by Sheree Fitch
Herc sighed then, as if irritated. My oldest best friend in the world, he waddled over to lie beside me. I gave him a hug but he looked round at me and farted. “Jeez, Herc, I love you, too. Are you jealous of Skye? Tell me, would you like to be sort of an uncle?” As if he understood, Herc put his paws over his snout in an expression of total sympathy. I picked up another page.
Are we running away from the problem or running towards a way to solve it? I think this is the only thing to do. I ran away from home once before. It became the family legend, party joke, a story my father still tells at family gatherings. I know it almost by heart. He uses his best “I have an audience” voice. “She waited until we were in bed, the little scallywag. Imagine, eight years old and plotting like that—smarty-pants she was. She’d made herself a peanut butter sandwich with pickle, yes pickle, in fact dill pickle sandwich. She left a note. ‘Dear Mum and Dad: I am going to run away. I have no brother or sister. Maybe I can find one. I will go to Nutby Mountain and climb the highest hill. The one where I think God will hear me. He always listens to people who talk on mountaintops. Maybe on the other side of the mountain I will find babies and everybody will be happy.’ ” “Awww,” everyone always says. “Aww, how sweet.” Then my father will slap his lap and chuckle. “We caught her halfway across town!”
Well this time, I’m getting out of town and taking my mother with me and it’s not about looking for babies. My father won’t think any part of this is cute, but in more ways than one now, there’s just not going to be any going back.
b
I reread that diary entry three times, letting every letter of every word of every sentence soak in. Skye was running away all right, running away from me. I had work to do, plans to make, but I buried my head in Herc’s fur and stretched out by the fire. Hercules. That’s what I needed: Olympic-god-like superhero powers. Courage. I felt like bawling. Instead, I curled up in a ball, counted backwards from twenty-one, pictured elevator lights flashing in my forehead. It was only supposed to relax me, strategy one hundred and forty-freakin’-nine, but didn’t I go and doze off. Had the damnedest nightmare.
There’s fire flames swirling, flickering orange and red, I’m surrounded, two plumes of white smoke, smoke curls up up up upwards, shaped like clenched fists ready to punch out the moon, ashes fall from the sky feather the ground like snow and I’m overlooking a city from some time way back in the day they rode horses and horses clipclop gallop run loose the sound of flames crackle in my brain then there’s this loud gunshot, a high-pitched whinnying of a horse. I start running. Around one corner a pile of books burning, around another buildings crumble and I spot a woman running for shelter, a child clutched tight. “Mama, the world’s on fire,” says the kid. Another beluga-shaped woman waddles in slow motion towards me, cradles her pregnant belly, as if the unborn baby in there is kicking up a protest as the woman holds her hands out to me and I turn away.
I woke up lathered in sweat, even though the fire in the wood stove was nothing but embers and the room had grown cold again. When I saw what time it was, I panicked. I snagged my canvas overalls and down jacket off the hook where I’d left them that morning and tried to shake off the nightmare. I was no dream interpreter but I knew the city in the dream was Washington. I’d morphed into the British soldier Robert Ross, who led the charge on Washington during the War of 1812. I’d had to do a short essay on him after the D.C. trip, towards my credit. I never got past the research stage. Another big F if I didn’t turn it in by the end of April. What was troublesome about the nightmare was the pregnant woman. She had this pleading “help me” look. The worst thing of it, she had Skye’s face.
After splashing water on my face, I scrubbed it almost raw with a rough terrycloth towel. A plan. So, yeah, I had a plan. By my calculation, there was still enough time to shovel a few sidewalks, salt a few places, collect some money and catch the seven o’clock bus into the city. No doubt Dad expected I’d have cooled off, and would wait to talk things over further when he got off his shift at eight, but waiting wasn’t an option. Not any longer. I phoned Teddy.
“So I want to get to Halifax before midnight,” I confided. “I’m gonna take the bus.”
“What then?” Teddy asked.
“Skye’s got an aunt there. My bet is she’s there. If I can find out her name maybe I’ll find Skye or at least get a lead on where she is.”
“Want me to do some poking around? Get a name?”
“Sure. If I can find her tonight, then we’ll have all day Thursday to talk about the baby, to decide about Friday. If that’s when she is having the abortion—”
“Are you telling me you want her to have the baby?” Teddy sounded almost excited. “Jeez. Wow.”
“I don’t know what the hell I want. Or how I’m feeling.”
“Ooookay.”
After he hung up I sent another text to Skye:
where r u? CALL, text, e-mail, smoke signal. Something.
Herc’s toenails click-clacked on the floor as he followed me out to the porch. When I petted his head and reached to open the door, a razor-sharp gust of wind blew in and the metal doorknob numbed my hands. Another bitterly cold night was ahead. Already the sun had disappeared, the sky was thickening up. Herc whimpered, then ducked his head back in.
“Go read some of her diary, go on, boy,” I teased him. “You can probably read all that shit better than me, anyhow.” Herc kept trying to nose out the door.
I shut the door in his face. “Don’t go peeing on any of those pages. I won’t be long.”
I knew Herc wouldn’t move. He’d do like always. Perch on the armrest of the old brown sofa and press his wet nose against the frosted windowpane and not move, not move a muscle, just wait for me, patiently, until I returned home.
Herc barked until I turned the corner out of sight and faced that wind, the kind that had teeth that bit into my cheeks. My ski mask pulled down tight over my head, I picked up my pace. The going was tricky because the road, glazed with ice, was more like a skating rink from hell. I all but damn near slid to the home of my first client.
c
The name of my landscaping and snow-removal company is Jake’s Rake and Shovel. Originally, I’d wanted to call it Jake of Spades or Rake and Roll but no one I tested those names out on seemed to appreciate the play on words. “You roll the sod, get it?” I’d say. Like I said, they really didn’t. Except for Skye, she clapped her hands in delight. “Love it!” she exclaimed when I told her.
“Tell me more about your business” she urged, like she was interested for real. Then again, she always seemed to want me to talk. More than I wanted to, for sure, especially when there were other things we could have been doing. Yes, there were more stimulating things than conversation on my mind most times I was with her—but talk was something she seemed to enjoy and so, okay, for her, talk I would. That day, once I got going, it wasn’t so bad.
“My business is a pretty simple operation. In summer, I’ve got this wheelbarrow loaded down with tools: rake, spade, hoe, clippers, a whippersnipper, mosquito repellent, gloves, box of heavy-duty biodegradable bags for yard pickup. My Swiss Army knife, like always, stays in my pocket. Most folks have their own mowers, so I don’t have to worry about that. Still, you can’t exactly say I’m travelling light because the frickin’ wheelbarrow’s heavy as a freight train after a bit. Sometimes I think I should have called it Jake’s Grunt and Sweat. It’s hard work—working in the dirt—but I like it. Time flies and I don’t think. I like not thinking. I like not talking, too.”
We took time for a little heavy breathing exercise then, until she pushed me away.
“Continue,” she ordered.
“The bonus? It’s a pretty good workout. To look at me, with clothes on, I’m almost certain some folks write me off as puny. You might even think I’m scrawny, but you’ve heard that expression ‘lean, mean fighting machine’? I see you appreciate these pecs.” I flexed first my left and then my right chest muscle. “And yo
u always seem fascinated by these ripped abs. Not that I’m bragging.” I sucked in my abdomen and got the scrub-board effect I was aiming for. “How about this for a six-pack?” I took her hand and made her feel the rib of muscles.
“Jake…” she warned.
“So anyway, last summer, I wheeled and shuttled around town, going from yard to yard, and made damn good money. My victims—I mean, clients—are mostly seniors. Fussy jeezlers, most of them, but then how can you blame them for being cranky? I’d be pretty ticked off—scared really—if I looked in the mirror and saw myself looking like them: humpbacked and drooping.” I shuddered and gagged. Then I got up and pantomimed, sucking in my lips as if I was all gums and no teeth, hunched up my shoulders and curled forward. I cupped my ear.
“Speak up, young lady. Did you say your name was Skye? What kind of name is that? Next thing you know they’ll be naming kids after the planets. Hi there, little Jupiter! Why, baby Ur-anus.”
Skye was shaking with laughter, holding her stomach. “You’re a natural, Jake. Hollywood material.” I sat back down on the bed. Much as I loved making her laugh I wanted her to know I was serious about my business, too.
“Poor old geezers, they’re all bent out of shape in more ways than one, so what can I do but smile and do what they’re asking—plant one more pot, weed one more bed. There’s also a doctor and a lawyer and now a real estate office on my list. My reputation as reliable is improving. Should tell your old man that! In winter it’s even easier. I head out on foot with a shovel on my back. These days, I like to say, I pull weeds instead of smoking weed, and the only snow I’d ever put up my nose is real snow. All that stuff’s a no-way ticket to hell, in my opinion, tell the old man I said that, too. Okay? So yeah, I learned the hard way, and all by the age of sixteen. That’s when…well, you remember what happened. I’m still not proud of it and there’s no need to go into it anymore. Bottom line—I cleaned up.”
“I know, Jake,” she said. “I know that.” She stroked my forearm and held my hand.
“Yeah, well, that would be no thanks to the shrinks but thanks to Shep mostly who got me in h.a.a.l.l.t. I’m following a kind of program for what they call Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Sounds like diarrhea. One more disorder. Soon I’ll have a label disorder, a disorder that comes from being told you have so many disorders you can’t keep them straight.
‘Disorderly conduct,’ the teacher always said about me. Duh. Big duh. But this h.a.a.l.l.t. program is kinda cool. I’m learning to discover my so-called triggers. Things that set me off. How to de-escalate myself. Sounds dirty, doesn’t it? Sometimes, I swear to God, it’s a smell, like they say. Anyhow, I’m not even smoking a bat these days, taking nothing to calm me down. All I have to do is think of Dylan Hempleby and that stops me cold if I ever feel tempted to self-medicate again. He used to be Teddy and me’s best friend from Grade One. The Hemplebys are the greatest set of parents you’d ever find. You know them, right? Aren’t your mothers friends or something?” Skye nodded. “Every once in a while Dylan comes back to Poplar Hills. Ever see him? There’s this raw, spooky twitchiness about him, like actors who play drug addicts on TV, as if a bird’s head’s perched on a human body, eyes darting rapid-fire from side to side, like someone’s maybe after him, and maybe they are. He wants me to go get high with him but so far I’ve resisted.” With that my voice muffled because Skye was kissing me. Little quick kisses, like you’d give a baby. All over. Except no baby ever had it that good, I thought, and started getting carried away. The tickle sensation gave way to a throbbing.
d
Sex. Skye. Sex. My heart did a jackhammer dance in my chest and I knew if I remembered too much for too long, even in the cold, I’d end up out there with a fist in my pants and no place to go. That’s what I kept thinking on. How we’d been. And how we’d been, most of the time, so careful. Except for Valentine’s.
We went too far that night and neither of us could stop. She wore a red velvet dress and lacy stockings, but not for long. When there was only a clip holding back her hair, she circled, slow and naked, in a pool of moonlight in front of me. God, she was gorgeous.
Freezing rain and slivers of ice bit into my cheeks as I shovelled the front steps of St. Peter’s Church. Thinking about Skye being pregnant, running off to the city for an abortion, not telling me, thinking about the old days, I confess I wanted a drink, a toke, something to take the edge off. Rattttaaatattae. My heart. “But would that make it all go away?” This was the only question to answer, Shep told me once. That’s the question to ask if I ever was tempted to slip back. Would it? Nuh-uh. “Temporary relief at best,” she said. “Try to see long term.” Then she told me how she belonged to AA and after twenty-five years still went to meetings every Wednesday night and she didn’t even mind telling people she was a recovering alcoholic, which is why I’m writing this down because she said I could. Ever since I knew that, I thought maybe Shep did have something to teach me for real. So what would she do at a time like this? I wondered. I rested my hands on my shovel and sucked in that wind. The beating of my heart was more like a machine gun, a wild soundtrack in my head as I shovelled. So yeah, another confession: I would’ve taken something if I’d had it. A drink. A toke. A pill. Not asked any goddam questions. Not given a shit. I kept shovelling. A madman, I wondered if I was digging my own grave. I sure as hell seemed to be digging into my memories. Or maybe memories were digging into me. Yeah, that’s more like it because it seemed like I had no control to stop my brain from its Skye-train travelling.
e
Skye told me once her father thought Shep was a witch. “A real one. The ‘bubble bubble toil and trouble’ kind,” Skye said.
“Say what?” I said.
“That’s a line from Macbeth,” she sniffed.
“I knew that,” I said, lying through my teeth. And I wished for half a second I was one of those cultured, sensitive, intellectual reading kind of dudes who would have known that, and even better, could have quoted the next lines back at her.
“Shep’s no witch,” I said instead. “I mean, she’s not like most folks in Poplar Hills, I give you that, but that’s just plain mean of your father to say. She’s got no special powers but she’s powerful. Curious about everything, not just Greek myth and British history, which is more like her obsession, but all kinds of things. She even does martial arts.”
“No!” Skye squealed in my ear. “Shep?”
“Yeah, she damn well does! So tell your father to watch what the hell he says.”
“All right already, calm down,” Skye said. “But martial arts? Shep?”
I nodded. “Yep. Shep has this Qigong and Tai Chi routine. Last summer one day, I came around the corner of her house and there she was, on her back patio, floating through these exercises.
“ ‘Jake, you’re early today,’ she said to me. I didn’t even know she knew I was there watching. So I couldn’t help myself. ‘Shep,’ I said, ‘what’s that you were just doing there, eh? Synchronized swimming on dry land?’ But she was real serious. Didn’t crack a smile. ‘This, well, this is golden cock stands on one leg,’ she said. I almost lost it. ‘Golden what?’ I blurted out. She ignored me. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’ She smiled. ‘Come here. Put your heels together.’ I shook my head no but I did what she said because she was kind of sort of like my surrogate probation officer on account of the trouble I’d gotten into. Yes, I did what she told me to do and so she taught me wave hands like clouds, fair lady works at shuttle, grasp bird’s tail, snake creeps down, step forward to form seven stars, and more. She bought me a book.
“ ‘Excellent stress relief. Practise,’ she told me.
“I did. Shep’s a tough but patient teacher.”
So then I demonstrated what I’d learned for Skye. I did a whole routine.
“Jake, that is beautiful. I never knew you were so graceful,” she teased.
I shrugged, a bit embarrassed.
“You should see me do it naked,” I said. “Ew,�
�� she said, but I know she was smothering a giggle.
“Well, anyhow, Shep a witch? Hell no. So tell your dad to watch his mouth.”
“Well, all he says is she really shouldn’t let people see her out and about on Hallowe’en.” I had to laugh at that.
“Come to think of it,” I said, “she loves sweeping with that fancy broom of hers.” Skye’s eyes widened. “I’m joking,” I said. “Joking. Enough about Shep. Babe, why not come cast your spell on me?”
And so a few minutes later I was whispering in Skye’s ear. “Shep’s also why I got to go on the trip to Washington, D.C., remember, and that was the trip where I finally kissed you, remember? And then you kissed me back, remember, which led to a bit of hanky panky, remember, and, well, here we are now, and my point is, I consider Shep a real friend.”
