Also by Nicole Lundrigan
The Widow Tree
Glass Boys
The Seary Line
Thaw
Unraveling Arva
NICOLE LUNDRIGAN
Copyright © 2017 Nicole Lundrigan
Published in Canada in 2017 and the USA in 2017 by House of Anansi Press Inc.
www.houseofanansi.com
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Lundrigan, Nicole, author
The substitute / Nicole Lundrigan.
ISBN 978-1-4870-0235-0 (paperback). —ISBN 978-1-4870-0236-7 (epub)
—ISBN 978-1-4870-0237-4 (mobi)
I. Title.
PS8573.U5436S93 2017 C813’.6 C2016-906677-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016962172
Book design: Alysia Shewchuk
Cover images: Building and trees © Alexandre Cappellari / Arcangel Images; physics diagrams © Inga Nielsen / Dreamstime.com
We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
For my three
Sophia
Isabella
Robert
“I sometimes think that I enjoy suffering.
But the truth is I would prefer something else.”
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
[1]
Though I am not afflicted by it, I wonder about guilt. When I was a child, I would crouch on the cement floor of our basement, building elaborate contraptions, and thinking, Which piece of this system is culpable? Sometimes a slender knife would fly forward and mar the wallpaper, or a needle would lift and destroy a balloon. Once I even built a system where the sharpened legs of scissors closed on photographs of my father. Straight through his skinny neck. As the grainy image of his face drifted left, and his suited body drifted right, I questioned what part of my machine was responsible for that destruction. The systems were nomore than a mess of inanimate objects: croquet balls, yardsticks, greasy springs, plastic bowls, and bent spoons. If each one followed the simple rules of cause and effect, could the steel bearing be accused if it never came in contact with the flying paint? Would the rubber band be guilty when it had no choice but to stretch and snap? I imagined the liability lay somewhere within them all. Guilt trapped inside the weighty potential of the machine. Never in the tip of my finger. Never in the bend of my wrist. Never cupped in the palm of my hand.
I started this hobby for Button. Not only was she my little sister, she belonged to me, and I took full responsibility for ownership. I had thought the contraptions would engage her creativity and help develop her mind. Whenever I was building, she was hovering nearby. A happy constant. I admit I did not mind the attention. As each machine was nearing completion, she would whimper, waiting to ignite the chain of events. Generally, I allowed her this privilege, and while she was certainly amused by the whirr of movement, that was not my primary goal. I thought it was important for her to recognize her contributions, her abilities. For her to understand that she, too, had the capacity to set things in motion.
But I was wrong. Dropping a stone in a bucket or rolling a ball down a tunnel made no difference to the outcome — of the system I had constructed, or my sister’s life. I acknowledge, though, that watching her die certainly had an impact on mine. I learned an integral lesson. Never again would I hide my face and hesitate. Or allow things to spiral out of my control.
When a current situation took a particular turn, my first thought was of my failure with Button. This time would be different. I was determined to handle the issue quickly and efficiently. Though a blade or flat rock would have eliminated the problem, I decided to honour my sister’s memory and build a contraption.
Day after day, I worked on a plan, but nothing suited me. My annoyance grew, and I found it increasingly difficult to temper my rage. And then, captured within the bonus question of a simple classroom science quiz, I found my inspiration. I sketched my scenes on white paper with red ink, and kept them hidden in a clever place.
As I organized everything, I could practically feel Button vibrating in the air around me, excited about this new game. I knew she would be with me. Of course she was. I knew she would understand I was doing what needed to be done. That this time, I was not going to stumble. A friend once said to me, “The only point to a mistake is if you don’t repeat it.” I heard him, and I also listened.
Preparations in the backyard were simple. My design was uncomplicated, and I saw no point in trying to be inventive. I completed everything within a two-hour window. First I shimmied up a tree, and with my back against the trunk, I managed to screw a large pulley deep into the flesh of the thickest branch. A little further out, a hefty O-ring. Back on the ground, I glanced up at the hardware. Nearly invisible among the dying leaves and autumn shadows, the items I had borrowed from the classroom cupboard were side by side.
Next I worked a thin rope. It was cold and stiff, but I formed it into a c-shape, then looped it into an s-shape, and pinched the middle. Eight twists around, a little poke here, a tightening tug there, and the length of dirty yellow rope was transformed into something beautiful and precise. I sighed, moved my hand in and out of the teardrop-shaped opening. Then I secured it to the metal ring on another pulley and hid that the bushes. Satisfied, I walked home to my empty house, lay in bed, listened for heavy rainfall washing away any traces left behind.
A few days later, I returned to the backyard and waited. I had no worries about being seen; the darkness was thick. I gathered my hidden supplies and climbed the tree. Slipping slightly on the way up, I bit the inside of my cheek. Blood pooled around my teeth, but I could not spit. I had to swallow and swallow, and though it made me feel sick, it did not slow me down. With some stretching, I threaded the rope through the pulleys (one fixed, one not), then tied one end to the O-ring. Secured the other end with a slipknot around my stomach. I gripped the snare in my hands, and marvelled at my handiwork. How I loved these simple machines.
In that moment, I realized I was also a moving part, an element in my own production. I imagined Button joining the line, perched behind me, her pudgy hands on my shoulders, ready to push. We would share this experience, but neither of us would accept a shred of guilt. I would not allow it, as we did not deserve it. In her perfect voice, Button would squeal, “Thwee-ah, two-ah, one-ah, go!” straight into my ear.
Button. My sister was the reason I was there. Everything changed when she was born, when she adhered herself to me. That bond came with intense responsibility, and when it actually mattered, I faltered. In the months since she died, I have blamed others, but I know Button is rotting away in a white box, deep underground, because of me. Acknowledgement is difficult, but it drives me forward. Makes me move when others stiffen.
So I waited. I watched the mouth of the path, rope gripped in my fist, and listened for the sound of unsuspicious footsteps. And to engage myself, I thought of my little sister. The story that we shared.
[2]
&nbs
p; After one hundred and twenty-three taps of his foot, two things happened at the same time: Warren Botts heard the toaster pop, and he caught sight of something odd in his backyard. Butter knife in hand, he ignored his breakfast, took a step closer to the window, squinted. There was a small person, standing beneath a thick branch near the property line, waiting in the shadows. Even though the sun was just breaking through the naked trees, he recognized her rain jacket, her striped stocking hat.
Rolling back against the wall, he let the curtain fall over him. Surely she had seen him bustling about in his red flannel pajamas, hair like a porcupine’s back. Oh, he thought, oh. I will not be home. If she knocks on the door, I am not at home.
He had not expected this. Thought he had straightened things out, and the two of them had resolved the issue. Coming to his home, waiting outside his home, entering his home once when the door was unlocked. None of it was a good idea. Like anyone else, he deserved some privacy. Principal Fairley, after hearing his concerns, had advised Warren to be firm with the girl. “No wiggle room,” she said, smiling. Her teeth were narrow and beige, the same colour as her belted dress, her flat shoes. “I know you’re a substitute here, but still, we don’t want any sense of impropriety between teachers and students.” He had done his best, explained this was where he lived, even if it was only a rental. The girl shrugged, and Warren had felt good about that conversation. Confident in his handling of the issue. But here she was, early on a Sunday morning, trespassing on his property. Changing his weekend routine. Two pieces of toast. Half a banana. Hot tea. Then thirty minutes to read the news, touching only the edges of the paper.
As he stood there, the knife fell from his hand, struck his foot, clattered on the linoleum. His cat, Stephen, startled, scuttled off a chair, and disappeared into the living room. Glancing down, he saw a smear of butter across the felted toe of his slipper, a glob on the floor. His hand formed a fist, and his agitation transformed into a tiny spark of anger. Part of him wanted to rush out into the backyard and yell, while another part, the stronger part, wanted to pretend he had not noticed her. That she was not there. Warren worked hard at that. Pretending. Trying to convince himself that if he could not see something, his mind could make it disappear.
He lifted the curtain, peered through the window. She had not moved. On Friday afternoon, he had found her sitting on his front step, graded science test clutched in her hand. This time, she had failed. Failed miserably, in fact. “This is the third time you’ve been here, Amanda.” He tried to step past her, but she angled her head, and his leg brushed against her cheek. “We can discuss it Monday. In school.”
“We can discuss it now, Mr. Botts,” she had replied. Eyes swollen and pink, she looked up at him, said her mother was going to strangle her.
“Of course she won’t strangle you,” he replied softly. “She might be disappointed, but that’s not the end of the world. It’s grade eight. And one test.” Then he felt the warmth of her hand on the inside of his knee, and he had no choice but to step backward, take a seat beside her.
“I couldn’t focus, Mr. Botts.” She shook her test. “You need to fix this.”
He shifted on the steps, touched his glasses. Six steps. Eighteen oblong knots in the wood. Two holes. “Me?”
On the opposite side of the street, a garage door lifted, and he could see Mr. Wilkes, one of his neighbours, seated in a lawn chair squeezed in beside a red pickup truck. Plastic stretching, his backside was only inches from the cement floor. Warren lifted his hand and waved, but Mr. Wilkes sipped from a brown bottle and did not respond.
“They’re not divorced, you know.” She brought the test to her lap. “My mother refuses, even though my father stole everything from us. She’s such a sucker.”
“Amanda.” He wanted her to stop talking, to leave his house.
“He just took off. No warning. Took everything we had and gave it all away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you know the jerk is selling crap on a beach in Florida? Coconut freaking monkey things? With some sleaze he met? She’s not a whole lot older than me, you know. Isn’t that disgusting, Mr. Botts?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you think it’s disgusting, that’s all. That you would never ruin lives. That you’d never choose that over someone you love.”
Warren stared across the street, at the cracked driveways, the matching bungalows with darkened windows, the overweight man, probably two hundred and ninety pounds, lifting another bottle from a box. Why he thought of his own father then, he could not say. Perhaps it was the mention of choosing. Choosing something useless and pointless and irreversible over a small person that so blatantly needed him. He lifted his hand to touch his cheek, and considered that he had once looked out at the world through the face of a child.
A crack came from the sky, and huge drops struck the wood, instantly absorbed. He counted forty-three of them, then said, “It’s starting to rain, Amanda. Your test is getting wet. It’s smearing.”
Unsnapping her backpack, she jammed the paper inside, closed it.
“Smearing, yeah, cause you used a ton of red ink,” she said, and stood up. “A serious ton.”
“I was trying to help you. To understand your mistakes. So, well, you don’t repeat them. That’s the whole point.”
“I don’t even understand the questions, Mr. Botts. So how am I supposed to get the answers?” She began to walk away, then stopped on the bottom step and turned. “But you will help me.”
“Yes, Amanda. I will.”
“Mr. Botts?”
He stood up. “Yes?”
“No matter what, don’t ever sell coconut freaking monkeys.”
“I can’t see myself doing that.”
“Promise it.”
“Sure. I can promise. With confidence. But only if you promise not to come to my home again.”
“Maybe,” she said, shrugging. Then she had hurried up the sidewalk to her own home, four bungalows separating them.
As he waited in his kitchen, listening for a tap at the back door, he watched the fish in his tanks. The lights, with automatic timers, had just clicked on. A cluster of eight neon tetras darted back and forth behind the glass. Without choice or space or opportunity, they had a special kind of freedom in their nothingness. Their only task was to exist. “I know you’re hungry,” he whispered. “One minute, my small friends. One minute.” He strained to hear the girl’s footsteps, but could hear nothing above the water filters. Taking a deep breath, he smelled his toast, still sitting in the toaster, and realized his breakfast was cold.
Warren was tempted to peek out again, but decided against it. She had not approached his door, and if she was not already gone, she would see the drapes shuffling. Like an invitation. It was better to slip out of the house for his Sunday morning routine. Something new, encouraged by his girlfriend, Nora, who claimed exercise would help him manage his nervous energy. “Ten thousand steps,” she had said. “Every single day, and you’ll soon see a difference.” He liked having the goal. More specifically, he liked having the number. Knowing how high he had to count helped him focus, helped to quiet his mind.
Even though Warren was tall and thin, he was not a person who stretched his frame on purpose. He hated when his glasses slid down his sweaty nose, or when his lungs tightened and his muscles burned. When his heart struck the inside of his rib cage with excessive force, all he could think about was dying. But Nora pushed him to be healthy, and in order to please her, he had adjusted his eating, started walking, and now was able to warm up in the living room, jog around the neighbourhood. Last Sunday morning he covered a total of twenty-two blocks. That was nearly three miles. Six thousand one hundred and forty-one steps, to be exact, and Warren did not rely on a mechanical counter.
Without breathing, he ducked down, edged along the floor toward his bedroom. He slipped ou
t of his pajamas and got dressed. Back in the entryway, he pulled a headband over his ears, laced his white sneakers, not too tightly. He paused before opening the door. His tanks, all eleven of them, were bubbling and gurgling on the floor of his kitchen, filters working hard for his tetras, his rasboras, a single Betta, his spotted loaches. That gentle sound centred him. “I’ll be back soon. And then I’ll feed you. I promise.” Stepping out into the cold morning, he glanced up at the sky, edges shot through with pink and purple, a dusty grey waiting right above him. If she were not already, Amanda would be gone when he returned. Spitting rain and dipping temperatures would force her home. Everything was going to be fine.
[3]
I understood the concept — a small thing was growing in there. Obviously, though, I was unaware it was Button. All I remember was my mother’s distorted body, slowly bulging into something grotesque. I saw her fully naked when I was seven years old, and the unfortunate image is permanently etched in my memory. It happened about an hour after my father died. She was going to shower, as people were coming to visit, and I caught her staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. Pasty arms, rolls hanging from her chest, purple lines across her stretched gut. Her fingers gripped her stomach in a most disgusting way. “What luck. What bloody luck!” she repeated. As I watched her cry, I was mildly nauseated, but my heart remained steady, a calm drum inside my chest.
Moments later she caught me staring and slammed the door. “Why you always got to be so weird?” she yelled above splashing water. I rolled my eyes. How can simple observation be misconstrued as weird?
That evening, people shuffled in. My mother, smelling much cleaner, told the death story over and over again, though she omitted some of the more interesting parts. She spewed on about a meeting, influential clients, a car accident. Who does she think she was kidding? My father overshot our driveway, slammed head-on into the Mighty Oak in our neighbour’s front yard. Earlier, when the police were there, they discussed velocity and angle of impact. They mentioned, of course, his suspected inebriation. He was the single operator, no passengers. Lack of a restraint and the force of the crash were joint causes of his death. My mother was confused; her expression started to collapse as they explained that with no pre-impact skid marks, he never saw it coming. A woman officer leaned toward me, said, “Which was a blessing.” She gnawed on gum that smelled like artificial watermelon.
The Substitute Page 1
