Traplines

by Eden Robinson

  Tom sprang up and rammed into Jeremy. They both fell, Jeremy grunting as they hit the floor. Then he grabbed Tom by the shoulders and rolled and it was over. Jeremy whooped, dragged him up, and shoved him down on the bed. “That’s more like it!”

  Tom kicked out. Jeremy danced back, delighted. “Come on, Tommy! Give it the old college try!”

  Tom felt himself going under, felt the energy leaving him like a retreating tide. He pushed himself as far from Jeremy as he could and stopped, panting.

  Jeremy stood watching him, hands on his hips. He frowned. “Still not talking to me?”

  Tom’s right eye was closed and wouldn’t open. It hurt a lot. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. If he opened his mouth he was going to start crying, and he didn’t want to give Jeremy the satisfaction.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Jeremy said. “I’m going to leave the room for a minute. Stay right where you are.” He stopped. “I bet you won’t. Promise me … no, forget it. I’ve got a better idea.”

  Jeremy reached under the bed and came back up with a long coil of rope. “We brought this too,” he explained. “We were planning all sorts of things for you, Tommy-boy.”

  Tom, suddenly energized, tried to get off the bed again, but Jeremy caught him and tied his feet together, then tethered him to the headboard.

  “Back before you know it,” Jeremy said, unlocking the door, then locking it behind him.

  “Fire!” Tom shouted. “Fire! Goddamn it! Fire! Help!”

  He twisted his hands, remembering movies where if you just moved your hands in the right way you could get free. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to have never met Jeremy, who opened the door, peeked inside, and waved a pen.

  Tom scrambled as far back as the rope would let him.

  “Easy,” Jeremy said. “Easy. Watch. Watch me. Look.” He drew something on his finger and held it up. “Hi, Tom,” he said. He drew another finger puppet on his other hand and said in the high, squeaky voice, “ ‘Hi, Jeremy!’ ”

  Something in him broke and he started blubbering. He wanted not to be doing it, not to be breaking, not to be amusing Jeremy, but he was doing it, and not being able to stop made him cry harder.

  Jeremy sat on the edge of the bed and patted his arm. It was full-fledged bawling now. It hurt his eyes. It hurt his nose where Jeremy had burned him. He could feel the rawness. Jeremy said nothing, reached down, and lit a cigarette.

  Tom froze.

  After a few moments Jeremy turned to him. His expression became puzzled as he opened his mouth, then looked at his cigarette. “Jeez!” he said. He lifted his shoe, stubbing the cigarette out on his sole. “It’s out! See? It’s out.”

  The relief was so strong, Tom went under, slid from the room, out of his body, gone.

  Jeremy took him to Burger King for breakfast. Jeremy ordered hash browns, a large coffee, and an apple pie. Tom had an orange juice. He felt too shaky to handle anything solid. They sat upstairs at a table by the window. Tom watched the people go by. Rush hour was starting. Jeremy reached for his pocket, saw Tom watching him, and stopped.

  “I’m going to have a nic-fit soon,” Jeremy said.

  Tom shrugged.

  Jeremy ate his hash browns instead. Tom was relieved but didn’t want to show it.

  He’d come awake suddenly. Jeremy had freed him while he was passed out. He’d moved them to somewhere else in the house. Jeremy had said, “You want something to eat?”

  They’d taken a taxi downtown. The driver had looked at Tom, looked at Jeremy, then back at Tom again, and had said nothing for the whole trip.

  Paulina had watched them leave the house. Jeremy had handed her something. The side of her head was matted with blood, but she didn’t seem to care. She didn’t even look at him, and after that first glance, he didn’t look at her.

  Tom’s wrists hurt where the cuffs had scraped his skin raw. They were bruised and purple. They were sticking to his shirt. He had no idea what he was going to tell his mom.

  “Guess we’re even now,” Jeremy said.

  “Even,” Tom said.

  “You can help me pick out a new car tomorrow. What do you say to that? I think I’ll try a Mustang this time.”

  “You’re going to blow the rest of your money on a car?”

  “You think I’d keep my money in a dinky two percent savings account? That was just the tip of the iceberg. But you’ll chip in $7,000, won’t you?” Jeremy pointed his stir stick at Tom. “Some advice, kid. When you pick a partner in crime, pick one who can keep his mouth shut.”

  “It wasn’t really planned.” Tom sipped at the orange juice. It stung his lip.

  “There was your first mistake,” Jeremy said. “Now William, Willy-boy, he had a big mouth.” Jeremy grinned. “And now he has a bigger mouth. Don’t worry about him. I let Paulina play with him for a while. She gave him something that made him try flying.” Jeremy leaned forward, suddenly serious, and said in a hushed voice, “Between you and me, I think that girl has a few problems. You might want to ask someone else to the prom.”

  Tom burst out laughing. He almost lost it again, couldn’t stop laughing, was so close to crying Jeremy handed him a napkin, which made him laugh harder.

  People were looking at them. Tom brought himself under control. He sat back in his chair. Jeremy insisted on going downstairs and getting him a pancake. Tom waited until Jeremy was out of sight before he followed him downstairs, then ran out the door. He meant to run down Granville Street, but he had to stop and lean against a wall. He felt muddled, couldn’t pull himself together enough to move.

  “You just don’t learn, do you?” Jeremy said.

  “Getting some air,” Tom said.

  “Feel free, go ahead,” Jeremy said, not fooled. He stood back. “Look at you. You can’t even walk.”

  “Go fuck yourself, you hear me? Find someone else to play your fucking games, you psycho.” Tom had to use the wall to keep walking straight. His vision was doubling and he knew he was going to throw up, but it didn’t matter. He would get away. Jeremy couldn’t watch him twenty-four hours a day.

  “You can leave,” Jeremy said. “But your mom’s not going anywhere.”

  Slowly Tom turned around. The sun crawled up the sky. Traffic at the intersections snarled, cars honking. He slid down the wall and slumped on the pavement.

  “We can talk about this after you’ve had some sleep,” Jeremy said.

  A taxi came up the street. Jeremy put his fingers in his mouth and let out a screeching whistle. The taxi stopped. Jeremy helped him up, put him in the backseat, then slammed the door and got in next to the driver. They were going home. Tom leaned forward, put his head in his hands, and rested.

  Frog Song

  Whenever I see abandoned buildings, I think of our old house in the village, a rickety shack by the swamp where the frogs used to live. It’s gone now. The council covered the whole area with rocks and gravel.

  In my memory, the sun is setting and the frogs begin to sing. As the light shifts from yellow to orange to red, I walk down the path to the beach. The wind blows in from the channel, making the grass hiss and shiver around my legs. The tide is low and there’s a strong rotting smell from the beach. Tree stumps that have been washed down the channel from the logged areas loom ahead—black, twisted silhouettes against the darkening sky.

  The seiner coming down the channel is the Queen of the North, pale yellow with blue trim, Uncle Josh’s boat. I wait on the beach. The water laps my ankles. The sound of the old diesel engine grows louder as the boat gets closer.

  Usually I can will myself to move, but sometimes I’m frozen where I stand, waiting for the crew to come ashore.

  The only thing my cousin Ronny didn’t own was a Barbie Doll speedboat. She had the swimming pool, she had the Barbie-Goes-to-Paris carrying case, but she didn’t have the boat. There was one left in Northern Drugs, nestling between the puzzles and the stuffed Garfields, but it cost sixty bucks and we were broke. I k
new Ronny was going to get it. She’d already saved twenty bucks out of her allowance. Anyway, she always got everything she wanted because she was an only child and both her parents worked at the aluminum smelter. Mom knew how much I wanted it, but she said it was a toss-up between school supplies and paying bills, or wasting our money on something I’d get sick of in a few weeks.

  We had a small Christmas tree. I got socks and underwear and forced a cry of surprise when I opened the package. Uncle Josh came in just as Mom was carving the turkey. He pushed a big box in my direction.

  “Go on,” Mom said, smiling. “It’s for you.”

  Uncle Josh looked like a young Elvis. He had the soulful brown eyes and the thick black hair. He dressed his long, thin body in clothes with expensive labels—no Sears or Kmart for him. He smiled at me with his perfect pouty lips and bleached white teeth.

  “Here you go, sweetheart,” Uncle Josh said.

  I didn’t want it. Whatever it was, I didn’t want it. He put it down in front of me. Mom must have wrapped it. She was never any good at wrapping presents. You’d think with two kids and a million Christmases behind her she’d know how to wrap a present.

  “Come on, open it,” Mom said.

  I unwrapped it slowly, my skin crawling. Yes, it was the Barbie Doll speedboat.

  My mouth smiled. We all had dinner and I pulled the wishbone with my little sister, Alice. I got the bigger piece and made a wish. Uncle Josh kissed me. Alice sulked. Uncle Josh never got her anything, and later that afternoon she screamed about it. I put the boat in my closet and didn’t touch it for days.

  Until Ronny came over to play. She was showing off her new set of Barbie-in-the-Ice-Capades clothes. Then I pulled out the speedboat and the look on her face was almost worth it.

  My sister hated me for weeks. When I was off at soccer practice, Alice took the boat and threw it in the river. To this day, Alice doesn’t know how grateful I was.

  There’s a dream I have sometimes. Ronny comes to visit. We go down the hallway to my room. She goes in first. I point to the closet and she eagerly opens the door. She thinks I’ve been lying, that I don’t really have a boat. She wants proof.

  When she turns to me, she looks horrified, pale and shocked. I laugh, triumphant. I reach in and stop, seeing Uncle Josh’s head, arms, and legs squashed inside, severed from the rest of his body. My clothes are soaked dark red with his blood.

  “Well, what do you know,” I say. “Wishes do come true.”

  Me and five chug buddies are in the Tamitik arena, in the girls’ locker room under the bleachers. The hockey game is in the third period and the score is tied. The yells and shouting of the fans drown out the girl’s swearing. There are four of us against her. It doesn’t take long before she’s on the floor trying to crawl away. I want to say I’m not part of it, but that’s my foot hooking her ankle and tripping her while Ronny takes her down with a blow to the temple. She grunts. Her head makes a hollow sound when it bounces off the sink. The lights make us all look green. A cheer explodes from inside the arena. Our team has scored. The girl’s now curled up under the sink and I punch her and kick her and smash her face into the floor.

  My cuz Ronny had great connections. She could get hold of almost any drug you wanted. This was during her biker chick phase, when she wore tight leather skirts, teeny weeny tops, and many silver bracelets, rings, and studs. Her parents started coming down really hard on her then. I went over to her house to get high. It was okay to do it there, as long as we sprayed the living room with Lysol and opened the windows before her parents came home.

  We toked up and decided to go back to my house to get some munchies. Ronny tagged along when I went up to my bedroom to get the bottle of Visine. There was an envelope on my dresser. Even before I opened it I knew it would be money. I knew who it was from.

  I pulled the bills out. Ronny squealed.

  “Holy sheep shit, how much is there?”

  I spread the fifties out on the dresser. Two hundred and fifty dollars. I could get some flashy clothes or nice earrings with that money, if I could bring myself to touch it. Anything I bought would remind me of him.

  “You want to have a party?” I said to Ronny.

  “Are you serious?” she said, going bug-eyed.

  I gave her the money and said make it happen. She asked who it came from, but she didn’t really care. She was already making phone calls.

  That weekend we had a house party in town. The house belonged to one of Ronny’s biker buddies and was filled with people I knew by sight from school. As the night wore on, they came up and told me what a generous person I was. Yeah, that’s me, I thought, Saint Karaoke of Good Times.

  I took Ronny aside when she was drunk enough. “Ronny, I got to tell you something.”

  “What?” she said, blinking too fast, like she had something in her eye.

  “You know where I got the money?”

  She shook her head, lost her balance, blearily put her hand on my shoulder, and barfed out the window.

  As I listened to her heave out her guts, I decided I didn’t want to tell her after all. What was the point? She had a big mouth, and anything I told her I might as well stand on a street corner and shout to the world. What I really wanted was to have a good time and forget about the money, and after beating everyone hands down at tequila shots that’s exactly what I did.

  “Moooo.” I copy the two aliens on Sesame Street mooing to a telephone. Me and Uncle Josh are watching television together. He smells faintly of the halibut he cooked for dinner. Uncle Josh undoes his pants. “Moo.” I keep my eyes on the TV and say nothing as he moves toward me. I’m not a baby like Alice, who runs to Mommy about everything. When it’s over he’ll have treats for me. It’s like when the dentist gives me extra suckers for not crying, not even when it really hurts.

  I could have got my scorpion tattoo at The Body Hole, where my friends went. A perfectly groomed beautician would sit me in a black-leather dentist’s chair and the tattoo artist would show me the tiny diagram on tracing paper. We’d choose the exact spot on my neck where the scorpion would go, just below the hairline where the my hair comes to a point. Techno, maybe some funky remix of Abba, would blare through the speakers as he whirred the tattoo needle’s motor.

  But Ronny had done her own tattoo, casually standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a short needle and permanent blue ink from a pen. She simply poked the needle in and out, added the ink, and that was that. No fuss, no muss.

  So I asked her to do it for me. After all, I thought, if she could brand six marks of Satan on her own breast, she could certainly do my scorpion.

  Ronny led me into the kitchen and cleared off a chair. I twisted my hair up into a bun and held it in place. She showed me the needle, then dropped it into a pot of boiling water. She was wearing a crop top and I could see her navel ring, glowing bright gold in the slanting light of the setting sun. She was prone to lifting her shirt in front of complete strangers and telling them she’d pierced herself.

  Ronny emptied the water into the sink and lifted the needle in gloved hands. I bent my head and looked down at the floor as she traced the drawing on my skin.

  The needle was hot. It hurt more than I expected, a deep ache, a throbbing. I breathed through my mouth. I fought not to cry. I concentrated fiercely on not crying in front of her, and when she finished I lay very still.

  “See?” Ronny said. “Nothing to it, you big baby.”

  When I opened my eyes and raised my head, she held one small mirror to my face and another behind me so I could see her work. I frowned at my reflection. The scorpion looked like a smear.

  “It’ll look better when the swelling goes down,” she said, handing me the two mirrors.

  As Ronny went to start the kettle for tea, she looked out the window over the sink. “Star light, star bright, first star—”

  I glanced out the window. “That’s Venus.”

  “Like you’d know the difference.”

  I
didn’t want to argue. The skin on the back of my neck ached like it was sunburned.

  I am singing Janis Joplin songs, my arms wrapped around the karaoke machine. I fend people off with a stolen switchblade. No one can get near until some kid from school has the bright idea of giving me drinks until I pass out.

  Someone else videotapes me so my one night as a rock star is recorded forever. She tries to send it to America’s Funniest Home Videos, but they reject it as unsuitable for family viewing. I remember nothing else about that night after I got my first hit of acid. My real name is Adelaine, but the next day a girl from school sees me coming and yells, “Hey, look, it’s Karaoke!”

  The morning after my sixteenth birthday I woke up looking down into Jimmy Hill’s face. We were squashed together in the backseat of a car and I thought, God, I didn’t.

  I crawled around and found my shirt and then spent the next half hour vomiting beside the car. I vaguely remembered the night before, leaving the party with Jimmy. I remembered being afraid of bears.

  Jimmy stayed passed out in the backseat, naked except for his socks. We were somewhere up in the mountains, just off a logging road. The sky was misty and gray. As I stood up and stretched, the car headlights went out.

  Dead battery. That’s just fucking perfect, I thought.

  I checked the trunk and found an emergency kit. I got out one of those blankets that look like a large sheet of aluminum and wrapped it around myself. I searched the car until I found my jeans. I threw Jimmy’s shirt over him. His jeans were hanging off the car’s antenna. When I took them down, the antenna wouldn’t straighten up.

  I sat in the front seat. I had just slept with Jimmy Hill. Christ, he was practically a Boy Scout. I saw his picture in the local newspaper all the time, with these medals for swimming. Other than that, I never really noticed him. We went to different parties.

  About midmorning, the sun broke through the mist and streamed to the ground in fingers of light, just like in the movies when God is talking to someone. The sun hit my face and I closed my eyes.