by Joey Comeau
This was an adventure. Martin closed his eyes and tried to think about axes and ghosts.
His shirts were going to get creases.
Outside, Ricky showed Martin the Flying Fox near the playground equipment. It was a wire tied between two poles. One of the poles was short so the wire was just above their heads, and the other pole was five feet higher and twenty feet away.
You climbed up a ladder to the higher pole and took hold of this metal bar. Then you jumped and held onto the bar like your life depended on it, and you went flying along the wire toward the shorter pole. At Martin’s school they just called this a zip-line. Here it was the Flying Fox.
“There was a kid, like, five years ago,” Ricky said, “who didn’t let go in time, and he bounced right off that short pole and landed on his head. Everyone could hear his neck snap. I know a kid who was here that year and he said he was over by the canteen and he still heard the kid’s neck snap. Everyone watching heard the weird grinding sound when the kid tried to get up again. Every single person said they couldn’t forget that sound even if they wanted to.”
Martin could tell Ricky had told the story before. He made little hand gestures the whole time. He had a whole routine worked out. Every time he said “snap,” he pretended to break a stick with his hands. Snap. Snap. After he said “grinding,” he made a sound in his throat that was not right.
“He didn’t die, either,” Ricky said. “That’s the sick part. He’s still alive out west somewhere. Somewhere where there’s no hills, because he has to be in a wheelchair. It’s probably one of those wheelchairs that people control with their tongues. I heard that every once in a while his head comes loose, and it rolls around on his neck because the bones aren’t connected anymore. Someone has to come and help him put it back in his plastic brace. Otherwise it just swings down and he has to look at his chest all day.”
Another pair of boys was coming toward the Flying Fox. The kid on the right was black, with his hair cut in a mohawk that stood up a few inches. He was wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and it was hard to read what it said because the font was so crazy. He noticed Martin staring at his shirt.
“It says, The Hospital Bombers,” he said. “But don’t tell anyone. When our counsellor, Matt, asked me, I told him it said ‘The Hospital Funders.’ That they played benefit shows for hospitals.”
“I like it,” Martin said.
The kid on the left was a bit chubby and he was wearing all black even though it was so hot out.
“I’m Martin,” Martin said. “And this is Ricky.”
Ricky was still looking up at the Flying Fox. He glanced back at the two new kids. Then proceeded to ignore them.
“I’m Gabe, and this is John Dee,” the kid with the mohawk said.
His friend offered a weak wave, and Ricky gave Martin a knowing look. He jerked his thumb at John Dee.
“What did I tell you?” he said. “Dressing all in black on a day like this. Man. Weirdo kids.”
Martin,
I don’t know when you’ll get this email. You probably haven’t even unpacked your bags yet. Mine are still in the middle of the floor where I dropped them. I’m in a hotel in downtown Toronto, with a window looking out over the city. Or part of the city. I can see the CN Tower off in the distance, like a postcard.
You haven’t been to Toronto so I will try to do my best at describing it, but it’s difficult. The pictures don’t really do it justice. The CN Tower, for instance, lights up different colours. It’s cute and all, but once every hour it turns blood red and lets out a scream like a dying animal. At least, I think it comes from the CN Tower. I was just getting off the plane on Toronto Island when I first heard it, and nobody else even flinched. There was this giant, glowing blood spire screaming in agony up above us, and they just kept that same bored, irritated look on their faces that Torontonians always seem to have.
It sounded like the creaking groan of bridges when the metal twists. Like something alive and not alive at the same time, and it occurred to me that every city must have a creature like this. Some guardian of cement and metal and glass that watches over its home. The bridges in Halifax, standing guard out in the fog and the wet. The CN tower looking down over Toronto.
A car met me at the airport, like in a movie. There was a man in a suit with a driver’s cap, holding a sign with my name on it! I was so excited, Martin. I’ve never been picked up from an airport like that before. He took my bags and carried them for me, and held the door open while everyone else was still lined up waiting for their taxis. He didn’t speak, or make small talk with me. It almost felt like being kidnapped. I sat in the back seat in silence, with no idea where we were going. He drove me to a party, so I could meet the director and the film’s stars. It was at the director’s apartment.
The director’s name is Robert and he seems really great. He told me about his favourite parts of Undead Hungry Grandmother Birthday Party, and I tried not to gush too stupidly about Blood Socket. All over his apartment he had posters for old horror movies. The Haunting. Sleepaway Camp! He even had a poster for Black Christmas, Martin. That alone bought him enough respect to keep me from making fun of the Halloween poster.
It was a lot like Halifax apartments, too. The only difference was the cockroaches. I’ve never really seen a cockroach in real life, but here they seemed to just be a fact of life, like fruit flies. They climbed in and over everything on the kitchen counter, scattering in terror whenever someone turned on the faucet. The biggest one was about the size of your fist, but Robert told me that they were mostly very friendly. They actually help keep the kitchen clean, and they control the population of house centipedes, which I’ve never heard of. I don’t think I ever want to meet one, though, if they make the man who directed Blood Socket nervous.
The main character of the movie is a kid about your age. Jim something or other is the actor’s name. I shook his hand and said hello to his mother, but both of them looked bored there at the party.
“This must be so great for you. My son Martin would kill to be in a horror movie.” I said, but the kid just shrugged his shoulders at me.
“It’s not even really acting,” he said. “It’s just a horror movie. I can do better. I’m going to do better. My mom has another audition lined up for me next week. Actual acting.”
He sounded defensive. Where did he think he was that he needed to be defensive about being in Blood Socket 2! The other guests were all laughing and enjoying the party. Even the other child actors seemed to be having fun, chasing the biggest cockroach back and forth under the kitchen table, trapping it under a glass.
“Horror movies are great,” I told him. “Everybody loves horror movies.”
“Nobody has a real career in horror movies,” the kid said.
His mother nodded like he wasn’t saying something stupid.
“I don’t want to end up like that girl from The Exorcist—going crazy and having to do a bunch of porno movies before killing myself. I want to be famous.”
What kind of messed-up priorities did this kids’ parents give him, where he felt bad about being in a horror movie? I should have just kept quiet. This is my first day in Toronto, and I haven’t even started on the movie yet! But he was just wrong.
“First of all,” I told him. “Linda Blair was amazing in that film. She was nominated for an Oscar. And she didn’t go crazy afterward, or kill herself. She had a hard time with drugs, but she got through it. She’s alive and well. I met her at a horror convention last summer and she’s really down to earth. She runs a charity for animals, for Christ’s sake.”
“Uh huh,” the kid said. He had his phone out now, and was texting someone.
Martin, I wanted to slap it out of his smug little hands. What was he doing in a horror movie if he didn’t even like them? It was crazy.
“And secondly,” I said. “Linda Blair did not make porno movies. She got naked i
n some of her later films, sure, but you know who else has appeared naked in her movies? Hellen Fucking Mirren.”
They left the party shortly after that, but I guess I’ll see them bright and early tomorrow morning for our first shoot. I’m supposed to make a kitten’s eyeball pop out and splatter blood all over the little fucker, but to be honest, I’d rather make his eyeball pop out and splatter his mother. I know it’s impolite to speak ill of the mentally deficient, especially when they’re children, but God almighty. I’m glad you turned out to be a little weirdo. I’ll send you a picture of the cat eyeball and try to record the sound of the blood spire screaming.
I’m staying at the Hyatt hotel, and there’s supposedly a bar up on the roof, but I haven’t been able to find it yet. When I leave my hotel room, the hallway seems to lead to the elevators one way, and stretch off forever in the other direction. I tried to walk that way earlier, but it went on and on. The numbers started getting weird down that way, too. 1401, 1402, 1403 at first, which made sense, but the further I got, the less sense anything made. I turned back when I got to a room numbered 14-help-me-Elizabeth-help-me-die.
And in the elevator, the button for the rooftop bar was just a hole, rather than a glowing button. It was black and dark and deep-seeming, and there was a scritching sound coming from inside. I did not try to push the button. But I’m curious. And I don’t know how long I can refrain from jamming my finger in there! I miss you and I hope that you’ve wandered away from the camp and into the woods. I hope that you’ve been kidnapped by wolves, and they are raising you as your own. They could smell it on you, Martin. You are a wild animal. You will be a valuable member of their pack when you are grown.
Love,
Your mom.
Mitchell Hemsworth sat on the edge of a washing machine, and waited for the priest to answer his question. The machine he was sitting on was empty, but the one next to it was rumbling and making the whole row of machines vibrate. Mitchell had blond hair and blue eyes and right now they were rimmed in red. He wanted to accept Jesus into his heart. He did. But he didn’t know what that felt like. He felt normal. He didn’t feel filled with light or saved. He didn’t feel like he was at peace or special.
“No, it’s not like that,” Father Tony, the head counsellor, said. They were in the laundry room, so they could talk quietly. After the speech, when Father Tony asked whether they had accepted Jesus into their hearts, Mitchell hadn’t known what to do. So he stayed behind instead of going into the other room where all the cake and cookies were. He was the only one who stayed. “You let Jesus into your heart by having faith in Him,” Father Tony said. “Those other feelings, they come over time. It’s not like flicking a switch, son. Nothing in this life is as easy as that.”
Mitchell wiped his nose on the back of his hand and looked out the window where the rest of the campers were running around, and shrieking with laughter. They were all sure that they had Jesus in their hearts, but Mitchell hadn’t known. He wanted to let Jesus into his heart. But everyone else went into the next room like they were sure and Mitchell stayed.
And he was scared, too.
“If I accept Jesus into my heart,” Mitchell said, “Then I’ll be saved? And when I die, I’ll live forever in heaven?”
“Yes,” Father Tony said.
“But will my dad?” Mitchell had trouble getting these words out. His dad was an atheist. He didn’t go to church, and he made jokes about priests sometimes. He didn’t want to tell Tony that, though. “He doesn’t believe in God,” Mitchell said.
“Well, no,” Tony said. “I know it’s scary, but there’s nothing you can do for your father. He has to choose for himself.”
Mitchell cried harder. There was nothing he could do to protect his father from going to hell.
“But it won’t bother you,” the priest said. He put his hand on the boy’s head and tousled his hair. “You’ll be in a better place. You won’t even notice that your dad isn’t with you.” Tony smiled.
“I will,” Mitchell said. “It will bother me.”
Tony let out a laugh, and then clamped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry,” he said, and then he laughed again. “God, you’re a complainer, aren’t you?”
“What?” Mitchell said.
Father Tony was trying to stop laughing, with his hand over his mouth. He shook his head at Mitchell as if to apologize. But Mitchell could tell he was still laughing. Tears were rolling down Tony’s cheeks.
“Have you considered not being such a big baby?” Tony said. “I mean, what, are you going to go to Hell with him? If your father jumped off a bridge into a never-ending fiery pit of suffering, does that mean you have to, too?” Tony tried to catch his breath.
“I love my father,” Mitchell said.
“I have an idea,” Father Tony said. He reached out and helped Mitchell down off the washing machine. “Okay, I know that it’s scary to think your father might burn forever in the bowels of Hell with his skin torn off and all that. But you just have to take your mind off it.” He opened the metal top of the washing machine, and reached out to take Mitchell’s hand. “Here, just put your hand here,” he said.
And then he slammed the metal door down across the boy’s fingers as hard as he could.
Mitchell let out a scream, and pulled his hand back. There was blood all over the hand, and two of the fingers were bent strangely. They were probably broken.
Mitchell screamed again when he saw his fingers, and Tony had to sit down, he was laughing so hard. He couldn’t stop laughing, even long after the kid had run off in terror. That’ll give him something to complain about, Tony thought, and he giggled like a school girl, the ridiculous sound of his own high-pitched giggling only made it worse.
There was blood all over the front of the washing machine, and he knew that this was wrong. He wasn’t acting right. He should be worried about Mitchell and his fingers. Even more than that, he should be worried about Mitchell’s crisis of faith. But he wasn’t. Tony leaned forward and used his fingertip to draw a smiley face in the blood.
CHAPTER SIX
When he had composed himself, Father Tony left the laundry room and went looking for Mitchell. There was a ringing in his ears, but he should probably try to keep it together long enough to find the camper and calm the boy down. Or he could find Mitchell and hit him in the head with a hammer instead. Tony smiled, but then shook his head. No. Focus. He had to find Mitchell and apologize. Calm him down. There was a drop of blood on the floor headed toward the dining room.
Mitchell was sitting at one of the big tables, and a male counsellor, Quinn, was wrapping the bloodied hand in gauze. Tony came into the room quietly, and they didn’t notice him. There were tears streaked down Mitchell’s face, and he was shaking with sobs. Quinn was occupied with wrapping the hand. This was a pretty nice dining room, Father Tony thought, looking around. He liked the way the walls were shaped. How come he had never noticed that before? The way they seemed to curl around the room, like fingers holding him safe in their grip. It felt nice, just standing here. When was the last time he’d let himself just enjoy life like this? There was more to life than preaching God’s word. Didn’t Tony deserve to have fun, too?
“It’s okay,” Quinn had his hand on Mitchell’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You’re going to be fine. We’ll find someone to drive you to the hospital over in town, and those fingers will be as good as new before you know it.”
Mitchell started to nod, but then saw Tony over Quinn’s shoulder and let out a wail.
Tony hid his smile before Quinn could turn and see. He looked at the counsellor, and they stared at one another for a quiet moment.
“Just stay right here,” Quinn told Mitchell.
“Can I speak to you a moment, sir?” Quinn said.
Tony nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Quinn, right?”
They walked out into the hall.
“What happened
to that boy in there? He hurt himself on the Flying Fox?” Tony said.
“He says you did it to him.”
The counsellor was eighteen years old, tops, but he talked like he was used to being in charge. He puffed his chest up when he accused the priest, and it was all Tony could do to keep from smiling.
“I cut his hand?” Tony said.
“And broke two of his fingers, it looks like,” Quinn said. “He says you slammed his hand in the washing machine. And that you laughed at him and told him his father was going to burn in hell.”
Tony sighed and leaned back against the wall.
“Oh, I think I understand,” he said. “Well, this is certainly a new one.”
“Sir?” Quinn said.
“Quinn, I’ve been running this camp for years now. And every year there are kids who get homesick. Some of them get over it, and wind up having a great time, but some don’t even try. They pretend to be sick, or they act out. This is the first time I’ve ever had one break his own fingers though. That’s kind of gutsy, actually.”
Quinn seemed less certain, and Tony patted him on the shoulder and smiled his best priest smile.
“No, I didn’t break one of our camper’s fingers and then tell him his father was going to hell,” he said, chuckling. “I wouldn’t be a very good camp counsellor if I went around doing things like that. I’d be an even worse priest! Don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Quinn said. He let out a breath. “That kid had me freaked out,” he said.
“Children are just like everyone else,” Tony told him. “They lie, too, sometimes. But they’re more vulnerable than we are, so we have to protect them. We’re conditioned to give everything they say the benefit of the doubt, because if it’s the truth and we don’t believe them, then we feel we let them down. The problem is that once they get to a certain age, they know it. They know it and it gives them a kind of power over their environment at a time in their lives when they feel powerless.”
