Theories of Relativity

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

  I bend again to the pile of coats and rummage in pockets until I come up with enough change for bus fare.

  “You’ve been had, man,” the Bandana Kid shouts as I leave, slamming the door behind me.

  Riding the elevator down to the street, I feel numb. How could she do that to me? Out on the street, people’s faces float by, indistinct. I need to get some money together, fast. Somehow I find the right bus and stagger up the steps, the pills catching up to me. The driver stares at me, wondering if he should kick me off, but I drop into a seat, and he closes the bus doors. I sit in a stupor, and it is only as we pass Micha and Jordan’s school that I move, to pull the cord.

  There’s a snowman in the yard at the house—Dan’s idea, no doubt. I knock the head off it as I pass. This time I don’t hesitate but walk straight in.

  Cartoon laughter greets me. Micha and Jordan are stretched full length on the floor in front of the television.

  “Where is she?” I ask thickly. I won’t say Mom.

  “Dylan!” Micha runs toward me, but I push him away, too hard, and he falls on his back in the middle of the room. “Sorry. Sorry. They’re sore. My . . . my . . .” My tongue feels thick, the words falling from it slurred as I try to explain my hurt ribs.

  “Get the hell out of here!” My mother comes into the room.

  “I have every right to be here,” I shout back.

  Jordan turns off the television and huddles with Micha on the floor. It’s not often I’ve seen Jordan scared. He is now.

  “You don’t belong here any more,” my mother yells into the sudden silence.

  “You can’t just fucking kick me out of your life like that. I’m your son. Look what you’ve done to me! Look at me!” I scream. “I’ve got nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat. I got nearly beaten to death . . .”

  I turn and I lean my head against the wall, shaking. Why doesn’t it matter to anyone that I’m hurt? Why don’t I matter?

  “What’s going on here?”

  Dan comes up behind my mother, but he doesn’t touch her. He keeps a distance, looking at her, then me. Micha begins to cry noisily and runs to Dan, who puts an arm around him.

  “What did I do?” I ask my mother. “What did I do that you hate me for?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I said, what is going on?” Dan repeats.

  Still she says nothing. The pills, the beer—my stomach churns.

  “You’re not in any condition to be here,” Dan says to me. “You shouldn’t be like this in front of the boys.”

  “I need some money. She owes me that.” The sickness comes suddenly. I stagger out the door and heave my guts into the bushes.

  They follow me out and Micha wails anew, but now about his broken snowman. Dan pushes the boys back into the house, disappears for a moment, then returns with a box of tissues. I take one and wipe my mouth.

  He holds out a ten-dollar bill. “Take this,” he says. “Go somewhere and get yourself together. Don’t ever come back here drunk or stoned again, because I won’t let you in. I need some time to talk to Joan and get to the bottom of this. Where can I reach you?”

  “Nowhere.” I snatch the money from his hand and push past. “Forget it. Tell her I won’t be back. Tell Micha . . .” My voice breaks. “Tell him I’m sorry. About his snowman, about—everything.”

  Chapter 26

  In the library’s washroom, I sit in a cubicle on the floor, white toilet bowl at eye level. I have no memory of the bus trip downtown, no memory of walking to the library, no memory of coming into this small space and sliding down the wall. There is one thing I remember, though: a phone call. To Glen.

  “I need money,” I say to him.

  “No,” he replies quietly.

  “I’m in trouble. I owe somebody money. I have to pay it back.”

  “You owe me money,” Glen says.

  I’m silent. He’s right.

  “No one’s denying you’ve been treated badly all around, but now it’s time for you to decide what to do for you.”

  “I can’t—” I begin.

  He interrupts me. “You can. You don’t have to do anything big, just take some small steps to make your life better. But only you can make that decision.”

  “Please, only this one time. I won’t ask for money again.”

  “No.”

  And he hung up.

  Make decisions. You have to have options to make decisions, and I don’t have any. I hold his card over the toilet but put it back into my pocket. Climbing to my feet, I push open the stall door and he’s there. Einstein.

  Perched on the edge of the sink, Einstein peers around the room with a puzzled air. Finally, he focuses on me. “What are you doing to yourself, Dylan?” he asks.

  He doesn’t say what, but vat. He runs a hand through unruly hair, making it stand on end. The hair, the baggy-kneed pants, the shapeless jacket and tie, all are askew. He could be one of the library lounge crowd, except for the keen eyes beneath bushy eyebrows.

  I shrug.

  “Ah. I have a theory about this raising and lowering of shoulders,” Einstein begins.

  My mouth drops open. “So do I,” I say.

  “Ah,” he says. “You’re a man of theories, like myself.”

  “Except you’re a genius and I’m not.”

  “A genius.” Einstein smiles, and creases form around his eyes. “Who’s to say what makes a genius? I say I’m a thinker. Always my mind, it goes round and round. Sometimes like a man possessed.”

  I nod my head sympathetically. “I know what that’s like. Your brain all afire.”

  He crosses his legs, making himself comfortable, settling in for a chat. That makes me uneasy. How long does a hallucination usually stay around?

  “So, Dylan, why did you bring me here? How you did it—I’ll have to think about later. A most interesting puzzle,” he adds. His eyes get a faraway look as he stares at a point above my shoulder.

  I clear my throat and he starts.

  “I guess you’re the result of one of those pills,” I say.

  “Are you ill? Why are you taking pills?”

  “They’re painkillers.”

  “And you are in pain.” It’s not a question.

  I cross to the sink, squirt soap into my hands, and stick them under the faucet. The water turns on.

  Einstein jumps off the counter and stares at the stream of water. “How did you do that?” he asks. He bends and examines the tap.

  “It’s probably got a motion sensor. The toilets flush automatically, too.”

  Einstein goes into the stall I recently vacated.

  “You don’t say. Amazing.”

  “Those usually work with light beams . . .” I stop. What the hell am I doing? I’m explaining technology to a hallucination. “Never mind. Look, Albert. Why don’t you just go?” I say.

  “You brought me. You have to send me back,” Einstein replies reasonably.

  “Fine. Go back,” I order.

  Nothing happens. He’s still here. Maybe if I piss him off, he’ll leave.

  “You know, some of your theories suck,” I say.

  “What is this word, suck?” He puts his hand under the dryer, but it doesn’t turn on.

  “It means they’re bad. Really lousy theories.”

  Bushy eyebrows rise. “Which ones are you referring to?”

  “First, your theory of relativity—”

  “Mass and energy are equal, and mass, dimension, and time increase with velocity,” Einstein says.

  “Yeah, well . . . Want to hear my theory of relativity?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Okay. My theory of relativity is that relatives all suck.” I begin to laugh. “Relativity. Do you get it?” Pain stabs at my ribs as tears run down my cheeks, but I can’t stop laughing.

  “Relatives as in kinship,” Einstein says.

  “Yeah, relatives, family, as in my loser father who leaves me before I’m even born, my mother who kicks me out of the house
because she wants to pretend she never had me.” The laughter turns to sobs that tear from my throat. “And my grandfather who never bothered to look for me.”

  “E=mc². Energy equals mass multiplied by the square of the velocity of light. Matter and energy are regarded as equivalents, mutually convertible,” Einstein says.

  “That guy, Jack, he said Granddad wanted to get custody of me. Why didn’t he do it?”

  “There is matter, and then there is matter.”

  “What are you going on about?” I ask impatiently.

  “Matter, Dylan. Do you matter, Dylan? To anyone?” He smiles. “My little joke, like yours about relativity.”

  I can’t believe this guy. Why did people think he was a genius? He’s a lunatic.

  “And you know your other theory, the one you don’t actually believe,” I go on. “About black holes in space.”

  “I’m still not convinced they exist,” Einstein states.

  “Oh, they exist all right. I’m being dragged into one right now. My life is a huge black hole. What is your theory about that?”

  A man opens the door, sees me talking, glances around the empty room, and hastily backs out.

  “Why are you so wrapped up in theories?” Einstein asks.

  That stumps me for a moment. “I guess it’s because when I have a theory, it means I have everything figured out. I have everything under control.”

  He nods. “Yes, it gives the illusion of control, but you can’t control everything. No one can.

  “I have a theory that I want to share with you,” Einstein continues. “A rebuttal, let’s say, to your theory of relativity. My theory is that the problem is you.”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps it is you who has a flaw that makes people reject you. Perhaps it is you who sucks.”

  “That’s just stupid,” I yell. “And what the hell do you know? Your socks don’t even match, genius. One is black and one is brown.”

  “The function of socks is to keep my feet warm. The colour doesn’t affect the function,” Einstein says.

  Footsteps echo in the hall outside the door. The man must have alerted the security guard.

  “You can’t just say you have a theory that I have a flaw,” I tell Einstein. “You have to prove it.”

  “Very well. Let us look at the evidence. You say you were rejected by your father.”

  “Hey, I rejected him, so that doesn’t count.”

  “Your mother . . .”

  I shrug.

  “Your grandfather . . .”

  “Jack said he tried to find me. My mother didn’t give me his letters. And besides, Grandma had died.” Why am I trying to convince him? “Micha and Jordan. My brothers. They like me.” My trump card.

  “Hmm.” Einstein is noncommittal. “Your last visit home wasn’t too successful. And Jenna?”

  “Well, she’s going through her own problems right now,” I offer weakly. Jenna did reject me.

  “Where did you get such a stupid theory, anyway?” I ask him.

  Einstein smiles. “It’s yours.”

  Chapter 27

  The door to the washroom opens and the security guard with the caterpillars over his eyes steps in. “You got a problem in here?” he asks.

  I whip my head back to Einstein, but he’s gone.

  “No,” I say. “Guess not.”

  “The library’s closing shortly. Time you cleared out,” he says, and he escorts me to the door.

  I wander the streets, keeping an eye out for Vulture. Eventually, I find myself in a doorway across from the converted church where Brad lives. It’s just after midnight, but it’s the weekend, and most of the apartments have lights on, including Brad’s. Two couples come toward me, and I step out of the doorway to ask for change—there are four of them after all—but I stop myself. I’m finished with theories.

  I stare at Brad’s apartment window. Twitch said you take a pill and it’s easy. I have two pills in my pocket. And Brad has pills. He also has a warm apartment, biscotti, coffee, a tidy bedroom—I shy away from that thought—and hot water. Most important, he has money. I figure if I do it just this once, I can settle my debt with Vulture and be free of him.

  I feel a tug on my arm and turn around to see Amber. “I wondered where you got to,” she says.

  She looks frail tonight, and pathetically young with that bulging belly beneath the too-small coat. She has my toque on her head.

  “I’ve been around,” I say.

  “You’ve been at Brendan’s.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not going back there.”

  “Fuck, Dylan,” she says. “No one’s ever broken free of Brendan.”

  The black hole gets deeper.

  “Ainsley is looking for you,” Amber continues.

  “Why? Does she want to play social worker?”

  “Lighten up. Ainsley’s okay.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  I glance at the lighted apartment window and she follows my gaze.

  “What’s up there?” she asks.

  “A way to pay off my debt,” I reply. I pull her into the shelter of the doorway and wrap my arms around her. “You’re cold. You shouldn’t be out here. You’re going to get sick,” I tell her.

  “I couldn’t face that fucking factory any more,” Amber admits. “Especially when you’re not there. Or Twitch.”

  “Have you heard how he is?”

  “Ainsley says he’s doing better.”

  “Really? That’s great.”

  She snuggles against me for warmth. It feels absurdly good to have another person that close to me. “Jenna . . .” I begin. I don’t know how to go on.

  “What about her?” Amber stiffens slightly.

  “She screwed me over. When I was in the factory there. Those pills. Brendan gave them to her to give to me, and she knew it.”

  “Don’t be too hard on her,” Amber says. “She had no choice. When girls first get out here, they hook up with someone like Brendan. They’re so fucking scared and it makes them feel safe. They also think they can walk away from him whenever they want, and then they discover they can’t. I know. I’ve been there. If she tries to leave, he’ll beat her up.”

  “There’s got to be an escape.”

  “Get pregnant like me,” Amber says.

  “How did Ainsley do it?”

  “That woman’s got some guts. She fucking clawed her way out. But Jenna, she doesn’t have that inside. Brendan will get her into drugs and turning tricks and porno movies. She’ll be in so fucking deep, she’ll never get out. He takes your self-respect. The life takes your self-respect. And once that’s gone, well, you’re lost.”

  Self-respect. I stare up at Brad’s window.

  “But it’s every man for himself out here,” Amber says.

  “Why did you help me if you believe that?” I ask.

  “You? You were so fucking pathetic.” She laughs. “I never saw anyone so fucking scared. I couldn’t leave you out there looking like that.”

  “I wasn’t that scared,” I protest.

  “You fucking were.”

  I look up at Brad’s window. It’s getting late. If I’m doing anything, it’ll have to be soon.

  “Does turning tricks get easier over time?” I ask.

  “No.” She buries her head in the front of my coat. “I try to shut my brain off, you know, pretend it’s just a job, but every time I do it, it takes a little more of me. I’m nearly gone, Dylan.”

  I pull out the ten-dollar bill Dan gave me. “Here. Take this and get a hot dinner.”

  She doesn’t argue, just takes the money. We all need to survive.

  “And get something decent to eat. It’s better for the baby.”

  “What are you? The fucking father? I’ll see you around.” She starts down the street.

  “Oh.” She turns. “I nearly forgot about Ainsley. Some guy was down at the centre looking for you. His name was Dan. She said if I saw you, to let you know. She said he was your stepfath
er?”

  “My stepfather?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Okay.”

  She starts to walk away.

  “Thanks—Faith,” I call after her.

  Stepfather. If he told Ainsley that, then he must know who I am. Who told him? The kids or Mom? I don’t know what to think of a stepfather.

  A shadow passes by the window of Brad’s apartment. What if Brad doesn’t want me? I’m flawed. Einstein and his matter? Who do I matter to? Jordan and Micha? Granddad? Did I matter to him? I think I did. But maybe what’s important is not that I matter to them, but that they matter to me. And mostly that I matter to me.

  The lights go off in Brad’s apartment and I leave the doorway. As I walk, my brain turns over and over. Finally, I find a pay phone and pull out Glen’s card. With shaking fingers, I insert a coin, dial, and listen to it ring. It’s late, you idiot, I tell myself. He’s probably asleep.

  “Hello?”

  My lips are so frozen they won’t work. I panic, because I don’t have another quarter if he hangs up.

  “Hello?” Glen repeats.

  “It’s Dylan,” I say. “When can I start work?”

  Chapter 28

  The accepted theory is that once something is sucked into a black hole, it can’t escape. I have a theory that something can. Me.

  Author’s Note

  In North America’s wealthiest cities, many children go to sleep hungry, live in poverty, or are the victims of family violence and abuse. Many children run away from, or are thrown out of, desperate home situations to live on the streets, where they soon find themselves in dire straits.

  Filthy and hungry, they turn to drugs to dull their pain, prostitution and theft to earn money to eat. Pimps and drug dealers take advantage of these vulnerable children. It is a day-to-day struggle to live.

  Many of the children are illiterate; as the “regular” school system is unable to deal with them, they drop out. Without education, a fixed address, or clean clothes, they are unemployable. Many of the children have been shunted from foster home to foster home, never fitting in anywhere. Social services, schools, and government agencies fail them. These are difficult children.