Subject to Change

by Karen Nesbitt

  “It looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “I can’t believe he would do that.”

  “So you think I vandalized the golf course?”

  “Well, where were you?”

  “I told you. Why don’t you ask Seamus where he was? Oh, wait—don’t you think it’s funny that he hasn’t turned up anywhere for two days? He should have at least been snooping around for money by now, except (a) he’s guilty, and (b) he has money—my money.” My voice echoes in the concrete room. I’m almost yelling.

  Silence on the other end.

  I feel bad for flipping out. But I’m tired of standing back and feeling powerless. And look where it’s gotten me. “He’s been pulling shit like this for years. He just never gets caught.” I think of him driving around drunk with Robbie the Moron. “At least he hasn’t killed anyone yet.”

  “Oh, Declan, don’t say—”

  “Whatever. He doesn’t care about anyone, Mom. He took my wallet. And whatever he did at the golf course, the police think I did it.”

  “It’s just—”

  I’m mad now. “What? It’s just what? What about me? You’re worried about him? Him? Why are we even talking about him? You know what I think? I think you stayed at home so if he shows up you can warn him that I gave his name to the cops. I’m the one sitting at the fucking police station! Doesn’t it bother you that I’m the little brother? Taking the fall for him?”

  “Declan, stop! I’ve had to worry about Seamus since the day he was born. Not you! I’m sorry. I can’t stop being afraid—”

  “Of what?”

  She pauses before she says, “He’s so unpredictable. He takes risks.”

  “He’s hurting people, and you’re protecting him!”

  “I know. Maybe because I think it’s our fault.”

  I’m starting to get the picture. I can tell by the way she says our that it’s not what she really means. “Say what you mean, Mom. You think it’s Dad’s fault.”

  “Well, he needed a father.”

  “Yeah, Ma. We all did.” I close my eyes, and I swear I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. I’m spinning far away from here. Away from Mom, the phone, this locked room, my stupid brother.

  The sound of clicking on the keypad outside the door pulls me back. This time the other officer who arrested me lets himself in. He sets a mug of creamy coffee down on the table and motions for me to go back to my call. He’ll wait.

  “The officer is here. I better go. Can you come get me later?”

  “Declan, I don’t have the car. I won’t until Kate and Ryan drop it off on the way to the daycare.”

  “Can’t you call them? Maybe they can bring it now, and you can drive them back.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get you home.”

  We’ll get you home? Don’t worry? They damn well better come and get me. What is wrong with my stupid family? Is it that difficult to figure out what to do? I shake my head because I can’t think about this right now. The officer is looking at me from across the table, letting me know there’s no rush. But I have nothing more to say. I sigh.

  “Remember what I said. Don’t get—”

  I interrupt her. “Mom, I gotta go.” She says bye, and the phone is dead in my hand.

  I hand it to the officer, and he slides the pad of paper and pen toward me. The paper has the SQ logo on it behind the lines you write on. It looks very official.

  Nineteen

  They remind me that I can’t write my statement until the youth justice guy is with me.

  While I’m waiting, they let me walk around the police station and talk with some of the guys. I never knew cops did so much paperwork. Logs for the cars, logs for responding to calls, logging in and out, requisitions for everything. They even write down when I go to the bathroom, and someone has to stand outside the door. What do they think I’m going to do? Drown myself in the toilet? They’re more concerned about me than my own mother is.

  When the guy we’ve been waiting for finally arrives, he looks pretty sleepy. His name is Andrew. He apologizes for making me wait for four hours. I’m his second case of the night. I tell him the same thing I told everyone else. He asks me if I’ve been treated fairly by Officers Lefebvre and Reid (at least I finally know the French guy’s name). I say I can’t complain. I wish I could say the same about my mom.

  He explains a lot of things to me, like what will happen if I refuse to sign the consent form so the cops can take my fingerprints. He says if there’s enough evidence, the police will probably charge me and go ahead and take them anyway. I figure since they found my ID at the golf course, they already have enough evidence. So I sign.

  Then I write my statement in front of Andrew. It’s not such a big deal. It’s kind of like English class. I just write down the things I told Reid and Lefebvre in the living room. I sign it too, and he says, “We’re done!” He shakes my hand and gives me a Quebec Youth Justice brochure and his business card, then leaves for his third case of the night. No one ever gave me a business card before. I put it in my pocket.

  When Lefebvre comes to get my statement, he brings me a sandwich and a drink from Tim Hortons. He even offers me a donut from a box the cops are sharing. They’re way nicer than I thought they’d be.

  I kill time reading the Youth Justice brochure, but I can’t concentrate on it. Finally, Reid comes back to show me the pictures. First he sets two pictures in front of me: the overturned golf cart inside some kind of shed, and the flat, snow-covered golf green, both from a distance. I shrug. Neither of the pictures mean anything to me.

  Next, he shows me close-ups of black ruts cut deep into the green, like the ruts a car makes when it gets stuck and you spin the tires trying to get out. Only you can tell these were done on purpose, because there’s lots of them at different angles. I think of the whitewall tires that sprayed me when Seamus and Robbie sped away from the rink.

  I murmur, “I’m guessing a blue Ford Taurus,” and he asks me what I mean. He writes down everything I tell him about Robbie’s car. I say Robbie goes to my school but I don’t know his last name, and this makes me feel slightly less like a snitch.

  Finally, he shows me the last two pictures, the worst ones. The first is of the overturned golf cart from a different angle, with something on the ground beside it. In the second shot the camera has zoomed in to show the object more clearly. It’s round and black.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  He looks closely at the picture. “It’s the gas cap from the cart. We think the cart was tipped over to empty the gas. Maybe someone was thinking of lighting it on fire but changed their mind. That’s gasoline there.” He points to a stain seeping out from under the cart onto the cement floor of the shed. My sandwich wants to come back up. Seamus may as well have left his signature. I keep this to myself.

  They take my fingerprints with a machine like the thing you put your bank card in at the grocery store. The guy presses each one of my fingers on a screen pad. It scans them and beeps. That’s it. I was afraid I’d have to go to school with ink on my fingers. How would I explain that? Apparently, the scanner is connected to a national database, and my fingerprints can even be shared with the FBI! I feel weird knowing my fingerprints are out there with real criminals’.

  Reid and Lefebvre check in with me before they leave at the end of their shift, ask me if I need anything. Surprisingly decent guys. Lefebvre also hands me his card in case I hear from Seamus. He says they just want to ask him some questions, but I think that’s cop code for arrest and charge.

  I sleep for a while with my head on the table in the interview room. They ask me if I want to lie on the sofa in the waiting area, but I say no. I think you have to be plastered to sleep in the middle of everything, like the guy with the plaid hat. I’d rather sleep in private.

  A bit later an officer comes in to tell me I’m being released and that they’ve called my mom. He gives me
back my jacket, and my keys and smokes and, of course, my pencil stub. I feel light all of a sudden. It’s 6:10 AM. I’ve been here for nine and a half hours! I sit in the waiting room, hoping someone will show up soon to get me, but it feels like I’ve been waiting for hours. If Mom’s coming, she won’t get here till after Kate brings the car back, unless she decided to call them after all. The guy with the plaid hat is gone. Sunlight is starting to come through the front entrance. I feel so groggy. I can’t wait to get home to my bed. Screw school. Screw everybody else.

  I’m looking out the door at the street outside, sort of dozing, and I see someone in a black cap coming up the walk. As he gets closer, I make out a ponytail over his shoulder. He’s tall and thin. A bushy mustache grows almost under his chin on either side. One bare hand clutches a bunch of papers. With the other he flicks a cigarette onto the freshly shoveled cement, grinds the butt with his boot and kicks it into the snow. I watch as he shuffles through papers with the officer at the window. “Birth certificate, custody papers. It’s all there.”

  Fuck. It’s Dad.

  Soins de jardin et déneigement Quatre Saisons. Underneath, in smaller letters: Four Seasons Landscaping and Snow Removal.

  That’s what it says on the side of Dad’s truck.

  He unlocks the passenger door and walks around to the driver’s side. There are two steel shovels, a broom, an ice pick and bags of sand and salt in the back. It’s a Chevy Silverado 3500HD, extended cab, four-wheel drive. With a snow plow on the front and a yellow light on top. It’s black. It’s a gleaming monster. It’s awesome.

  Fuck.

  Papers and a big yellow-and-black remote are on the passenger seat. Through the window I watch him pick everything up in his gigantic hands and put it in the back. He rolls down the passenger window. “Hop in.”

  “Can I have a smoke first?”

  His eyebrows squinch together over his nose, and he looks like he’s going to say something about me smoking, but he clamps his lips shut and nods. “Sure. Sure, buddy. Take your time. Mind if I join ya?”

  Buddy?

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He gets out and heads around the back of the truck toward me. I turn around and lean on the door. He moves in close, so close I can smell his aftershave, deodorant, whatever, and offers me the flame from his lighter, but I light my own cigarette, watching my hand shake. He steps away, puts his lighter back in his pocket, and the ball of fear in my stomach melts a bit.

  A few snowflakes fall around us, lightly, quietly. “This is my favorite time of day.” He sweeps his arm in the direction of the same snow-covered mountains I could see across the lake from Leah’s living room.

  Yeah, well, I like this time of day too. I’m just not in the mood to talk about the scenery.

  We smoke in silence for a few minutes. The sun’s creeping up the sky. Mom should be making coffee about now. I flick my butt into a snowbank. “I’d like to go home.”

  “All right.”

  I take a deep breath and get in. The truck’s been running, and it’s warm inside. He shifts into reverse, and we leave the police station behind. I lean my head against the window and watch the snow along the road and the paved shoulder whizz by like a white-and-black-striped ribbon. It’s hypnotic. I’m dead tired.

  “So did they treat you okay? Any problems?”

  I’m not doing small talk.

  “Declan.”

  I turn my head slightly, let the sound of his deep, gravelly voice saying my name roll around in my head. Familiar, but it rattles my insides.

  “What happened at the golf course?”

  I scrunch up my face. “How am I supposed to know? I wasn’t there!”

  “You don’t have to be defensive. I’m sor—”

  “Fuck you! You’re right I don’t have to be defensive! Why would I bother being defensive with you? I don’t give a crap what you think. You don’t know dick!”

  “Okay. Calm down. I’m just trying to help.”

  “Oh! Oh, I forgot! Oh my god! Thank you SO MUCH for picking me up. What was I thinking? It’s only been, what? Five fucking years! Wow! I really appreciate it. Oh, by the way, why the hell are you here? Who the hell are you anyway? You’re pretty good at keeping that a secret, aren’t you?”

  I’m a little bit surprised at myself. He did manage to do more than Mom. But right now all I see is my asshole father who abandoned us so he could hook up with some dude.

  He doesn’t say anything. He looks straight ahead, pulls the truck over and throws it into Park, right on the side of the highway. We lurch forward, then settle and stare out the front window for a few seconds. His hands on the steering wheel are calloused, and the cracks and crevices are black. Workman’s hands. I curl mine into fists. What now?

  “I asked your mom to let me come, take you home. I wanted to do something to help.”

  “What? Why the fuck? You didn’t think you’re the last person I want to see now?” I’m straining forward, yelling, and I can feel my eyes stretched open, wild.

  He undoes both our seat belts, takes a loud, deep breath and exhales through his nose. “You mad? Okay, yell then. Hit me. You wanna hit me? Go ahead. I can take it. You’re right. I probably deserve it. Go for it. We’re going to have to get past this, ’cause I’m not going away this time.”

  I’m stunned. Frozen. Not going away this time? What does he mean, not going away? “You chose what you wanted, and it wasn’t us!”

  He’s shaking his head, his eyes serious, searching my face. “No! That’s not what happened. I never wanted that. I thought you guys needed me gone…to deal with…it. But I—”

  “Oh, so it’s our fault?”

  His mouth is still open.

  “Right, you protected us! Ha! You fuckin’ ditched, man.” There’s a lump in my throat. It makes my voice crack, and hot tears are starting to blur the gauges and controls on the dashboard. I try to blink them away.

  “Declan, no one wanted—”

  “Fuck you. Stop saying my name, okay? Just stop!”

  “No. And stop swearing at me.”

  “You’re gonna tell me what to do? The hell you are!” I feel like there’s a volcano inside me.

  “I’m your father—”

  I can’t take it anymore. I yell, “Nooo!” and lunge at him over the console, laying into him with both fists, my fingernails, my elbows, my own head, anything I can use to hurt him. Snarling, growling, screaming. His head bangs against the driver-side window, and his hat goes flying. But he’s huge, like a wall. Thuck, thuck. My fists make little sounds against his chest. It’s not enough—I want more! Harder! I want to hurt him, smash him, like I’ve wanted to forever. For leaving, for being gay, for not being my dad, for being my dad, for every time I’ve hated him and missed him and wanted him when he wasn’t there! I want to hurt, I want to hit, I want…

  He grabs my wrists a couple of times, but I squirm away. I bang my knee on the gearshift; some knob from the dash rolls onto the floor. The leather upholstery is slippery, and I keep sliding back onto my seat. I can’t get my boot against anything to push, to hold me in place, but I keep trying. Over and over, I get close enough to smell him, to feel the heat of his body. His jacket twists through my fingers. My dad…my dad…the sound of his voice…Declan. He’s not making any sound, just breathing hard, fast, through his nose. Wait, that’s me, panting, wheezing, crying…no more sound coming… my voice is gone. But I go back again and again, until I wear myself out…slip back into my seat…dead heavy.

  I can’t anymore.

  I’m done.

  I’m heaving, sobbing, and I don’t want to fucking bawl, but I can’t help it.

  I push myself away from him and face the window. Whimper through snot and tears and spit, my head on the cool glass. It’s almost completely light out. I find the window button and open it a crack. Air. I hear cars coming down the road, closer together now. People headin
g for work on the island. Whoosh…whoosh…

  I wipe my face on the sleeve of my jacket, and there’s blood. I taste blood on my bottom lip, which is hot and swollen. I must have bashed it on something. What? Who gives a fuck. Just breathe…

  “Jesus, Declan.” He’s shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Damn.” He bangs the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, man.”

  I’ve stopped gasping.

  “Look at me,” he says.

  I roll my head back and forth with my temple still resting on the icy window. No.

  “Okay. But I’m gonna talk.”

  Asshole.

  “I know you’re angry. I understand that. Seems like you bottled it all up inside. And I deserve it.” He pauses. “Okay. I’ve thought about this so many times, about talking to you. Now I don’t know what say. Just the fact that you’re in my truck…can’t hardly believe it.”

  I wait for him to continue. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Making little puffs of steam on the glass.

  “Your sister keeps telling me, Go ahead—call. But I wasn’t sure. I should’ve called. It woulda been better than surprising you at Kate’s. I was afraid I’d lost my chance. So when your mom called last night…I hope we don’t have to wait another five years, Declan.”

  He stops and waits for me to say something. It’s so weird to hear him say my name. It makes me feel like I did when I was little, either waiting for something good, like Christmas, or catching shit. I don’t know if I want to laugh or run. Little rivers of melted ice run down the window past my eyeball. They collect on the rubber seal at the bottom, overflow and dribble in the direction of the wind. Like tears.

  He gets tired of waiting for me to talk. “Anyway, I really dropped the ball with our custody arrangements, my weekends and—”

  “Custody?” That’s the second time he’s mentioned it. First at the cop shop and now here. Of course. Other kids with divorced parents spend time going back and forth between them. I thought we didn’t have to because he’s gay or something, but now I realize that’s stupid. I guess we were supposed to.