The Monkeyface Chronicles

by Richard Scarsbrook

  “I love him so much,” she cries, “I love him so much.”

  “He loves you, too, Caitlin,” I tell her, “more than anything.” I hope that this isn’t also a lie, but I really don’t know.

  “I love him so much,” she sings to herself, like a lullaby, “I love him so much.”

  Whatever has happened in the past, I cannot make myself hate her any more. Caitlin really does love Michael. The front of my shirt is soaked with her tears.

  The nurse from the admitting desk is now standing beside me. The plastic tag on her uniform tells me her name is Jenny. She wraps a yellow blanket around Caitlin’s shoulders. “You need to rest, sweetie.” And walks her over to a waiting room chair.

  I ask the nurse, “Do you know where my mother and grandfather are?”

  “Your mother went to St. Thaddeus’ to pray for your brother,” she tells me. “Your grandfather was disturbing everyone in the waiting room bickering with this other guy, so I sent them to the Men’s Room to settle it there.”

  “Other guy?”

  “Some overfed blowhard in a three-piece suit,” Nurse Jenny says.

  I hear myself telling Caitlin that I’ll be right back. I follow my body through the Men’s Room door, where I find my grandfather standing face-to-face with His Worship Clarence Brush, mayor of Faireville. My body rushes at my former elementary school principal, fists raised, but my grandfather grabs my wrists, holds me back.

  “See what I mean, Vernon?” Mayor Brush says to my grandfather. “In court, your family would be finished.”

  “Mayor Brush has offered us a deal,” my grandfather says. “If we will agree not to charge his sons for the . . . ” he pauses to clear his throat, “ . . . injuries sustained by Michael, he will refrain from pressing charges against you.”

  “Charges against me?”

  Mayor Brush leans toward me, squints into my face, and says, “My boys, Graham and Grant, have already given statements to the police — voluntarily, I might add. They only wanted to give your brother a slap on the back for his timely goal. They didn’t realize that Michael had been hurt.”

  “Bullshit! They hit him from behind!”

  “Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” Mr. Brush says, shaking his fat head fiercely, “They did no such thing. Are you blind or crazy? Both my boys were mortified to discover that Michael had been hurt. They’re at home right now, praying for his full and speedy recovery.”

  “They’d better be praying for their own safety,” I say.

  “Is that a threat, you fucking freak?” Brush snarls, poking me hard in the chest. “Your grandfather likes making threats, too. When I came into the hospital a few moments ago to check on the condition of your poor brother, your grandfather publicly accused my boys of intentionally hurting your brother, and threatened to file criminal charges. Well, you Skylers should think twice before threatening any of us Brushes.” He reaches up and loosens his striped necktie. “The injuries to your brother, sad as they are, were quite accidental, and it was quite obvious to everyone in the arena that your subsequent attack on my sons was premeditated and malicious. You broke Graham’s nose. Grant’s missing three teeth. And, if we were to pull your elementary school records, we would find documentation showing that you engaged in a previous unprovoked attack on my boys.”

  “What?” I hear myself shout. I can’t free my hands to punch the smug son of a bitch, so I spit in his face.

  Mr. Brush pulls a tissue from the breast pocket of his pinstriped suit and wipes the gob from the end of his bulbous nose. “Vernon,” he says, glowering, “I’ve got to do something now, and if you try to stop me, the deal is off. You understand?”

  My grandfather says nothing, but tightens his grip around my wrists. The honourable mayor pulls back his fist and punches me in the face, right in the middle of my cleft lip.

  “Gawd!” Brush cheers, shaking his fist loosely in the air. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time now, you monster-faced little fucker!”

  The bitter taste of blood fills my mouth. I turn and spit into the nearest sink.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that, Philip,” Brush says, slipping back into his dignified Public Official persona, “but if you spit in the face of a Brush, you’re gonna get a fist back in your face. We’re a family of fighters. We’re a family of winners.”

  Mayor Brush shakes his jowly face, then wanders over to the bank of urinals. He unzips his fly and sprays the porcelain.

  “Luckily for you and your family,” he says, “I am a fair and reasonable man. To keep the good names of my sons unsullied, I have agreed not to press charges against you, in exchange for your grandfather’s assurance that my sons will not be pestered, legally or otherwise.”

  He shakes himself off, zips the fly of his pinstriped suit pants, and his shiny black shoes clip-clop across the floor tiles as he heads for the door. He says to my grandfather, “A pleasure working with you again, Vernon.”

  I struggle to free myself, but my grandfather maintains his hold on me.

  “Y’know,” Mayor Brush says, “the other kids were being kind when they called you Monkeyface — I’ve never seen a monkey as ugly as you.”

  “That’s enough, Clarence,” my grandfather snaps.

  “I’ll decide when it’s enough,” Mr. Brush says. And, with that, he walks out of the washroom and my grandfather finally lets go of my wrists.

  “Good deal, Grandpa!” I say, in the same sarcastic way that Dennis would. “Well negotiated, sir! You’ll be running this town again before you know it.”

  “Philip,” he pleads, his palms turned upward like a beggar, “it was the only choice! It was the lesser of two evils.”

  “Here’s one for you, Captain Quote: ‘Constantly choosing the lesser of two evils is still choosing evil.’”

  “Philip,” he says. “There was nothing else I could do. There is too much at stake. Please listen . . . ”

  But I can’t listen anymore. I’m too far out of range to comprehend or believe anything. I can’t think, I can’t rationalize, I can’t justify. My nerve endings register the pain as I stuff my shredded knuckles into the front pocket of my jeans, but I’m too far away to receive much of the signal. I drop Michael’s pocket watch and my jackknife into my grandfather’s open hands and turn and walk into the Emergency Room waiting area.

  Caitlin Black is huddled in a corner on a plastic chair. She stands up, and the yellow hospital blanket falls from her shoulders. “Your lip,” she says. “What happened?’

  “I’m a bit out of it. It doesn’t hurt too much.”

  Caitlin pulls a Kleenex from her purse, and reaches to dab the blood away.

  “I’m going to go pray for Michael with my mother,” I tell her. “You can come with me if you want to.”

  “I want to,” she says.

  The sliding door closes behind us, and Caitlin gently takes my throbbing, torn hand in hers, carefully to placing her fingers where the skin is unbroken.

  “Michael will be okay, Philip,” she beautifully lies, “everything will be better soon.”

  “Hey,” Nurse Jenny calls out to me from behind the admitting desk as we walk through the exit doors, “you still need to get those hands looked at. They’ll get infected. And what happened to your face?”

  “Born this way,” I say.

  My mother kneels in the Chapel of St. Thaddeus, a small area in the west transept of the darkened, incense-scented church. Moonlight shines dimly through the stained glass depiction of St. Jude Thaddeus, who holds an axe and a quill pen, and wears a large medallion struck with the image of Jesus’ face. Back when I still attended Sunday School, Mom told me that this was her favourite place in the whole church, that the calm, knowing expression of St. Thaddeus always brought her peace.

  I kneel down beside my mother, and Caitlin slides in beside me. Mom continues whatever prayer she’s quietly composing in her head, and Caitlin closes her eyes tightly, pushes her palms and fingers together in front of her nose, and quietly be
gins whispering to her God. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but the gentle hushing sounds are soothing somehow.

  I can hardly believe that this is the same tittering, gossiping Little Colour Girl who sent Adeline running half naked into the ravine, who sat in the cafeteria and did nothing while Carrie and Lara needled Adeline about her mother.

  I bow my head and close my eyes, and silently pray: Hi, God. How are you? I am fine.

  When I was a little kid, this was the way I always began my prayers.

  Sorry, God. It’s been a long time since I did this, so forgive me if I’m a bit out of practice. Please don’t let my brother Michael die.

  I clench my hands together tightly against my chest, and a couple of the scabs on my knuckle crack open, stinging and throbbing. It’s okay. At least I can feel it.

  Boy, it’s been a long time since I’ve done this. Maybe you should just listen to my mom and Caitlin. They’re asking you for the same thing I’m about to.

  I feel a burning rush between my eyes.

  Please don’t let Michael die. Please. He’s the best person I’ve ever known. I was an idiot to turn against him the way I did. Please make him better. Make his neck and back heal. Please. Let him be himself again. Please please please.

  I swallow hard, grit my teeth, and soon the feeling passes. I never cry.

  Thanks for listening, God. Amen.

  That’s how I always ended my prayers when I was a little kid, when I was still certain that someone was actually listening.

  The silence is broken by a voice from behind us.

  “You’d best come back to the hospital, now,” my grandfather says curtly.

  I stand up with Mom and Caitlin to face him. He towers over them, but I’m close to the same height. He looks right through me.

  “Michael has slipped into a coma. They’ve put him on a machine, but he doesn’t have much time.”

  “Can I s-see h-him?” Caitlin stammers, the tears flowing again.

  “Only immediate family members are allowed in right now,” my grandfather says.

  “Yes, you can see him,” I tell her.

  My grandfather says nothing else, and turns and marches through the centre aisle of the church, his lips tight and his chin held high. My mother, Caitlin and I follow, hanging our heads like we’re being led to the gallows.

  The Emergency Room doors slide open, and Caitlin and my mother rush through. My grandfather grabs me by the shoulder. “Philip,” he says, “I want to have a few words with you before we go inside.”

  A police cruiser pulls into the parking lot, and two familiar policemen climb out and rush across the tarmac.

  “Vernon Skyler?” the older cop says to my grandfather.

  “Yes?”

  “We need you to come with us, sir. Right away.”

  The younger officer looks at me. It’s the cop named Pete. “Hey, buddy,” he says.

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait,” my grandfather says. “I really need to be in the hospital right now. Time is of the essence.”

  “I’m afraid time is even more of the essence in this situation, sir,” the older officer says. “There is a, uh, situation in progress at the home of your son, Landon Skyler.”

  “What kind of situation?” my grandfather asks.

  “Well, sir,” the older cop says, “it’s a bit of a hostage situation.”

  “A hostage situation?” my grandfather yells. “Someone is holding Landon hostage?”

  “Not exactly, sir,” the older cop says. “Your son is currently holed up in the basement of his home with one of the members of the Weirdo Ch . . . the Tabernacle of God’s Will. There’s been a break-in and attempted arson. It seems that your son has some kind of high-voltage device down there, and he’s threatening to electrocute the guy with it if, well if . . . ”

  “He’s promised to release the hostage,” Officer Pete concludes, “if we bring you to him.”

  “Break and enter?” my grandfather wonders, his mouth hanging open. “Electrical device?”

  Officer Pete helps my grandfather into the back of the police cruiser, the same seat that Candace Brown had occupied earlier this evening. Doors slam, and the police car speeds away, lights flashing, siren wailing.

  The Emergency Room door is still open, waiting for me to step inside, but it’s far out of range, and some of my basic bodily functions are beginning to fail. My vision is blurred. My balance is off. I sway from side to side. Here is the nurse. Light Blue Uniform. Forget her name. She says something. It doesn’t register. Michael. Where is Michael? Must ask her. My tongue won’t work.

  She takes my hand and says, “Follow me.”

  I follow.

  She leads me through a glaring white hallway, to a wide doorway. “In here,” she says.

  His body is under a pale green sheet. I recognize his shape. Almost the same as mine. Tubes and wires. Machines all around him. Can’t see his face. Catilin and Mom stand there. Their backs to me. Holding each other. Both shaking. Crying God God God and no no no and why why why.

  I can’t see him. Don’t need to. I know.

  My brother. My twin brother. Same birthday. Same womb. Together since birth. Can’t see him. Can’t look at his face. Can’t live with that.

  I turn away, and I’m running.

  Once again our house and everything around it blinks with red light. All three Faireville Police cruisers surround my father’s CBX leaning on its side stand in front of the garage.

  “The goddamned electrical thingy is disrupting everything!” one of the Gasberg cops shouts. “The walkie-talkies are nothing but static.”

  “Sniper’s not an option, either!” another shouts back. “All the friggin’ basement windows are bricked over.”

  “Take me in,” says a faint voice. It’s my grandfather. “There’s no other way. Take me inside, and I’ll put an end to all this.”

  “Landon Skyler,” a voice squawks through a megaphone, “An officer is escorting your father into the building. Do not harm the hostage. I repeat, do not harm the hostage.”

  The other officers crouch behind the hoods of their cars and aim their guns at the smashed front door as Officer Pete walks my grandfather into the house.

  Time passes. Lights flash. Guns are aimed.

  Officer Pete finally emerges, grasping the arm of a lanky young man, whose Tabernacle pants are stained where he’s pissed himself. It’s Bradley Miller, Bradley Vangelis. After he’s finished vomiting onto his and Officer Pete’s shoes, his hands are cuffed behind his back and he’s locked into a police car.

  I wander through the small phalanx of police officers and into the house.

  “Stop!” the megaphone honks. “This area has been secured by police! Do not enter the building. I repeat, do not enter the building.”

  If they shot me, I didn’t hear it or feel it. I’m still walking. Still alive as I enter the living room. The Jacob’s Ladder hums and crackles in the basement. I don’t even feel my feet on the steps. My father and my grandfather stand face-to-face, their features amplified and distorted by the buzzing arcs of electricity.

  “Philip!” my grandfather hollers. “Get the hell out of here!”

  “Hey, Philip,” my father says, in a strangely calm tone of voice. “How’s it going, brother?”

  “Shut up, Landon!” my grandfather barks. “This is between you and me. Philip, get out of here.”

  “It’s all of us now,” my father says calmly. “The lie has run its course, Dad. It’s time for the truth.”

  “Philip!” my grandfather shrieks, his eyes glowing as brightly as the crackling electrical arcs. “Get. Out. NOW!”

  “Sorry, Philip,” Dad says. “You shouldn’t have to find out this way.”

  “Landon!” my grandfather orders, “Don’t say another word.”

  “I tried to fake it for a long time, but I was never really in the fathering business.” Dad gestures at the paintings of nude men that lie in the rubble of the fallen cinder-bl
ock wall. “As you can see, I was never really much into women. Not like Dad was. Or is, I should say.”

  “Goddammit, Landon!” my grandfather screams. “Shut up! This can all be fixed! It can be fixed!”

  I look at my father. “Dad?”

  “Wrong guy,” he says to me, and glances coyly at my grandfather.

  “Shut up, Landon! Shut up! Shut up!”

  As he stretches his fingers toward the space between the Jacob’s Ladder’s two thick wires, Landon Skyler says to his father, “You had better step back.”

  And a slender, tentative connection is stretched beyond the breaking point. It snaps. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know where I’m going.

  Yellow Light

  Outside the house now. My legs straddle the huge motorcycle. Foot kicks up the side-stand. Right thumb presses the ignition button, and the scabs over my knuckles crack open again as I clench the handgrips.

  Turn the throttle, release the clutch lever. My feet hit the foot pegs, knees tuck in behind the massive six-cylinder engine, and the rear tire sprays gravel as the bike blows past the police cars, away from the darkened house, straight through Faireville, and out onto Gasberg Road toward the highway. You can’t outrun this, is the faint message. Ignore it. Crank the throttle all the way open. The powerful bike surges forward with a predatory roar, the glowing orange needles of the speedometer and tachometer trembling as they twist farther clockwise.

  Maybe I’m catching up, because the thought signals are coming through more clearly now.

  Your father is not your father. Your grandfather is not your grandfather. Your mother deceived you. Dennis deceived you. The only one you could ever trust was Michael. And now he’s gone.

  Wind rushes and everything blurs into a stream of horizontal lines, flowing from the pinpoint at the centre of the headlight beam.

  Adeline. You still have Adeline. Go to Adeline. You know the way.

  Blast along Gasberg Road, toward Highway 401, toward Toronto, try not to think, just concentrate on the road, clench the handgrips, look ahead.

  Mayor Brush says to the referee, “Now let’s have a fair game here, eh!”