At this moment, I’d give anything just to take a bus home. As much as I like her, I’m worried Starr will want to play pretend boyfriend again and I’m not up to that. I don’t want to treat her like a child, but I also can’t be honest about how I’m feeling, which is fucking gutted. I don’t know how Henry deals with chronic empathy, day in, day out.
“Are you okay, Darren?” Starr repeats.
Henry pats her arm. “I think Darren just needs a moment to himself.”
He hands me the keys and asks me to bring the van around. When we load in the suit and Starr closes the door, the collapsible wheelchair is all that’s left on the sidewalk. The seat’s already bowed down and I wonder how long it will take before some jerk in a Superman suit starts taking pictures or having a race with his friends.
HENRY
IT’S HOTTER IN THE VAN THAN I EXPECT WHEN WE GET back. We’ve been at the convention too long and the vehicle is steamy. There’s an awful smell, vaguely fecal, and at first I think it’s the crap they put on Darren, or the sweat from his uniform. When we roll down the windows, however, it doesn’t go away. At each turn, the stink wafts up from the back of the vehicle. Suddenly I realize – the turtles. They must be cooked. That’s what we’re smelling. A typical kid, one who thought turtles were only a halfway good pet, wouldn’t notice if I swapped in new ones. But Starr will. I’d have to take the dead ones in and find a perfect match on the colour banding. By the time we get home, nothing will be open. All I can hope is that Starr’s so tired she goes to sleep and forgets about them. Then we can deal with their deaths in the morning.
Darren’s squeezed into the middle seat now, to give Starr room to stretch out. I’ve got him on navigation duty, the map tented over his knee. The kid looks railroaded. I’d tell him there are more fish in the sea, but he can’t see that yet.
“Most guys wouldn’t have done that,” I say.
Darren just nods, careful not to shift his chest where Starr’s head is resting, a hoodie for a pillow.
I try to think up another of his ways to die, but it seems too pat and all I can think of are the turtles. Steamed to death with tap water in a budget terrarium in a van in a parking lot in the middle of a convention centre. I put the AC on to cool off and get the air moving before Starr starts asking questions. She’s sensitive to smell.
They’re getting ready to repave the highway and the road is pitted with troughs. When we knock back onto the smooth sections, Starr wrenches her elbow up and checks for bruises. Her unease makes me hyperaware of the asphalt too. By the time we hit Kalamazoo, the road feels like it’s been bombed out.
“This road is the pits,” she snaps.
“I’m sorry.”
“This day has been the pits.”
“Do you want some music?”
“I won’t be able to hear it.” She checks the skin on her forearm again. “Is the car breaking down?”
There’s a jangly sound at the back of the van as the Franny Feathers parts shift in their boxes. Starr takes it as proof we’re seconds away from crashing. That and the ribbons of blown-out tires littering the shoulder.
“Do you hear it, Darren?”
Darren leans his ear toward the back of the vehicle. “Is it that tick-a-tick-a?”
“It’s Franny.” The residual stress from the day is coming to a head but, while we’re driving, there’s not much I can do to calm my daughter. I turn the radio on but only find static.
“Keep your eyes on the road.” Starr turns the radio back off. “Pull over, I need to pee.”
Darren pages through the road atlas, running his finger along the half-hour’s progress we’ve made since we last stopped. We haven’t had anything to drink in hours.
“The more we stop, the longer it will take to get home.” I regret giving her a hard time as soon as I say it.
“I’m not faking. I’m twenty-eight. I know when I need to pee.”
“Okay, it’s okay.” I start changing lanes and scanning for an exit sign.
“Put yourself in my shoes.”
There’s a truck inspection lane ahead, but no porta-potty. Squatting would be too difficult for Starr and I doubt she’d be able to pee anyway with so many things to fixate on – mosquitos, someone seeing, grass brushing against her bum. At this stretch, the exits are spaced tens of miles apart, no guarantee of a bathroom.
“I’m not faking.”
“I know.”
The front left tire lugs over a ridge and Starr’s arm mashes against the bulb of the door lock. “I hate you,” she shrieks. “I hate you.” Over and over for the ten minutes it takes to pass a sign with a gas pump icon, an arrow. The building is more garden shed than store but, sure enough, there’s a customer washroom. Starr waits in the cubicle, crying, while I scrub a constellation of dried urine dots off the toilet seat.
Outside the gas station there’s a big rock painted white and Starr sits on it for a while to relax. Darren stays in the van with the windows up, trapped with the fumes of the dead turtles.
I give Starr some space but don’t stray too far, finding a middle ground where she won’t interpret my distance as anger but won’t feel crowded either. I’d hoped to make it home tonight but we’re hours from the border and she’s too uncomfortable. We’ll have to find another motel, hopefully closer to Sarnia, so that if Darren needs a doctor we can get there. I’ll offer to spring for the kid’s room because I know he didn’t budget for that expense.
Starr has stopped picking her fingers, which is a good sign. “Dad,” she says, tentatively. “Can I have a hug?”
I give her one straightaway.
“I don’t know why I said those things.”
“It’s been a long day, honey.”
“I don’t really hate you.”
It’s always this way after a fight. Once the anger flushes out, her deeper fear of rejection leaches in. I cradle her again; tell her I love her.
“I know you got Franny Feathers to make me happy.” Several curls are pasted to her cheek.
“I didn’t mean for those things to happen. I’m sorry it’s been such a hard day.”
“That’s alright, Dad.”
I ask if she thinks she can make it another hour or two in the car.
“Can I ask Darren for a hug?”
Darren steps out of the van. Once Starr is bundled into the middle seat, I tell Darren about the change in plan. Tell him to take a minute if he needs to call his parents.
“I’ll just send them a text.”
“You need to call into work?”
“I don’t think I have a job anymore.”
“Right. Tell Brandon you need another few days. I’ll help you with the suit.”
Starr leans against me for the rest of the drive and we listen to a 1940s hour on one of the local stations. With each number, Starr’s voice underlines the swell of the torch singer’s. Darren barely looks up from his phone, which doesn’t stop vibrating with incoming texts. I wonder if his parents had expected him home tonight or if he’s still hashing it out with Luz. I don’t want to ask in case it’s the latter. As we pull into the Rodeway Inn, his fingers are madly jabbing the screen.
“Everything okay?”
He jerks his head up like I’ve surprised him surfing porn. Then he gets out and helps me with the bags.
Of course, Starr wants to bring the turtles in with us, like we have the other nights. “This hotel has a no-pets policy,” I lie. “They’ll be fine out here.”
I promise to feed them for her, but she wants to do it herself. She sprinkles a scoop of flakes into the terrarium and they stick to the surface like confetti. The turtles have pulled up into their shells, no flesh to be seen, sealed in like a coffin.
The next morning, when we get out to the van, I know we’re going to have to face the music.
“Let’s check on Alex and Mallory,” Starr says.
“I don’t know if they’re feeling well.”
“Turtles don’t get sick.”
She waits for me
to retrieve them. I swing open the doors and heft myself against the bumper. There, in the middle of the terrarium is Alex, head and flippers out, mounted on top of Mallory. Alive.
“They look fine,” Starr says.
They do look fine. At least turtle activity is so limited that no one will notice even if they do have a dose of heatstroke. It feels like a good omen, this Lazarus trick.
The sun’s out but the humidity isn’t as oppressive. Starr’s tired from yesterday but in good spirits. “Revolution” comes on the radio, sung by one of the kids from Idol, instead of Paul and John. It sounds exactly the same except without any good bits. The kid is shoving at least two extra syllables into the word alright. I suffer through the rendition for Starr’s sake.
“At least tell me you didn’t vote for him.”
“He wasn’t my favourite,” Starr laughs, enjoying my mock-distress. It’s a long-standing joke between us – Dad’s total unhipness with new music. Just to rub it in, she drums her fingers against the dashboard along with the snare drum.
Even Darren’s looking better. The swelling in his face is all gone now and the bruising is more green than black, pale enough to be plastered under a coat of makeup.
He’s been patient with Starr, answering her questions about school next year. She wants to know if it will be a coed residence or not and if he’ll know his roommate in advance. Starr’s seen a lot of college dramas on TV, programs where more zippers crack open than books. I think she imagines university to be one long, romantic pizza party.
“Are you going to have keggers?”
“Maybe, if I make the right off-campus friends.” Darren laughs. “I’m in the keener residence – quiet hours and dry floors.”
“Can I come visit you?”
“Sure. Are you on Facebook?”
Yes, Starr is on Facebook. Kathleen thinks it’s fine, with limits. I know she checks Starr’s settings from time to time to make sure her profile isn’t public. To me it feels too much like an unlocked door.
“It’s not for a while,” Starr says, “but you should come to my birthday party this year. We’ll go to a movie and then back to the condo for a party. That way you can meet Della and some of my friends from day program.”
“As long as it’s not during mid-terms.” The kid sounds sincere.
It’s a nice thought, Starr having someone like him to count on as a friend, and it’s hard to not get my hopes up. That promise of real friendship from someone outside the family has been dangled in front of Starr before, especially with her workmate Levi. Usually people don’t stay in touch. Support workers and therapists help, but Starr knows it’s not the same. If Darren kept his word, even if they just met for lunch every few months, I’d repair a hundred Frankie suits.
It’s half past one before we get our turn at the border. The guard who pokes his head through the booth window doesn’t look much older than Darren. It makes me wonder if someone advised him to grow that goatee, to try to age him up. I’d imagine he’d need that in this line of work.
“How long were you in the States for?”
“Since Friday.”
“What was the purpose of your visit?”
“Pleasure.” If it were Kath, she’d be giving him our point-by-point itinerary. My wife’s never stolen a grape at a grocery store but she says the questions pen her in. She has no choice but to talk her way out. When I was growing up, my father taught me to never offer more than they ask. He once smuggled a side of beef over the Rainbow Bridge.
“What’s the value of the goods you’re bringing back?”
“Eighteen hundred or so.”
“No alcohol or tobacco?”
“No.”
“What did you spend the money on?”
“I bought some spare parts from a store liquidation.”
“What kind of parts?”
“For robots. Animatronics. It’s an old Frankie’s Funhouse robot.”
“What sort of work are you in?”
“I’m an electrician.”
“An independent contractor?”
“No, I’m at a Frankie’s in Toronto. But this is just for a side project.”
He checks the passports again and doesn’t say anything. He reaches out of the booth and I think he’s going to wave us on our way.
“I need you to hand over your keys.”
I turn off the ignition.
“Do you have documentation to show that this isn’t a commercial purchase?”
He steps around to the back and opens up the rear doors. The Frankie Fuzz head rolls out and onto his foot.
We watch the agents search through the van from a bench about twenty feet away. Our holding area is marked with reflective yellow lines like a parking stall and we’re sheltered from the heat by a cabana roof that juts out from the main building. Darren has clammed right up but Starr doesn’t know how bad this is, so I have to pretend to not be concerned either.
The mascot suit is now past repair. The bulb of the nose has detached and the face will be pocked from the rough asphalt. Paint and polyester resin can’t work miracles. “Tell them it’s mine,” I say. “I’m taking it in for cleaning.” The last thing we need is for the agents to think Darren was working without a permit. “Give them Luz’s number if they ask.”
They’re taking the machines out now and have no clue what to make of them. They pick segments up by the wrong bits and roughly dump them on the ground. All of a sudden, the unloading stops and the three guards step back from the contents. One radios something and they stand around eyeballing the door. A guard in a different uniform arrives with a dog and a swabber.
“There’s a dog,” Starr says.
“Yes. It’s a big one.” The German shepherd doesn’t bark or seem very excited by its interaction with the van. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad sign.
“Why is it going in our van? Is it looking for drugs?”
Finding a Frankie’s crew member toking beside the grease bin is pretty common. I try to think back, has it ever been Darren? Recreational weed – who cares – but I hope to God he’s not stupid enough to have brought something with him.
“Does it look like your therapy dog?” I ask.
The new officer emerges from the van carrying the terrarium.
“Alex and Mallory.”
“They’re fine.”
Darren tries to catch my eye but I avoid it.
“It’s a nice day out, isn’t it?” Better to keep up the charade than to have Starr panic about her pets.
“Yes, not too hot.”
“What cookies do you think you and your mom will make next weekend?”
“Can I tell them to take care of my turtles?”
“They know.”
“But they’ve just left them on the ground.” Starr gets up to walk over.
“Sweetheart, the rule is that we have to stay over here.” I hold her wrist to stop her, trying not to startle her with the restraint. “We fed them this morning and Alex and Mallory have lots of fresh water.”
“I don’t like them sitting on the ground. Someone could step in the tank.”
“Tell me again, which cookies?”
“I don’t want to talk about that right now.”
A woman comes to usher us into the main building. She’s strapped into the same paramilitary uniform as the rest, but from the chin up, she could be an air hostess, her hair teased into a bump above her ponytail, eyes a wash of pastel. It’s disconcerting how stern her voice is. She tacks on the word please, but it sounds like a marching drill. Through here, please. Right left right.
Starr asks if her turtles can come too. “Their names are Alex and Mallory.”
The guard doesn’t know what to make of this straightforward admission.
“They’ve been my pets for a year and a half.”
She leads us to a holding room with four other people – a Hispanic family and a white guy with feral dreads. It feels like we’re at a walk-in clinic being filed off by the
triage nurse.
Officer Sanjula calls for Emily Robinson and it takes a second for me to react.
“That’s us.” I reach for Starr’s hand.
“Just Emily Robinson.” The guard already looks bored, her clipboard flattened against her sternum.
“My daughter has a developmental disability. We need to be questioned together.”
Despite the turtle situation, Starr’s remarkably cheerful. My daughter’s been meeting with different government agencies all her life. This probably feels like any other appointment.
“You need to take a seat, sir, and wait until you’re called.”
“She has Williams syndrome,” I say. “We need to be kept together.”
“The address on her passport is different from yours. Does she live on her own?”
“Yes, with supports.”
“It’s our policy to interview adults separately.” The officer squares herself between Starr and me.
“I can answer questions,” Starr says.
“She has a developmental disability.”
Officer Sanjula steps forward so that I have to back up into the waiting room. It’s hard to know what’s going to escalate things, which protocols I can insist on, where border guards fall on the spectrum of policing. It still seems plausible that we’ll answer a few questions and be free to go. Officer Sanjula directs Starr into the unseen hallway.
“Where will my dad be?” she asks.
“It’s hard for her to say no,” I plead to the guard’s back, weighing Starr’s pride against the need to be direct. “She has trouble with abstract concepts. She gets anxious easily.”
Officer Sanjula is unmoved. Perhaps she thinks she’s onto something, that our stories are going to fall apart. I’m not sure what they suspect – if we’re drug smugglers or terrorists. She pulls the door shut behind her and another guard orders me back to my seat.
Felix Alvarez gets called through next. His daughter, only three or four, scoots away from her mother to study the tribal tattoos on the other guy’s arms. She’s fascinated with the spacers in his ears and he pops his thumb through to make her laugh. Nice as he seems, this guy’s basically a walking red flag. It’s hard to think of customs profiling Starr into the same category.
In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo Page 15
