Damage

by Shea, Stephen

  The dragon was his spirit. The dragon was karate, was the Dojo Kune. He had to become like that dragon, for it felt no pain and acknowledged no sorrow.

  But had the dragon ever had a father? he wondered angrily. More self pity. He breathed in and tensed his stomach. Things would work out. He would make things work out.

  When he got back to his apartment, his phone was ringing.

  7.

  The bottle in Conn's hand felt cool and comforting. He was leaning back in his wooden chair, his feet spread out in front of him, staring at a crack in the wall of his hotel room in Kinniwaw, examining his existence.

  Connel Arkwright's life had been far from normal. He was born in Winnipeg and his first three and a half years were spent in a small house with his biological mother and father. It was a time he remembered nothing of except for a dim image of his mother smiling. There were lights behind her and her hands were reaching towards him. Reaching like Mary towards Jesus. He knew his mother had been very beautiful.

  When he turned three, Conn was removed from the little house, cigarette burns still fresh on his back. He was turned over to a family in western Alberta that lived near Drumheller. Steven and Sylvia Stafford and their two sons and two daughters. They loved Conn and he was happy there. Sometimes he would have nightmares, but Sylvia would sing "Hush little baby" and he would fall into a calm sleep.

  The Staffords were poor and Sylvia divided her time between helping Steven farm and keeping the household. One morning, two years and two weeks to the day after Conn had arrived, Sylvia went out to do some baling. She never came home to fix dinner, nor did she come home for supper. When Steven found her, a little after 7 p.m., she was trapped under the tractor, her pelvis crushed, her spine broken. She had parked on a slight incline and got out to fix the PTO. The tractor had slipped out of gear. She was left paralyzed.

  Steven couldn't handle all the children himself and with regret and warm wishes they had let Conn go. He could get a better life from another family. He was moved to his second last family, the Stogens who lived at Maple Creek in a big grey house. It was with them that Conn spent the next eight years of his life. Mr. Stogen was a small man who worked on the Maple Creek News. He spent very little time at home. Mrs. Stogen was a juggernaut of a woman, huge in both body and presence. She filled a room with her beliefs and any who crossed her were caught in a cold stare that set any sinner quivering.

  And there were a lot of sinners in Maple Creek. There were the tourists on their way to the park. The teenagers in their cars, at their dances. The neighbors whose dog and daughter ran around loose. And of course there was Conn, hyperactive Conn. Conn, with his dark skin, eyes, and hair was the biggest sinner of all. But Mrs. Stogen was strong and she could set him straight, could bring him to the path. Because Satan was in his flesh and it only took perseverance to get Satan to leave. Perseverance and a hair brush and the Chair.

  She pulled it out when Conn needed it. The leather straps fit nicely around his legs and arms. On the Chair she would teach him his lesson then push him back into the closet where he would wait in the dark for supper. Sometimes supper would come, sometimes not.

  Conn's years with the Stogen's were a grey dim haze. He spent most of his time invisible. The little boy in the Chair, slowly growing, leaving parts of himself somewhere else. Parts that could never be found and that he soon stopped looking for.

  But one day the social worker dropped in without warning and saw Conn in the Chair. That same day he left. He was fourteen then and the straps had become quite worn.

  A few weeks later Conn was left with the Curtis family who lived on a farm outside of Kinniwaw. It was not a perfect home and they did not have love for him, but they had warmth and, for the empty reservoir that was Conn, that was enough. He worked hard for them, hauling bales across fields, shoveling grain into old red bins. Yes, he worked hard. He went to school. He played football, made friends. And in time he felt like he was waking up, coming alive. He graduated with two guys whom he called friends and for the first time he felt the warmth of that word.

  After graduation he cut his ties with the Curtis family and went to find his own life, his own place. He spent the years drifting to Saskatoon, to Calgary. It was tough times, jobs were few. He worked as a dishwasher. He stole, sold drugs or his own body, whatever the situation warranted. Finally, he drifted to Winnipeg.

  He spent a dark time there, a vague time that swirled chaotic in his memory. He had made a friend there and he had watched that friend die.

  And now he was back in a hotel room in Kinniwaw. Why, he did not know. To see old friends that were really only ghosts. To look for the pieces of himself that were forever gone. But like Galahad to the grail he was drawn back to Kinniwaw. Even if the grail was poisoned, the dream a stunted reality that hung like a tattered flag on a windless day. He was back.

  Conn brought the bottle to his lips and drank lazily. It would be nice to find what he was looking for.

  8.

  They weren't supposed to build a campfire, the surrounding forest was too dry, but the three friends did anyway. The heat was pressing against Rand and he felt the urge to take off his jean jacket. He sipped from his beer, leaned the can against the log he was sitting on and undid the last buttons of his jacket.

  "Getting too hot for you?" Conn asked.

  "Just a little."

  "Then why don't we throw another log on the fire?" Conn, smiling, tossed a small log into the middle of the blaze. Red sparks shot up into the air.

  "You always were a pain," Rand said, shaking his head. Conn just laughed. Rand looked over and saw that Tyler was staring at the flames, flicking a twig between his fingers.

  "How's work?" Rand asked.

  Tyler shrugged and tossed the twig into the fire. "Same as always," he answered, not looking at Rand.

  "Has it been busy?"

  Another shrug. "Busy enough."

  Silence settled over them and Rand traced over the events of the evening. They had met in Kinniwaw at Rand's place. They packed Rand's tent in Tyler's Camero, threw in a cooler with a few hot dogs and beer and drove out to the park. As soon as they found a good place they set up camp and built the fire. All that time they had talked sporadically and the spaces had been filled up by either the music in the car or by their task of setting up camp. But now, with supper finished and the night around them, every silence was amplified.

  Rand stared out into the darkness. Twisted shadows, the fire's offspring, waved back and forth across the pine trees. Thick smoke wafted towards Rand. He blinked and rubbed his eyes but the smoke seemed to carry on through his sockets and into his brain, clouding his thoughts.

  He blinked again then squinted his eyes. What's that? Something had moved in the trees, from shadow to shadow. He stared but the smoke swirled into his eyes again and he was forced to blink repeatedly. When his vision cleared there was nothing there but trees and shadows.

  Then he saw a face. Someone was watching them. He could see a thin familiar figure standing amidst the trees, a short distance behind Conn. Rand breathed in and leaned ahead. The man stared back. Rand was about to say something to Conn and Tyler, when the fire's light shifted and he realized he was only staring at a tree, eerily shaded in the moonlight.

  Relieved, but still unsettled, Rand looked back at the fire. Out of the corner of his eye, Rand saw the self-absorbed stare of Tyler. Is he fighting with his father again? Probably, they had been going at it as long as Rand could remember.

  God, why can't we talk to each other anymore? he wondered.

  And yet he knew no matter what shift had occurred between them they were still his friends. Old time pals. High school buddies. And nothing, not time, not girlfriends, not distance could change that. These were the guys he had played football beside, the guys he had downed his first beers with.

  There had to be something they could talk about.

  "How's Tanya been?" Rand asked Tyler.

  A log in the fire cracked and red sp
arks flew out into the air. Tiny comets. Dying stars.

  "Good," Tyler answered. "She's getting bigger every day." Rand saw pride in his eyes, but then they closed as if Tanya's name had opened a wound. They were silent again, each staring at separate points.

  Rand swallowed. "How about you and your dad? How's everything with him?"

  "It's working out."

  "No problems?" Rand looked up.

  "None worth talking about," Tyler answered. "I'm going there for sunday dinner."

  "Oh, I loooove you're mom's cookin'," Conn said. "You should move back home and have it all the time."

  "I've got enough cash to look after myself," Tyler said.

  "Money does buy happiness," Conn said. "Here's living proof." He lightly punched Rand's shoulder.

  Rand fell silent. He had too much money now.

  Too bad you couldn't give it back and get the people it paid for. Yeah, too bad the world's a nasty place eh, Rand? Poor little Rand who doesn't know his friends anymore and whose parents took a trip to never never land. Poor little Rand living a poor little life.

  But they're dead.

  Yeah, they're dead. Shit happens. But that's not the clincher though, is it? Because you watched your parents die, Rand. You can't forget that can you? You saw them die before—

  "You okay?" Conn asked, his face warped by the firelight.

  "Yeah, why?"

  "You just got a weird look on your face. I thought either you were going to pass gas or die. And I wasn't sure which one to hope for."

  They laughed then, all three of them. And that laughter was like a cork off a bottle. They began to talk about football games they had played in together, remembering passes and receptions. Tyler was the quarterback. Conn and Rand were both receivers. There had been E.S.P between them.

  Soon Rand's face was sore with smiling. How long had it been since he'd smiled this much? The last seven months had really given him little to smile about.

  "What do we become in the end?" Conn asked suddenly, waking Rand from his reverie. "I mean what does it mean?"

  "What does what mean?" Tyler asked.

  Conn's voice was almost desperate. "All the time we spend together, all the things we do. What becomes of it in the end? It has to mean something doesn't it?"

  Rand searched for something to say. He thought he understood what Conn meant and he believed he had an answer, but he couldn't shape words around it. The feeling, the intuitive answer, whatever it was, lay buried somewhere among the folds of his thoughts.

  "Does it really matter?" Tyler said finally.

  Conn shrugged. "I guess not."

  They were silent again and Rand felt the instant need to fill the void. "Are you looking for work, Conn?" he asked.

  Conn's dark eyes narrowed a little then he smiled. "Nose is flat from having too many doors slammed in my face."

  "Is it that bad?" Rand asked.

  "Yes."

  "It's only as bad as you make it," Tyler said.

  Conn stared coldly at Tyler. "Oh, that's right, I forgot. Silly me, I forgot. Take a look through my eyes sometime."

  Tyler's face hardened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "What it means, Tyler, and your white little brain might not understand this, is that the color of my skin makes my life just a bit different than yours."

  "You really yap on about this prejudice shit, you know that?" Tyler stared at Conn.

  "This shit, as you put it..." Conn started, then suddenly his face went blank and he was silent. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "Let's just talk about something else, okay?"

  Tyler nodded. "It's a deal," he said and he handed Conn a beer. It was a long time before anyone spoke.

  Later that night, when the three of them were asleep in the tent, Rand had a strange dream. At first he was in that middle station between waking and sleeping. He thought he heard someone moving around and the tent opening and footsteps leading away. The noises, if they were real, blended with his dream.

  In the dream, Rand rose from his sleep and saw that Conn was not in his sleeping bag. He tried to wake Tyler, but Tyler would not stir. Finally, Rand got out of his sleeping bag, opened the tent flap, and went out into the night. Footprints glimmered bright as fairy dust on the ground. He followed them across the clearing and into the forest. Everything was shadowy and bent as if a hand was pressing down on the top of the trees. Rand followed the trail and slowly became aware that he was dreaming. Normally at this point in his dreams he would wake up; instead the knowledge held him trapped within its world. He noticed that everything was black and white, like an ink drawing. He ducked under a tree and branches scratched him like cat's claws. Everything was becoming more real.

  The footprints became brighter and he knew he was close to whoever had made them. He thought he heard sounds ahead, but when he stopped and listened there was only silence. He walked further, stopped again, and this time he heard a low moaning. He followed the footprints across a creek and up an incline. The moaning deepened and grew louder. His heart quickened and he wanted to stop and go back, to wake up, but he found that his feet went from glowing footprint to footprint of their own accord.

  Rand stopped suddenly at the top of the hill, at a clearing. The moaning was silent, there were leaves obscuring his view. Breathing in, he peeked through a hole in the foliage.

  Conn was crouched on a stone, naked, his hair wild about his shoulders. His muscles rippled like snakes underneath his skin. He was drooling, his breath loud and heavy. Steam rose from slick moonlit skin.

  Beneath him, piled helter-skelter, were bones and skulls of all shapes and sizes, some as large as dinosaur bones, others as small as a cat's. It was a mass graveyard. A place of unhappiness.

  Rand wanted to step back, to run, but his feet wouldn't move. He stared.

  Conn arched his back and the noise that came out of his mouth—a wail of mourning, the cry of the betrayed—cut through the air. He turned towards Rand and screamed again, his head thrown back. His chest was bleeding from four wounds.

  The sky rumbled anger. Bolts of lightning shot downward.

  Conn spread his hands and howled violently as each bolt shot through his palms and he was crucified, jittering, where he stood. The lightning stopped.

  Conn stared at his smoking hands, then his head snapped up and he looked directly at Rand, his eyes glowing yellow. Rand pulled back his head, his heartbeat quickened. Oh, God, he thought, Oh, God! He steeled himself and looked back through the hole in the foliage.

  Conn's face was right there. His arm shot through the leaves and he grabbed Rand's shoulder.

  At once Rand shot awake, eyes wide open. His shoulder still felt the painful imprint from that dream hand.

  He thought he heard the sounds of someone walking around their camp. But the noises stopped and he dismissed them as nothing and went back to sleep.

  He forgot this dream, though it darkened the coming day. In the morning, when they were heading home, Rand felt a cold chill when he noticed burn marks on Conn's hands.

  "How'd you do that?" he asked.

  "I can't remember," Conn answered. He blinked like a man hypnotized. "I must have picked up a log that was still burning."

  "Oh," Rand said. He turned away from Conn and stared out the window, but, as if he had been staring at something bright, he couldn't erase the image of Conn's hands from his eyes.

  9.

  Conn was standing at the sink in his room on the third floor of the Kinniwaw hotel, bathing his hands under a stream of cold water. There was an ache in the flesh of his palms that hovered between an itch and a burning sensation.

  Conn couldn't remember how he'd burnt his hands. All he had to go on was a foggy image of lightning striking his palms and him standing on a mound of bones. But that didn't make any sense. It had to be an image from some nightmare that had imprinted itself on his memory. He must have picked up a burning log. Isn't that what he told Rand? It had to be true.

  The pipes rattled as if so
me animal were inside them, trying to get out. The rattling stopped and the spout spat out a stream of rust-colored water. Conn turned off the tap then wiped his hands in a towel. It took him a moment to realize that the ache had faded.

  He dropped the towel, turned his hands upward. What do I got? Leprosy?

  Except for the occasional flakes of skin, his palms were pink and raw. Surprisingly enough, they weren't bleeding. Conn, still mesmerized by his hands, made his way to a wooden chair and sat down. He stared like a palm reader. Lines had been burnt in his flesh by whatever he had grabbed. Or had he grabbed anything? Had he caught something?

  Again came the image of lightning. Of bones. Of a man standing in the shadows.

  His hands pulsed as his heart pumped blood through his veins. Soon the ache returned, except stronger. The throbbing crept into his arms, his shoulders, his head. With every movement of his carotid artery his body throbbed.

  What's going on? Conn wondered. It was as if he were coming down kamikaze-fast off some incredible high. He started to shiver and the movement reminded him of being on the streets of Winnipeg and he didn't want to think of that.

  Because that reminded him of the dead.

  And what good were the dead? What good was thinking of the dead? Or even the living for that matter.

  He rose slowly from the chair. Gravity had tied tiny strings to his brain so that the further he got from the floor the harder they pulled him down. He felt like vomiting but knew he had nothing in his stomach.

  Conn staggered across the floor to his bed and lay down. His hands still pulsed and his heart had become a huge machine in his chest. He was afraid it would pump his veins so full of blood they would stretch out against his skin and burst. He had a sudden image of his body exploding and his bed covered in red gore.

  He closed his eyes, leaned back into the pillow. Slumber swallowed his thoughts.

  He moaned as he dreamed.

  In his sleep he rolled stones.