a small party this year. Foster was allowed to invite five friends instead of his usual ten, but he didn’t mind. Mom was cutting way back on guests too. It seemed to make her happy to do so. “Let’s keep it short and not fill the house,” Aunty had said. Aunty wasn’t usually involved in organizing the party, but this year Mom seemed grateful for the interference. Mom struggled more with her guest list than Foster did with his. But Aunty said if Dad asked about anyone not there, they could just introduce the same person to him twice as different people
. Mom didn’t find that as funny as Aunty did.

  Foster and Dad were in charge of the balloons and streamers. Foster told Dad what to do, including how to make the fart noises with the balloon necks. Mom tolerated that, but when Dad let go of a balloon that flew through the air like a coil of flatulence and came to rest with a slap in Mom’s hair, she wasn’t very happy. She had arranged her hair over her bad eye for pictures again.

  Dad was having a good time. As people arrived, Aunty stood next to him while Mom answered the door. Sometimes she linked arms with him. Once she held his hand. Foster couldn’t understand why he felt uncomfortable. There was something in the air. A quiet that didn’t quite belong with balloons and streamers. It wasn’t that people weren’t making any noise. It was that the people making it seemed immediately apologetic about it. Greetings were punctuated with an awkward hush. Laughter was bitten in half. And when Dad said “Look at all the presents! Is it Christmas?” nobody laughed at all.

  Foster couldn’t wait for the present opening to begin. It was the first time he could remember being more excited about what he was giving than what he was getting. There were some big presents there too. He looked around for his friends and saw them all standing in a knot around the red sausages. He walked over. That was when he heard it.

  “Which one’s the crazy one?” Oliver asked.

  “That’s his dad over there,” Blinky said, pointing.

  “He doesn’t look crazy,” Charlie said.

  “He’s not,” Foster said. They all turned to look at him.

  “But you said he was,” Louis said. “You said at school.”

  Foster had said it. He stood there, between red sausages and shame, remembering all the times he had joined in at school to shift the target of the teasing from him to his dad. He’d had a brief respite when another boy’s dad had gone to jail, but somehow that had ended up giving the boy an unexpected standing, and Foster’s crazy dad had quickly been reestablished as the bigger disgrace. Foster tried to think of a way out, but all he wanted to do was cry. He tried to casually reach for a red sausage, but it came across as more of a snatch.