by Daryl Sneath
Smack. Smack. Thump.
Nighty night.
A SUBWAY STATION
All the details are gone. It’s like my mind’s a harddrive that’s been run through Ghost. I can’t remember the colour of the walls or if there were buskers with violins or guitars. I have a vague memory of flipping a coin into someone’s case. I cannot put down with certainty whether there were any cultural icons on display or whether the Olympic rings announced the coming together of the world amongst a congregation of international flags flown from the ceiling. In fact I cannot even say with certainty if there was a ceiling or if it was the sky above us. I don’t remember the heat or the glare of the sun. I don’t remember if there were clouds or rain coming down. I cannot say with any accuracy how many dozens of people were standing on that particular platform on that particular afternoon. I know only that on the small arms’ reach stage where we stood we—Baron and I—were the sole spotlight players. Rebeka and Rózsa had gone to the washroom. Or maybe they had gone to seek out another bottle of some kind. Or maybe they had gone for food. Maybe they had ditched us. I don’t know. Again, I can’t say for certain. But I do know I never saw them again. If they did indeed return it would have seemed like their two leading men had vanished. They would have shrugged, no doubt, and carried on, the course of their lives unaltered in any real way. If they wanted to they would have replaced us in a heartbeat with a wink and a smile. If nothing else we are all replaceable. Who was Baron to them? Who was I? A character they thought they knew and were curious about because my physical presence had blurred for them the line between invention and reality. But there was no way of checking the manufactured details against the actual ones. There was no text to go back to.
And so there we stood, two men waiting.
Ineffectually, he scuffed the concrete with the sole of his shoe. Like an aging bull snorting at the red flag for the routine of it rather than rage. ‘Listen, Vec. I gotta say. When I saw you walking toward me back there in the village I didn’t know what to expect. I thought you’d never speak to me again. I thought you hated me. You can’t know how relieved I am that you finally put the past behind us. Really. I’ve missed you, Vec. You’re like a son to me.’
My hands, like two caged animals, were in the front pocket of the hoodie I had on. I squeezed them with everything I had into fists. I did my best to keep an even tone lest he grasp too soon the weight of what was to come. ‘You give me too much credit, coach.’ I elbowed him, a little too hard, and he stumbled on the spot. ‘I can’t put the past anywhere but where it is.’
He rubbed his arm. ‘Always the clever one, eh, kid?’ He looked at me like he knew me. ‘You get that from Rayn. Your old man was sure no genius.’
He laughed but not maliciously. He was trying to be genuine, trying to create a moment of fraternal if not paternal-slash-filial closeness. Somehow—incredibly, mindblowingly—he thought enough time and forgiveness had passed that he could joke about Max and Rayn, as though he knew them, as though they had been friends of his, as though their loss had genuinely affected him and he was honouring them with an instance of reflective humour the way the bearers of memory and love sometimes do.
I heard the train coming.
Baron: ‘So, where’s this place you know?’
I tensed and my heart went. ‘Not far.’
He went on his toes and craned around the station. ‘Where’d those two go anyway?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe they ditched us.’
‘Hah. No way. Those two are goers for sure.’ He elbowed me a bunch of times and went ‘Heh-heh-heh’ the way he did. Then, ‘Where are they?’ He went on his toes and looked around again but to no avail.
I listened to the train. I could see the nose of it in my periphery, snorting. There would still be plenty of speed.
Like a seasoned orator of the stage I raised my chin a little as I spoke. ‘Once not long ago there was a woman among us named Rayn who kept a journal of all her thoughts.’
Too focussed on the whereabouts of his conquest Baron didn’t respond.
I continued. ‘I came to have that journal but because I did not want to discover the truth of what I feared it contained I refrained from reading it for a long long time.’
He gave me a passing look, eyes furrowed.
I felt myself stop thinking. Like in a race everything became unhurried, automatic. I was certain, clear, and every word I uttered, every movement I made, was beautifully fluid.
‘When I finally did read it I discovered the ending of a story that had remained to me unfinished for years.’
He looked at me, eyes a little wider. Something clicked. He understood, which is all I needed to know.
I flipped my hood up like a boxer, took one step back, and loaded my two hands like the double hammer of a gun. The moment stretched out as though time didn’t exist. I saw flashes of Max and Rayn in the story of their meeting. I saw them in the stands, cheering. I saw her in her canoe on the river at home. I saw him on the podium in Seoul, the grainy image of him in the pool the moment before touching the wall. I saw him in the story of Lyle Govern. I saw him washed up on the February shores of Lake Ontario. I saw Rayn on the tracks the moment before impact, smiling, her eyes telling me not to worry, everything will be okay.
I saw Val in the wings pointing her silver remote: pshew. And as though on cue I shoved Charlie Baron with the force of a god and he fell from above the Seussian clouds. I looked down on him, grinning, and in a puff of smoke, like a trick with a camera, he was gone.
Without incident I turned and stepped away.
AFTER WORDS
As unlikely as it may seem I was soon touching glasses with Valerie Argent in a whiskey bar peopled with patrons who had no idea who we were.
The next day we were on a private jet to an island off the coast of Morocco, Karl Knotold on the runway like Jay Gatsby in a white suit and scarf, silver aviators reflecting the sun, tanned and smiling, arms crossed and waiting. With him—leaning into him on either side, as though frozen in portrait for a larger-than-life hovering-above-the-city billboard proclaiming ‘Imagine the Freedom’—were Veronica and Vanessa Redhill. Together an image of absolute languor and luxury. As unreal as heaven itself but there, nonetheless, in plain view. Val and I disembarked and joined them as though it were as natural a place to be in this world as home.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Chris Needham, for everything he puts into publishing.
Mr. (Richard) Borek, for all the time & the close reading & the thoughtfulness.
Di Brandt, for the kind words & for continuing to be a teacher more than a decade after our last class.
The NA, for the company & the conversation, for the books & the beer.
Shelley Macbeth & Blue Heron Books, for the continued support.
Friends, distant & returning. The core of the original Rebels Track & Field team, for the heart & the grit & the early morning workouts. They taught me more than they can know and continue even now to inspire.
The Kuchmaks, for all that they do.
The Koubas on Eighth (Stacy, Justin, Carys, & Brynn), for reasons that would take a whole book to impart.
The Madills on Seventh (Patty (Mom), Hazel (Gramma), William (Poppa)), not to forget Fourth, for reasons a whole book could not begin to impart.
The Sneaths.
Dad.
Ethan. My best buddy old pal.
Penelope. My little Penner Grace.
Abigael. My little Rosie Girl.
And Tara, as always, for everything.
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