Take the Stairs

by Take the Stairs (retail) (epub)

  “OK,” I said. My heart tightened into a fist inside my chest.

  With shaking hands, I adjusted the packs so the canoe would be balanced with his weight in the front. As we pushed off from the rocks rounded smooth by water, a white-throated sparrow called out. My favorite bird was saying goodbye. I was leaving too soon. I stepped into the stern. The birdcall turned into a cruel laugh.

  * * *

  DAD STARTED OUT PADDLING. He called out steering tips from the bow. “You should be able to keep your paddle on one side. Don’t keep switching sides. Use the J-stroke.”

  My shoulders soon began to ache. I tried to remember the lessons my father had taught me. I knew the J-stroke. After experimenting for a few minutes, I managed to find a groove and relax into the even rhythm of paddling.

  Dad paddled for a while, but I could tell he was in pain by the awkward way he held the paddle. After an hour, he dropped it in the canoe. I watched, afraid, as his head began bobbing up and down with the rhythm of waking and sleep. Was he falling asleep or passing out? I tried to paddle faster. And I began to sing. I sang to keep my father awake, and to drive away my fear. Every song I knew. Songs from summer camps, school, and even the radio. From Kumbaya to the latest pop song, I sang them all.

  Every so often I’d stop singing to check the map, which was usually my father’s job. I tried to match the shapes on the map to the curves of the lake, but as dusk closed around us I couldn’t tell the islands from the points of land.

  When I was thoroughly lost and beginning to stare around at the blanket of forest that looked the same in every direction, my father woke long enough to redirect me.

  “You’re off course. To the left of that island then straight on.”

  With relief, I followed his directions. What would I do without him?

  Once we rounded the head of the island, I almost yelped when I saw the familiar narrowing that led to the next lake. Deer Lake, it was called on the map, with the camp for kids clearly marked.

  By the time we’d passed the camp—now closed for the season—the heavy clouds that had haunted us from a distance all afternoon had settled overhead. Then darkness hit, as black as the wings of a crow. The forest cast gloomy shadows along the ink of the lake. Again, I couldn’t tell which direction to go.

  The wind came up loud enough to stop my singing. Large waves began to crash against the bow and push the canoe back the way we had come. I gripped the gunnels to steady us. Cold water splashed my hands and arms as each wave threatened to flood the canoe.

  I couldn’t do this. Who was I kidding? I was small—hardly a hundred pounds. I needed help.

  “Wake up, Dad,” I yelled.

  Nothing. Panic welled up in me and threatened to explode out of my throat.

  “Dad! Wake up! Da-a-ad!” I yelled so loud my voice echoed back to me from the empty hills.

  “Huh?”

  “Dad!” I was never so glad to see him awake. “Get the rain gear. In the top of the pack. No. Behind you.”

  He was still groggy but he managed to do it. We threw the raingear on over our wet clothes. My hands were shaking as I zipped my coat up to my chin. There were still two more lakes to go.

  * * *

  I KEPT PADDLING THOUGH MY ARMS ACHED. Waves pressed harder at me. Then, from some small corner of my mind, I remembered something—head for shore. A canoe was no match for storm winds, even on a small lake.

  Taking the long way in and around each bay, we hugged the shoreline. I pulled the canoe through the next lake, closer and closer to the portage. I peered at the silhouettes of curves and hillsides against the night sky, desperate for a sign that I was going the right way. Every time I looked at Dad, sleeping more than waking now, my breath caught in my throat.

  Just as my arms could no longer stretch forward for another stroke, I glimpsed the sign that marked the portage. It was a fluke. A tiny glimmer of yellow among the murky trees.

  The rain had held back for me. The wind was dying. I was going to make it—to the portage at least.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  The wilderness was harsh and unforgiving, but it wasn’t really so different from my home in the city in some ways. The indifference of the strangers that were my neighbors in the Building. The unexpected hazards in the underground and the stairwells. Yet Clive had shown me another world in the city. Once he had walked me through the secret paths of the city valleys, surprising me with a picnic basket, a single red rose, and a grassy spot where we could be alone. Another time, we went to an Ethiopian restaurant where the waiter had explained that when we shared a plate of food we could never betray one another. Was that true?

  Dad woke up long enough to paddle the final stretch, and I was glad for the help. Never before had I pulled so much weight alone. At the portage, he stumbled out of the canoe and onto the bank. He forgot to pull the canoe up on shore and headed for the nearby forest.

  He’s just going to pee, I told myself, although I wasn’t sure.

  I stepped out into the water without caring if my boots got any wetter and pulled the canoe onto shore. I lifted out the backpacks and watched uneasily for Dad to return. After a few minutes, I couldn’t wait any longer. I hurried into the forest after him.

  The night owned the forest more completely than the lake, and I couldn’t find a sign of him. Every whisper of a leaf, every shadow of a rock made me shiver. I wanted to find my father and get out of there.

  “Dad? Dad?”

  No answer. I wished I’d brought a flashlight.

  “Dad?” I called more sharply. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of him, my whole body tight with hope and fear.

  He hadn’t gone far, although every second was like a minute until I found him. I tried to hug him, but he pulled away and began walking in circles around a tree, staring up into the leaves and muttering. Maybe the pain was worse. I knew that the sight of blood made him faint but could he become delirious? I grabbed his face in my hands and tried to make him see me.

  “Dad, you OK?” He was always so strong. So capable. What was wrong?

  He looked at me, confused, and said nothing.

  My heart sank into my boots. This couldn’t happen. Dad couldn’t be so weak. I needed him. I wanted him back to normal. I wanted him to take care of me now. I wanted him to make this whole nightmare end.

  If only Clive had come. He would have figured out a plan. Maybe that was why I liked him. Because he took control. Yet no one was here to help me. I was responsible now. For Dad. For myself. For everything.

  I led my father back to the canoe with firm steps. I would take charge, like Clive always did. Push back at everything that was pushing at me. I had to.

  I grabbed a flashlight and some granola bars from the packs and shoved them in the pocket of my raincoat. Then I left the two packs in plain sight at the side of the trail. We would have to come back for them later.

  With a jerky swing, I tried to get the canoe upside-down over my head. It crashed back down on a rock and I cringed, thinking of how we had lovingly crafted it. Three times I tried, until I finally got it up on my shoulders.

  “Come on, Dad,” I said breathlessly as I struggled under the heavy load. If only he would follow me over the portage.

  Even after my eyes had adjusted to the dim forest, I could see little without a flashlight. The hike wasn’t too long, but my shoulders ached from the weight of the canoe and my legs buckled every time I stumbled over a root. Then Dad wouldn’t hold a flashlight steady on the trail, and he wandered into the woods instead of following the path.

  I left the canoe propped against a tree and took Dad by the hand. The flashlight jerked and trembled over the path as I pulled him along.

  The trail seemed much longer going out than it did coming in. It refused to end. Finally I heard the slap of waves on rock. Then I caught a glimpse of water through the trees and felt the cold lakeside wind on my cheeks. Shipeau Lake. The biggest lake, but it was the last one. When we arrived at the end of the
portage, I sat my father down with one of the flashlights and a granola bar.

  “Now don’t move. OK, Dad?”

  He nodded his head, but he didn’t answer. Did he even understand? He had lost a lot of blood. I shined my flashlight on his hand and saw the soaked red bandage.

  Without stopping to catch my breath, I ran back up the trail as fast as I could to get the canoe, the flashlight beam bouncing on the path ahead of me. I hoped that Dad wouldn’t get into trouble while I was gone.

  By the time I got the canoe back on my shoulders, it felt heavier than before. All I could hear was the sound of my own stumbling footsteps and my breath chugging in and out of my mouth. Each step shot pain through my shoulders, and I was sweating in spite of the cold. Then, the land sloped down and I could hear the lap of the waves.

  “Dad?” I called as I threw the canoe down by the water.

  He hadn’t wandered away, but he didn’t answer me. He was sitting still, with the granola bar in his hand, unopened. In the eerie glow of the flashlight, his skin was too white, his eyes vacant.

  I guided Dad to the bow of the canoe then stuffed his uneaten granola bar into my mouth. Hunger roared louder inside me but I didn’t even stop to take a swallow from my water bottle. Instead, I thrust the canoe out into the dark lake and shoved off. One big lake to cross.

  * * *

  IN THE NARROW CHANNEL, I SEARCHED with my eyes and the flashlight until I could see the first curve into the lake. I didn’t need the map for this part of the journey—I knew it by heart.

  Yet as I rounded the curve, rain began to fall. Gentle drops that were almost welcome, then harder drops that prickled my face and hands. The wind was blowing toward me. I squinted ahead but all I could see were millions of raindrops battering the water’s surface.

  I stopped paddling, and the canoe began to drift backward. How could I do this with all of nature lashing out at me?

  My father sat slumped in the front of the canoe.

  “Dad, can you help me paddle?” I said with a sob, sure that he wouldn’t answer me.

  A grunt in reply. Nothing more. I squeezed my eyes shut and begged that an unseen force would help me out of this mess.

  The canoe rocked on the growing waves, travelling faster and faster the wrong way. What should I do? Try to find shelter? What would my father do?

  I looked at the waves washing into the canoe, the trees brushing the sky, the rain hurtling down. A power far greater than me was against us.

  I couldn’t take the punishment anymore. Everything and everyone was out to get me, and I was tired of it. Clive bossed me around. So did Dad. Now this angry sky was out to get me, too. But this time I was ready to fight back.

  I screamed, “You can’t push me around!” My words foolish. Yet something inside me was stronger for saying them. Peaceful, in spite of the storm.

  I picked up my paddle and began once again to force the canoe through the water. Dip, pull, lift, and swing. Dip, pull, lift, and swing. Just keep moving. Prove what I could do on my own.

  The rain pelted harder, turned into needles. I paddled for what felt like hours—past the point, between the islands, and around the final curve into a narrow bay.

  I had almost made it. Now the wind was at my side. The waves were smaller. I could open my eyes a little wider and see where I was going.

  On the other side of the bay I could make out the beach, the dock, the rangers’ office, and a row of cars. I could see a light in the office.

  My hands were crunched into painful claws from gripping the paddle for so long. I paddled a little harder, pulling until my muscles ached more than I knew they could. One stroke at a time across the bay.

  “We’re almost there, Dad.”

  If he heard me, he didn’t show it.

  Finally the canoe scraped over the tiny pebbles of the shore. I stepped out into the lake in my soggy boots.

  “We made it!” I yelled out to the gray swirling sky. Then I turned to my father. “Come on, Dad.”

  I held my father’s arm to steady him. Blood dripped through the bandage and splashed into the water. It spread out with feathery tentacles until a wave washed it away.

  Then my father spoke. “Sidney?” He squeezed my hand with his good hand like he was afraid to ever let it go. “What happened? How did I get here?”

  I squeezed his hand right back. Saw his eyes clearer than they had been since the accident.

  “You’re going to be all right, Dad.”

  My muscles ached, my teeth chattered with the cold, but a lightness came upon me. We had made it. I had paddled Dad out by myself. I had found my way, carried the canoe, and battled the wind, rain, darkness, hunger, and time. And no one had told me what to do.

  Stinks Like Flowers

  David

  Apt. 1407

  I COULD SEE THE CEMETERY through the Jackal’s bedroom window. The Jackal stood between me and the open window, blaring his new tune on his red electric guitar. He’d made me do the vocals.

  “Get up! Stand up on your two feet!” I sang off key and out of time. “Don’t you know, we’ve got so much to beat?”

  I gave the Jackal his name because he stayed up late and because he liked to prowl the clubs at night, just to check out the scene. And because his real name was Hubert. The Jackal was aiming to be the next electric-guitar superstar.

  “ ’Cause we can do it all to-ge-e-ther! Yeah! We can do it all to …”

  I stopped and let the Jackal go on solo. His hair had swung over half his face and his long fingers were grinding out the tune with all he had. But the cemetery kept tugging me away from him.

  The Jackal lives five blocks away from the Building, in a house that backs onto the cemetery. When we were younger, we tunnelled behind the huge oak tree in his yard and into the cemetery to make a secret cave. Now I couldn’t stop staring at the rows of stones, although I hadn’t set foot in there for six months. Not since Dad had been buried.

  “Hey, Davie-boy.” The Jackal had stopped playing and was waving a hand in front of my eyes. “You going to do that on stage?”

  I snapped back into the room. “Huh?”

  “You’ll never be my lead singer that way.”

  “Wouldn’t I have to be able to sing in tune to do that?” I stared over his shoulder.

  The Jackal followed my glance out the window, over his huge grassy backyard, and into the cemetery.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he began. “Maybe we should dig up a few bodies out there. Take all the old rings and jewels to sell.” His smirk showed he was joking, but sometimes the Jackal did do some weird stuff. “We’d be rich. Then we could quit school and do some real living. What do you think, David?”

  “Real living sounds good, whatever that is.”

  The Jackal clapped me on the back. “Yeah! Hotel suites, music, and girls! Just think of it!”

  I smiled. Girls would be good. The Jackal fixed me with his cool, dark stare but my eyes slipped back to the window. I couldn’t help it.

  I’d stopped sleeping for a while after Dad died and I hadn’t eaten much. Now I was better, although I hated that he died, and how. The long illnesses, unexpected recoveries, and sudden relapses. All those tubes coming out of his arms and nose, and the machines pumping the air in and out of his lungs. His papery skin and sunken eyes. The annoying grief counsellors. The worst had been the smell. His room at the hospice had stunk like dead flowers. I had to breathe through my mouth the whole time.

  The Jackal blasted me with a few licks at full volume.

  I jumped. “Huh?”

  “You’re set on a break. I’ll raid the fridge.” He swung his guitar strap over his shoulder and set his guitar tenderly on the stand.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I know, skin-and-bones, but I am.”

  I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sing. I couldn’t do anything. What I really wanted to do was ask Dad one question. Why? Why did he have to get AIDS? Why did he have to die? What was I going to do if Mom g
ot sick? But that was more than one question.

  When they’d talked to us about condoms and safe sex at school today, some joker flipped a condom over to me and said, “Your dad should have used one of these.” I was so mad I could have spit.

  Dad had sworn it was his hospital visit in ’86. Mom still said it didn’t matter how he got AIDS or what other people thought about it. She said we just had to deal with his illness, his death, and her being HIV positive. But she was wrong. It mattered to me.

  The Jackal brought back fried chicken, cold pizza, two pops, and a bag of popcorn. He laid it out on his bed and offered me a slice.

  I shook my head at the pizza but I pulled myself away from the window for a drink. I owed the Jackal that much. Because after Dad had gotten sick, some guys at school had started to wink at me and call me pretty boy. The Jackal had to hold me back. Were they stupid enough to think that only gay men got AIDS? Everyone else gave me those scared, mean eyes that said, “We know your Dad’s got it. Don’t give it to us.” Everyone except the Jackal. His eyes never changed. That’s how I knew he was my real friend.

  * * *

  I HAD NEVER EXPECTED TO REALLY TALK to Dad’s ghost until One night after a soccer game. Mom had made me stay in soccer. “He would have wanted it,” she’d said. Funny, but soccer was one of the only times that I still felt alive. That and being with the Jackal.

  It was the last game in a tournament west of the city. We lost four to two. After the game, one rear tire on the car was low. Too low to drive. Slushy-wet rain was starting to fall. Mom put her hands on her hips and let out a string of curses that I would never repeat.

  She wasn’t like a normal mom. She would swear if she wanted to and she didn’t mind if I did it either, as long as I didn’t swear at a person. I could curse cars, trucks, doors, the weather, but not people. Dad had never let me swear at anything, but he couldn’t say much about it now.

  Twenty minutes later, a tow-truck driver was pumping up our tire.

  “Either it’s a slow leak or someone took the air out for a joke,” he said in between smacks of his gum. “There’s a garage two blocks over where you can check the tire for leaks. Just so you don’t get a flat on the highway.”