Theories of Relativity

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

“I’d forgotten about Ma putting stuff out there,” Phil says when he sees the can in my hand.

  I find an opener and look around for a pot. They’re all filthy. I plunge one into the sink and scrub it, then empty the soup into it and place it on the stove. While it heats, I wash up the dishes, sitting them on the drainer to dry.

  “Well, aren’t you responsible,” Phil says. “Dad must have loved you.”

  Did Granddad love me? If so, why didn’t he try harder to find me?

  “The old man was always after me to be more responsible. Do your chores. Do your school work. That’s all he ever thought about, work, work, work.” He drops his cigarette butt in a beer can and immediately lights another. “Who needs that crap all the time?”

  From the window over the sink, I see dark menacing clouds gathering on the horizon. More snow.

  “We don’t have a freezer,” I say.

  “What?”

  “We don’t have a freezer. We don’t have enough food to eat, let alone any extra to freeze.”

  “Hey, that’s not my fault,” Phil says. “It was your mother’s decision to have you. It had nothing to do with me. She could have got rid of you. Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

  Ignoring him, I pour a bowl of soup for myself and sit in Grandma’s rocking chair near the wood stove. From the kitchen, I hear the pot scrape across the burner, and a moment later Phil comes in with the pot and a spoon. He sits in my granddad’s chair.

  Soup finished, I wander around the room and find a duplicate of the wedding picture I have tucked away in my Einstein book. There are other pictures, too, of women in long dresses and men in starched collars, all solemn. Picture-taking must have been a serious business back then.

  On a hutch among teacups and saucers, I find a photo of myself. I’m about three years old, standing beside my granddad next to the old maple tree in the lane. In the picture, I’m grinning from ear to ear. I can’t remember ever being so happy that I’d smile that widely. Granddad’s hand rests on my head, and I feel again the weight of the hand in the hospital.

  “So how’s your mother doing?” The soup seems to have thawed Phil slightly.

  “She’s fine,” I say shortly.

  “You go to school?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “I didn’t have much time for school, either. I learned more from the school of life.” He lights a cigarette. “Guess I better go easy on these, seeing as it’s Christmas Day. They’ll have to last me until tomorrow.”

  “What do you do?” I ask. “When you’re not between jobs.”

  “A little bit of everything. Last job, I was unloading ships in Halifax. I got tired of it, though. It’s hard work.”

  “Have you been to the Home to see Granddad?” I ask.

  “Stopped by on my way through town. Wasn’t much point, though. He didn’t even know I was there. All my going did was get the tongues wagging in town.”

  He flicks ash on the carpet.

  “Don’t do that,” I say.

  “What?”

  “The floor. It’s not an ashtray.”

  Phil tips back his chair. “Who gives a shit? The old man is never going to see this place again. Besides, it’ll be mine shortly. So I guess I can do what I want with it,” he continues.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not yours yet,” I tell him.

  I go into the kitchen, find a pail, fill it with hot water, and plunge a beat-up mop into it. Pushing chairs out of the way, I tackle the floor. I need to do something because my hands are itching to punch and pound.

  The floor is done, and suddenly, so I am. I’m so tired I can barely stand. I grab my pack and head upstairs.

  The stove’s heat doesn’t reach here, but I fill the bathtub with hot water and climb in. After a long soak, I wrap myself in a towel and go into Grandma and Granddad’s bedroom. I thought my father might be sleeping in there, but the comforter on the bed is undisturbed. I slip between sheets that feel cold and slightly damp, but I settle into the slight depression in the mattress where Granddad used to lie, and my eyes close.

  When I wake, shadows fill the room. I pull on my clothes and go to the window. Snow falls, thick and silent, shutting me off from the world. It puts me on edge, the snow and the approaching dark.

  From downstairs I hear doors slam and the sound of breaking glass. Heart beating rapidly, I grab my pack and head toward the noise. The living room is cold again, Phil not bothering to add wood to the stove. He’s going through the buffet and hutch, roughly shoving things aside. I hear the tinkle of breaking china.

  “Nothing!” He slams a door shut with a crash. “He wouldn’t have a drop in the house.” He sweeps a hand across the buffet top and the wedding picture goes flying. Face red, he stamps across the carpet and steps on the picture, glass crunching beneath his heel.

  My anger boils over. I flail at him with my fists, but he easily backs out of my reach. He’s obviously practised at fighting.

  “What the hell’s your problem?”

  I come at him again. “You’re an asshole! A fucking asshole. No wonder Granddad hated you. I hate you. I’d rather be like him than you any day.” I connect with his chin and he staggers back.

  I have time to see the surprise in his eyes, then I’m flat on my back from a blow to the side of my face. For a few minutes, the room spins crazily. He stands over me, breathing hard, and I fold into myself, expecting another punch. But it doesn’t come. He backs away.

  “Not like me? Look at yourself. You’re a loser. Just like me. I don’t give a shit about your lousy life,” he shouts. “If you came here looking for a father, you won’t find one. You’re nothing to me. You understand? Nothing!”

  Chapter 21

  Dragging my pack behind me, I stumble through the kitchen to the porch. As I pull on my coat, I see car keys sitting on the freezer. It’s a long way to town, too far to walk in the dark and cold. I snatch up the keys and go outside. A brisk wind pushes snow in my face as I run across the yard to the shed. The doors are frozen shut, but I lean on them and they open. I glance quickly over my shoulder, but I don’t see Phil coming after me. Throwing my pack into the passenger side of the car, I slide into the driver’s seat. My hands shake, but I fit the key in the ignition and turn it.

  The car roars into life. In the rear-view mirror, I see a shadow at the porch window, then a square of yellow light falls across the yard as the back door opens. I ram the gearshift to “R” and push the accelerator to the floor. I’ve never driven before, but how hard can it be? As the car shoots out of the garage on an angle, the rear bumper takes out one of the shed doors.

  Phil sprints toward the shed, hands waving, mouth open, but I have the engine roaring so loudly I can’t hear him. I can imagine what he’s saying, though. Frantically, I shove the gear into drive. Wheels spin uselessly, and Phil looms out of the dark and grabs the passenger door handle. Suddenly, the tires catch and I plow forward through drifts. Phil leaps back and sprawls in the snow. The car swerves from side to side as I drive down what I think is the lane. It’s hard to tell, because I can’t find the headlights. But nothing stops my progress, like a tree or fence, so I keep my foot on the accelerator. The windshield fogs up inside and I rub my hand across it, but that just smears the wet. I can’t see a thing. I catch a glimpse of the mailbox and realize I’m at the road, and I turn sharply to the left.

  My eyes dart back and forth between the windshield and the various levers on each side of the steering wheel. I push and pull at them, and finally headlights come on and wipers sweep across the windshield. It doesn’t help, as the snow is coming down diagonally, cutting my visibility to zero. The back of the car fishtails, and I raise my foot slightly from the gas. The sign for the main road leaps out of the dark. I slam my foot down on the brake, but the car doesn’t stop. It skids sideways, across the road and into a ditch.

  Okay, so driving is not as easy as it looks. I sit, the breath knocked out of me by the steering wheel hitting my ch
est. After a few minutes, I put the car in reverse and try to back out of the ditch, but it’s too deep. I’m not going anywhere. I turn off the engine and run through my options: return to the farm and my father, which is certain death, or walk through the snow and dark into town, which is also certain death. Some choice. But I’d rather take death by freezing than a beating, so I decide to walk.

  Leaving the keys in the ignition for Phil to find, I grab my backpack and climb out of the car. I scramble up the steep side of the ditch and stand on the road, disoriented. The curtain of snow parts briefly and I see a faint orange glow in the sky to the west, so I head in that direction.

  My face hurts like hell where my father hit me and I scoop up snow to put against my cheek. I’m shivering already, though I’ve walked only twenty steps from the car. Who am I kidding? I’ll never make it to town. They’ll find my stiff, frozen body by the side of the road.

  So how was your Christmas, Dylan? Super. The best fucking Christmas ever. I sat in a hospital with a dying man, and then I met and fought my moron father. There was no heat, no turkey, no tree, no gifts, and now I’m walking through the frozen wilderness. I have a theory, which my experiences have proven, that when you’re down, life takes a giant boot and stomps on you for good measure.

  From the road behind me, I hear the sound of an approaching car engine. I’m getting ready to dive into the ditch when a pickup pulls up beside me, a window rolls down, and Jack sticks his head out.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” he asks.

  “Walking to town,” I reply.

  “Get in.”

  I climb into the pickup.

  “Would you know anything about that car back there in the ditch?” he asks.

  I shrug and hold my frozen hands to the vent in the dashboard. It’s painful, but it feels great.

  “Someone will find it. I take it you were at the farm. Is Phil still there?”

  He’s just full of questions.

  He throws a glance at my damaged face, then back to the road. “Appears the reunion didn’t go too well.”

  He squints and slows the pickup as a gust of wind-blown snow obliterates the road in front of us. “Helluva night to be out. Lucky for you I came along. Burglar alarm went in the store. I expect it’s just the storm setting it off. Still, I have to check.”

  We pass a cluster of houses and then we’re in the town itself. “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “I’m catching the next bus that comes through,” I tell him. “I have a return ticket.”

  “There’s nothing until eleven tomorrow morning,” Jack says.

  “Oh.” In the city, buses and trains run day and night. I guess I’ll find a doorway, wrap myself inside my sleeping bag, and wait for morning. That will be a novelty for this town. I bet they don’t have street kids here.

  “I could take you back to the Home,” Jack suggests.

  “Fine.” I don’t want to go back there, but at least it’ll be warm.

  This time, Jack parks the pickup and comes to the door of the Home with me. I expect to see Miriam, but it’s a different nurse on duty, younger, with black hair pulled into a ponytail. Jack steps in with me, takes her to one side for a brief chat, and comes back.

  “It’s been real nice seeing you again, Dylan.” He pulls off his glove and sticks out his hand. “You ever need anything, you let me know. Ed’s a good friend of mine, and I’d consider it an honour to help one of his people.”

  I take the offered hand and shake it. He really seems to mean it.

  “I’m sorry about this.” He points to my face. “That’s Phil. But you should know that your grandfather—well, he cared about you, boy,” he says quickly. “Talked about you all the time. Said he was going to start a court case to get custody of you.”

  “Why didn’t he?” I ask. I feel like Grandma’s china, broken into small pieces.

  “He started the proceedings, but it takes a long time. Anne got ill, and died, and it took the life right out of him,” Jack says. “Then those letters he sent to you—most came back unopened. He thought he’d lost you. By then, he was ill himself.”

  I want to believe him. I really do. But I’ve been crapped on so many times.

  “Anyway, you take care of yourself.” Jack nods at the nurse and leaves.

  “I’m Amy,” the girl says. “You look like you could do with a bit of food inside you.”

  She walks briskly down the corridor. Most of the rooms we pass are lit and filled with people visiting for Christmas. Granddad’s room is dark.

  “Here we are.” She turns on the lamp. “You get cleaned up a bit, and I think I can find a turkey dinner for you.”

  I go into the washroom and let hot water run over my hands. I splash it onto my face, wincing when it hits my sore cheek.

  Back in the room, I sit in the chair beside the bed. Nothing’s changed. Granddad’s hands lie unmoving on the white sheet, his mouth is slightly open, his breathing erratic. There are voices in the corridor as people walk by, glance in, and go on, and suddenly, I’m glad I’m here. Fiercely glad I am with Granddad. On Christmas night.

  Amy returns with a tray piled with covered plates that she sets on the table. “Here you go.”

  Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, carrots and peas, and pie for dessert. It smells wonderful. I dig in as she tucks a sheet around Granddad.

  “You can press charges, if you like,” she says. Puzzled, I look up from the food.

  “Assault charges.”

  “Oh.” I shake my head.

  She gently fixes the pillow behind my grandfather’s head. “Ed’s a lovely man,” she says. “Real nice.”

  “He used to take me out and show me fireflies,” I tell her.

  “Did he? That’s great.”

  Why did I tell her that? Tears sting behind my eyes.

  “I’ll bring you some ice for your cheek,” Amy says.

  And I’m left alone with my turkey dinner and Granddad.

  Scraping the last morsel of mashed potato from the plate, I push the tray away and stare at the man in the bed. Lovely, Amy said. And nice. Miriam said I had the look of him about me. To hell with Phil.

  I sit in the chair and doze, wake, and hear the quiet all around me, so I know it’s late. Someone—Amy, I guess—has turned out the light, so I cross to the window and open the curtains to see that the sky has cleared and blue moon shadows stretch across the snow. I leave the curtains open, letting the moonlight fall across Granddad. I think he’d like that. Then, suddenly, I reach out and wrap my granddad’s hand in mine, like he once held mine, and for a while, the anger inside me quiets.

  Then it’s morning. Amy brings me breakfast and says she’s off duty soon and will give me a ride to the store.

  I wander around the room, waiting for her, feeling antsy.

  “Ready to go?” She hands me a scarf, gloves, and a hat with earflaps. “These were your grandfather’s,” she says, almost apologetically. “Not the height of fashion, but they will keep you warm. I noticed you didn’t have any last night.”

  “Thanks.” I pull on the hat, catch my reflection in the mirror, and it’s sort of cool. I like that it was his.

  “Do you have anywhere you can be reached for . . . well . . . you know.” She gestures toward the bed.

  I begin to shake my head, when I remember Glen’s card. “You can reach me here. He’s a . . .” What is he? “A friend of mine.” I guess. I read the number to her and she jots it down.

  Before we leave, I look at the bed once more, the shrunken figure. And I wait. Because if this were television, Granddad would suddenly open his eyes, beckon me close, and in a gasping voice say, “Dylan,” or something profound. But the eyes remain closed, the lips don’t form words, and the breathing rattles. This isn’t television.

  Chapter 22

  Land stretches out from the bus window in gentle swells. Earlier in the day, the wind changed direction from north to south, melting the snow to reveal bro
wn patches of plowed fields. The highway is deserted. The bus is deserted. I’m exhausted, but my brain won’t stop spinning. Murdock. My father. Granddad. Dying. Jenna. And me.

  What am I going back to? Absolutely nothing.

  In the gloom of late afternoon, we come into the city, past apartments, townhouses, and streets of identically built box-like houses. Through lighted windows, I catch glimpses of ordinary people, ordinary lives—a table set for dinner, the flicker of a television screen. At least it’s what I think ordinary is.

  It’s nearly dark when I step off the bus. The streets are rain-slick and quiet. People from the bus hurry away to family, to friends, to people who care. I’m alone. Three days ago, I thought everything would be different.

  There’s only one place I can think to go, the donut shop, the nearest thing to a home I have now. I jump over a pile of brown slush at the curb, remember the white blanket over the farm, and trudge the three blocks to Mandy’s.

  It’s full of people like me, losers with nowhere else to go on the day after Christmas. Three goth chicks cluster around a table in the middle of the room, a black blemish against the garish red and yellow of the shop’s walls. They laugh and exhale blue smoke into the air, despite the No Smoking signs. Lurch holds court with the four Bandana Kids in the far corner, no doubt impressing them with his baddest-of-the-bad routine. I debate leaving to avoid trouble, but I’m too tired. Besides, trouble will find me no matter where I go. The Garbage Man sits in a booth at the back, eyes darting fearfully between Lurch and the door. The Swear Lady, swaddled in clothing, sits beside her cart, muttering non-stop. The waitress leans sleepily on the counter, brown visor askew.

  Ainsley is in a booth with Amber, coffee cups between them. She’s leaning forward, speaking earnestly, and Amber shrinks against the vinyl backrest, looking uncomfortable. A quick scan of the room turns up no Jenna. And no Twitch.

  I thread my way between tables to Ainsley’s booth. She stops talking and leans back.

  Amber greets me happily. “Hi, Dylan. How’s it going?” She doesn’t wait for an answer but manipulates her bulk out of the booth, taking the opportunity to escape Ainsley. When she stands, I’m amazed to see how huge her stomach is.