On the Shores of Darkness, There is Light

by Cordelia Strube

  “How dare you slap my child.”

  “It got her attention.”

  Irwin topples onto his side. His eyes close and his arms and legs stiffen. Harriet gently nudges him. “Bud?”

  “I can’t believe you would do that,” Lynne says. “I mean, how could you do that? She’s just a child.”

  “That’s no child.”

  “She’s eleven years old and you’re scared of her. What kind of man hits a defenceless child?”

  “She’s not defenceless, and the longer you insist on seeing her as innocent, the more harm she will cause.”

  Harriet kneels beside Irwin and carefully shakes him. When he doesn’t respond she suspects he’s about to seize and that she should call her mother. But this will only lead to more torment for Irwin. They will pull down his pants and shove Diastat up his ass. It probably won’t work and he’ll have to go back to the hospital because his shunt is malfunctioning again. The doctors will shave some of his hair before they cut open his head. Last time they did this it left a scar in the shape of a question mark. Mindy’s sons Conner and Taylor called him the Riddler because the Riddler has question marks all over his head. Irwin hated being named after a bad guy. Sometimes, when the neurosurgeon revises the shunt, he cuts holes in Irwin’s neck and abdomen to pull out the infected shunt and put in a new one. If the infected shunt is slimy with bacteria and breaks, the surgeon leaves it there and sticks in another one. Sometimes he even leaves the valve in the abdominal cavity. Irwin’s body is a silicone dumping ground. And every time they operate they make more scar tissue that obstructs his bowel. To fight infection they’ll dose him with cocktails that will give him diarrhea, turn him yellow and destroy his appetite. He’ll get even skinnier and weaker. It seems to Harriet he’d be better off dead. Before he died, Mr. Tackett in 611 had really bad arthritis, walked funny from a stroke and couldn’t see properly because of macular degeneration. Mr. Tackett often said he’d be better off dead.

  If Irwin’s body turns blue and stops moving, the real Irwin, the shoo-in for angel wings, will be freed from earthly torment. That’s what Mrs. Rivera called living after she’d been almost dead with the saints. “I’m so tired of this earthly torment, anak,” she’d say, reaching for more morphine.

  Maybe right now Irwin is between life and death, singing with the saints or superheroes or angels. Maybe right now he is developing superpowers and, in seconds, will be able to breathe on any planet, even Pluto. As abruptly as his limbs tightened, they soften and he lies inert on his side. Harriet sees a bright, silvery glow around him and knows he has escaped.

  Gennedy squishes towards her. “What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean ‘nothing’? What’s with Irwin?”

  “He fell asleep.”

  “On the carpet?” Gennedy tenderly sweeps hair from Irwin’s forehead and holds his palm against it. “He’s warm. What happened? You were supposed to be watching him.”

  “I was. He just fell asleep.”

  “Bullshit, you deceitful child. He seized, didn’t he? Lynne, get in here.” He lifts Irwin onto the couch.

  “What is it?” Lynne asks.

  “Harriet sat back and watched while Irwin had a seizure.”

  “I did not.”

  “She would never do that, Gennedy. Stop accusing her. Is he okay?”

  “Seems a little warm. Get the thermometer.” Lynne scrambles to the bathroom.

  “I know what you’re up to,” Gennedy hisses, “even if your mother doesn’t. You tried to kill your brother.”

  “I did not.”

  “Live with it for the rest of your life, you little bitch. But if you try it again I’m calling the police no matter what your mother says.”

  Lynne returns with the thermometer. She pulls down Irwin’s pants and shoves it up his ass. He wakens and starts to cry. Harriet wants to shout at him to stay dead, to stay free, that he mustn’t be scared and that it’s way better on the other side.

  Lynne pulls out the thermometer and reads it. “False alarm. If he had one he’s over it, my sweet baby boy.” She holds him to her breast and kisses him. “Everything’s going to be all right, baby. Mummy’s here.”

  “Did I fall asleep?”

  “You did, sweetheart.”

  “Have you stopped fighting?”

  “Yes, peanut, no more fighting. We’re all here, and it’s all fine.”

  It isn’t and Harriet can’t stand the lies. She goes to her room, closes the door and wedges a chair under the doorknob. “Mortality weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,” she mutters. She tramples The Leopard Who Changed Her Spots and And I Think to Myself, What a Wonderful World. She slides her window open, pulls out the busted screen and tosses the mixed media into the parking lot, relishing the smash as they land on the tarmac. She carefully unfolds Mr. Chubak’s scraps of poetry and reads the verses quietly to herself. Hard tears prick her eyes. She got to the bottom of everything only to find there is nothing there, just her own difficult, selfish, greedy and compassionless self. She got to the bottom of everything only to realize that everything they say about her is true. Behind Lynne’s back Gennedy pointed two fingers at his eyes then one at Harriet and mouthed, “I’m watching you.”

  She lies down in her tomb like Tutankhamun.

  Her mother pushes against the door, opening it a crack. “Harriet, we need to talk.” Harriet remains motionless, feigning sleep. “What have you got against the door? I think she’s wedged a chair against the door.”

  “The criminal mind at work,” Gennedy bellows.

  “Stop saying that. Help me open it.”

  “Get her to open it. She’s an innocent child. She’ll do as she’s told.”

  “Harriet? Take the chair away from the door, please. I just want to talk.”

  Harriet’s done with talking. She’s an actor pretending to be dead, trying not to breathe or move her eyelids while people simulate grief around her, grasping her lifeless hands and throwing their heads down on her unmoving chest.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Gennedy says. “I promise you, get her a psych assessment and she’ll turn up a sociopath.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “I’ve been helping for too long, Lynne. I’m tired of it. She’s got you right where she wants you.”

  “Please go and watch Irwin and leave us alone.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Harriet hears her mother slide down the wall and sit on the floor. She talks into the crack in the door permitted by the chair. “Please tell me Gennedy’s wrong about you.”

  If she needs Harriet to tell her, the game’s over, as Grandpa Archie would say.

  “I really want to believe he’s wrong about you, bunny. But you’re not making it easy for me. You behaviour is . . . is crazy. You’re doing bad things and nothing I say stops you. You run around who knows where, jumping into dumpsters, hanging out with all kinds of low-lifes, collecting garbage. You’re out of control, and I guess it’s partly my fault because I’ve kind of turned a blind eye. With Irwin and everything, and the bookkeeping, I just haven’t been paying attention.”

  Harriet’s nose is itching but she can’t scratch it because she doesn’t know how much Lynne can see through the crack.

  “I know it’s been hard on you, having a sick brother, but you have to understand that life is full of challenges and we must face them, not run from them.”

  All her mother’s ever done is run from challenges, first into Trent’s and now Gennedy’s pasty white arms. A challenge would have been to let Irwin die when the doctors said they should, to let nature take its course instead of dragging him through earthly torment.

  “Gennedy says sociopaths don’t know the difference between right and wrong. Please tell me you know the difference.”

  Harriet’s
not sure she knows the difference. One person’s right is another person’s wrong. One person’s wrong is another person’s right. She wiggles her nose quickly to stop the itching.

  “I’m glad you’re quitting the painting and the garbage picking. I really don’t think it’s been healthy for you, I mean, the toxins alone are a concern. But you can’t steal again, ever. Gennedy says a criminal record stays with you for life. It’ll affect university, job applications, everything. It’s no joke.”

  Harriet never said it was. She wishes her mother would go away. Her legs are starting to cramp.

  “I have to tell your father about this. Then we’ll decide what action to take.”

  What action? They never do anything. They run around in circles, pretending to be grown-ups when they’re just big babies.

  “Babe?” Gennedy calls. “Irwin wants you.” And off Lynne goes. Harriet jumps off the bed and shakes out her arms and legs. She turns on her glue gun to make a crucifix for Mr. Rivera. The Riveras have either a crucifix or a Virgin Mary in every room, but Harriet wants to make him a small one he can put in his shirt pocket with his reading glasses. She digs in her wood scraps box until she finds suitable pieces. After sanding and gluing them, she selects beads from her bead collection to decorate the cross. Mrs. Rivera loved sparkly, brightly coloured jewellery she bought in Chinatown. Harriet chooses the brightest and most sparkly beads for Mr. Rivera’s crucifix.

  “Harriet?” her mother says through the door. “Have you been taking your pills? You’re supposed to have them with food. Please come and have some dinner. Do I smell the glue gun? Harriet? Oh for god’s sake.”

  After a moment her mother flip-flops back to the kitchen, where she resumes squabbling with Gennedy. Irwin must be sleeping. Harriet eats the red Twizzlers Mr. Hung gave her because he doesn’t know she’s not allowed red dye. When they tire of bickering, Gennedy turns on News World to find out if he needs to call an emergency meeting of world leaders.

  Harriet hears the rumble of Buck’s truck and leans out the window to wave at him, but he doesn’t look up or get out of the cab. She suspects her mother has forgotten they were supposed to meet for a run after dinner. If Harriet leaves her room to remind her, Gennedy and Lynne will corner her and she’s too exhausted to fight. Her forehead feels clammy and she’s thirsty. She doesn’t understand why they don’t go into their bedroom. Usually Gennedy has important reading to do, and Lynne has to catch up on Hollywood gossip. Harriet blows on the crucifix to dry the glue. She sniffs it, wishing the glue were toxic, and eats another piece of licorice, hoping the red dye and fumes will free her of the shifting hatreds, doubts and resentments chained inside her. Gennedy says she does what she wants when she wants, but it doesn’t feel that way. He says he’ll report her to the police if she tries to kill her brother again, but it didn’t feel like she was trying to kill him. She’s not sure what’s really going on anymore. All she knows is that Gennedy will always be watching her, hitting her, scraping bits of food off his plate, squishing around the apartment, leaving tea stains on countertops. Her mother will never give him his marching orders. Her mother is weak. It doesn’t matter that Buck is ripped and fun and employed, Lynne will tie herself to the loser because that’s all she knows. That’s all she feels she deserves. Just as Harriet believes she deserves no better than to wake up each morning filled with dread. Her self-loathing has surpassed Gennedy’s disdain for her. She cannot make good. Grandpa Archie used to speak fondly about people who made good, and Harriet always wanted to be one of them so he would speak fondly about her. But she lies and steals and tries to kill her brother.

  Finally she hears movement in the bedroom, then the radio. Gennedy listens to news shows while doing important reading. She carefully slides the chair from under the doorknob and soundlessly opens the door to look down the hall. TV light flickers. Lynne, like Gran, falls asleep in front of the TV. Even if her mother is awake, she’ll be lying on the couch with her back to the apartment door. Harriet grabs the crucifix and creeps stealthily down the hall and out the door.

  The curtain is drawn in Buck’s cab. The stereo blares and the engine is running to power the air conditioner. Harriet knocks on the door to tell Buck there’s been a family emergency and they won’t be able to meet for a run. She climbs onto the rocker panel and raps on the window, hoping Buck will call her Ranger and offer her a Pepsi, play “Thriller” and coach her on her moonwalk.

  She spots one of his bare feet poking out from under the curtain. Its toes spread as the foot moves back and forth rhythmically. On the floor of the passenger side Harriet sees flip-flops. They’re jelly green like her mother’s. At first she tells herself they can’t be her mother’s, but the imprint of Lynne’s foot in the foam is unmistakable. The ball of her foot wears out flip-flops faster than her heels. Harriet stares at the compressed foam while Buck’s speakers pound through her. This is not what she and Dee strategized; the ’rents were supposed to date and fall in love before shagging. Now her mother is just another fuck buddy. Harriet yanks on the cab door but it’s locked. She hammers on the window with both fists. Buck’s foot disappears. He draws back the curtain while pulling up his running shorts. Lynne also pulls up her shorts and adjusts her tank top. Her face, when she sees Harriet, looks like a Francis Bacon painting. Buck quickly closes the curtain and opens the door. “What’s up, Ranger? You ready for a run?”

  “You disgust me,” Harriet says. “You both disgust me.” She jumps off the rocker panel and kicks one of the massive tires. “And you’re polluting just so you can rut.” She runs across the parking lot, ignoring the scorching pain of her toe. Her mother’s pleading cries mean nothing to her.

  “I am so happy to see you, anak,” Mr. Rivera says. Relatives pack his apartment, eating pancit bihon, drinking calamansi juice and playing bingo. Harriet sees the roast pig on the table with its hind legs twisted behind it and its front legs bent forward as though it’s begging for mercy. Chunks of flesh have been cut out of it, and the tail is missing.

  “You look sad, Harry, is everything okay?”

  “I’m fine. May I please use your comportment room?” Mrs. Rivera called bathrooms comportment rooms, or CRs.

  “Of course, anak.”

  As she wends her way through Riveras of all ages, they say, “Hi, Harry, so happy to see you. Are you going to sing for us tonight?”

  She opens the medicine cabinet. No NyQuil or cough syrup but there’s a bottle of Mrs. Rivera’s liquid morphine, as well as non-drowsy allergy pills. That Caitlin sack of shit said taking them was like being on speed. Harriet wants speed and pain relief, although she’s not sure if what she’s feeling is pain. Heat blasts through her at unpredictable intervals and then waves of cold. Trapped between fire and ice, she can’t go backwards or forwards.

  She measures the morphine in the little plastic cup like she did for Mrs. Rivera, and swallows it with six allergy pills. Dee advised her that a bat-shit-crazy high is M mixed with booze and Red Bull. Maybe M stands for morphine, and non-drowsy allergy pills have similar ingredients to energy drinks. Harriet needs energy, but also to stop the hot and cold blasts. She must find booze. Mr. Rivera’s male relatives drink San Miguel beer. If she pours one into a glass, the Riveras will think it’s ginger ale. This is her criminal mind at work.

  She sits on the plush toilet seat cover because suddenly her legs feel leaden and her feet clamped to the floor. She hates her mother more than she has ever hated anybody. The bubble-assed slut left Harriet alone—in the apartment with the abusive loser—to run off and shag a pothead. After the fuckfest, she’ll drag her horny ass back to the deadbeat, and they’ll go on telling Irwin everything will be all right while they shove things up his butt and make him sicker and sicker. Harriet should kidnap Irwin. She can lift him easily. She could feed him Turtles, take the bus to the lake and go swimming with him. He always wants to play in the water but Lynne won’t let him, even if the green flag signals tha
t the water is safe. Harriet could pull him far out into the lake, hold him close so he feels loved, then quickly drag him under. With his fluid-filled lungs, it will be over in seconds, and she’ll hug him the whole time.

  “The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.” This is another thing Mr. Blake said that she doesn’t really understand but enjoys saying. Mr. Chubak told her Mr. Blake said to see the infinite in all things. “Whatever you do, Harry,” Mr. Chubak said, “you don’t want mind-forg’d manacles.”

  “Mind-forg’d manacles.” Harriet’s lips tingle from the m’s in mind and manacles.

  The black and white tiles in the Riveras’ bathroom are tiny squares and rectangles. The rectangles form a pinwheel around the tiny black squares. The squares pop out at Harriet, spinning, making her dizzy. She stops staring at them and instead looks up at the Virgin Mary gazing sorrowfully down at her. “It must’ve been horrible having your son strung up like that,” Harriet says. “Especially wearing a crown of thorns. And the nails must have really hurt.” The Virgin Mary doesn’t nod because she’s not a complainer. “It seems weird that he had to die for our sins,” Harriet says. “I mean, that blows. Why should anybody have to suffer for everybody else’s sins? That sucks rocks.” The Virgin Mary remains contrite, and Harriet says, “You mustn’t be crushed by duty. You must become who you are. Otherwise you’ll never get to the bottom of everything. I got to the bottom of everything and I’m evil, and I’m okay with that. Somebody has to be evil.”

  She hopes the Virgin Mary will offer a sign that she is not evil but she doesn’t, and someone’s pounding on the door. “I gotta poo,” a boy says. Harriet stands, surprised that her legs no longer feel leaden but light, and washes her hands to remove any traces of Buck’s truck.

  The boy pounds on the door again. “Hurry up, I need to go!”

  Harriet opens the door and the little boy, smelling of smoked bangus, charges in and slams it in her face. To avoid bumping into Riveras, Harriet slides along the wall to the kitchen where the sink is full of bottles of San Miguel. She grabs a glass from the dish rack, and the bottle opener on the counter, and opens a bottle. She manages to pour its entire contents into the glass before Lauro and Remus, two of Mr. Rivera’s sons, come into the kitchen for more beers. She slips into the hall and gulps from the glass. Mr. Shotlander says Canadian beer tastes like horse piss. She doesn’t know what he says about San Miguel, but it tastes like horse piss to her. She ducks into the Riveras’ bedroom. It’s already occupied by teenaged Riveras showing off tattoos and piercings their parents don’t know about. They panic when they see Harriet. “Your secret’s safe with me,” she assures them, stepping back into the hallway. Little Riveras run wild around her, playing games she doesn’t understand. A teeny boy, chewing on pig skin, bumps into her and says, “I’ll kill you last.”