by Don Hannah
On the TV, those women are rubbin’ each other and…
I’m just sick, just sick now thinkin’ of it. Don’t wanna do nothin’ that’ll wake up the family. Don’t want Bobby ta even know things like that exist. Don’t want’m ta have this be his first look at sex—a sight like this could screw ya up fer life. That Kevin is everythin’ I’ve been tryin’ ta keep my kids safe from, he is everythin’ I don’t want them ta know or ta be. He is what I want them ta steer clear of always. And there he is, on our couch, practically my brother-in-law—my common-law brother-in-law—gettin’ a blow job and watchin’ that smut without one thought to my kids bein’ there in the house. S’not like he’s in his own room and can close the door. It’s a small apartment.
Then that Kevin, he knows I’m there. He don’t look at me, but he says, “This turnin’ ya on, Ted?” And he does this stupid little laugh. “Heh-heh.” He’s all shit-faced, I can tell, the both a them there prob’ly crazy with the drugs.
I don’t move, don’t take one step inta that room, I just say, “Kevin, I’m so fuckin’ mad that if I go over there, I’ll likely kill ya.”
And he does his stupid laugh again. “Heh-heh.”
So I says, “You got about two minutes ta get that trash off our TV and get you and your friend there off our couch, get yerselves dressed and out a here. I don’t want you near this family ever again, see?”
“Heh-heh.”
So I go, “Take off, Kevin. Right now.”
Then he goes, “You’re not the boss a me, asshole.”
I go, “Ya want me ta get yer sister up? Want me ta get her in here tellin’ ya it’s time fer ya ta pack up and take off?”
Then he says…
He says, “You useless asshole.”
He says, “Even the kids know that Angie’s gettin’ ready ta take off on you.”
A coyote.
For the first time, TED appears to possess a quality of physical menace, as if he were no longer a small man, as if he were shedding his insignificance.
He had it comin’.
Whatever I did ta him, stitches and all, he had it comin’.
Bashed the livin’ shit out a him with the first thing I could get my hands on.
Another coyote.
He had it comin’.
A moment.
It’s hard ta stay back in that apartment, keep tryin’ ta find a better job when Angie takes those kids and comes back ta Darla. I thought we wanted ta be clear a this shithole, the both of us. It’s like breakin’ up without sayin’ that’s what it is. And did she have it planned like Kevin said, the takin’ off, or did it happen ’cause he said it and then I went at him? Grabbed that kitchen chair and bashed the livin’ shit right outta him.
Moment. He’s cold, starting to shiver.
One time I go ta that church where we brought the kids ta Sunday school. Go ta see the minister there after. Reverend Simon.
“How’re you people doin’?” he says. “Haven’t seen you here for some time.”
“Not so good,” I tell him. “Angie’s takin’ the kids down home nearby her aunt Darla and I’m havin’ a hard time findin’ work, me.”
“I’m sorry ta hear that,” he says. “The Lord works in mysterious ways sometimes. Well, God bless ya. I’ll say a prayer for ya all.”
Not what I’d call comfort.
First time I come and visit after she moved outta Darla’s inta her own place, it was hard goin’. They got that dog now, Blackie, and it don’t like me too much. Makes the kids happy, I suppose, but it’s ugly as a pig’s hole, and all that dog can do is bark and shit.
It was no easy visit, no sir.
But it was that time Bobby climbed the clothes pole and rode the clothesline all the way across the yard ta the back porch. Angie and me, watchin’ out the window, and we laughed like two fools. “Lookit! Lookit him go!” Brittie out in the snow laughin’ and chasin’ after him while he’s sailin’ along right over her head. Stupid Blackie barkin’ and runnin’ round. Everyone out in that yard as happy as happy can be. Inside the house, too, I think. Fer a minute.
April Fool’s there, I slept in just a little. Angie’s startin’ the coffee when I come into the kitchen, and she’s in one of her moods, I could tell when she poured water into the coffee maker and spilt some. She made a sound like it was all the water’s fault for being so stupid. So I figure’d I’d give’r a minute. TV wasn’t on yet and the house’s all quiet. Soon there’d be all that noise, kids gettin’ ready, and Blackie barkin’ and runnin’ ’bout. I’m watchin’ Blackie there out the window—how can one little dog be responsible for so many goddamn turds? Jesus Murphy. Snow’s meltin’ and I can see how the yard’s full a them. I think that I’ll go out there and clean it up later, after the kids get the school bus. Anythin’ ta make’r happy.
Then Angie goes that “Coffee’s ready,” and her voice sounded nice so I figured the coast was clear. But she’s starin’ at me after I turn around, and shakin’ her head. “What next!” she says.
“What? What’d I do?”
“Your eye. Jesus.”
It’s April Fool’s, so I didn’t do anythin’. Just grinned at’r.
“Don’t you come near me.”
“What?”
“Go look in the friggin’ mirror, asshole.”
I go to the mirror over the sink. White part of this eye’s all red. Like someone poked a stick in it. Pink eye.
“It’s contagious as hell! Don’t touch me and don’t go near the kids! Ya look like some stunned zombie in a horror movie.”
I should a said nothin’, kept my stupid mouth shut, but I didn’t, I couldn’t.
“It’ll clear up in a week,” I say. “And it’ll be gone.”
Then, “S’not like it’s some fuckin’ asshole tattoo.”
Beat.
Back in the city, at our old place, no reason ta go ta work without them at home. No reason ta show up there again. No reason ta do much anythin’.
It’s so hard ta stay away. Bobby’s turnin’ eight. Been around for a whole lot a my life. Doesn’t seem possible somehow. But there’s the time when he learned ta walk, and the times we went swimmin’, and when he got started at school, and read ta Brittie and when we made snowmen and Christmas and—
There’s just so much!
Those times we went for drives in the car and we all sang—
“Tell me the stories of Jesus.”
Laughin’ and singin’—
Tapiokee!
“Who let the dogs out!”
We was so happy! We was all so happy!
Times when I useta tell’m stories…
With a story, there’s an end to it. Ya do this and this and this, then y’re done. Like with those kids. They find that house, they’re held prisoner, Gretel shoves the witch in the oven, they get back home with the witch’s treasure. All happy ever after and done. And the mean stepmother’s dead now ta boot—so Bob’s yer uncle, like old Gram useta say.
Life, though, not always like a story so much. Only true end it’s got is when ya die.
Like poor Mike…
Gettin’ all mixed up with all that racket. Bikers and drugs and that.
How could someone so smart be so stupid?
That feelin’ I felt when he took off? Almost as bad as now. I’m not kiddin’. It was that bad back then.
This last time I come down here ta visit…
I don’t tell’r I’m comin’, just show up. Go ta the Dollarama before I leave, buy’m them glow sticks that ya snap and glow in the dark, big bags a chips.
I don’t go there right away, park the car and watch till the bus drops’m off.
Kids’re more grown-up, so much happens while I’m gone.
“I don’t have enough fer supper with you, too,” Angie says. I don’t want ta t
ake food outta their mouths, so I say okay and go off in the car. But I don’t go nowhere ta eat—just this Oh Henry! while I’m parked down the road a ways.
We watch American Idol like a family. I hate that Simon fella, tell Brittie ta steer clear a guys like that, good-lookin’ smartass pricks who never done a real day’s work in their lives.
“What real-day’s work you done lately?” says Angie.
So I tell’r she could be on that show with him, she’s that smug and nasty. “Turnin’ inta yer mother, are ya?”
Brittie asks Bobby a question ’bout homework and her big brother tells’r ta figure it out fer herself.
“Help yer sister,” I tell’m and Angie says ta butt out.
I’m sleepin’ on the couch.
Kevin’s long gone, back ta Toronto or wherever. Darla put the boots to him. I knew that’d happen. She’s not stupid.
I’m sleepin’ on the couch.
Bobby always useta stick up fer Brittie at school, but that don’t mean he don’t pick on’r at home. She’s fightin’ off tears at bedtime and he’s got’r cryin’ again first thing before she’s dressed.
“You mind your own business,” Angie tells me.
I say, “I’ll take’m ta school.”
“School bus picks’m up,” she says.
“Let Daddy bring me,” Brittie says, except she stutters just a bit.
“You’ve gotta get useta the kids on that bus. Yer father’s not gonna be here ta drive ya ta school.”
“What’s with the kids on the bus? Someone bein’ mean? I know kids, I useta ride on a bus.”
“You stay outta this, mind yer own business.”
“My kids is my business.”
I take Brittie ta school, Bobby wants ta go on the bus with the others, that’s okay. Don’t wanna look like a fruit havin’ his daddy drive’m ta school. I get that.
In the car, Brittie and me have us a talk. Then all of a sudden she’s cryin’ so I pull over ta the side of the road and she lets it all out—about how they make fun a the way she talks and how she gets her letters mixed up and how there’s this one named Sheila, the ringleader, she is. And how this Sheila gets them all to say mean things and so on. Makes her say words that’ll make her stutter so they can laugh at her. Make her say her own name, ’cause she can’t always, ’cause it starts with a “B” and she’s goin’ “B-B-B,” and they’re all laughin’, teasin’r. She’s like me, I think, little Brittie’s like me back in the days a Tubby Thompson and that. Nobody ever picks on someone bigger’n them, always pick on someone who can’t fight back.
And where’s Bobby? Why isn’t he lookin’ out for her like Mike done for me? “Where’s yer brother in all this?”
Boys at school pick on him, too, Brittie says. Bobby’s been sent home for fightin’ already.
We’re parked in the car later and watchin’ the playground. “Which one’s that Sheila?” And she points her out. She’s a rich kid, ya can tell by the way she walks, and she’s got the little white headphones in her ears. So I just go over to her and tell her that she’s not bein’ very nice and she shouldn’t pick on someone like Brittie. She’s all, “Who you think you are, talkin’ ta me like that.” So I tell her—I grab hold a her and tell’r.
“You just listen ta me,” I say.
Then there’s all this commotion and teacher comes runnin’ and I’m in the principal’s office and…
“I’m just standin’ up for someone who’s bein’ picked on,” I say. “I don’t mean ta scare that Sheila or threaten her, no, no way. I just don’t want her makin’ fun a the way my little girl talks. Don’t want her ta be at my Brittie, always be at her. It’s no fair. How’d you like it someone picks on your kid like that? Shoe’d be on the other foot then.”
But they gotta call in Sheila’s mother, get her in there and she’s all about callin’ the cops and everythin’ and…
“Lot a goddamn nonsense. Get yer hands off me,” I say, “just quit it.” And I walk outta there. I’m no kid in that school, they can’t keep me in that office no more. Those days are over.
Jump in the car and up to the Conrads where Mike took off from. Look at our old bedroom window like it could tell me somethin’—but what? Then over to the place above the store where Mom lived before she took off. Is she still livin’ somewhere? Who knows. Then Gram and Fa’s house, where my dad was a boy. Who’s there these days? Don’t have a clue.
I roll down the window by Mrs. Allen’s, just in case that one’s still around, I slow down right there and holler, “Hey, old bitch! Ya better be scrubbin’ that goddamn chooky!”
Then I park by the little bridge, and I’m thinkin’ about poor Brittie. What’s gonna happen ta her? What’s gonna happen when she gets ta high school with the girls pokin’ fun at her and the boys talkin’ bout how she stutters—I know how boys talk, I heard’m, I was a boy. And then I think ’bout her gettin’ old enough to have a baby and gettin’ pregnant, and who the father’d be. And that’d be my grandson, that baby, or granddaughter maybe, and would the father stick with them or would he take off and—
And if he did take off, she’ll feel that, won’t she? That feelin’ that got so bad in me when Mike took off. Maybe she even feels it already. Maybe that’s why she was cryin’ in the car before. Maybe she started ta feel real bad that night back with Kevin when she was so upset and crawled into our bed.
It don’t seem possible for poor Brittie ta grow up and have anythin’ good that’ll last. Will either a my kids be happy? What’re the chances they’ll feel any different than I do right now? That’s why ya spoil kids, I’m thinkin’, so they won’t feel as miserable as you. But looks like nothin’ ya can do will stop it all from goin’ ta hell. Like what’s the point in that? What’s the point of havin’ kids and them growin’ up and havin’ kids and—
I don’t mean what I heard once on TV, that woman who said she couldn’t bring kids into a world with pollution and population and that. What I mean is like no matter what I do those two kids aren’t gonna be gettin’ a better life. ’Cause my kids’ll get the same as me, same’s I got the same’s Mom and she got the same’s hers. They let ya think it’s possible, let ya hope it’s so, but it never was and never will be. Ya can take off, ya can learn French, ya can do all kinds a things, but it ain’t gonna happen. Just look at Mike—left here, got a new life, spoke French and what’d he get? Dead by the side of the road somewhere. He and some buddy a his, shot right in the head. Hells Angels Bandidos Rock Machine pricks!
“But ya gotta try!” I’m thinkin’. “Ya can’t just give up on’m. It’ll be worse if ya give up and y’re not a family!”
I go back ta talk ta Angie, but she’s not doin’ nothin’ now that Darla don’t want’r ta do. I’m out the door far as they’re concerned, those two. No room fer me ta even try and help those kids.
“Just listen,” I’m sayin’, “just listen.”
But she’s all, “I’m sick a listenin’ ta you.” Tells me she’s all fed up. She’s mad, she says ’cause now she’s gotta go ta the school and talk ta the principal and all.
“You tell’m ta stop pickin’ on our kids,” I say. “You tell’m that. Don’t let’m push ya round.”
Then she says “I don’t want advice from you no more on nothin’!”
“Look, “ I says, “look. You need me. Little rich Sheila there, she can do whatever the hell she wants ta my kid and she’ll get away with it every time. And her mother, that bitch, and the principal there and the cops, they’re always goin’ on ta the rest of us ’bout right and wrong. But it’s not the same fer them, s’all different.”
“Shut up.”
“No, you listen, ’cause with us they’re all sayin’ like if ya do this and that then them kids’ll have a better life. If ya do such and such and the other, them kids’ll have a better life. But that’s just their talk. No matter how har
d ya work er try ya’ll never get anywhere by listenin’ ta them.”
“I’m not listenin’ ta you,” she says, “you’re full a shit.”
“I am not. Look, on the TV, when ya watch anythin’, the news, anythin’, it’s the same all over. There’s always two sides, and I don’t mean good and bad. I mean the ones with a better life and the rest of us.”
She don’t wanna listen, but I keep tryin’. I go, “First ya think it’s one thing. Like, finish yer school and ya’ll get ahead. Then it’s oh, ya gotta do this now, too, after school’s done. Then ya do that, an’ then it’s somethin’ else, and more and more. And ya can do yer time, ya can quit drinkin’, ya can steer clear a that oxycodone, but each time there’s somethin’ else that’s comin’ at ya next.”
“You’re crazy,” she says.
“No, I’m not. I’m speakin’ up! Why the hell you wanna come back ta this shithole? Those kids won’t have a chance here! Let’s pack’m up, get in the car and go back home!”
“This here’s my home,” she says, “and y’re not welcome in it. Y’re leavin’ here first thing tomorrow, soon as the kids are on that bus. I’m not askin’ ya, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Then—
“I wish I’d never met ya!” And she walks out the door, slams it like she don’t care if those kids wake up or not. It might a all been diff’rent if she’d stayed and tried ta listen.
Could all a been diff’rent.
Moment.
In the story, that father took those kids out in the deep woods. Place like this.
And then the father told them he loved them and said to be good and he left them there. Hoped they’d have a chance at a better life.
He didn’t lay a hand on’m.
He didn’t kill’m with a knife. No sir. He didn’t.
I did that. I killed’m with a knife.
Shakes his head, it all seems unbelievable.
And I wish it could a been easier on’m. But I didn’t have a plan. Just happened. Angie’s off ta Darla’s, tryin’ ta figure out how ta get me gone ferever. I know what’s up. I opened the back door and let that Blackie just run off. He’ll come back, stupid dogs always do. And there’s the knife, just sittin’ there on the dish board.
