by John Hunt
“Damn right you will.”
He walked out, proud and sad, hoping she liked it here and hoping she hated it and wanted to come home.
-2-
Harry sank into the couch with a beer in his hand and turned on the TV. Five o’clock and already dark out. He shook his head. Fucking Canadian winters. He popped the top on the can and flicked through the channels, not seeing anything, just trying to find background noise. Something to dull the senses. Like drinking beer. It served to induce a stillness of thoughts. Since Olivia disappeared five years ago, or let’s be real here, since she was taken, he couldn’t slow his brain. The gears wouldn’t slow, kept clunking along showing him images of Olivia dead in a ditch. When he thought of this, and he often did because of his stupid cruel brain, in his mind’s eye it was always raining. She’d be at the bottom, her hair a golden halo fanned out on the dirty mud. Her hands would be taped in front of her. Her fingernails worn down and peeled back as though she tried to escape by scratching through a wall. The rain splashed into her open mouth and plinked into her eyes. She never flinched. She never blinked. That’s how he knew she was dead.
Sometimes, he saw her body crumpled in the bottom of an old well. Arms and legs bent at unnatural angles. Bones poking through flesh, her expression a postcard of pain. Again, the rain a humming backdrop falling from the heavy grey clouds. And he’d think, I failed her. She’d been taken and he couldn’t find her, he couldn’t save her and he sure as hell couldn’t do the one thing parents are supposed to do: protect her. Now, as soon as he got home from work, he drank until the recriminations in his brain silenced. He had a problem with the drink. He knew it. He knew the people at work knew it. When you come in the morning with red eyes and popping Advil like candy, people noticed.
Good thing he worked like a bastard. Work, he found, also produced a stillness of thoughts. Turning his thoughts and focus to a problem to be solved pushed the images away, put a lid on his worrying for a short time. Working in IT for a big corporate firm kept him busy and he did like it. It was his drinking that had stopped his upward mobility. For as long as he’d been there and with his experience, he should have been a supervisor by now, or maybe in the admin side and be the guy who decided what equipment to buy, what software to acquire, all the fun shit super geeks like him lived for. At least he’d kept his drinking for when he wasn’t working. Almost, anyways. There was the one time he came back from lunch with a bit of a sway. He had one too many martinis with lunch, well, probably a few too many. While gulping one down, he pointed at the glass to the bartender, signalling he wanted another with a flurry hands, wanting it in a hurry. His lunch hour wasn’t over but it was getting close. The bartender, a young guy with an eyebrow piercing and one ugly moustache, shrugged and made him another one. He knew a drunk when he saw one. Harry liked the warm feeling inside. It settled in his stomach and then reached out to all parts of his body, a pleasant, tingling feeling. Maybe too pleasant. A Martini was not a chugging drink he decided because man, they could fuck you up in a hurry. Returning to the office like that was a mistake. He should have called in sick and went home to sleep it off. But like most drunks, he thought he’d been fooling everyone and like most drunks, he soon found out how wrong he was. He swayed in, talking a little too loud, bumping into cubicles and making a giant fool of himself in front of his peers and supervisors. Naturally, his supervisors became concerned.
They sent Tracey to talk to him. A person he had trained. A person he had been getting closer to before Olivia…well, before he’d lost her. She walked into his office and closed the door behind her. Never a good sign. He remembered his heart sped up a little and he thought, they’re finally going to do it. I’m getting fired. His stomach rebelled and he thought he was going to puke on his own desk. He swallowed, his mouth gushing with saliva and he couldn’t look her in the eyes. He stared at the coffee cup on his desk. It was white and in black lettering across the front it read, Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my first coffee. He kept his eyes on it as she approached. He saw the front of her shirt where it met her waist. Black with some pattern on it, were they glasses? Like reading glasses? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he couldn’t look at her. Not at her face. They couldn’t make him do that could they? He felt a deep shame then and his face burned with it. But a part of him, the alcoholic part, the greedy little man in the corner of his soul thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be fired. It could be a good thing. They’d have to buy him out and then he could get down to serious drinking. Something attractive about the idea, a nihilistic urge to destroy himself. He wanted to find bottom and stay there, where the pain wasn’t as sharp, where it didn’t have teeth. Then Tracey surprised him. She handed him a pamphlet for Alcoholics Anonymous and spoke to him about the lunchtime martinis. He had a problem. The bosses knew it and were monitoring him. They were sympathetic to his loss and would support therapy if he wanted it. No, he didn’t want it and he raised his eyes to hers. Her face flushed. She had the pale skin red heads have, white as paper that filled with red in embarrassing or awkward moments: like this one. He watched her lips and wanted to kiss them. Did she smell like strawberries? Drunk thoughts. Stupid thoughts. She told him this was his one and final warning. Come back to work drunk again, and he’d be fired. He nodded. He understood. She told him he was to go home now and return tomorrow sober. The company already called a cab on his behalf. And in case he was wondering, it wasn’t a suggestion.
He stood, patted his pockets for his keys, nodded and left. He didn’t meet anyone’s gaze on the way out. He couldn’t. And he wondered if he could even return the next day. In the cab as he was passing shops, cars and people walking to anywhere, he realized the break he’d just gotten. He didn’t want bottom that bad after all. He needed work to keep busy or he’d go crazy. In the office there, when Tracy was speaking to him and he had the urge to kiss her in the most inappropriate setting, to smell her to find out if her skin smelled of strawberries, in that moment he had a taste of crazy. He thought of that saying, he couldn’t remember what it was from but it surfaced in the cab and it played in his brain, like a song on repeat: the centre cannot hold. Dread flooded him. If he kept going like that, without work to act as a behavioural anchor, he’d lose all identity, moving from one drunken fog to another, broken up by the need to sleep or the search for his next bottle. He would be sucked into an abyss that he created, a crazy place with no escape where images of Olivia’s dead body kept him constant company pointing accusatory fingers. He didn’t want to visit there again.
For a brief moment, in the cab when embarrassment pushed aside his inebriation with a vicious elbow, he told himself he’d quit for good. Better rampant thoughts than facing that type of humiliation again. When he got home and opened the fridge to see a six pack of Labatt Maximum Ice beer on the shelf, he thought, 7.1% alcohol content baby! And then the drunk’s constant lie of tomorrow, I’ll quit tomorrow flitted through his mind as he reached for the bottle. From then on, he restricted his drinking to home after work. He ate lunch at his desk in his office so people could see him and let the office spies know he was sticking to the deal. And who knew? Maybe it’d help him quit. He just had to take it one day at a time. He was fooling himself and insightful enough to know it. The best lies, the most convincing, are the ones we tell ourselves. And no one can lie better better than an alcoholic.
He turned on the hockey game, slugged back the beer and went into the kitchen for another. He opened the cupboard for a glass and saw a shot glass. He took it down and looked in the liquor cabinet. It stood empty. When the hell did he drink the dark rum? He was sure he had half a bottle at least. You’re a drunk and drunks have no memory, he thought. It scared him a bit, to think he drank a bottle without remembering it. He put the shot glass back, opened another can and poured it into a glass and took a drink. Have a fear you don’t want to face? The ugly truth a little too ugly? Have a bee
r. The solution to harsh realities. A small smile creased his cheek.
He took another can of beer and brought it back to the couch to watch the Leafs suffer another loss. Goddamn tough to be a Leafs’ fan. He sipped at his beer, feeling the edges getting softer, his eyelids drooping, his chin dancing on his chest. He managed to keep filling the glass when it had the nerve to be empty.
The phone bleated, alarming him. Cold beer slopped over the rim of the glass and splashed in his lap, “Fuck!”
Who’d be calling him? It wouldn’t be work. They used to call him out for IT problems in the past, but not since he began his love affair with the sauce. He did have friends, once upon a time, but with a combination of withdrawal and liberal self-medication of alcohol, they disappeared along with Olivia. Even his brother Frank barely called anymore. The phone digitally clanged. Probably a jack-ass cold-caller even though he put himself on the no-contact list.
It continued to bray. He stood, a little wobbly, and set the glass down before he slopped more out of it. He walked to the cordless, saw the ‘unknown number’ display and picked it up.
“Listen, I’m drunk, tired and not interested in what you’re selling.”
“Daddy!”
His world stopped.
-3-
Olivia hadn’t even made it to her first class before being taken. Hell, she hadn’t even slept in her new bed at residence. She puzzled over it a long time, in her prison wondering, like most people who have something terrible happen to them, how she could have avoided it. How did she not sense what was bearing down on her? A monolith of menace. How could it happen with such suddenness? Like walking off a cliff having no idea the path ended. One second you’re whistling along and the next, you’re falling through the sky, your face a study in confusion. No warning, no expectation of disaster. And even after a lifetime of reading or seeing the news on TV, relating the terrors of natural disasters or man-made ones, it never occurred to her that such things could happen to her. It seemed those terrible things happened far away, to far away people with names she didn’t know and faces she had never seen. Might as well have happened on the moon. One thing she was sure of, she wasn’t a goddamn psychic. No tarot card readings for her in the future.
After her dad left her at the university amidst luggage and boxes, she examined her new home for the next year. More like a glorified closet. She thought if she stretched out her arms she could probably touch both walls. She tried it and she could. Her fingertips brushing the ridged contours of the cinderblock walls, painted a sunny yellow. She began the tedious process of unpacking. She propped open the door so she could hear the students in the hall laughing and moving about backdropped by competing music genres from different rooms. Busy, happy sounds. Olivia decided to contribute. She searched her boxes, found the Bose sound dock and plugged it in. Easy to get lost in the music while your hands busied themselves with onerous chores. Olivia believed music made everything better and once she connected her iPod, the fear of the new, of being alone and reliant upon herself, faded with her immersion in the music. The excitement of this entirely new experience built inside her and she couldn’t wait to get to class, meet other people and maybe sit under one of the overhanging willows and discuss life with pedantic boys growing their first beards. Humming, she finished unpacking and folded down the boxes to slip into her closet for later use.
She lay on the bed, congratulating herself on her efficiency and thinking the ceiling could use a poster. Rock band? Or some cute actor? Someone knocked on her open door. A tall guy, lanky, stood in the door with the suggestion of a smile. He had a tattoo on the side of his neck, a symbol, obscured by his hair. He held papers in his hand and said, “Hi.”
“Hey.”
“I’m the R.A. The uh, resident advisor. Just popping in, saying hi.”
She stood and offered her hand, “I’m Olivia.”
“Rick. So. Here are some useful pamphlets. Maps of the buildings for the classes. You should wander around tomorrow, find where your classes are. This place is big. It also shows where the cafeteria is and the on-campus pub. You old enough to drink? Probably not. First year, right?”
“Yeah.”
“This little booklet contains the rules for living here. It has a list of fines and what not. And the last one there, has the phone number for campus security and all the R.A’s and oh, also has admin numbers, like who to talk to and what to do about changing a class.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“The cafeteria has a Starbucks now. And a Timmy’s. They accept the meal plan cards. They’re open late, too. Classes don’t officially start until Tuesday. Monday, there is an orientation session if you wanna go. It’s like a more detailed version of the stuff I just gave you. Starts in the university Centre, at around nine in the morning. You’ll get an event calendar, for frosh week there too. But you can get those anywhere.”
“Perfect. Thanks again, Rick.”
“No problem. See you around.”
“Alright.”
He hustled off and she heard him knock on another door down the hall and begin his speech. She sat on the bed and browsed through the pamphlets. The daylight faded and she noticed the sun shone mid sky, outlining the buildings as though drawn in black marker. Maybe she should go for a walk now, browse the campus with a coffee in one hand and a cookie in the other. Early evening, summer warmth still lingering, it’d be pleasant. Besides, what else would she do? She needed to burn off all the energy roiling inside and buzzing under her skin. She should use the energy for an adventure. She slipped on her flip flops, patted the pockets of her jean shorts to make sure she had her keys, student card and phone and after closing the door behind her and using the map to orient herself, she headed to Starbucks, her flip flops flapping on the ground.
She passed by rooms with the doors open and saw students lounging on the bed or in chairs. Bottles of alcohol and mix lined up like sentries on the desk, half empty or half full, depending on your outlook. Some nodded, grinning as though she were part of the conspiracy and others invited her in, slurred speech indicating they already had too much. She smiled to some said, “Another time,” to others and left the building to be met by fresh air redolent of barbecues roasting meat and the sounds of laughter dancing to her ears. So busy here and cheerful.
She glanced to the sky, rippled purple like a dark bruise as the sun circled to the horizon. Maybe they’d have a nice September. Could never tell in Canada. Wasn’t uncommon to have plus twenty degrees Celsius one day and a snow storm the next. She loved the warmth and endured the winter. She hoped to have a warm autumn. Amazing to her, to feel excited, scared and hopeful all at the same time. Almost like when she got her driver’s license. She bounced up and down in front of her dad and thought her heart would explode when he handed her the keys. Everything seemed possible then and it was the same way now. A long road of possibilities stretched out before her.
She walked down a path winding its way through thick trees, drooping branches laden with leaves and into an open area where some students threw a football to each other with red plastic cups at their feet.
Starbucks was in the cafeteria area in the university centre building. She got a latte and a gingerbread cookie. While sprinkling some cinnamon on her latte she spied a familiar face seated at a table. It took her a moment to place him. Then she remembered she’d seen him many times over the years at the recreation centre she worked in while in high school. A big man, strong through the shoulders but always ready with a smile. While the kids swam, he always sat by the pool, reading a book and sipping a coffee. Much like now. What was he doing in Guelph? At the Starbucks on campus? Did he have a kid going here? Seemed a bit too young. She shrugged it off and left the university Centre and continued with her exploration. The sun had disappeared behind
the earth. The street lamps hummed above her casting haloes of light at their base and darkness claimed the spaces in between. She didn’t mind. She hadn’t learned to fear the dark.
Main roads intersected throughout the campus. Olivia preferred to walk along the main roads because they were better lit. A logical precaution that in most instances made sense. Main roads are better lit and frequently travelled.
Olivia’s phone chirped. She took it out of her pocket and read a text from her friend, Sara, wondering how the new digs were. Sara was commuting from Hamilton to Western university in London, and was jealous, in a good natured way, of Olivia living away from home. With deft hands Olivia texted back and forth with Sara. She was unaware of the panel van slowing behind. Later, by the texts between Sara and Olivia, police would determine the time of her abduction between 8:45pm and 9:00pm.
Olivia described the social R.A., Rick, to Sara and didn’t hear the van creaking to a stop and the door sliding open. She was completely and utterly oblivious of the large man in a gorilla mask coming up behind her until his arms encircled her. She saw the phone slip out of her hands to hit the sidewalk, in slow motion, like when something terrible happened in a movie so they slowed it right down to better witness the tragedy. She was lifted from her feet, carried to the van and thrown inside. It happened so quick and so befuddled her, she didn’t start screaming until the door slid closed and the van accelerated into the night. The snatch took approximately three seconds. Police later thought it unusual there were no witnesses on such a busy road. Not unusual, just perfect timing with a dash of bad luck for Olivia thrown in.
. . .
She screamed and thrashed her legs, twisting in the grip of the man in the gorilla mask. He punched her in the nose and that stopped her screaming. White spots twinkled behind her eyes. The back of her head clanged against the metal floor. Her eyes teared and her mouth flooded with blood and the salty taste slid past her tongue and down her throat.
