‘Let’s go for a drive,’ Sarah offered.
‘Where we going?’
‘We’re going to feed the Trash Ducks.’ She pulled out two empty water bottles from the recycling bin.
We drove along single lane roads beyond used trailer-home dealers and lonely gas stations radiating into the surrounding night their fluorescent-lit promises of junk food and sixty-four ounce soft drinks. The scenery changed from countryside to a mix of empty lots and industrial buildings. Monstrous mud-caked vehicles were scattered about like grazing animals. We turned down a deeply rutted path. Lights and the black lacquer of water glimmered ahead of us. We came to a clearing at the shore of a small lake across from the futuristic cityscape of an oil refinery. Yellow, white, green, blue and red lights outlined rectangles and spires of brushed metal pipes of varying sizes. The billowing steam glowed and a tower belched orange fire that flapped in the wind like a flag.
‘It’s beautiful. How did you find this place?’ I asked as Sarah helped me push across the uneven ground to the water’s edge. We stopped at the concrete ledge. She sat and dangled her feet over the edge.
She shook out the last drops of water, screwed the lid back on and tossed one of the bottles into the ill-looking water. It skittered and pirouetted on the water’s surface, chased by thin ripples. Its neck stretched forward looking for a mate.
‘Trash Ducks,’ she said. She tossed the second bottle, and they danced around each other, pushed by the breeze. She rested her elbow on my leg and she showed me how to feed Trash Ducks. We tossed them bottle caps, stones and concrete chips until the wind pushed them further and further.
She rested her head on my lap. I petted her hair. Our closeness was immediate and comfortable. I didn’t think to question it. Her presence calmed me, and I thought of nothing but the softness of her cheek as I traced her jaw with my hand.
‘Can you see?’ She held her hand out, fingers splayed.
‘What am I looking for?’
‘My fingers.’
A zigzag of white scar ran between her ring and middle finger.
‘What happened?’
‘I was born with webbed fingers. My mom wanted me to be normal. So, she had them cut apart. Not sure how these ugly scars are more normal, but I still have my webbed toes. If you play your cards right tonight, I’ll show you my duck toes. My mom hated me for them. She blamed Dad, refused to breastfeed me until I had the surgery. They had to wait six months until I was old enough to operate on.’
‘Wow, Jane seems so chilled out—’
‘Jane’s our stepmom, but they’ve been together for so long that she’s pretty much the mom. The webbing wasn’t even that bad; it was completely cosmetic. Sometimes the finger bones can be fused.’ She pushed her fingers together. ‘Dad begged them to leave my toes alone though. He couldn’t stand the idea of them cutting up a baby.’
We watched the refinery and the lake.
‘A couple years after me, Marco was born.’
‘I thought he was your older brother. I got everybody wrong.’
‘No. Dad said when they were explaining all the problems Marco was going to have, they didn’t expect him to live to be a teenager. He made a joke to lighten the mood about at least his fingers and toes being fine. He remembers looking at my mom and seeing something in her eyes that told him she was going to run out on us. And she did. She left everything: her clothes, her kids; it was all the same. Disappeared. Dad came home from work, baby Marco screaming and screaming. I don’t remember it. I think I was playing in my room. He tried to find out what happened to her. He called all over the place, but no one knew anything. The closest he got was her mother telling him that she said to say sorry and not to call again. When I was ten, he got an annulment letter from California. That’s all we ever heard from her.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
She looked at me. ‘Not sure you’re supposed to say anything.’
She put her head back down and I petted her hair. We watched the refinery’s reflection sparkle on the water’s surface. Sarah said the gas flare looked like a whip-tentacled sea creature floating just below the surface.
‘It’s watching you,’ she said. ‘You better be on your best behaviour.’
‘Do you want to go see Jack?’
‘Yes, please. How’re you guys doing?’
I looked at her.
‘You said you guys weren’t getting along.’
‘We’re okay right now, I think. Since moving back home, I’ve realised I’d been blaming Jack for a lot of things that weren’t his fault.’ I took a deep breath. She watched the small ripples in the water as I brushed a finger along her earlobe. I wanted tell her about my mom, the lonely teenage years at home with Jack, the lonelier years as a runaway as a way of explaining myself, but I was too afraid of scaring her away.
She looked up and smiled.
‘Let’s go, kiddo. Let’s see Jack,’ she said.
We headed back into town. I wasn’t sure of the address, but we found the factory surprisingly quickly. We walked the sidewalk that skirted the building. I tried doors as we went. All of them were locked until we reached the loading dock. As soon as I opened the door an orange light spun and an alarm pulsated.
‘You have activated the security system. The police are on their way. You have sixty seconds to leave the premises.’ Jack’s voice came from a call box beside the door.
I mashed the call button. ‘It’s me.’
‘Fifty-nine seconds. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.’
‘Hello? Can you hear me? It’s Jarred. Turn off the alarm.’
‘Fifty-six seconds.’
‘We should go.’ I turned to leave. The alarm shut off.
‘I saw you on the cameras. Look up.’
I looked. Sarah waved.
‘Is this the girl you’ve been all gaga for? I remember you from the fancy coffee shop. I’m Jarred’s dad, Jack.’
‘Hello, Mr. McGinnis.’
We walked through the sugar-scented hallway, passing under banners proclaiming the exciting new flavour ranges of cereals that were knock-offs of well-known brands.
‘It smells like childhood Saturday mornings,’ Sarah said.
Posters about safety procedures, birthday wishes to Cindee and a softball team sign-up spotted the hall. I wrote my name down for third base. Jack told me to knock it off.
The break room held a few tables and plastic chairs. Along one wall was a sink and refrigerator. A calico of mugs lined the backsplash. Above them, the company’s products cluttered the shelves: instant coffee, creamers, teas and powdered drinks.
‘If you like your beverages powdered, this is the place to be,’ Jack said.
‘Nestlé Quik! I haven’t had Nestlé Quik since I was a kid,’ Sarah said.
‘It’s fake Quik but knock yourself out. It tastes like sugared brick dust to me. Jarred, what’re you having?’
‘I’ll have chocolate.’
‘You guys are guests. Have a seat. What flavour do you want, Sarah?’
‘Strawberry.’
Jack pulled down coffee mugs. He scooped the chocolate powder, the strawberry and a scoop of instant coffee for his mug. He took milk from the fridge.
‘Is there soy milk?’
‘I have no idea—’ Jack took out a carton of soy milk. ‘What is this stuff? I’ve never heard of it.’ He gave it a sniff before pouring it into her mug. He poured regular milk into his and mine.
‘Disgusting. Cold milk and instant coffee?’ I said as he brought the mugs to the table.
‘Son, let’s not pretend. This stuff is horrible.’ He took a sip of his cold milk and instant coffee. ‘Sarah, I know you work at the fancy coffee shop. But I’m old and that means I don’t have to pretend to care any more. You guys want donuts?’ Jack stood to grab the box of donuts on the counter.
‘I don’t think donuts are vegan,’ I butted in.
‘Vegan donuts? The whole point of donuts is the animal exploitation.’
‘That’s terrible and makes no sense,’ Sarah said.
Jack shrugged and grinned.
‘Give her a break, Jack.’
‘It’s okay,’ Sarah said. ‘Just because I’m vegan doesn’t mean everyone else has to be.’
‘That doesn’t sound very vegan,’ I said. ‘Oww! Why doesn’t he get punched in the arm?’
Jack laughed.
‘Hey, I thought you were supposed to be cutting out the caffeine,’ I said to Jack.
‘Who’s the parent around here?’ Jack turned to Sarah. ‘You’re a pretty woman with a seemingly good head on your shoulders. What makes you want to get mixed up with a goofball like him?’
‘I don’t know. He has a good sense of humour. He’s easy on the eyes.’
‘He gets those from me.’
‘Plus, have you seen the parking spaces he gets?’
Jack laughed. ‘I like this lady.’
We sat at a small round table, sipping at our drinks and talking. Jack told the story of when he found me screaming under the table with a toy soldier’s head stuck up my nose. I was hysterical, blood everywhere.
‘The kid was smart enough to know the word reconnaissance, but not smart enough to not shove a damn toy up his nose.’
Her laughter filled the room.
‘What time do you finish?’ I asked.
He checked the wall clock over the door. ‘A couple more hours.’
‘Do you want us to hang around?’
‘God, no. I didn’t take this job for the social life. I’ll see you at home. Nice to meet you, Sarah.’
‘Nice to meet you, Jack.’
*
Sarah dropped me off at Jack’s house. The car idling, we sat, staring forward. She filled the silence with a broad smile.
‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked.
Sarah turned her body to face me. Looking serious, she asked, ‘Do you have pyjamas for me?’
‘Tops and bottoms?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I have something that’ll work.’
She was in the bathroom changing into a pair of my boxers and a t-shirt. I got into bed and under the covers. How do I move this half-useless body with any subtlety? She would lie beside me. It had been too long. Even to roll over on my side toward her was going to require an awkward adjustment of my legs, a shift of my hips, a readjustment of my pillows. These are not the movements to seduce.
She closed the door behind her and flashed a shy smile. Even the small shifts of the bed from her climbing under the covers excited me.
‘Did you paint that?’ She pointed to the painting of my mom.
‘When I was a teenager. It’s a picture of my mom. She’s about our age there.’
‘Wow! You were really good. You should paint more. I love how she’s covering her eyes, but you can still see her smiling.’
‘She was really shy. She hated having her picture taken. I’m glad Jack kept it.’
‘Of course he would. It’s a painting of his wife by his son.’
She slid her hand under the covers and held my hand.
‘You ready?’ she asked.
I didn’t know what to say. I was an awkward teenage boy again.
‘I think you’re one of the good ones. You can see my magic duck feet.’
‘I don’t think we should rush into these things.’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
37
The day before my discharge I had a family session with Jack. We sat outside the psychiatrist’s office waiting for him to call us in. Jack was already sitting there when I arrived. I sat beside him and we said nothing.
The psychiatrist opened his door. He was stocky and big-nosed. He invited us in with a wave of a meaty hand hanging from his doctor’s whites, a thatch of coarse black hair on the back of it. He should have been holding a cleaver, not prescribing antipsychotics.
‘Come on in. My name is Dr. McCabe,’ he said as he ushered us to our seats. ‘Sorry that Dr. Taradash isn’t here. He had a family emergency, and I was asked to come in at the last minute. I’m just going through your notes. It looks like this is your last session before we discharge you. I bet you are excited about that, hmm, Jarred?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ll have to bear with me as each family session is unique to the individual family. I know you have developed the dynamic of these sessions over the course of your therapy and it’s not ideal to have that disrupted, especially for the last session. Jarred, can you tell me some of the ground rules you’ve established here?’
‘We try to make our point without blaming the other person and instead frame it in terms of how we feel. Absolutely no yelling, shouting, foul language or fake German accents. Ja?’
The doctor nodded, still looking at the paperwork.
I looked at Jack to see if he noticed the joke, but he was watching the psychiatrist with an empty look. He was a man waiting for his name to be called at the DMV. This was an eye test, a trip to the dentist. Maintenance, but no cure. He was there to sign forms as was expected.
‘It says that the breakdown of the family unit was caused by the unexpected death of the mother. Is that right?’
‘The mother’ as in ‘the carburettor’. Something mechanical that failed. To the butcher in the doctor’s coat, she was ‘the mother’. Fine with me. He didn’t have the right to use her name.
After a month of being inpatient I had become adept at using therapy speak and clinical language to slalom between what people wanted to hear without hitting the guilt I felt about Mom’s death, the shame of having a drunk for a father, the violence, the directionless anger, the loneliness, the confusion and, most of all, the overwhelming sadness that cored my body. I knew I had to play their game once more, then they would let me out and I would be free to do what I wanted. The psychiatrist seemed pleased with how remarkably receptive I was to all that modern psychiatry had to offer a troubled young man. Jack’s name-rank-serial-number responses were the ones that gave him pause. After our session, I smirked when Jack was asked if he had time for a quick private session. I knew from experience that he was going to get a lecture about the importance of engagement in the therapy process.
The next day, Jack signed me out and drove us home. For weeks, I hid in my room waiting to enrol in an ‘alternative high school’ where they taught kids about art history, birth control and let them smoke between classes. Then Fritz called.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ I snapped, not sure if I was angry or hurt.
‘I’m sorry I was such an asshole, but they made it a condition of my discharge that I didn’t talk to you. They were worried about “the nature of our relationship”.’ He said the last part in a mock-clinical tone. ‘Do you want to hang out?’
‘Don’t you live in the boonies somewhere?’ I asked.
‘No. I’m sharing an apartment with this guy Jerry.’
‘Jerry?’ In the real world it was easy to forget how we had made knick-knacks of all our problems and secrets. As inpatients, we set them out before us at every group session without thinking about their significance.
‘He’s okay,’ Fritz said.
I rode my bike to the address he gave me. The apartment complex was tangled up in pine trees like a broken kite. Fallen red needles crunched under my tyres and released their waxy scent.
In front of Fritz’s apartment, a dusty black kitten complained. I rubbed its head and felt the soft fur and the tiny skull beneath. The cat disappeared inside and a skinny man dressed as an orderly opened the door. His frizzy hair made him look like a redheaded Q-tip wearing glasses.
‘Yes?’
‘Is Fritz home?’
‘In back. Careful, he’s on the rag today.’
I stood before the hall and wondered which of the two doors was Fritz’s room. The Q-tip stood behind me and held my shoulders. I tensed under his touch and fought the urge to jerk away.
He steered me by the sho
ulders and said, ‘This one. The one on the right’s the guest room. Tell him I’m late shift tonight.’ The Q-tip patted my back then disappeared.
Fritz opened his door. ‘Was that him leaving?’
‘Was that Jerry?’ I was disappointed by how geeky Jerry was. Fritz was the epitome of cool. Was that nerd really a child molester? Why would Fritz stay here if he was? I was confused and awkwardness settled between us. He gave me a hug. I kissed him. He was warm. I was cold. He smelled of cigarettes.
‘Why’d you diss me inside?’
‘I told you. They made it a condition of my discharge. I was worried about . . . I didn’t . . . I don’t know.’
‘Forget it. What’s that?’ I pointed to a bowl of goop that looked like royal blue oatmeal.
‘Homemade hair dye. I was just about to do my own. You want to try it? Or I can give you an earring?’ Fritz picked up a stud from beside the bowl of hair dye. ‘It’s a piercing stud. It’s supposed to go into a gun, but we can just jab it in.’
We sat next to each other on the couch in the living room, watching cartoons and drinking beer. My ear was hot and I kept touching the earring. We giggled at each other in our shower caps and the blue glop steaming beneath. The kitten hopped into my lap and mewed until I petted it.
‘How’s your dad doing?’ Fritz asked.
‘Can I live here?’
‘No.’
‘Fuck you too.’
‘Aster turns eighteen today,’ Fritz said.
I raised my beer. ‘Happy birthday to Aster.’
‘That means they send her to state hospital.’
‘I’m sorry.’
We turned toward the sound of the front door unlocking.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ Jerry sang. He raised a six-pack of beer. ‘Hello again,’ he said to me. Jerry sat on the floor between the coffee table and us. He cracked a beer and offered one to me. I held up my unfinished bottle to say no thanks. Fritz slammed his and took another. We watched more cartoons and drank more beers. Fritz drank fast and had most of the six-pack. I wasn’t sure who he was angry at.
Jerry took out a cigar box from underneath the couch. From it he took rolling papers, weed and a little black rubber ball wrapped in cellophane.
The Coward Page 16
