Neighbourhood Watch
Page 7
* * *
Mélissa enters the apartment. It’s havoc rather than a home.
She runs warm water over her black shoes.
The boys are asleep in the bedroom. Mélissa goes over to their bed. They are sleeping huddled against each other. Their faces are peaceful and their fists are balled.
They may be dreaming. Or not.
Mélissa spits on them. Once, twice.
* * *
A few boos can be heard in the room.
The opponents are sent to their corners. Silence.
Kevin is sweating heat and blood. He’s shaking in his shoes. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go. Don’t do this to me. You can do it.
The words run in a loop in his head.
The master of ceremonies blows the whistle, and the match resumes. Big charges full throttle at FastAss, who catches him with a hook, sends him flying into the ropes, the crowd reacts, Big pulls himself together, jumps on FastAss.
The crowd is going crazy, and from between the ropes, the master of ceremonies’ eye gleams.
Big grabs a chair and with everything he’s got hits FastAss once, twice, three times, in the face, on the back, in the ribs, take that! and that! and that! The crowd goes wild. FastAss sidesteps, grabs the chair from Big’s hands, throws it into the crowd, leaps on Big, hurls him to the ground, and jumps on him feet together, jumps jumps jumps …
The crowd counts: ONE, TWO, THREE.
Kevin, his mouth bleeding, shouts with everything he’s got left LET’S GOOOOO, BIG! GET UP!
Big lifts his head. Manages to get up. FastAss jumps on him, grabs him by the neck, pins him.
Kevin freezes. Something like the end of the world.
* * *
The shoes are soaking in the kitchen sink. Mélissa has emptied the contents of the cupboards onto the floor.
She searches through the bottoms of empty bags. Comes up empty.
Opens the fridge. Takes out the jar of mayonnaise.
Sits at the table and finishes the jar of mayonnaise with a little spoon.
Mélissa doesn’t cry.
* * *
Red night on Ontario, Kathy is being chewed out by an enraged gang member.
He holds her by the hair, her head thrown back, face tensed, she screams, Kelly jumps on him, bites him, but he’s so much stronger, shoves her off, she crashes to the ground, the dogs are barking in every direction, the guy makes a fist and punches, hits Kathy’s stomach, once twice three times, Kelly screams, then goes quiet, absorbs every blow; Kelly is crying, frozen as she watches. The guy shoves Kathy, who ends up sprawled on the ground, hands knotted at her stomach, which is on fire. Kelly jumps on her, wracked in sobs; she rubs her quickly all over, kisses her with haphazard little kisses, hurt, helpless.
People in the street just kept walking. Like the blows were a light rain, they walked faster.
Kelly holds Kathy in her arms. This is the only end of the world there is.
* * *
FastAss is strutting like a peacock around Big, who is still, shoulders slumped, out of breath …
Behind the mic, the master of ceremonies shouts in an echo.
‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’
The crowd shouts with him:
‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’
Bam! Big takes a head-butt to the stomach, he is hurled into the ropes, then thrown to the ground. Kevin watches in silence.
A voice somewhere: ‘LOSER!’
Kevin feels it. Like a shot from an m16 right in the gut. He spins around, searches for the source.
‘LOSER!’
Again.
‘LOSER!’
Stop.
‘BIG, LOSER!’
Kevin reels.
The crowd rubs it in: ‘LOSER! LOSER! LOSER!’
He plugs his ears.
Everywhere: ‘BIG, LOSER! LOSER! LOSER!’
Kevin looks around him. It can’t be. Big has never lost. Big is a winner. He can’t lose now, like this. He can’t.
‘LOSER! LOSER! LOSER!’
Kevin gnaws on his lips again, is dizzy. This is how it happens? The end of the world?
‘LOSER! LOSER! LOSER! LOSER! LOSER!’
It drops on Kevin like a nuclear bomb. Exhausted, he turns back toward the ring. His eyes burning, lips wet, forehead damp. Big lost. He lost. Kevin looks at him. It was the only place he was still winning. He had no right to lose. No right.
His face covered with sweat and blood, Kevin shouts at the top of his lungs, louder than anyone else.
‘LOSER! … LOSER! LOSER! LOSER!’
Big, pinned to the ropes, weak, turns toward Kevin. Looks at him. Right in the eye.
Kevin looks back at him and keeps shouting.
‘LOSER! LOSER! LOSER!’
Tears on his enraged face.
‘LOSER! LOSER! LOSER!’
FastAss delivers his final blow, fatal. Big crashes to the ground. He lost. The audience is going wild; the champ is lifted up in the air, his picture is taken, the loser is booed, and beneath the cries of the crowd and the music, killkillkill, under Kevin’s glare, his cape is torn off and thrown to the ground.
Kevin in a fury drowning shoves the crowd snatches the cape from anonymous hands and rushes outside.
In the ring, the disgraced old champ calls out to him: ‘Kevin!’
Kevin runs. As fast as he can. The red cape floats in the wind. On a wall behind him, graffiti yells, The poor stay poor. In his head, a hammer, killkillkill …
Mélissa, teetering on her shoes, goes down the stairs. Her face pale and her body in lace, she knocks on a door. The guy who collects the rent opens. Looks both ways before letting her in.
At the back of an alley for a break. In the city, a long body, insect-like, slowly curls up and lets out a hoarse cry. A crack in the night.
Meg.
Backstage, FastAss signs autographs and high-fives the fans. The master of ceremonies brings him a cold beer. More guys are getting ready around him.
Sitting on a stool in the corner, Big unties his shoes.
His makeup has run on his damp face.
‘Steve, want a beer?’
Steve doesn’t answer. His face is hard. Tensed.
FastAss opens his beer, downs it.
‘Let him digest his defeat. A one-eighty like that can’t be easy … ’
The master of ceremonies raises his beer to Steve. ‘Cheers, man!’
Steve stays bent over his shoes, fingers tangled in the laces.
Silence backstage as the tough guys lower their voices out of respect for the defeated champ. Steve hates their whispering. He hates the smell of their sweat and their compassionate looks. Steve is ashamed. A tear falls on his shiny shoes. Steve gets up. Picks up his things. Leaves in silence.
* * *
Steve walks into the apartment.
‘Kev?’
He knocks on Kevin’s door. No answer.
‘Open the door, Kevin, come on … ’
No answer.
In the bedroom, the furious sound of guns. Nothing else. Steve is tired.
‘Jesus, Kevin, Christ, it’s just a game! That’s the first time I’ve lost, come on! … It’s no big deal … ’
Gun gun gun.
‘And I’m not going to take it lying down. You’ll see at the next match.’
Silence.
Steve rubs his forehead, sighs. At the end of his rope. At the end of everything. He leans his head against the locked door.
‘What were you doing there anyway? Eh!’
Gun gun gun.
‘And I’ll find another job soon … They said they might take me back at the garage … That would be pretty good, eh, Kev?’
Gun gun gun.
‘Maybe you could even help me fill up the blue Mustang that smells like the old days!’
Gun gun gun.
‘Eh, Kevin? … ’
Gun gun gun.
Sigh.
‘You’ll see. Everything’s going to be all right.’
&n
bsp; Gun gun gun.
‘It’s going to be us two … We’re going to stick together … ’
Silence.
‘It’s going to be okay.’
Sigh.
‘Kev, you listening? Eh?’
No answer.
Steve kicks the door, walks away.
In the bedroom the gunfire starts up again even louder.
семь
7
Violin notes travel through the wall. It’s pretty.
Mélissa, naked, is kneeling in front of the washing machine, her little piece of paper unfolded. She is following the instructions to the letter. She would wash the whole world’s clothes, her little paper in front of her, her mother’s voice in every gesture. She doesn’t even need to try to smell the perfect scent of lost Sundays.
* * *
The big room at the end of the hall. When Roxane walks to her violin class, she walks fast. Practically flies. There’s always sun in the room.
Her seat: always in the middle of the others, up front. She doesn’t need to hide or run away here, so she leaves the window seat to someone else. ‘Hello, sir’ to the teacher who is setting up the music stands in his spotless white shirt. ‘Hello, Roxane.’
The other students come in slowly. The bows take flight, music comes to life, and Roxane along with it.
In this room, at this moment, she is like the other kids. And she wants everyone to know.
‘That’s good, Roxane. You’re good.’
‘What?’
‘You’re good.’
* * *
Mélissa sits in front of the bathroom mirror. Makeup is spread out around her. She applies colour to her face, then her cheeks, lips, and eyes.
With a voice growing steadily less childlike, she talks to herself as she concentrates on her transformation.
‘Hidden behind it … no one can see you anymore … Where is Mélissa?’
She stares at herself in the mirror.
‘Not here.’
* * *
With her long, skinny fingers her chipped red nails there is no woman left there’s nothing there but bones wearing makeup. She opens a new letter left in the crack in the road, mailbox for scum.
‘Come home, Mom.’
Sniffs.
Swallows.
Crumples the paper. Throws it in the gutter.
* * *
‘Mom, there’s going to be a concert.’
‘Huh?’
‘At my school, there’s going to be a concert.’
‘Oh. You want to go?’
‘Uh, no. I’m playing in it.’
‘You’re playing in it?’
‘Yeah, me and a lot of other kids from school, you know, the normal classes.’
‘I see.’
‘There’s going to be guests.’
‘Who?’
‘Well, parents.’
‘Oh.’
Silence.
‘You going to come?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mom, you have to come. You’re my guest.’
‘I’ll come. Yeah, I’ll come.’
* * *
Steve in the doorway, TV in his hands.
‘I got no choice, Kev.’
Kevin stares at him.
Steve looks down at the floor. Leaves.
A gaping hole in the apartment: there’s no screen left.
Kevin is frozen in the middle of the living room. Escape is no longer possible.
* * *
Kelly in a hoarse voice on her piece of cardboard:‘Got any change, mister?’
Steve from behind his TV: ‘What do you think I’m doing here?’
Steve heads into the pawnshop.
* * *
A corner of the schoolyard. Screams. Two children ripping at each other’s skin with their nails, sinking their teeth into one another, crying together and at each other, hating each other for everything that surrounds them.
Kevin fights, rage in his gut for all that he isn’t.
A teacher cuts through the little jungle and grabs Mélissa by the collar as she keeps spitting in every direction. She’s screaming she’s going to kill someone, kill everyone, she is crying and choking. She goes down the hallway, held up by four solid arms.
On the ground, Kevin wipes the spit from his face with the back of his sleeve. His nose is bleeding.
Roxane goes over to him, holds out her hand. Kevin gets up on his own.
He wipes his bloody nose. Spits at Roxane’s feet and takes off.
• • •
The principal, looking annoyed, lips pinched, holds the phone and lets it ring.
‘There’s no answer.’
‘He’s at work, I’m telling you.’
Mélissa holds a facecloth with ice in it to her forehead.
Her feet are swinging, she wants to take off.
‘Where does he work?’
‘Deliveries.’
‘Where?’
‘Deliveries.’
‘He does deliveries?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of what? Where?’
‘I dunno.’
‘You don’t know. Okay, you’re going to have to help me here, Mélissa, if you want this to turn out well for you.’
‘Potatoes.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Delivers potatoes.’
‘He works in a restaurant?’
‘Yeah. But I dunno which one.’
Silence.
Mélissa gets up and takes off running.
* * *
‘Roooooooox! That’s enough!’
The bow stops. Suspended in scrolls of smoke.
Silence.
In the living room, the television. A game show with people who are winning. Lucky.
The bow gently returns to the strings. Play quietly, so quietly.
A ti. The bow like a wave over the notes, a silent ti so as not to bother anyone, a do that answers quietly, a so that stealthily follows, the whole piece like that, suspended, notes in her head, above the winners, above the smoke, above the world, above the shit.
* * *
Mélissa slows her pace.
On her way, she leaves a note in the crack in the gutter. The one from last night isn’t there anymore. She looks across the road. Not one girl. They’re all busy. It’s cold outside, and guys want a little loving.
There are no prostitutes for little girls. Sucks.
восемь
8
Day breaks on Rue Ontario.
Kelly thinks it mightn’t have bothered.
* * *
Roxane is standing up tall in the entrance, her coat on.
‘Hey, you can’t leave me all alone like this!’
The ruins of a woman in a bathrobe, talking with eyes closed.
‘Mom, I have to go. I said I would go.’
‘Christ, I need you right now.’
She can’t dry out alone.
‘I’ll be back later.’
‘No! Anyway, it’s freezing outside. Stay here, Roxane … Please … Mommy needs you … ’
Roxane goes down the stairs.
‘My whole body hurts!’
Roxane leaves because her father is waiting for her. Her mother’s voice echoes in her stomach all day.
* * *
He looks rough.
Sitting at the end of the bed, his pants too short and his wool sweater full of holes.
He’s too big for the bedroom. Looks like a kid being punished.
The walls are yellow, the bed tiny, but it takes up the whole room. There’s a table where he’s put his ashtray and piles the Journal de Montréal, then three shelves with a box of cookies, pictures, and Roxane’s drawings.
He’ll be holed up here for a few more months. Giving himself a chance.
Not ready for the real world.
‘It’s dark at five o’clock. I go to bed once it’s dark. It makes it go faster.’
Roxane is sitting at the end of the bed.
‘Hey, take off your coat.’
She takes off her coat.
Marc looks down at the floor.
‘You okay, Dad?’
Lifts his head. ‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay … There are good people here. This time it’s for good … For good.’
‘ … ’
‘Do you still believe me?’
‘Yes, I believe you.’
Silence.
‘Your boat’s getting dusty.’
‘Huh?’
‘Your boat. Getting dusty.’
* * *
An episode of Lost is playing on the televisions. Kathy and Kelly like it. They’ve watched every episode. Even without the sound, they can follow it. A group is trying to survive. Doesn’t get any simpler than that.
Some passersby stop to watch, head off again after a bit.
They must know how it ends. Who survives.
* * *
One block away. Mélissa is sitting on the sidewalk. She’s eating salted sunflower seeds, spitting the shells as far as she can to the street. On the other side, the huddle of prostitutes kills time waiting for clients. Mélissa has put on her snow pants so she can hang out there as long as she needs to.
Six notes have piled up in the cracks in the gutter, and no one is picking them up.
Tough shit. She’ll read them eventually, and it’ll be more all at once. Like a little book.
Meg hasn’t been there for a while. The stork occasionally glances at Mélissa.
Mélissa tries to spit her sunflower seed shell at her. Too far.
‘Hey! Tell Meg there are notes here for her!’
The stork turns around. The other prostitutes too.
‘Do you get it or are you deaf? Tell Meg to pick up her mail. It’s important!’
The prostitutes stop talking and look at the little girl in her purple snowsuit.
Silence.
The stork walks toward the curb.
‘Meg will be away for a bit.’
She has the voice of a child.
‘Where is she?
‘She’ll be back in a while. I’ll tell her once she’s back.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s sick. She’s resting.’
‘Where?’
‘ … ’
‘WHERE?’
Mélissa grabs a handful of sunflower seeds, hurls them to the other side of the street. She’s red, feels like throwing up.