On the t.v. Angela laughed at Tony's clever joke, hugged him, then drew back ashamed of her show of affection.
Rand watched the scene feeling none of the intended emotions. What kind of creature am I? he thought. To hurt her. To willingly give her pain.
He stubbed out his cigarette. With only two or three words he had sliced at the bonds between them and they had severed like muscle fibre. And for what? He thought. Male fucking pride. Was my cock big enough for ya Baby? Did I make you feel gooood? Was I the best? Did I make you coooomme?
But it wasn't just male pride. He had already known that she couldn't have an orgasm. Nature had played its little genetic joke on her, had made sex fun, but robbed it of that final pinnacle of pleasure. He had known she felt self conscious about it, so why did he say anything at all? Why?
Because he was just like his parents. The answer smashed over his thoughts with the force of a hammer. Whenever they had felt any kind of pain or misery, they had taken it out on whoever was closest. A sibling, a friend, their son. He was just like his fucking parents.
Dad's not really mad at you, Rand. He's just unhappy. That's why he yelled.
Yeah right, Mom, Rand thought, yeah fuckin' right.
And he saw it all now, laid out before him like a map: the same codes, the same reactions bred into him by his mom and dad. And these learned responses had made him hurt Kari.
Suddenly he was all rage. He grabbed his head, bent over and screamed. He kept screaming as he rolled off the couch and onto the floor. He pounded the floor.
When he was done, Rand leaned back against the couch. He felt like crying, but he was so empty that nothing would come.
On the t.v. the six o clock news was halfway through the night's first story. And, for a few moments, Rand forgot his woes as the announcer spoke.
"...a third body was found in an abandoned car North of Swift Current, the body of Sandra Waltby, a Saskatoon nurse." A picture of a young smiling woman with her hair in a bun came on the screen. "Police won't verify whether the bizarre murders are connected to events in Kinniwaw, but as of yet have no suspects."
Rand watched the report, fear spreading through his mind. There were few violent deaths in this area of of the province. Even Saskatoon had only six or seven murders a year. For the first time in his life, he felt part of it. The news of murder was actually close to home. He was used to hearing about how violent it was in the States, or Toronto or Vancouver, but not here. Saskatchewan. Kinniwaw.
He got up and switched to the other channels but they either had no report on the murders or had already played it. He got up, leaving the t.v. on, and walked into the kitchen to get something to drink. He ran the tap, pulled a glass from the cupboard. By the time he had finished drinking he had forgotten about the murders.
He had to talk to Kari. Tonight. He had driven by her parent's farm twice now, but hadn't the nerve to go in. Tonight he would. He had to. Or he would go insane.
Once he had made up his mind, he went to the closet, threw on a windbreaker and stepped outside. A few minutes later he was in his Mustang and heading down a gravel road out of Kinniwaw.
It took ten minutes to get to Kari's. He turned off the access road to her farm and stopped in front of their house. The house was an older one, two stories tall. Rand sat in the car for a moment, steeled himself, then opened the door. He walked up the short cement sidewalk and pressed the doorbell.
Sharon, Kari's mother, answered. She was a thin, healthy woman in her early fifties, her hair grey but still strained with black. Every time Rand had seen her, her eyes were warm, but this time they were cold. She looked down at Rand, her face guarded.
"Is Kari home?" Rand asked.
"I don't think you should—" she started.
"Let him in," Kari said. She was standing in the stairwell. Dressed in jeans and a grey shirt, her long hair in a pony tail.
Sharon stepped back into the house and Rand, hesitant, stepped in. Kari stared at him as he came through the door.
"How are you?" he asked.
Kari shrugged and looked away. "Come and sit at the table," she said. He walked into the dining room and sat in the proffered chair.
Kari's mother had disappeared into the living room. Rand could hear a t.v. set blaring in the background, a man snoring.
"Coffee?" Kari asked as Rand sat at the table. Rand nodded. It was a wooden table, varnished and bright, but scratched by knives and forks in the hands of four boys, Kari's older brothers, as they grew up. Rand looked through the picture window on a yard full of long late-afternoon shadows; shadows made by trees, an old swing, a tractor tire converted into a sand pit. Caragana trees made a wall around the yard.
Kari put a cup in front of Rand and the sharp smell of coffee entered his nostrils. Kari set her cup on the table and sat down. She sipped from the cup then set it down again. They said nothing for awhile and Rand stared out the window.
"So why are you here?" Kari asked, leveling her eyes at Rand.
"To apologize," he said.
Kari shrugged. "You already did that on the phone. Doesn't mean much."
Rand closed his eyes, her words sinking into him. He felt momentarily like leaving, just getting up and getting out of the house, forgetting everything. He dismissed this. This is it, he thought. "I just had to say it in person. To tell you. I've been a real ass, Kari." She nodded solemnly in agreement. He paused, measuring this, carried on. "I really shouldn't have said what I did. I can't even explain what got into me. I was having weird dreams, but I can't blame it on that. I don't know. I just...I don't know." He smiled sardonically. "I'm just mumbling, aren't I?" He got no response from Kari. "I just feel like I've screwed everything up. All I want is another chance."
Kari shook her head. "It just keeps getting worse, Rand. Whatever pain you're feeling, because your parents died, because your life isn't going the way you want, whatever's going wrong, you take it out on me. You love pain, Rand. The giving and the getting. Did you know that? You love pain."
Rand nodded. "I know," he said. "I know. I don't know what gets into me. But I'll change, Kari. We've hit the bottom, haven't we? There's no where to go but up."
Kari shrugged. "Or apart."
Rand swallowed. "That bad?"
Kari closed her eyes. "Let's just leave it in the air, O.K.? I need time to think. I have to sort things out."
"O.K.," Rand nodded. He sipped from his coffee, set the empty cup down. They tried to talk normally, to have a boring conversation, but it stalled and rang hollow. Finally Rand announced that he should go. He touched Kari's hand, rose from the table and walked out the door. When he drove by the picture window, he waved, but Kari, who was little more than a shadow through the window, never returned the wave.
10.
Wayne saw the town and knew it was his.
He was on a hill, a 1/4 of a mile off the highway, standing beside a green sign that said Kinniwaw. There was a wheat field to his left and to his right. Kinniwaw itself was spread out below him, an offering of dust and faded paint. Its windows reflected yellow afternoon light. It was his town. A place for him to work. A new symbol in his heart. Oh, God he loved it. With every fibre of his being, he loved it.
He felt tears in his eyes, the joy of finally coming home. He had trekked across America, following the blue highway, his god. Walking here, walking there, always searching. And his god had given him a gift, had brought him here. Home. To Kinniwaw.
It was cold here, colder than Missouri and the other states. But like heat, the cold cleansed Wayne. It gave him life, made him aware of his existence. When he shivered it meant he was flesh.
When Wayne looked back on his journey he saw only a quick blur. A heartbeat. He had come to this place on invisible wings, up long highways across the flat prairie, past hundreds of small towns. Closer and closer. So fast it was as if an invisible string was pulling him. He had gotten rides with people: two truckers, a farmer's son with hands worn from handling the earth, a nurse on her way
back to Saskatoon, a man who said he was a jogger, something Wayne had found funny, and had helped with his work. Yes, he had ridden with many people. His hand had twitched many times. He couldn't see any faces in his memory, but that didn't bother him. For what were faces but illusions, skin stretched over skulls? They had brought him here, servants to some other force.
A blue car drove by, its occupants staring at the newcomer. The stranger. Wayne stared back, smiling warmth at his people.
Wayne knew there was more to this town. The town existed on so many levels at once. There was, of course, the drab houses and the people and the streets. But there were so many more levels. Wayne felt he could somehow penetrate them, slice them, pull them back layer by layer and find the true potential of Kinniwaw and in turn, his own true potential.
And Wayne knew one more thing. The highway had brought him here, but he had also been led. He saw it as plain as day, another influence. The Other.
Because Wayne was an artist and artists always saw what was below the surface, saw what was really there.
And what was really there? He didn't know. He could see it, he could feel it, he would find out.
But now it was time to go into the town, to taste it, to look at it, to feel it. To make it his.
Wayne walked into town, feeling confident and strong. He felt beautiful, his short hair in spikes, his jeans tight around his buttocks. His eyes shining. The air he sucked through his nostrils was fresh and pure.
He walked by a garage, an old brick building with Johnson and Sons 1945 written on its front. There were cars and grain trucks parked outside the garage and more of the same in the grass lot across from it. The big white door was pulled up and inside Wayne could see a few men standing around a car, its hood open like a mouth. They stared at him as he walked past. One spit on the ground and said something to his companions. Even after he was by them, he could still feel their eyes on his back. It felt good. He was noticed.
For the first time in his life, Wayne felt as if he no longer had to keep a low profile. There was nothing to hide from anymore. This was home.
Wayne continued walking down the street, remaining on the pavement instead of the sidewalk. He passed by houses, small and sturdy, most grey or brown, unassuming colors. He was eating the town now with his mind, putting its images inside, devouring and digesting them.
He walked on, down main street. There was a hotel there. A yellow Kinniwaw Hotel sign swung in the wind. Three trucks and an old rusted brown and white station wagon were angle parked in front of the hotel. Next to the hotel was an abandoned building and next to that a Chinese restaurant. Across the street was a bank, a library, and a Co-op grocery store. There was another car parked in front of the store.
A man dressed in coveralls and working boots passed Wayne on the street, staring openly at him. Wayne nodded. When he walked by the restaurant, people looked up from their meals.
He walked down main street, turned after two blocks, went down another street. He was starting to realize exactly how small the town was. Its simplicity. Wayne understood the perfect beauty in simplicity, like the simple line a blade made on fresh skin. He kept walking, passing by a fenced-in park with an empty paddling pool, a see saw. There was a young girl on a swing, her feet dangling in the dust. She was dressed in jeans and a purple sweatshirt, her dark hair down to her shoulders. She had just stopped swinging and she was staring at him.
He changed direction, went off the pavement and walked towards her. He crossed the sidewalk, went through the gate into the park. She looked young when he first saw her, five or six years old, but as he got closer it became apparent that she was around ten.
He stopped a few feet away from her. She was still staring, her eyes measuring him. She rose from the swing and stood a step away from it, holding the swing's chain in her hand. She remained silent.
The image of her standing in that way burned into his mind and Wayne's confidence, huge as it was, faltered. He breathed in and it came back, but doubt of his power had grown in his heart. Why wasn't this little girl running from him? Didn't she know the killing god had come?
He looked down at her and saw no fear in her eyes. In fact she looked as if she recognized him, knew him more than he knew himself. And again Wayne felt that something deeper was unfolding here, beneath the three dimensional world he stood in. A sleeping power unlocking in him and in her.
A voice in his mind whispered caution. He breathed in and gathered his faces inside himself, chose one, a friendly one. "Who are you?" he asked, smiling sweetly.
"Tanya Oak," she answered, swallowing.
The name too meant something deeper than just syllables, but he couldn't grasp it. What was the deeper meaning? They stared at each other. In silence. She let go of the swing and it rocked back and forth. Its chains clinked softly.
"Why did you come?" she asked finally and he thought he heard a trace of fear in her voice.
"For the killing," he answered. And with those words his power grew, he felt it mantle about him. The fear, the ecstasy of what he was.
She shook her head like a grown woman at a child. "You won't find forgiveness here."
This confused Wayne and he retreated inside himself. His face, flesh putty that it was, left without any command, became blank. A whirlwind rose inside him that swallowed every thought, took him back through space, through time. He saw his mother's head sitting on the cupboard shelf, talking. Saw a burning rod touching flesh that was/was not his. He saw blood and he saw fingers and he saw arms. Severed. He blinked and the whirlwind vanished. A glow came to his eyes, a smile to his face. "I don't need forgiveness," he whispered.
He stepped once towards her, every motion perfect. Tanya stepped back and whatever had been inside her or she had held was gone. There was fear in her eyes now.
He lunged towards her, a feint. She turned, ran wildly away, her hair billowing behind her.
Wayne drew himself up and laughed lightly, taking great satisfaction in watching her run. She disappeared through a gate and behind a grey house. He stood alone in the park, laughing.
When he was finished laughing he went into the orange building at the north end of the park that functioned as a shower and a bathroom. He sat there for hours. The sun moved slowly across the sky. Finally an old man entered the bathroom. On his way to the bar, on his way home from the bar, to play shuffleboard with some other senior, Wayne didn't know.
"Hi," Wayne said and then he killed him, slowly. It took twenty minutes.
Wayne looked at him and thought, I'm home.
Then he walked out of the bathroom into the darkness, into his town. He felt a need to walk, to find the deeper meaning, so he headed northeast until the town was far behind him and the only thing he knew was the moon and the stars and an immense feeling of warmth in his soul.
11.
Tyler closed his eyes as he shed his gi. Practice had gone as before, his concentration was now a fleeting thing that appeared and disappeared like a will-o-the-wisp in his mind. There. Not there. Every time he missed a punch or forgot to breathe properly his anger grew. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, in the blood welling out into his brain, through his body.
Tonight he had given a woman a bloody nose. A fellow karateka, a brown belt, who was well aware of the dangers of karate. But a woman. He could see the blood on her face, staining her gi. He had struck a woman.
Tyler folded the top part of his gi. When the gi was off he felt naked, more naked than just physical nakedness. Here he was without defenses, he was raw and open to the world.
Tyler walked across the the empty change room, his feet hot against the cold floor. He liked the room this way, empty, quiet; everyone had long ago left the dojo. This was one of the reasons he practiced late. To be alone with his thoughts, with the hot ache of his muscles.
He stopped at the shower, turned it on. The water sputtered for a moment, threatened to halt altogether, then shot out across the stall. Tyler adjusted the water's temperatur
e to a pleasurable warmth, then stepped in. His shoulders sagged under the the water's heat. His stiff muscles warmed. The water coated him with a liquid shell and his blood was drawn towards it. The peaceful bliss of warmth settled over him.
He started to soap himself, slowly, rubbing the soap along his arms and chest, under his arms. He felt the old wounds, the places where he had pulled a muscle or bruised a rib. The body never forgets an injury. Tyler knew this as one of the first lessons of any sport. But tonight his body was retreating into amnesia. He felt soothed, new, regenerated. He bent over, found the shampoo bottle, squeezed some out, and began to lather his hair.
The shower hiccoughed and a blast of arctic-cold water smashed into his skin, knocking his heart a skitter. He jumped out of the way, swearing, then reached in, adjusted the hot tap, the cold tap. Nothing happened. Finally, his efforts fruitless, Tyler angrily hammered on the tin shower stall, denting it. He shoved his head under the cold spout and washed the rest of the shampoo away.
When he stepped out of the water he was cold. His hair was like ice on his neck, his sac was shriveled. He dried himself and dressed but the cold lingered on. He walked out of the dressing room.
Sensei Roberts was there, sitting on a chair outside the change room. His face was unreadable. He rose from the chair. His eyes never left Tyler's.
And Tyler knew Roberts had heard him hammering on the stall, losing his temper.
"I think it would be better, Tyler," he said, evenly, "if you spent some time away from the dojo. To get your thoughts straight, to find an answer to your problems."
Tyler breathed in, nodded.
"If you want to talk Tyler, you know my number." Tyler nodded once again, then walked past Sensei Roberts. He was still cold from the shower. He climbed the stairs and closed the door to the dojo. A September wind, whispering of winter, blew his partially-dried hair.
Damage Page 12
