Blood Sports

by Eden Robinson

  “Sit down!” someone yelled at them.

  “Bite me,” Paulie said.

  “We’re just passing through!” Tom yelled back. “Just passing through! Sorry, passing through.”

  Paulie gasped when she dipped her toes in the water. “Holy fuck, that’s cold.”

  Tom waded into the ocean, gritting his teeth against the shock of brain-freeze cold shooting through his skin and making him shiver. He let the dinghy drop. It hit the water with a smack and bobbed in the waves. Tom held it steady. “Hop in.”

  Paulie slogged through the surge and threw the oars in the dinghy. Her thighs squeaked against the rubber as she straddled the side. Tom snapped a mental picture, knowing that someday he was going to masturbate to this. Paulie fell in the dinghy and scrambled up, indignant. She held on to the ropes along the sides. Tom pushed off, tried to hop in, and missed, belly-flopping. Paulie laughed so hard she snorted. He dog-paddled to the dinghy, hung on to the rope, and stuck one leg over the side, but couldn’t manage to pull himself in. Paulie stopped laughing long enough to grab him by the knapsack and haul him up.

  Paulie sat sideways as Tom struggled with the oars. One was longer than the other, and they listed to the left, going in a wide circle until Tom figured out how to compensate. Paulie leaned back and lay across the dinghy with her legs over the side. The bottom filled with water. Tom lifted his oars and put them inside. He took off his knapsack and pulled out a glow stick. He snapped it and then shook it until it glowed pink. He leaned over and lifted Paulie’s hair. She watched him skeptically as he snapped it in place around her neck.

  “So that the other boats will see us,” Tom explained. “So we don’t get run over.”

  “Ah,” Paulie said.

  Tom took out a green glow stick and Paulie helped him snap it in place.

  “Just so you know,” Paulie said dryly. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

  Tom lay beside her. She stuck her hand under his armpit, wiggled it. Her fingers were icy. He pulled out an aluminum emergency blanket. She unfolded it and spread it over them. He took out a bottle of Pepsi and twisted it open before he handed it to Paulie. Police helicopters circled across the bay. A flotilla of boats in the distance blasted their horns and then went silent.

  Classical music rang out from the radios on the shore. Everyone turned expectantly in the same direction, toward English Bay. The first fireworks were gold comets streaking up with glittering tails. They burst open, thousands of tiny green streamers, a forest of neon weeping willows. The fireworks reflected off the blanket, lighting up Paulie’s face.

  “Oh,” Paulie said, with mock awe as each firecracker went off. “Ah.”

  3. The wicked are estranged from the womb: they go astray as soon as they be born, speaking lies.

  Tom and Paulie took a long, slow walk along the Stanley Park seawall promenade. They reached Third Beach, a small stretch of sand past Siwash Rock. The wind made the trees sway like belligerent drunks. They walked down the sand. Tom slipped off his windbreaker and gave it to Paulie to sit on. Rain slid down his neck, soaked his shorts and shoes, chilling him. Paulie leaned against him. He wished she would say something.

  The waves rolled up the beach in leaden humps and then flattened before slinking backward. Anchored in the Burrard Inlet, three tankers pointed in different directions as if they’d just had a fight and were refusing to look at each other. The peaks of the North Shore Mountains crawled with fat, white slugs of mist. A German shepherd bounded past. Its owner, a man wearing a yellow raincoat, swung a red leash. Seagulls shot upward out of the sand, squalling as the dog barked at them.

  Paulie frowned. “Do you know where the bones are?”

  Tom nodded.

  “We should move them. That’ll be one less thing for Jer to hold over your head,” Paulie said. She frowned. “How much have you told your mother?”

  Tom broke out a doobie and lit up, sheltering his lighter from the wind. “Nothing about Rusty.”

  “Nothing? Then what’s she bent out of shape over?”

  Tom exhaled. “It’s lame.”

  “Lame?”

  Tom hunched into himself.

  Paulie nudged him. “We’re only as sick as our secrets.”

  “What kind of name is Firebug?” Lilia said.

  They stopped at a red light.

  “I don’t mind him,” Lilia said, with a small twitch of her head she indicated the back seat where Tom was sitting. “But really, Jeremy. Firebug?”

  “You’re a beautiful woman. He’s a sad, horny guy who just got divorced. Again.”

  “He’s a repulsive bore,” Lilia said.

  “He was trying to impress you.”

  “We’re here.”

  Jeremy pulled the Ferrari to the curb in front of Laurent’s in South Granville. The window display had a row of headless mannequins in tuxes. Jeremy reached over and opened the door for Lilia. “We’ll find parking and meet you.”

  They kissed. Lilia stepped out and pushed her seat down so Tom could get out. Jeremy snapped it back up.

  “Isn’t he coming?” Lilia said.

  “We’re right behind you,” Jeremy said. Lilia closed the door. They drove to a nearby parkade. They parked on the lowest level, in a corner with no other cars around.

  “What’s up?” Tom said.

  Jeremy stepped out and flipped his seat down. “Don’t make a scene. We’re helping out a friend of Lil’s. He makes suits.”

  Tom didn’t move.

  Jeremy poked his head in, suspiciously cheerful. “I’m not going to force you.”

  Tom waited for the rest.

  Jeremy stroked his chin, miming deep thought. “Hmm. How long do you think it would take you to polish all the marble in the condo with a toothbrush?”

  Tom calculated his chances of making it past Jeremy. No matter what he tried, it would end the same way, but going along with it now meant he could save himself some bruises and the humiliation of being dragged around like a stubborn toddler. Tom clambered out. Jeremy slammed the door shut and keyed the alarm.

  “You’re an asshole,” Tom said.

  “Relax,” Jeremy said. “You don’t have to wear any of this crap.”

  His mom picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

  “Jer’s getting fitted for some suits at –” Tom said.

  “You’re shopping!” Her voice a strangled squeak. “Shopping!”

  “It was Jer’s idea, not mine.”

  “I have the cake here! I spent all afternoon decorating! I already started dinner!”

  “But it was Jer’s idea, Mom.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him!”

  Tom rubbed the gunk off his eyes.

  His mother sighed. “I’m sorry. Sorry.”

  “We’re coming home later. You can surprise him then.”

  “But I won’t be here! I’ll be on the ferry!”

  “He won’t die if he gets a party next weekend.”

  Lengthy, offended silence. His mom lived in a world where everybody cared about spending their birthdays with family. Even twenty-four-year-old cokeheads should eat cake and hug and get teary-eyed over sappy cards and cheap gifts. She’d had it all planned, had phoned him for weeks with the details, had gotten a special day pass from Twelve Oaks to be with Jer on his big day and now everything was capital “R” Ruined. She had written a climactic Thank You speech, and in her world, Jeremy was going to be moved by it, Touched by an Angel by it, chest-thumping glad he’d been letting them leech off him for a year.

  “Did you get him a card?” his mom said.

  “Mom.”

  “Damn it, I asked you to do one little thing, and you act like I want you to climb Everest! Did you get him a present?”

  “No. Mom, God, he’s not –”

  “People weren’t exactly lining up to help us, in case you didn’t notice. You could show a little gratitude now and then, Tommy. The least you can do is get him a card.”

  “A card then,
” Tom said, with no intention of following through.

  The Thank You cards in the Hallmark store were either baby-animals saccharine or glad-handing businesslike. They didn’t have a series designed especially for thanking your drug-demented cousin for covering up your first homicide, so he settled for a blank card with a sailboat.

  Tom sat in the mall’s food court with a notepad and a tub of New York Fries fries, trying to think of something appropriate to put in the card. Thanks, bud. I’d be a pathetic virgin today if you hadn’t made your girlfriend sleep with me. By all means, keep the video, Tom. Not quite the folksy tone he wanted. I’m grateful you didn’t crack my skull open after I stole your Jag. No disrespect was intended. I thought it would get you out of my life, you big, fat fucking control freak. Maybe a little too sour.

  The card was dumb, but if he wanted to save himself grief, he had to give Jer something. Maybe his mom was right. Maybe he should give him a cake. A host gift, so to speak. A fuck-off forever cake, chocolate with booze and tranks and pot baked in to get everyone in a mellow mood when he announced he’d finished high school and wanted his own place.

  A nearby joke shop had a pump that squirted unconvincing blood and the butcher didn’t find his request for pig guts as odd as Tom had thought he would. Chicken skin was harder to come by. Tom had to buy a large roaster.

  Tom set up the camera in the dining room. He went back to the kitchen and contemplated the chicken. He’d never skinned anything before. His chicken came in KFC buckets.

  “What’s going on?” Jer said.

  “Hi,” Tom said, surprised. Jer wasn’t usually a morning person. “You’re home early.”

  Jer cracked the lid of the ice-cream bucket filled with glistening pig guts that Tom had left on the counter. “Breakfast?”

  Tom carefully withdrew his knife, so the skin wouldn’t tear. “Birthday present.”

  Jer made a face.

  “Surprise,” Tom said. “It’s a homemade zombie movie.”

  The kitchen table was covered with black garbage bags, which were stuck to Tom’s back. Jeremy lowered a jagged knife to Tom’s chest, pausing. Tom regretted the blood capsule he’d inserted between his cheek and gums. Jeremy only had eyes for his torso. Jer pressed the knife into the chicken skin covering Tom’s chest. They hadn’t been able to figure out how to make the blood ooze out like a real wound, so the cut Jeremy made at the top of Tom’s chest was not very convincing.

  Once the knife opened up Tom’s fake guts, though, the pump they’d hidden spurted an impressive fountain of coloured corn syrup, splashing Jer’s face and body. Tom bit down on the capsule and, after a few seconds, his mouth foamed red spit. He convulsed on the table, moaning. Jer pressed his fingers into the open skin and pulled out a length of gut. Jer’s expression, rapt, engrossed. He was flushed. His hands shook.

  Tom had a hard time not laughing. If he’d known this was all it took to make Jer happy, the last year would have been much, much easier. Tom had been planning to holler, but Jer looked annoyed if Tom distracted him from the real show, his fake guts spilling onto the counter.

  Neither of them heard the front door open. By the time they realized Tom’s mother was watching them, she had already turned, running out the door. The foil bouquet of Happy Birthday balloons drifted upward and bounced against the ceiling. Tom scrambled off the table. She wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow.

  “Mom!” he yelled. “Mom! It’s okay!”

  “Fucking get washed up,” Jer said.

  While he was in one of the bathrooms, his mom came back with three security guards. One of them escorted Tom to the lobby, despite Tom’s explanations. He sat on the bench near the concierge’s desk. She came downstairs with the other two security guards. In the taxi, she wouldn’t look at him.

  “Where’re we going?” Tom said.

  “You should have told me,” she said. “You should have told me he was … he was … sick.”

  Tom left Paulie’s place at midnight, driving a Rent-a-Wreck car to Jer’s condo. He parked nearby, looking up at the twenty-seventh floor. The lights were on. Hopefully, no one was home.

  Tom slung his knapsack over his shoulder. He’d been afraid the concierge or security would challenge him, he hadn’t been living there for a while, but he seemed to barely register. He heard music coming from the condo, and paused, card key in hand. Jer might have left the stereo on when he went out or he might be passed out with the stereo on. Tom slipped his key in the door.

  He stood in the entranceway, surprised at the crush of people inside. You couldn’t hear the music above the roaring waves of conversation. The dress code for the evening was power suits for the men and plunging cleavage for the women. Firebug sat morosely on the sofa, staring at a boxing match flashing between the crush of bodies.

  “Firebug!” Tom yelled. “Where’s Jer?”

  Firebug shrugged.

  Jer’s bedroom was empty.

  “Jer?” Tom said.

  Jeremy kept an ashtray on his nightstand, a little silver dome that held the stink of old smokes to an area around the king-sized bed with dark brown posts and a scratchy tan duvet. He tended to leave his lights on. His reading material ran from dry to drier: eye-glazing reports, adjective-heavy company brochures.

  Tom found Jeremy’s videotape collection tumbled together in heaps at the back of the closet. He hadn’t even bothered to put them back in his wall safe. Tom quickly packed the tapes inside his knapsack, taking the tapes on top figuring they’d be the recent ones. He considered the remaining tapes littering the floor. If Jer had been taping him for as long as Paulie said, even the older ones might have embarrassing sections on them. Tom brought the tapes down to his rental car and dumped them in the trunk. He went back upstairs and took a second load of tapes. On his third trip, he noticed Firebug leaning against the entranceway wall, arms crossed over his chest, head lowered. They studied each other. Tom waited for Firebug to ask what he was doing. Firebug glanced at the bulging knapsack and then at Tom. He seemed to be waiting for Tom to say something. Tom could feel Firebug watching him as he walked out the front door and into the hallway.

  He poured the tapes in the trunk. They’d soon find out if Jeremy noticed his homemade porn was MIA. If Tom left now, he was guaranteed to leave without a scene. But since he was staying with Paulie, she’d suffer the same things he did if Jer went ballistic. Better to face him while he was feeling good and surrounded by witnesses. Tom headed back to the condo and waited by the elevator, checking his watch every few minutes. He gave up and started up the stairs. Near the top, he met people from the party concentrating seriously on making it down the stairs in a hurry. Maybe there was a fight going on. Or maybe Jer had broken out the karaoke machine.

  By the time he reached the twenty-seventh floor, the last crush of people had pushed their way in the elevator and the doors were chiming shut. The condo was open. The floors and tables were littered with liquor bottles and dusty hand mirrors. The Gypsy Kings played in the background. Tom heard someone moving in the kitchen, but when he got there, he didn’t see anyone. On the counter by the sink, Tom recognized Jer’s briefcase, shiny and expensive-looking metal. He shook his head as he snapped the case shut on the stacks of hundred-dollar bills and the three keys of coke. Jer was getting seriously sloppy. Tom swung the briefcase off the counter.

  “Jer?” Tom said. He heard someone moving behind the butcher’s block. “Jer?”

  The call he’d made to the 911 operator was later used as evidence. Tom’s voice, unsteady and breathless: “He looks bad, he looks real –”

  “Shut up!” Jeremy yelled in the background. “Shut up!”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” the 911 operator said, her voice low and soothing. “You’ll have to repeat that. What is your cousin’s condition?”

  “He did some bad blow. He’s crawling around and he’s throwing up blood and he’s got blood coming out of his ears and his nose. There’s blood all over, it’s all over.”r />
  “Shut up!”

  “Did he inhale, smoke, or inject the cocaine?”

  “I think he snorted it. It’s still on the counter.”

  “What room are you in?”

  “We’re in the kitchen and there’s blood everywhere. Jeremy! Jeremy!”

  “Calm down, Tom. The ambulance is almost there.”

  “Jeremy! Wake up!”

  Jeremy curled up on his kitchen floor. Tom shakily felt for a pulse and didn’t find one.

  “He’s not breathing,” Tom said. “He’s not breathing and he has no pulse.”

  “Tom, you’re going to have to perform CPR,” the 911 operator said.

  “He’s got stuff in his mouth.”

  “Is it vomit? Turn him onto his side and clear out the vomit before you begin mouth-to-mouth.”

  “He’s on his side.” Tom stuck his fingers in Jeremy’s mouth and fished out chunks. The sweaty, bloody cordless phone slipped out from between his neck and his head, squirted out like a banana from its skin and slid across the floor. “Shit!”

  He turned Jeremy onto his back, and Jeremy’s arm flopped, hit the marble with a smack. He could hear the operator’s voice, tinny and distant, but was too busy feeling for Jeremy’s sternum to pick up the phone. He pushed, hoping it wasn’t too hard. He couldn’t remember how many times he was supposed to do compressions. He couldn’t remember how to give mouth-to-mouth. There was a mnemonic, something about airways, AIR, something like that. You had to tilt the head back. Or forward. He needed to talk to the operator and had decided to reach for the phone when the paramedics jogged efficiently through the kitchen door. They shoved him aside when he was too stunned to move.

  Tom had no idea where the spleen was or what it did, but the doctors and nurses he caught in the hallways assured him that it was an organ Jeremy could live without.

  “He’s going to live?” Tom said.