ANTHEM
OF A
RELUCTANT
PROPHET
ANTHEM
OF A
RELUCTANT
PROPHET
JOANNE PROULX
Epigraph on page vii reprinted with permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon and Schuster Adult Publishing Group, from DIRT MUSIC by Tim Winton. Copyright © 2001 by Tim Winton. All rights reserved. “Sex and Candy” words and music by John Wozniak © 1997 WB Music Corp. and Wozniak Publishing. All rights administered by WB Music Corp. All rights reserved. Used with permission of Alfred Publishing Co., Inc.
First published in Canada by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc.
Copyright © 2007 by Joanne Vasiga-Proulx
Published in the United States in 2008 by
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Proulx, Joanne.
Anthem of a reluctant prophet / Joanne Proulx.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56947-487-7 (trade pbk. original)
I. Title
PR9199.4.P778A58 2008
813’.54—dc22
2007037538
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Martin, my favorite flavor of everything
In memory of my sister Laurie Elizabeth Vasiga,
my heart is blue for you
One, one, one, one—you go up and down your note like a pup up and down a dune, until you don’t feel your festering bites or your oozy eyes or sun-scoured neck, until you’re not one moment empty, nor one bit lost or one breath scared. You’re so damn far into ones you’re not one anything. You’re a resonating multiplication. You’re a crowd.
—Tim Winton, Dirt Music
ANTHEM
OF A
RELUCTANT
PROPHET
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
The first time it happened, I was bullshitting. At least, I thought I was bullshitting. I had no idea I was about to knock my world on its ass when I opened my mouth that night in Delaney’s basement. It was October 7, 2002, and like most days in Stokum, the rank little pinprick of a town where I was born and raised, the seventh of October unraveled in a completely unmemorable way. Yeah, as I recall, it was a pretty Stokum kind of day. It wasn’t until that night that things got weird.
I’d headed over to Todd Delaney’s after dinner, was hanging with the usual crowd, smoking up and listening to the mindless techno shit Todd likes. I’m not going to say too much about Delaney except that his mother was never home, so by the time we were seventeen his basement pretty much reeked. (When I say his mother was never home, I mean she was never home. Last time I saw her, she was headed to a millennium bash with a magnum of wine tucked under her scrawny arm.) Another thing—so I don’t go mental calling him Todd, he’s been Fang since first grade when his adult incisors arrived extra-early and extra-large, leaving the baby teeth up front cowering like mini-marshmallows between two he-man tusks. It was a look that caused Fang a fair amount of grief during his formative years. And he still has a pretty lacerating smile, so the nickname has some staying power even if he doesn’t.
Anyway, the night of the seventh, we were in Fang’s basement and the air was thick, but we weren’t all chilled out and laughing at nothing like usual. The weed had a nasty edge and the mood was sort of grim. I was sitting on the crap plaid couch Delaney’s mom had rescued from some landfill, being violated by the techno throb, agonizing over just how trying it was to be friends with a guy who had such shitty taste in music, which should give you a bit of insight into where my head was at in those days. Another impediment to me getting anywhere near a comfortable high was Dwight Slater, the skank parked beside me on the couch.
I realized the cushions were soft. I realized they tended to roll toward the low-slung center. Still, I thought my buddy Dwight could have made a bit more of an effort to stay on his side of the furniture. But he just kept sloshing into me, his knee, his shoulder, bumping against mine. Instead of moving over, he’d just give me a real loose smile, pretending he didn’t know he was pissing me off, pretending he didn’t know that the only reason he was even permitted in the basement was that he always brought the weed. (I’d pretty much hated Dwight since the day he tried to strangle me. It was back in third grade and Mrs. McNulty, our teacher, had stepped out of the class for a smoke or something and bam! Slater’s hands were around my neck. I don’t remember if I’d been hassling him before she left the room or what. I do remember Dwight looking completely psycho and his grip being superman tight and my face getting really, really hot and thinking I was going to die— I mean, for the first time in my life truly believing I was going to die—and how, even with Slater squeezing the last breath from my body, I’d been worried there was something wrong with me because I was way more stunned than scared, which I was sure wasn’t normal. Anyway, no big deal. Dwight didn’t kill me. What he did was drop his hands real fast when Mrs. McNulty got back. And as the blood pounded its way into my head and I gasped for air, he’d acted like we’d just been fooling around, like the whole thing was all a big joke. Ha, ha. Slap me on the back. Very funny. Asshole.)
So Dwight. Yeah. He was definitely part of the lethal brew of bad dope, bad company and even worse music that got me going in Delaney’s basement. Normally I lay pretty low and let conversations roll around me, occasionally tossing in a sarcastic comment or two just so people don’t think I’m too slow to keep up. But that night I was fucking Chatty Cathy, man, and I started telling the whole room this dark tale about how one of us was going to bite it on the way to school tomorrow, get creamed by a van and be dead before they knew what hit them. The more I talked, the more details I spewed and my voice got all authoritative and shit and pretty soon everyone just sat back and let me roll.
Red van, out-of-state plates, license number BLU 369. There’d be a busted-up skateboard in the middle of the road and a dead kid on the sidewalk, head split open, eyes way wide, staring at the blue, blue sky from a puddle of red, red blood.
I made a show of looking around, let my eyes land on every sorry piece of gristle in the room, but the name had already settled into me, so I left the best for last. First I checked out Fang, standing in the bathroom doorway, one arm resting on the chin-up bar we’d mounted there a few years back to keep his pipes steely. Even stoned, Fang seemed nervous, panicked almost, like he’d just been nailed by the phantom spotlight he’d been running from all his life. In that light, exposed in a druggy moment of re
ckoning, we all considered him for the role of dead man.
Fang looked like a younger, more battered version of Steven Tyler—the fem lead singer of Aerosmith—but minus the strut. Totally minus the strut. Fang was all lips and teeth and long hair, all muscle and sinew and bone. I stared at him, slouched in the doorway, backlit by the glare of the bathroom light. I didn’t get his retro rock star look. I didn’t get his music. I didn’t get him anymore.
Fang shook his head, bouncing the hair from his eyes, and for just a second we managed to connect. I could see him pushing the others out, holding them back, so there was just enough room for us to make contact. “Fuck off, Luke,” he said. I gave him a knowing smile, a little nod of approval, before moving on to my next target.
I lingered on Chad Turner, Phil Stroper and a couple of the other guys, stretching the moment as far as the tension would take it. I skipped Dwight altogether because a) I couldn’t be bothered cranking around on the couch to look at him, and b) I didn’t want to stare into his gob anyway, because every time I did I’d find myself searching his face, trying to figure out why people, new to town and whatnot, always got around to asking us the same moronic question: “Hey, are you two brothers?” Jesus Christ. Me and Dwight? Retarded second cousins, maybe. But brothers? Jesus.
Stan, who looked nothing like either me or Dwight and was nowhere near retarded, was sitting in the corner opposite the computer, having claimed the basement’s only decent chair. He was playing with the handle on the side of the La-Z-Boy, flipping the footrest up and down, apparently barely tuned in.
“Stan,” I said, and I said it kind of loud so of course he had to look up. “Tomorrow morning. Eight thirty-seven. The red van with the out-of-state plates? You go head to head. You lose. You die.” I looked him straight on, with my face all serious, and I may have even jabbed a finger in his direction, but he wasn’t having any of my nonsense, Stan being Stan and all.
First he said something like, “Oooh, you’re really freaking me out, Luke,” and he gave the lever a final push. The La-Z-Boy springs snapped to attention. Feet up, fingers laced together behind his head, he assumed this completely relaxed posture. Real cool. Real Stan. “You want to know how I know your story is completely full of shit, Luke?”
I just shrugged and we locked eyes and had a bit of a smirk-off while he let his question hang out there. When he’d given everyone a chance to mull it over, he laid out his theory. “Your story is full of shit because no one from out of state ever comes to buttfuck Stokum. Especially in October.”
We all got a good laugh out of that and everyone called me on my bogus tale and fucking Slater punched me in the arm a little harder than necessary and then, thankfully, someone sane turned the music off and the TV on and we watched videos on MTV2 for a while before heading out.
On my way home from Fang’s that night, I thought about why I’d stuck Stan in the middle of my man-versus-van scenario. I figured it was because I knew he would have a good comeback, or maybe it was because he wasn’t a regular in the cast of misfits who hung out at Fang’s. I think we all liked to see him squirm once in a while, just so he wouldn’t get too comfortable thinking he was King Shit or something, who could drop by whenever he felt like getting high or hanging with the low-lying fruit or whatever it was that drew him in.
I will take a minute here to talk about Stan, because after what happened I think he deserves his dues, especially since the local media turned the whole thing into a two-minute community freak-of-the-week gig, aired in between cheesy car commercials at the end of the six o’clock news. The slick reporter with his great hair and white teeth practically forgot Stan altogether, clamoring to turn me into something I’m not. That definitely wasn’t cool, but to him I was the kicker, the twist, the hype, but I’m telling you, Stan was the real deal.
He was one of those rare kids who could move in pretty much any crowd, a regular teenage chameleon who in theory everyone should have hated. But really, the only person I can even think of who wasn’t big on Stan was Fang, which was weird seeing how Delaney wasn’t all that picky when it came to friends. I mean, I’d been his best one for, like, ten years, which is a pretty good indicator of just how low his standards were. But whenever Stan was around, Fang was even quieter than usual, slung way back, arms folded across his chest, looking all pouty and unimpressed. Still, we both knew Fang would rather gnaw off his own knob than get into it, so if he had a problem with Stan he kept it to himself, which was fine by me.
When I consider just the basement dwellers, I’d have to say Stan was mostly my friend. We’d hooked up at school before he started showing up at Delaney’s or spending his lunch hours with us stoners, cluttering up the school’s back parking lot, passing around a spliff and doing sketchy tricks on his board to make us laugh. I have to admit, he was funny as hell, which was probably why so many kids liked him in the first place, although he was a lot more than just another pothead clown.
I remember this one time after lunch, when Stan and I went to class and Mr. Thorp, our math teacher with the huge head, sprang this surprise quiz on us. I’d sat there trying to make sense of the mess floating around on the page in front of me—you know, trying not to laugh about how unimaginative it was that a six was just a tipped-over nine or something equally brilliant—and I glanced over and Stan’s like totally bent over the page, all intense and concentrated. I mean, he was just flying. He must have sharpened his pencil fifteen times during that test. Afterwards he chatted it up with the brains in the corridor, a big grin on his face. He ended up getting something like 95, only about 80 more than me.
After school, Stan usually shot hoops with the jocks, all buffed and shit, no shirt and his jeans just barely hanging on, boxers poking out the top the way the chicks dig it. He was a great ball player, but everyone knew he was just passing time, waiting for the drama group to wrap up whatever piece o’ crap they were practicing so he could walk Faith Taylor, as in the Faith Taylor, home. Faith’s one of the beautiful people at Jefferson, and even though she’s in drama, she’s also really cool, although I wouldn’t have known it back then; back then I’d never been close enough to even get a whiff of what she was all about.
But Stan had been going out with Faith since freshman year, and from what I heard he’d definitely been on the inside. Man! Like most guys at Jefferson, I would have given my right nut to get anywhere with a girl like her, and fucking Stan was shagging her on a regular basis and she was probably loving the whole thing. I mean, they went out for like a year and a half, so you figure it out.
Anyway, not only was Stan dude enough to be with Faith, he was also smart and funny and athletic, just an excellent person from pretty much every angle, and unless you’re a total brick, you’ve probably guessed that he died at 8:37 A.M., October 8, 2002, on his way to school. He was hit by a red van turning into the parking lot of the 7-Eleven he was ripping by at the time. He died of head injuries and was pronounced dead at the scene. (Later on, I overheard this kid at school whose dad is a cop telling some of his friends that the people in the van were from Windsor, Canada. They’d been tooling through Michigan, headed for New York City, got off the turnpike for gas, got lost on their way back to the highway and had headed into the 7-Eleven for directions. I thought Stan would have appreciated this bit of information, which proves he was right on. No one ever comes to butt-fuck Stokum, especially in October.)
Now, this isn’t something I really like to rehash, but it’s important and I have to lay it down once, so maybe people might understand a little better what was going on, I mean really going on, instead of buying the garbage they spewed on TV. The morning Stan died started out pretty much the same as every other day. I got up around seven-thirty, completely groggy from the weed the night before, grabbed a shower and some cereal and was on my way to school when I got this really weird feeling. I kept riding for a while, but I couldn’t shake the weirdness, so I skidded out and picked up my skateboard. By that time the chatter of wheels on rutted pavemen
t had moved past my feet, crawled up my legs, to settle in my belly. I actually went and leaned up against a tree, but it didn’t help. The sun just kept getting brighter, and everything but the tremble in my gut got quiet, until all I could hear was playing on the inside—vibrations shifting and spinning, growing into something big and beautiful, something built on waves of sonic light. It was like feeling the bass moving through you when your favorite song is cranked and the music is right there inside you, threatening wonder, only it was so much cleaner and purer and it only lasted for a second.
I wasn’t wearing a watch at the time, but it didn’t matter. I was positive it was 8:37. I was positive Stan was dead. And I knew what a good, solid guy he’d been, an incredible guy, and what a loss it was that he was gone. I also knew that the life I’d lived until that moment was as dead as my friend.
TWO
I’m not sure how long it was before Fang came by and found me clinging to the tree, my forehead pressed up hard against the bark. He asked if I was humping the fucking thing or what, and when I didn’t answer, he swung around the trunk, trying to get a look at me, asking what’s wrong, dude, what’s wrong, until I finally had to stand up and act like everything was cool. I don’t know how I hopped on my board, how my foot found the pavement again and again, how I wheeled right up to the death scene with Fang, pretending I didn’t have a clue.
The 7-Eleven is pretty much directly across from our school, and by the time we arrived, quite a crowd had gathered. Fang weaseled his way to the front, dragging me with him. The body was already covered up, but the puddle of blood around what was left of Stan’s head kept growing. Staining the white sheet, running off the sidewalk, spilling over the curb, screaming its redness into the street. As if a little thing like being dead was going to stop Stan from making sure that anyone who’d been in the basement the night before and was staring down at his body just then would never forget my prophetic little tale. And the guys who’d been at Fang’s were all over it. They looked at the puddle of blood and they looked at me, jaws slack, bodies tense. They dragged their gaping eyes from my face to the skateboard cracked in two in the middle of the street. The red van with the unforgettable Canadian plates? They practically nailed me to its bashed-in grille with their silent, stupefied accusations.
Anthem of a Reluctant Prophet Page 1
