Theories of Relativity

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

Four o’clock: An elderly man shuffles up to the vent. He looks me over with rheumy eyes, breathes noisily through red, toothless gums, then goes and pees a yellow stream against the side of the office tower. He stumbles back to the vent, curls up, and promptly falls asleep. I resent him being here on my vent. I debate leaving, but I’m too tired.

  Four-eleven: I get up and stamp my feet. Red-hot pins and needles shoot through them. Despite the noise I make on the metal slats, the old man doesn’t wake. I pull the sleeping bag over my head and lie back down.

  Four-thirty: Jenna’s hair on the back of my hand, silver threads. I conjure up her face, her lips, her eyes. I imagine her being mine. Taking care of her. I’d get a job and we’d have an apartment. I’d come home from work and Jenna would be at the stove. Stirring a pot. She’d turn and smile at me. And Micha and Jordan could come and stay. Maybe even live with us.

  Five o’clock: A snowplow goes by and wakes me. The snow has stopped falling. I’m—so—fucking—tired. My face is wet. I might have been crying. I strive to see grey streaks in the sky, a promise of morning, but there’s only black. The shortest day—the longest night—is in two weeks. I fish the Einstein book out of my pack and read by the orange light.

  In 1898, Albert fell in love with a Hungarian classmate, Mileva Maric. My sluggish brain adds and subtracts. Einstein was seventeen. Mileva and Albert had an affair for three years and Mileva became pregnant. Mileva went to Hungary to have the baby, while Albert returned to Switzerland. Women didn’t get abortions back then. Even birth control would be a problem. Mileva had a baby girl who was put up for adoption. Einstein and Mileva never saw the baby again. They got married the following year. I slam the book shut. What is the matter with people? Even back then they were giving away their kids. I wouldn’t do that. I’d never give my kid away.

  A hand shakes my shoulder. I pry my eyes open and see grey light, then the head of a cop comes into view.

  Chapter 12

  “Get up,” the cop orders.

  Feet entangled in my sleeping bag, I start to rise and nearly fall flat on my face. I kick the bag away and stagger upright. The world spins crazily. I feel weird—like I’m watching myself, outside of myself. My legs tremble and I worry that they won’t hold me up.

  A second cop prods the bundle of rags stretched out on the vent, and the old man rears up abruptly, spitting obscenities. He gathers his tatters about himself with an odd semblance of dignity and shuffles away.

  I grab my pack and sleeping bag and make to follow him, but my cop grabs my arm and stops me.

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  “Eighteen,” I reply.

  “Let’s have some ID,” he says.

  ID? You have to be someone, live somewhere, to have ID.

  A few people push past us into the office tower, shooting quick, curious looks at me.

  “Which of my credit cards do you want to see?” I ask.

  “Don’t be a smartass,” the cop says.

  There are times when my mouth separates from my brain and just goes on by itself. This is one of those times.

  “There’s my platinum MasterCard, or my gold American Express. Visa, perhaps?”

  Shut up, I tell my mouth, you’re going to get me court-ordered into a group home.

  “Can I help?” Glen comes up beside me.

  “Do you know this kid?” the cop asks.

  “We’ve chatted from time to time,” Glen says. “His name’s Dylan . . .”

  “Wallace,” I quickly supply.

  “Yeah, Wallace,” Glen says. “I’ve never seen Dylan cause any difficulty here. He’s not rude or intrusive. How would it be if I take him out for some breakfast? Get him out of your hair.”

  Breakfast. My mouth fairly drools at the word. I didn’t have anything to eat yesterday and my ribs are sticking to my backbone, as Granddad would say.

  The cops exchange glances.

  “Here’s my business card.” Glen holds out a rectangle of white. The cop takes the card, studies it, stares at Glen, then back at the card.

  “Well, if you want the trouble of looking out for him,” he says. He faces me. “Get out of here and quit littering up the street.”

  Glen’s face turns crimson. Mad-as-hell crimson. He opens his mouth but snaps it shut as the cops walk away.

  “Well, thanks,” I say. I kneel down to roll up my sleeping bag with hands that shake as if I’m eighty years old. My bladder is just about ready to explode, I need to pee so bad.

  “What about that breakfast?” Glen says.

  I get to my feet. “Breakfast?” I echo. My brain is barely functioning.

  He starts to walk away and I follow.

  “Don’t forget your backpack,” he says over his shoulder. Shit! I nearly left my life behind. I’ve never done that before. I’m obviously losing it.

  I keep a few paces behind, uncertain about Glen, about breakfast. A block away, he stops and pushes a door open, and I follow him into bacon-scented warmth. My teeth chatter as I slide into a chair across from him.

  “What can I get you?” a waitress asks, pen poised over a pad of paper.

  “The full breakfast for one,” Glen says. “Add an extra egg, glass of milk—”

  “Coffee,” I interject. It’s my breakfast, after all.

  “Milk and coffee.” He folds the menu. “I’ll just have a coffee.”

  She nods and leaves. I wonder if I could chase after her. Help fry up the bacon, scramble the eggs, so I could get it faster.

  “Do you know the youth centre?” Glen asks.

  I nod, because if I talk, the words will come out all cartoon-like between my clattering teeth. I try to hold my jaw still but I can’t.

  “They have showers there you can use. You need a hot shower to warm yourself up.”

  Shower. Water. Pee. I jump up and dart into the washroom and pee fast. Or at least I try. Peeing has a timetable of its own. I zip up and wring my hands together under the water faucet, then dry them on my pants.

  The waitress and I arrive at the table at the same time, she with plates of food. I nearly fall over her to get to it. I cram egg, toast, bacon, and fried potatoes into my mouth, swilling it all down with coffee.

  “Drink the milk, too,” Glen says. “You’re still growing.”

  I gawk at him. No one’s ever cared about my growing. But there’s another piece of bacon waiting, so I turn back to my plate.

  I feel better now. Solid. The shaking has stopped. Little packets of jam sit in a basket in the middle of the table. Tearing three open, I spoon strawberry, raspberry, and marmalade onto the toast and savour the sweetness.

  “You look more human now,” Glen comments. He leans forward, elbows on the table, face intense. “Dylan, you’re going to die if you stay out here on the streets.”

  My back stiffens.

  “I’m not just talking through my hat here,” he says. “I’ve had experience with this. I’ve seen it happen before.” He slumps back, eyes haunted. There are ghosts locked inside him.

  “You look clean.” There’s a question in his voice, but I don’t give him anything. “Well, if you are, you won’t be for long. Drugs, alcohol—it’s all waiting for you. Is there any way you can patch up your differences with your parents? Go home?”

  How do I patch up being thrown away? Beneath the table, my fingers clench, open, and clench again into fists.

  “Is there anyone you can go to? A family member?”

  “My grandparents.” The words are out before I can snatch them back.

  Glen picks up his coffee cup. The waitress materializes and refills it and mine. Glen looks pointedly at my milk, and I pick it up and drain the glass.

  “Where do they live?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. On a farm,” I add. “They took care of me for a while when I was little. They must be old now. They could be dead.” I’m saying this more to straighten it out in my head than to tell Glen.

  “Maybe we could find out,” he says.


  We? I stand up and pull on my coat. “Thanks for the breakfast,” I tell him. I owe him that, but nothing else. Certainly not we.

  “By the way, you’re not litter,” he says softly.

  A wretched mixture of sleet and snow greets me when I leave the restaurant. Head down against the wind, I make my way to the youth centre. It will be empty at this time of the morning, and the shower idea sounded pretty good.

  Ainsley is setting out soup bowls and napkins when I arrive. The only other person there is a kid hunched in misery over a table, leave-me-alone written all over him.

  “Do you think I could have a shower?” I ask Ainsley softly. I don’t know why I’m whispering. No one’s here to know I’m filthy and desperate.

  “Sure,” she says. She leads me down a hallway and points out a room with two shower stalls and a change area. “Do you need a towel? Soap?” she asks.

  “Soap,” I reply. I’ll dry myself on the scrap of towel from my locker. I don’t want to ask for anything else today.

  She hands me a bar of soap, then pulls a folded paper out of her pocket. “If you see Twitch later today, could you give him this?” She opens it, and I see a date written inside. “It’s an appointment with a doctor for that cough of his. Would you be sure to tell him the date and time? Or send him to talk to me.”

  “Yeah,” I agree reluctantly. What am I, Twitch’s keeper?

  I make the water as hot as I can stand it and let it flow over me. After a long time, I turn it off and dry myself. For one moment, I’m content. I’m warm, full, and clean. I grimace as I pull on dirty underwear, and the moment is gone.

  I smooth my hair with my fingers, notice that it touches my shoulders, and squeeze the last of my toothpaste onto my sorry excuse for a toothbrush. Obviously, another trip to a drugstore is in order.

  When I come out of the shower area, my heart leaps to see Jenna at a table talking to Twitch. I pull up a chair, telling my mouth to be cool and not say anything stupid.

  “How’s it going?” So far, so good.

  Jenna nods hello, and yawns hugely. She looks like crap, but Twitch looks worse. His skin is a sickly yellow, except for two fiery red circles high on his cheekbones.

  “Hey,” he says, and breaks into a spasm of coughing.

  I hand him the paper from Ainsley. “This is for you, an appointment with a doctor, though I think you should just go straight to the morgue,” I say.

  Fever-bright eyes widen anxiously.

  “Kidding,” I say. “Just kidding.”

  He glances at the paper and pushes it into his pocket.

  “You have to go. You’re really sick,” I say.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Twitch says. He stands. “I’m going to see if the soup’s ready.”

  He walks toward the kitchen area, and it’s only Jenna and me.

  “So,” I say.

  “So,” she repeats.

  “Cold out.”

  She yawns again.

  I’m obviously dazzling her with my witty conversation.

  She rests her head on the table. Silver hair hangs lifeless around her face. There’s nothing Madonna-looking about her today. It won’t be long before Vulture has her working the streets, especially with Amber pregnant.

  “Not getting any sleep?” I ask.

  She swivels her head to look at me. “I was up late last night. And then Brendan wanted me at the church for morning mass. It’s not like there’s anybody there. It’s too cold.” Her eyes glance behind me. “Oh, shit!” She jerks upright.

  I turn to see Lurch outside the door.

  “He’s come to collect Brendan’s money,” she says. “He won’t be happy when he sees how little there is.” She pushes back her chair and wearily pulls on her coat.

  “Jenna, you should go home. It’s just going to get worse out here.” It flits through my brain that I sound an awful lot like Glen.

  She glares at me. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I can’t go home. I won’t go home. And if anyone makes me, I’ll run away again.” She places both hands on the table and looms over me. “You don’t know what it’s like at my house,” she says fiercely. “You don’t know what happens there. You—don’t—know—anything!”

  Chapter 13

  The city bus jerks away from the curb with a grinding shift of gears that opens my eyes. They immediately threaten to close again, made heavy by the heat and the swaying motion of the bus. It’s quiet, with few people riding so early on a Saturday morning. I’m heading back to our house to see Micha and Jordan—and to ask my mother some questions. I begged last night in front of a restaurant for the fare, until the owner told me to clear off. Moving around from place to place to panhandle is getting annoying. I should just go back to the office tower. I gnaw on my thumbnail until it bleeds.

  The bus is filthy: windows coated with grime, vinyl seats leaking grey stuffing like wool brains, the floor wet and slushy. A guy seated across from me tries to carve his initials into the metal back of a seat.

  We weave past store windows hung with silver, red, and green tinsel. Christmas is nine days away. Twitch says it’s a good time for us street kids because people get all warm-feeling and feed us until we burst. The rest of the year, they just want us to disappear.

  Christmas at our house isn’t any great shakes, none of that family-warmth-laughter-decorations-stuff that you see on television. But there is Micha’s exuberance and Jordan’s poorly concealed excitement.

  My eyelids droop and I’m back at the centre with Jenna’s face in mine. You don’t know anything! Ainsley came over after Jenna left. “Someone’s been misusing that girl,” she said.

  “Brendan,” I replied.

  “No, before that. At home, I think.” Ainsley shook her head. “She shows all the signs of an abuse victim. You can’t help her, Dylan, not until she wants to be helped. In the meantime, though, you could get yourself hurt. By both Jenna and Brendan.”

  I loomed over her like Jenna had loomed over me and yelled the same words. “You don’t know anything!”

  I haven’t seen Jenna for close to a week now, and it worries me.

  The bus passes the park near our house and I watch a couple kids in snowsuits sled down a small hill. It’s tough going because the sun is rapidly melting the snow. I try to see their faces, wondering if one is Micha. But what am I thinking? Mom send the kids out to play? And in a snowsuit? That would be way beyond her. Saturday morning is when cartoons blare, kids bounce on the sofa, and cereal whizzes around the room, while Mom rests up from her strenuous week of doing absolutely nothing.

  I pull the bus cord, the doors open, and I get off. Soon I’m in front of our house. There are Christmas lights strung in the window! I look wildly up and down the street to make sure I have the right house. I do. This can mean only one thing—they’ve moved!

  The door opens and Jordan reaches out to grab a newspaper from the mailbox.

  “Hey, man,” he says, when he sees me. “How’s it hangin’?”

  “Good. How’s it hangin’ with you,” I answer weakly, relieved they’re still here.

  “Hey, Mom,” he yells over his shoulder into the house. “Dylan’s here.”

  Jordan is yanked inside and my mother comes out, closes the door behind her, and stands on the step, arms folded across her chest.

  “What do you want?”

  My loving mother.

  “I came to see my family,” I say. “Can’t a person visit their family? Especially so close to Christmas,” I add.

  “I don’t want you here,” she says. She glances nervously over her shoulder at the shut door. Dan must be in there.

  “I want some information,” I say. “And I want to see Jordan and Micha.”

  “Micha’s out.” She jerks her head toward the school. “He’s playing.”

  My mouth drops open. “Wow! Turning into a proper mother, are you?” It sounds mean, which is exactly how I want it to sound.

  The curtain moves in the window, and Jorda
n squashes his face against the glass, mouth open, his nose spread flat. I snort with laughter, and my mother whips around and gestures for him to leave.

  “I’m not going away,” I say.

  She’s between a rock and a hard place. Afraid of what Jordan might be saying inside to Dan, yet trapped outside by me.

  “You can come in, but only for a minute,” she says. “Then I want you to clear out.”

  She reaches for the doorknob but doesn’t twist it. “Don’t screw this up for me, Dylan,” she pleads. “Dan’s a good guy. This could be a new start for me.”

  Yeah, right. Another new start. I shrug, not wanting her to see how rattled I am—by her plea, by Dan in the house, by the Christmas lights.

  Suddenly, I’m barrelled over by a snowsuited Micha. I grip him hard and bury my face in his snowsuit, so no one will see the tears that run down my cheeks. Finally, I get control of myself and push him off me.

  “We got Christmas lights, Dylan,” Micha says. “Dan got them.”

  Wonderful Dan.

  I follow my mother into the house and my mouth drops open. There, in the living room, is a Christmas tree. A fucking Christmas tree. All those years I wanted to get a tree for Micha and Jordan and she said no.

  I glare at her and it’s her turn to shrug.

  A man comes out of the kitchen, apron tied over a substantial potbelly, grey hair sparse on his head, jowls sagging. He waves a spatula in my direction. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Dylan—” Micha begins.

  “The boys’ cousin,” my mother says hurriedly.

  Micha’s eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead, he’s so shocked.

  I wonder what my face looks like. My mother has just disowned me.

  “Yeah, this is cousin Dylan.” Jordan grins. He always was fast to recover.

  Dan looks from face to face. He knows something’s going on, but he’s not sure what.

  “Would you like some pancakes?” he asks heartily. Jovial type.

  “He can’t stay,” my mother begins.

  “Sure I can,” I interrupt.

  I lower my pack to the ground and throw my coat on the sofa. An empty sofa! Where’s the usual pile of coats and laundry? Micha pulls off his new snowsuit and hangs it on a hook screwed into the wall by the front door. That’s new, too.