Theories of Relativity

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

“Paul,” I repeat. “Do you know everyone’s name?”

  “No. Just the ones who tell me when we’re talking.”

  I mull that over. Amber treats everyone out here like normal people, not homeless street losers, and in return they give her their names.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “You know who I am.”

  “Your real name,” I say.

  She’s quiet a moment. “Faith,” she says eventually.

  “Your name is Faith?”

  “That’s what my momma named me.”

  “Where is she? Your mother?”

  “Dead. She was a junkie. Out on the streets, just like me. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I lived in care until I was fourteen, then I ran away. My momma loved me, but the drugs . . . I guess she loved them more.

  “Feel this.” Amber places my hand on her stomach and I feel movement beneath my fingers. “It’s the baby,” she says.

  “Is it creepy having a human inside you?” I ask.

  “Of course it’s not creepy, you fucking idiot.” She sounds indignant. “It’s my baby. Men, you’re all so fucking stupid.”

  “Guess what your baby’s first word will be.”

  Amber settles back down and gives me a tiny punch. “Yeah, I know. I’ll clean up my mouth after it’s born. Everything will be different after the baby’s born.”

  Chapter 24

  One day, Jenna doesn’t come with her pills. All night I tremble, cold and hot, and cower from fearsome creatures just beyond the fire’s light. Amber crawls under the blanket and wraps her arms around me.

  “I’m dying,” I tell her.

  “You’re just coming down,” she assures me. “You’ll feel better when the drugs get out of your body.”

  I push her away and roll into a tight ball.

  Morning comes and I drag myself to my feet and stand, swaying, shocked that I am so weak. Forcing my legs to move, I step over a sleeping Amber and shuffle to the iron stairs. Already, my T-shirt is damp and stinking from the effort. The crawl through the hole in the fence nearly does me in, but after a short rest, I stumble away from the factory. On a quest for the magic pills.

  Frost rimes every branch, white lace against a cobalt blue sky. My breath puffs in clouds that hang in the air, no wind to carry them away. My fingers burn from the cold. My gloves were in my backpack.

  I have no idea what day it is or how long I was in the factory. The streets are quiet. Occasionally, a person scurries past, collar clutched tight against the cold. They give me wide berth, and catching my reflection in a window, I know why. Even in this makeshift mirror I can see the swelling around my eyes, a spreading bruise on my cheek. Granddad’s cap is pulled low over my forehead.

  As I step away from the window, my legs give out, and I stagger and lean against a concrete wall, breathing shallowly against the intense pain in my chest. A man walks by, an iced pastry at his mouth. When did I eat last? As he passes a trash bin, he tosses the half-eaten Danish into it. There it sits, right on top. I shuffle over to the can, grab the pastry, and shove it into my mouth. As I chew, I dig through the garbage to see if there’s anything else to eat. Hair rises on the back of my neck, and with a spurt of fear I swing around. A woman stands behind me, face twisted in disgust. She’s stout, obviously hasn’t missed many meals, so I give her the finger and she hurries away. I continue to root in the garbage bin. I’m now a dumpster diver.

  Up and down the streets I weave like a drunk, searching. I avoid the youth centre, the office tower, and street school. Finally, I find what I’ve been looking for. One of the Bandana Kids stands outside a video arcade, having a smoke. When I first approach him, he tenses, but he relaxes when he sees my unsteady steps.

  “You don’t look so hot, man,” he says finally.

  “Yeah,” I mumble, lips still swollen. It’s like I’m trying to talk through someone else’s mouth. I don’t point out the obvious to him. He did this to me.

  He flicks ash away and waits.

  “You got anything?” I ask.

  “What are you looking for?”

  I stamp numb feet, then wish I hadn’t as pain courses through my body. How can a person hurt so much? “Painkillers.”

  “That might be possible.” He grinds the butt beneath his boot. “Meet me here, seven tonight,” he says.

  “Do you have anything now?” I ask. It’s grovelling, but I’m desperate.

  He checks up and down the street, then reaches into a back pocket and extracts a single pill. “That should hold you until tonight,” he says. “See you at seven.”

  “I haven’t got any money . . .” I begin.

  “At seven,” he repeats, and goes back into the arcade.

  I down the pill quickly, then force my brain to think. The factory is too far to walk back to, but I can’t stay any longer in the cold. The closest place is the library.

  Somehow, I get my broken body past the security guard and into a chair in the library lounge. My hand automatically reaches out to wrap the strap of my backpack around my ankle, but there’s nothing there. I miss my life that was inside: the Einstein book Twitch gave me, the gloves, my dirty clothes, the CD player from Glen—the only gift I got this Christmas—and Grandma and Granddad’s wedding picture. The pill kicks in and I spend the afternoon staring at nothing.

  At ten to five, I ease myself from the chair and make a beeline for the washroom. As I push open the door, I stop in my tracks at the sight of a filthy man, eyes swollen half shut, face bruised yellow and purple, ridiculous hat pulled low over his forehead and ears. It takes a minute to recognize the person in the mirror as me. I study my beaten face, and a tear squeezes out of a blackened eye and runs down my cheek.

  Outside, my legs, stiff from sitting all afternoon, will barely move. It’s colder than before and my shivering hurts my ribs. I need those pills.

  As I walk past Holy Rosary Cathedral, I see Glen coming toward me, a briefcase in his hand. I consider turning around and hurrying the other way but immediately discard that idea. I couldn’t hurry if I tried.

  He draws level, stops, and stares at my face. “Ainsley said you looked bad, but her description didn’t do you justice. That’s quite a beating you took.”

  I shrug.

  “Dylan, I can help—”

  “No,” I interrupt him. Not unless you have a pill to take the pain away.

  He sighs, but leaves it. “Ainsley said things didn’t go too well in Murdock. I’m sorry that your grandfather is ill.”

  I nod.

  “Where’s your backpack and sleeping bag?” he suddenly asks.

  “Stolen,” I say.

  “Dylan, you can’t stay out here in this condition,” Glen says. “Let me take you to a doctor, or at least to a shelter.”

  “No.” I sway on my feet, and Glen reaches out a hand to steady me.

  “Are you taking something?” he asks.

  “Painkillers.”

  Glen grimaces. “From the street? You don’t know what you’re taking. It could be anything.”

  But I don’t care because anything stops the hurting.

  Glen switches the briefcase to his other hand. “That boy you’re sometimes with. The one who can’t keep still . . .”

  “Twitch?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Do you know his real name?”

  I heard it once at Brad’s. “It’s Aaron, but I don’t know his last name. Why?”

  Glen looks straight at me. “He took a turn for the worse today.”

  What’s a turn for the worse mean? He’s dying? I can’t ask.

  “The police were around the centre, Ainsley said, wanting to know if anyone knew his name. They want to contact his parents.”

  I snort at that, and hold my aching sides. “His parents. They won’t care. Tell the cops to look at his arms. His stepfather used him as an ashtray.”

  Glen gazes up at the church’s spires. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers.

  It’s a prayer, I
think.

  “I hate this. I hate this!” He gestures at me, at the street, the buildings surrounding us. “I had a younger brother who lived on the streets. He had a terrible time in school, and at home he couldn’t get along with our parents. They fought all the time. He got into drugs in a big way and landed on the street. I put him into rehab a couple of times, but he OD’d five years ago and died.”

  “So that’s why you do the school thing, donate stuff?” I say. “For forgiveness?”

  Glen gives a tight smile. “No,” he says. “I don’t need to be forgiven. I stopped beating myself up about it last year . . . Sorry.” He grimaces. “Bad choice of words. Drugs were his decision, and nothing I could say or do would have stopped him. It took me a long time to realize that it was his choice. But after he died, I did push to get the street school open, and provided supplies and equipment, because I thought maybe I could help some other kid. A kid who was smart and had potential and could make it, given half a chance. A kid like you. I can help you, Dylan. Ainsley, Children’s Services, they can all help you if you’ll let them, but ultimately, that is your decision. I can’t make it for you. You’re hurting now, physically and emotionally, but think about what I said.”

  Help me? Go to school? Shit! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I don’t even have a change of underwear. A sliver of soap. I can’t start all over again. I’m too fucking tired.

  I arrive at the arcade early and wait in the cold. Eventually, the Bandana Kid shows.

  “Here you go,” he says. He holds out a small plastic bag with four pills.

  “How much?”

  “Don’t worry about it, man,” he says.

  But I do worry about it. I’ll pay for these pills sooner or later. Nothing is for free.

  But I need them. “Thanks,” I say, and pop one immediately.

  “No problem. There’s a party tonight. Want to come?”

  I don’t feel like partying, but he’s given me the pills and I haven’t paid, so I’m somewhat obligated. Besides, my only other option is returning to the factory.

  He takes big strides. I have trouble keeping up with him.

  “What’s the occasion?” I ask, hoping conversation will slow him down a bit.

  He looks at me like I’m nuts. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”

  We arrive at an apartment building a few blocks from downtown. Inside, the elevator rises silently, the door slides open, and we go down a hall, footsteps silent on thick carpeting.

  “Swanky. Who owns this place?” I ask.

  Bandana Kid ignores me.

  At the end of the hall, we hear the thump of music. The kid opens a door and a wall of noise greets us. I drift into the apartment in his wake.

  It’s crowded, hot, and stuffy. Smoke hangs thick and blue in the air and takes on fantastic shapes. I lose the Bandana Kid, but I don’t care. The pain has receded, and a platter of crackers and cheese hovers near me. I scoop up a handful and cram them in my mouth. Someone hands me a beer and I drink it in one long gulp, and there’s a second one waiting.

  “Want to play?” A hand tugs at my pant leg. A red-haired girl smiles up at me. Four people sit with her in a circle, an empty beer bottle in the centre. Before each person is a tiny pile of rainbow-coloured pills.

  “It’s spin the drug,” she says.

  I join them.

  “Take a turn.” She gestures toward the beer bottle.

  I spin and it lands on a little pile of yellow tablets. The girl scoops one up. “You have to take it now,” she says. “That’s the rules.” She pops it into my mouth.

  The music gets louder, the room gets hotter, and I’m having a great time. No pain, and I discover that I’m a genius when I talk. Everything I say is witty or profound. The red-haired girl hangs on my every word. Einstein would be proud of me.

  “I’ll be back,” I tell her. I wander down a hallway, looking for a washroom.

  Raised voices come from behind a door, then a girl crying. Suddenly, it swings open, and Vulture fills the doorway.

  “Dylan.”

  His apartment, his party, his beer, his pills. On some level I knew it, but in my desperation, I buried that reality away.

  “Having a good time?”

  “Yeah. Great,” I tell him.

  The door opens wider, and Jenna, tear trails down her cheeks, peers from behind Vulture. “Dylan? What are you doing here?”

  “He’s joined the party,” Vulture says. He wraps an arm around Jenna and pats her ass. “Time to get to work, baby.”

  “It’s so cold out there, Brendan,” she complains. “And it’s New Year’s Eve. Can’t I take a break?”

  He gives her a small shove out the doorway into the hall.

  “New Year’s Eve means big bucks, baby. All those guys out there wanting to start the year with a bang.” He laughs at his own joke.

  Jenna’s shoulders slump in defeat. “I just want to talk to Dylan for a minute,” she says, with a spark of defiance.

  “Sure.” He’s agreeable. He’s got us both where he wants us. He pushes past me and goes down the hall toward the party.

  Jenna watches his back disappear, then turns to me. “You don’t want to have anything to do with him, Dylan.”

  Funny, my words, but they’re coming out of her mouth.

  “What about you?” I ask. “If you know what he’s like, why are you still here?”

  “I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Home.”

  “Home?” Her eyes fill with tears. “Dylan, home is Dad coming into my room at night.” She wraps her arms around herself. “He told me he loved me. That’s what people who love each other do together. I believed him for a long time. I knew it was wrong, but I believed him. He was my dad.”

  She tosses her head. “And now I feel real bad because I left, but my sister is still there. I don’t know if he’ll do the same thing to her.”

  “Tell someone,” I say. “Don’t let him get away with it.”

  “Who’d believe me? A kid. A runaway who’s mad at her dad. It’s my word against his.”

  “But you only traded that for this,” I say.

  “This doesn’t hurt as much.”

  “Hey.” Vulture saunters down the hall. “Less talk. More work.”

  “Bye, Dylan,” Jenna says softly.

  Chapter 25

  The party lasts late into the morning on New Year’s Day. Another one starts that evening. Two blessedly painless, stoned days later, I’m still at Vulture’s apartment. Finally, people begin to clear out, and by early afternoon there are only two of the Bandana Kids, Jenna, and me left—and a huge mess. My head’s a mess, too, fuzzy and throbbing, and my ribs begin to ache.

  “Clean this place up,” Vulture orders the Bandana Kids. “You.” He points at Jenna, who is sprawled on the couch, smoking. “Get some sleep. You look like shit, and you’re working tonight. Dylan, come with me.”

  He leads the way out onto the balcony. Alarm bells ring through the woolly thickness in my head.

  “Have a good time?” he asks.

  “Yeah. It was okay,” I answer carefully.

  He lights a cigarette, all the while staring at me.

  “About the pills, food, beer,” Vulture says. “You can settle up with Lurch. He’ll tell you the balance of what you owe me.”

  He sounds like an accountant.

  “If you find yourself short of cash, we have a few odd jobs you could do for us.” He takes my chin in his hand and tilts my head first one way, then the other. “You know, you’re a good-looking kid, or you would be if you were clean. A bath, some decent clothes, and there’d be people willing to pay top price for you.”

  Turning tricks. For him.

  I yank my head out of his hand, feeling bile rise in my throat.

  Vulture leans against the balcony railing, kicks a piece of ice over the edge, and watches it fall. “It’s a long way down,” he says. “Ground’s frozen. A person could get really hurt if he fell.” He throws
his cigarette over. “We’ll set something up. A percentage for you. A larger one for me, of course, as I’ll be providing your clothes. Less the money you owe.”

  “Yeah. Sure, sure,” I stammer. Anything to get off the balcony.

  “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

  As we go back into the living room, the heat and stink make my head spin. “Help these boys with this.” He gestures around the room. “There’s a vacuum cleaner in a closet in the back.” He grabs a leather coat and heads out the door.

  I go down the hall and open a door, thinking it’s the closet, but it’s a second bedroom, obviously used as storage space. And there is my backpack with my sleeping bag sitting on the floor. I stare at it a moment, then quietly close the bedroom door and go in search of the closet. That life is over. This is my life now.

  Dumping the vacuum in the middle of the floor, I crawl behind a couch to find an electrical outlet and come across a little hoard of pills. I pop two, and the rest I squirrel away in my pocket, and suddenly, I’m sick of myself and sick of this room.

  I dig my coat out from a pile next to the door. “I’m going out for a bit.”

  “Hey, Brendan said you were supposed to stay here,” says one of the kids.

  “He doesn’t own me,” I say. “Tell him I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want any part of him.”

  Jenna stabs her cigarette butt into an ashtray, watching me carefully.

  “Tell him yourself,” the kid says. “You owe him money and he’ll get it from you one way or the other. You can run, but he’ll find you. Even other cities. He knows people everywhere. Besides, you’ll be crawling back looking for more of these.” He shakes a little container of pills. “And your girlfriend here won’t be able to come through any more. Where do you think she got them in the first place?”

  Jenna pushes herself into the couch, avoids looking at me.

  “It was Brendan who gave them to her. He knew what he was doing. She knew it, too.”

  He’s lying. I will Jenna to look up at me, let me see in her eyes that he’s lying, but she buries her head in her arms.

  “You bitch,” I say to her.

  Her shoulders twitch, but that’s the only sign she heard me.