Munro vs. the Coyote

by Darren Groth

  “What are you doing? You can’t do that.”

  I facepalm, move the knight back. “Ah, sorry. Forgot what we were playing there for a second. Been spending a ton of time lately practicing chess. Knights can move in an L shape.”

  We continue. Take a piece here, give a piece there. Shah rides a bishop all the way to the end zone and crowns it with a bottle cap. A cheer from somewhere near the Rec Refuge comes through the window. Maybe our matchup is being broadcast to the rest of the village. I move a rook four spaces across and kick Shah’s other bishop to the curb.

  “What is this?”

  “I can do that, can’t I?”

  “No! You cannot!”

  “Sorry, dude. Totally thought that was allowed in chess and checkers. My bad.”

  Shah glares at me. For a second I’m worried he’s going to quit the game. Get up, storm off, tell me to leave and never come back. If he’s thinking all of it—any of it—the thoughts are short-lived. He kings a pawn with a small rusty nut.

  “I have excuse for dumb play,” he says, a hint of friendly teasing in his tone. “What is yours?”

  “Hockey hits,” I reply.

  The contest marches to the finish line. Twenty minutes after we started, Shah has four pieces left, two kinged; I have three and two. It’s my turn. One decisive move will tip the balance in this checkers game, and I have one ready, but it’s not meant to claim victory. I grab the black king and send it in all directions, sweeping the board, leaving a single white pawn as the lone survivor. Shah bursts out laughing.

  “You had many hockey hits, yes?” he asks.

  “Whassup?”

  “The king, he cannot move like that. Only the queen.”

  “Say that again?”

  “The king cannot move everywhere. The queen, yes; the king, no.”

  I stare at Shah as I return his pieces to their previous positions. His laugh has faded into a smile and more of his first language. I wait for the puck to drop. It doesn’t. He has no clue what he just said, doesn’t get that he remembered. Should I tell him? As much as I want to, I can’t be sure he’d be cool about it. And I don’t want to jeopardize this afternoon’s progress. For now, maybe it’s best to let it slide. The fact that the memories are still there—that’s good enough.

  An image jumps to mind: the back of Shah’s head, whole, complete, no chunk missing.

  We play the game out. I stick to checkers the rest of the way. Shah wins (fair and square—I didn’t tank) and, after a rejected high five and a reset of the board, I tell him I should bounce so he can go back to sleep.

  “Same time next week, if it’s okay with you?”

  “For more interview or more checkers?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “For hockey hits,” he says. “And talking to you is good. It makes me want more sleep.”

  I grin and head for the door. On the way out, I sneak one last peek at my stated reason for ditching school. Shah is sitting back in his chair, arms folded, surveying the chessboard like it’s something he built with his own hands.

  When I get home, Hyde husband and wife are sitting on the front deck.

  “Hey, Munro,” says Nina. “How was school?”

  “Good.”

  “You came home late today, yeah?”

  “I wanted to get some homework out of the way.”

  “Nice!”

  “Come inside, mate,” says Geordie. “We’d like to have a quick word, if that’s okay.”

  “Um, sure.”

  We get comfortable in the living room. I glance at the phone, then zero back in on the Hydes. There’s no suggestion they’re aware of my bailout. No vibe of anger or disappointment. Just sympathy and concern.

  “We won’t beat around the bush,” says Geordie. “We wanted to talk to you about this Fair Go place.”

  “Okay.”

  “About the work you’re doing there.”

  They exchange a solemn look, then Geordie leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands interlocked.

  “You’ve been talking a lot about one of the residents in particular. Zahd? Zar?”

  “Shah.”

  “That’s him. Shah. Can you tell us a bit more about him?”

  I study Geordie’s craggy face. Still no alarm bells. “He’s from Afghanistan. He’s had a lot of problems since he had to leave his country, one of which is a head trauma that might have happened along the way. I can’t say for sure. Anyway, it’s the reason he’s at Fair Go. He’s sad and angry, and he wants to sleep all the time so he can dream about being back with his family. And he can’t remember things the way he used to, like chess, for example. That’s where I’m trying to assist him, helping him remember how to play chess.”

  Geordie gets up, begins pacing the rug. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his khakis. A vein has appeared on his forehead. “Sounds like you’re on a bit of a mission with him.”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “One that you might want to continue after your fifty hours’ volunteering is up?”

  “I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I could.”

  Geordie stops, gives a look to his wife that says your turn and sits on the coffee table.

  “Munro, it’s wonderful what you’re doing out there,” says Nina. “This Shah fellow is lucky to have you taking an interest in him. But we’re both a bit worried that… well, that you’re getting in a bit deep. We want you to go to Sussex State High, work hard, have fun and take home the best experience possible. We don’t want you to go home disappointed that…that Shah didn’t remember how to play chess.”

  “I won’t go home disappointed,” I reply. “I’m going to a good school. I’ve made new friends. I’ve got a great family taking care of me. Fair Go is a bonus. It’s gravy. Yes, I like helping Shah and the other residents. But I’m not expecting miracles. I’ve got everything in perspective.”

  Liar.

  Geordie pats the coffee table, and I sit beside him. He studies my face top to bottom, as if it’s a map of a place he’s never seen. I wonder if he’s imagining me behind a car window, panic-stricken, water rising all around.

  “Helping a young man like Shah—that’s a good thing, Munro. A very good thing. No two ways about it.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “But here’s the rub: you can only do so much to make things right.”

  He lays a hand on my shoulder. It’s heavy and stiff.

  “After that, you need to help yourself.”

  Ah, but it’s March 8.

  You helped yourself just fine today, didn’t you?

  Louis talks through a FaceTime delay and a mouthful of breakfast poutine. “Sounds too easy, bro. What’s the catch?”

  “No catch.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope.”

  “The Hydes will find out you’re cutting classes eventually, man. Then they’ll tell your mom and dad.”

  “First off, it’s only Wednesday afternoons. Second, it’s not really cutting. Third, Mom and Dad said they’d support me whatever I wanted to do.”

  Lou points a soggy fry down the line. “Dude, sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself rather than me.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Truth, eh? That’s all I want—gimme some. Just like Eddie Vedder says.” He pushes his half-empty bowl aside, wipes his hands down the front of his shirt. His face goes all sucked lemon. “So gimme the truth about today, bro.”

  “What about it?”

  “March 8? One-year anniversary of Evie’s death? Is that the real reason for all this cutting business?”

  I shrug. “Just another day, man. Just another number on the calendar.”

  Louis’s reply is disrupted by a knock on the bedroom door. Rowan pokes his head in.

  “Sorry, Lou. I gotta go.”

  My best friend since elementary school gives me a minor hairy eyeball and wags a finger. “To be continued, Mr. Maddux.”

  “Or not, Mr. Teen Helpline.�
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  My tablet screen blanks out. I wave for Rowan to come in.

  “Sorry, Mun. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “This is your house—you don’t have to be sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, I might get kicked out with the sneaky shit you’ve got me doing.” He laughs at my instant horror. “I’m kidding, brother!” He thumbs through one of the old surf mags on the TV stand. “So you probably worked it out from your chat with the oldies—I wiped the phone message the school sent. They don’t have a clue.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “And I can keep wiping them, if you want.”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “Meh. As far as my criminal record goes, this is littering.” Rowan sits in the office chair at the desk and spins slowly. “A message will probably get through to the ’keeper at some point though. You know that, hey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You be able to handle the fallout?”

  “I guess we’ll find out when it happens.” I shift up to the head of my bed and slip a pillow behind my back. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go for it.”

  “Why are you good with this? Okay, I get that to you it’s littering, but why are you helping me?”

  Rowan stops spinning. He rubs his buzz-cut head.

  “Do you know exactly what went down with Dad’s rescue?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t look it up out of curiosity?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t search any of the million articles out there?”

  I fold my arms. “Evie’s death was a story too, so I know what it’s like to have your misery out there. And there is misery in Geordie’s rescue, isn’t there?”

  Rowan blows a big puff of breath and begins talking to the ceiling.

  “January 11, 2011, at the height of the flood, Dad tied a rope around his waist and swam out to a blue Ford Fiesta caught in the Logan River. He pulled the driver out—a man named Patrick Cloutier—and managed to drag him back to the bank. Then he swam out again to get Patrick’s brother, Sean. He was in the passenger seat. Dad was about halfway out when the car got swept away. Sean’s body was found the next day near the Carbrook golf course.”

  Rowan covers his mouth and coughs. In the corner, something is loose inside the guts of the pedestal fan, sticking with each rotation.

  “A lot of stuff happened in the three years after that, up until Dad left work on medical. Not much of it was good. Not even the medals. The thing I remember most about those three years is the look Dad had most of the time. Sort of uptight, distracted. It was like he was still in the water, still with the rope tied around him. Waiting. Waiting for that blue Fiesta to come back so he could finish the job. Waiting for a chance to make things right.”

  He brings his gaze down and flips it my way.

  “I’ve seen that look on you, brother. First day you were here, quite a few days since. In the scraps. At Liber8. When you got caught in the train door at Wattle Ridge. Even around here. It’s not fun seeing that look. And sure as shit, I know it’s not fun living with it. So I’m trying to help you get rid of it.”

  Mom and Dad:

  My March 8 has just ended and yours is just starting. Hard to believe it’s been one year. I considered FaceTiming, but I bailed. Thought it might make things harder rather than easier.

  I was okay today. Better than okay, actually. In my interview with the YOLO coordinator, he said he can see great things ahead for me(!) And do you remember me telling you about my team at Fair Go? You remember Shah? I made a pretty big breakthrough with him. I played “checkess” with him—a combo of chess and checkers. It helped bring back some memories he’d lost. School was fine too, btw. The afternoon class was particularly good. I haven’t had any major “challenges” the last couple of weeks.

  March 8 will always be hard. What I did today—it didn’t make things easier, but it made things better. And if things keep getting better, they’ll eventually be the best they can be. That’s what I’m aiming to do. Not just March 8. Every day.

  When you visit Evie’s grave today, tell her I love her and I miss her.

  M

  FAIR GO

  The three weeks before Easter break were the best three weeks I’d had since Evie’s death. The Straya Tour went to Mount Glorious, the State Library and Suncorp Stadium for a football match. With each trip, the Living Partner role felt more and more like a second skin. I began to get hugs goodbye, saved seats on the bus, rabbit ears in photos. It was all unicorns and double rainbows. Mostly anyway. Florence started calling me “Mr. Wrong” due to my ongoing avoidance of a right-handed thumb-wrestling bout. Iggy kept insisting the license plate on the bus be changed so it was more difficult to track. Shah was still largely a nonfactor. The Afghani refugee was awake much of the time though. I’d like to think our Wednesday afternoons playing checkess had something to do with it.

  Caro and I spent a lot of time together. We were still in the friend zone, but that didn’t stop Rowan’s labeling us “Thunder and Lightning.” Back home, the Foundation had its best month to date, in large part because the new video got some run on CTV Morning Live and Breakfast Television.

  Last but definitely not least, the Fair Go effect reached Sussex State High.

  A lock-down drill came and went without my needing a paper bag to breathe into. A couple of meat-head rugby players who suggested I should go back to America got a reply of With yo mama? instead of a physical confrontation. I still got the odd token twinges in my chest and my right hand, but there were no full-on freezes, no vivid flashbacks.

  No Coyote.

  Well, almost. I hardly heard a peep out of him, a comment here, a question there, mostly mailed in. It was more a whisper than a voice. It was the clearest evidence yet of improvement. It was nailing the first four letters in the word goodbye.

  Of course, because the life of Munro Maddux could never be completely stress free, there was still the odd fire to put out.

  The first was sparked by YOLO. After a routine check-in with my parents, they beefed up the backgrounder in my Sussex student-exchange profile. The add? Mom’s “pity poor Munro” email sent along with my original application.

  “I promise it totally stays on the down low,” Craig Varzani assured me, and a cringe crawled across my face.

  On March 16, Ms. Mac interrupted Geography to summon me to a one-on-one meeting. As we strode in silence toward her office, I wondered what she was thinking. Was she upset that I’d deceived her? Mad? Would she bodycheck me, send me flying? Slameron Diaz certainly had the chops to do it. I risked a look in her direction as we passed the 2011 tribute mural. No bruises or scratches. I didn’t know if it was an omen.

  We entered her office. There was a new poster on the wall: Don’t ask me nothing and I won’t tell you no lies. —Anonymous. Seemed appropriate. I took a seat. Across from me, Ms. Mac pondered, elbows on the desk, hands joined, tips of her fingers tapping out Morse code.

  “You’ve been through a lot, Munro,” she began.

  “It’s in the past, Miss,” I replied.

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah, it is. Evie died over a year ago. I’m here in Australia. I’m enjoying the student exchange. I’m trying to go for best and not be satisfied with better.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Ms. Mac mulled things over. The clock on the wall checkmarked my performance so far: tick…tick…tick… tick…

  “I do have to talk to your teachers about this.”

  “Talk…what does that mean?”

  “It means they need to be informed.”

  “How informed?”

  “What info do you reckon they should have?”

  “None.”

  “Because it’s in the past?”

  “I want it to stay that way.”

  Ms. MacGillivray nodded once, in slow motion. She suggested telling the teachers that I’d “experienced
family difficulties” and “may require some special consideration.” Could I handle that? I said I could.

  “There’s one more thing,” she added. “I think you should seriously think about getting some help, Munro.”

  “Sorry?”

  “If ‘best’ is truly your goal, someone should be giving you a helping hand while you’re here.” Ms. Mac rose, rounded the desk, dropped down to her haunches beside my chair. “There’s a couple of really good people I could recommend, folks who work with young people doing it tough. I could give you their numbers, email addresses.”

  “I’m already in contact with a teen helpline on a regular basis,” I said. “And just so’s you know, I’m able-bodied. Regular brain. No third copy of chromosome 21. No hole in the heart.” I nodded. “I am the helping hand.”

  The second fire was no inferno, but still needed to be put out. Caro and Rowan must’ve been on the gang about their bad case of Munro-itis, because they all came after me. In class, at lunch, after school, individually and together. Even Renee got in on the act. No longer could I practice chess or research popular T-shirt designs or read comics with obscure superheroes or check out stories of special-needs marriages or watch videos of made-up martial-arts moves. They would find me and befriend me, regardless of how I felt about it.

  There was plenty of news to update. Maeve’s highlight of the school fete was Rowan’s cooking—specifically, a batch of “to-die-for honey-and-fig bikkies” he made for the bake sale. Renee passed around her list of heckles for the opening night of The Addams Family (Maeve would be spared any burns). Digger revealed that the pursuit of Jessica Mauboy as his semiformal date was going to plan. He’d favorited two hundred of her tweets since January. The magic number was three hundred, and then he would pop the question via DM.

  I knew they weren’t really reaching out to me—they were just doing it to make Caro and Rowan happy. But I played along. That made Caro and Rowan happy too.

  The third fire to be extinguished was lit by my parents.

  We’ll be visiting with you soon!

  That was the opening line in the email that arrived March 21. The lines that came after it were just as WTF.