My first thought was for the beautiful tree. I had climbed my leafy friend many times and whispered my plans to it. The sudden shock must have vibrated its innocent leaves and roots, and I feared for its welfare. Once the police left, my mother buckled, shrank into a chair, emitted a vexatious sound. I could tell from her posture and expression that she was experiencing the initial stages of grief. At the time, I thought she must be worried for the tree, too.
More and more curious people came to see my mother. I crept out the back door, made my way across the dewy grass. No one noticed me leave. For a moment, I remained hidden inside the hedge marking the property line. Cedar branches scratched my bare legs and arms. I could see the tree and the limp yellow tape wrapped around it. The sun had already sunk, and in the moonlight, the ground around the trunk glittered, neatly shaped crystals of broken glass strewn among the fallen leaves. I was disappointed my father had been removed from the scene. At the time, I had imagined him completely flattened, a flapjack of a person, and medical workers trying desperately to re-inflate him.
I walked up to the tree and touched the damage. Deep cuts scored the bark. Scrapes of grease and dirt and a stretch of weeping yellow flesh. My hands formed into fists, helplessness welled inside me, and then a timely hiss of anger ironed the sadness out.
I wormed my fingers into the damp cuts, inhaled the heady sweetness emanating from the exposed layers. “I’m sorry for what he has done to you.” I despised my father. A drunken waste of carbon and oxygen, calcium and phosphorus. A useless human frame that took up space in my home, stole the air from my lungs. Of course I hated him. I thought of my mother’s bulging stomach then. Thought how that tiny thing would never have to meet him, never have to watch his sweaty hand close into a fist while his lips were smiling. The unfairness of it made my mouth go dry.
Shining my penlight on the bark, I noticed streaks of reddish brown, what appeared to be curls of translucent paper. Metallic scent, but more organic. Upon closer inspection of the papery shreds, I saw tiny hairs, blond, almost white. My pulse raced, and I did not slow it. Pressure in my chest, then. A swell of satisfaction.
[4]
Sharp flecks of rain bounced off his shoulders and the sidewalk, though Warren did not slow his pace. Each step took effort, but it gave him strength to think about Nora. He liked to imagine she was behind every window in every home, row after row of postwar bungalows, appraising him as he passed. This juvenile device helped him maintain a certain level of speed, a certain degree of form, and besides, it distracted him from all of the other noisy thoughts clamouring about inside his skull. Unspoken conversations with his father. The lingering spikes of anger toward his mother. Concern for his little sister, Beth, who was sometimes missing, though always lost. And now, his student, loitering in his backyard, acting as though her life was over because of a failed test.
Warren tried to maintain his lower-mind counting. Upper mind focused on Nora. But it was difficult. Numbers kept dropping, images and sounds kept sliding. Was it normal to have a head full to bursting like that? He started back at zero, remembered the pattern in Nora’s eyes, hoping those things would nudge the swirling mess in his mind toward a rhythmic blankness.
As he jogged, he kept his arms bent sharply, lifted his knees. When he was a boy, he had been mocked for his limp-limbed movement in gym class. A gangly spider. “Run Loser Run,” the boys had cried as he passed them on the floor. The coach would scream, “Pass to Botts,” and the ball in play was hurtled at his head. Basketball, soccer ball, volleyball, football, pickle ball. His cranium had kissed them all. That was not his fault though. He blamed his poor co-ordination on sadness. In the weeks after his father had died, when Warren was eleven, the grief seeped through his pores, and eczema soon bloomed and crusted. Red and weeping in the creases of his elbows, behind his knees, his earlobes. It had hurt to move, to bend, and he developed a delicateness to his manner. Feminine, even.
Count. And think of Nora. Perfect Nora.
He reminded himself that his childhood days were far behind him. He was grown up now, a man, a developmental biologist, a PhD. In the future, a tenured professor, if that was what he decided to do. Right now he was taking a slight sidestep, a year-long break from his lab to become a substitute teacher in middle school. He had just guided his young students through the physics unit. An introduction to forces and simple machines. Though most of them barely scraped through, it did not stop Warren from wishing some of his
students would fall in love with the orderliness of the subject, the predictability. Physics and biology were his favourite topics, and he approached them with enthusiasm. When his students dozed off, pulled gum from their mouths, or stuck pencils up their noses, he did not give up. He learned never to turn his back on them, though. Several weeks earlier, he had caught a boy named Adrian Byrd misusing lab equipment, his t-shirt hauled up, alligator clips attached to his nipples. The boy was panting, about to slide wires into an electrical outlet when Warren rushed toward him, knocked him to the ground. “Are you stupid?” he had yelled, and Adrian had grinned. His face was riddled with stitches, black threads criss-crossing recent injuries. “I like pain,” he said. “Not much pain if you’re dead,” Warren had replied, though he instantly regretted his statement. It was inappropriate. “I should not have said that. But it was a very dangerous thing to do, Adrian. At your age, you shouldn’t need a babysitter.” Everyone was laughing, a complete uproar, as Warren locked the clips and wires in a cupboard, and Adrian craned to see what he did with the key.
Tomorrow they would begin an easier unit on genetics. A basic study of Mendel’s pea plants. Chromosomes, genotypes, and phenotypes, smooth versus wrinkled. He was uncertain if his students would grasp the concepts, but he was excited to try. As he was preparing the material, he had remembered his father had also grown pea plants. The leafy vines had wound their tendrils along thin netting, and somehow adhered to the edge of an aluminum shed. Watching his father inspecting his plants through round rimless glasses, Warren had often believed his father looked more like a scientist than what he was — a simple gardener, a full-time salesperson at their local Feed ’n Seed. A quiet, thoughtful man.
Occasionally he considered telling Nora. Though how could he articulate how much he had adored his father, and how much his father had adored him? Telling her the man whispered to him nearly every day, “You are the only reason I stay, son.” Blue eyes so pale, they were hardly there at all. His father’s words echoed relentlessly inside Warren’s adult mind, but his child self had scoffed, replied, “I know, Dad. I know! You said that already. Millions of times.” Warren had always pictured his father driving away in his rusting truck, swallowed by a cloud of dust. The sort of trip from which a man could always return. “Oh sure,” he would say then. “Come here, my darling. Let me teach you something useful. Something you won’t learn inside brick walls.” They would sneak off together with a book, and hide in the shed, under a tree, in the tall cool grass of the neighbour’s field. His father made every interaction feel like a great secret. A secret from his mother. Even from Beth, who they would often hear searching for them. Calling out, “This isn’t fair. You’re not playing fair!” Pleading for them to reveal themselves. To let her join.
While his father would not have admired Warren’s choice of profession, he would have liked Nora. Warren was certain of it. Nora worked at the supermarket sandwich counter, and the first time he faced her, he was caught off guard by her enormous lopsided smile. What did that mean, when someone smiled so widely? “You’re new around here,” she had said. “Good to see a different face.” He pushed his glasses up, then stuttered when she asked him if he would like avocado in his sandwich. He had never tasted that fruit (vegetable?) before and was slightly embarrassed to admit it. “You’ll love it,” she said with quiet enthusiasm, “it’s nature’s butter,” and began to slice through the pale greenness, revealing a large smooth ball. She held up the nut, whispere
d, “You can’t eat that, though,” and threw another smile at him. “Seems a waste,” he managed to say, his cheerful voice sounding very foreign in his own ears.
When he saw the enormous seed, he thought of his father again. Kind thoughts. The man, tall and lanky like himself, kneeling beside a row, pushing his fingers into soil, dropping seeds, coaxing food from the earth. As a child, Warren had thought their garden was expansive, that it rippled down over the horizon, surely enough to feed the world. Only when he grew did he see it was nothing more than an extended plot, food to feed the family and manage a small vegetable stand at the end of the driveway. It did not matter. In his memories, his father still planted that land. Still provided for them. Warren, his mother, Beth. Together, they sat around the table, a thick slab of waxed wood, scratched with years of schoolwork. Dull pencils pushed through the page.
His father would have taken that seed.
“Could I grow that?” Warren had asked her, looking down at the avocado pit.
“I haven’t the faintest clue how, but I don’t see why not,” she replied. She wrapped the damp stone in a serviette and slipped it into his hands, her white wrist grazing his thumb. “Let me know if it works out for you.”
That very afternoon, he went to the library, scoured several books on planting, and found a reference to avocado pits. At home he followed the procedure for sprouting it, suspending the stone with toothpicks, ensuring the base was submerged in fresh water. He counted every day as he watched and waited, dark skin sloughing off, seed splitting, until a spindly, almost obscene root emerged from below. He was euphoric. Twenty-nine days later, he placed the sprouting pit in a terracotta pot, covered it in soil, and then, when the leaves opened up, he did the brashest thing he had ever done. He brought her back the plant.
By the time Warren reached Main Street, his lungs felt as though they would burst. What if they did? What if they popped like balloons, and he choked out bits of deflated lungs, spat the bloody mouthfuls onto the sidewalk? In his scientific mind, he understood this was impossible, but the images preoccupied his thoughts. His throat was so dry, each time he tried to swallow, he sensed acid rising. Acid that was probably burning some part of him. He stopped in front of Andy’s Pets, placed his hand against the glass, and bent at the waist. With his other hand, he reached inside his thin jacket, and rubbed the flesh over his heart.
The door to the store opened, and the owner’s son, Gordie Smit, stuck his head out. His eyes were bloodshot and his head greasy, making his overweight face look even puffier.
“Shit weather, hey?”
Warren gagged again.
“You managing there, friend?”
“Tr–trying,” he replied, though the words stuck.
They had met over the summer when Warren wandered into the store. He had wanted to purchase cans of food for his cat, but ended up leaving with dozens of fish, as well as tanks, lights, water plants, sand, gravel, and whatever else he needed for eleven aquariums. Gordie’s father had given up on the fish, sales were non-existent, and was threatening to flush the entire lot. Warren could not allow such a mindless loss of life.
“Can I get you a drink, buddy? Some water?”
“No, nope. I got it.”
“Catching raindrops? I’m sure you do.”
“Just want to get stronger.” Warren counted the number of bricks that lined the bottom of the window frame. Thirty-two. Seven of them chipped. He straightened his back, removed his hand from the glass, wiped it with his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I left a smudge.”
“Don’t sweat it, for shit’s sake. We had more stuff smeared on that glass. You wouldn’t believe some of the crap I’ve scraped off.”
He was about to start moving again, but paused for a moment, glanced sideways at Gordie. “Why are you here on a Sunday? At this hour, no less?”
“The wife,” he replied. “This place got a small apartment on top of the store. It’s quiet there. Sometimes a guy needs a breather.”
“I understand.” Though he did not.
“Oh, and buddy? If you want to expand, we got a load of ferrets in.”
Warren chuckled. “No, no. I’m good.”
“And guinea pigs. Or skinny pigs. They got no hair. Strange looking little freaks.”
“I’ll stick with Stephen, my cat. And the fish.”
“Well, then.” Gordie swiped his hands in his hair, then glanced at his wrist. “Oh, Jesus. I got to get showered and go back. Breakfast with the wife. And the wife’s mother. Stab me now. Right between my eyes. Out of my misery.”
Warren laughed, took two deep breaths, and continued jogging. The rain had turned to ice pellets. They were popping off the top of his head, and the sidewalk. He hoped he never viewed Nora that way. As a chore to be endured. Not that he judged Gordie, but he knew Nora deserved better. Over the summer months, he had learned so much about her. She was not a blatherer by any means, but he could gently coax her to share. Nora had had her share of struggles, and Warren was impressed she was not bitter. Her husband, whom she had loved since they were childhood sweethearts, had died of kidney disease. Complications from lupus. They had not known a thing until strange fevers arrived and his legs puffed up. She spent years going back and forth to the hospital. It was slow and agonizing to watch him, she had said, and Warren’s heart squeezed as she spoke. He understood the pain of losing someone you love. And of losing them long before they actually vanish from sight.
Once, after Gordie had seen them together, he said to Warren, “Yeah, she’s had a terrible time. A real shame, having to go through all that.” Warren had not invited the comment, but nodded. Said, “Well, she won’t have a terrible time with me.”
His feet continued to slap the sidewalk. One step after another. Slow and steady. Nine hundred and seventy-three steps. Though, unfortunately, he had to restart twice. The ice had turned to snowflakes, the first of the season, and they swept in around his neck, cooling him. He looked at the road ahead. Only the hill was left, and everything was covered in a thin clean blanket. He came around the curve, began winding slowly up the cul-de-sac toward his home. Once there, he could lie down on the floor if he wanted. Twenty-one more houses. He pictured Nora at the top of the hill, standing outside his bungalow, cheering him on. “I’m getting there,” he whispered. “Wait for me.”
He hobbled up the stairs to his home, and lurched onto the porch. Stumbling to his kitchen sink, he leaned his head underneath running water, and gulped what he could. He wiped his mouth with his palm, took several deep breaths, then he unzipped his jacket, slung it over a chair. His cotton t-shirt clung to his stomach and his spine. Running his hand through his thick hair, he pulled aside the curtain and looked out the back window onto his deck. Snow covered it now, but months earlier Nora had sat there in the summer sun, sipping her homemade lemonade, waiting for him to barbecue, and —
And. And. He had not anticipated this. She was still there. She was still there. Amanda Fuller was still standing in his backyard. She had not moved an inch.
[5]
My father looked peaceful in the casket at the funeral home. They had his hair combed straight down to disguise the wreck of his forehead. Thick beige makeup was substantial, and while there was too much pink in the cheek, my swollen mother had insisted on extra. “He doesn’t look well,” she tearfully told the director. “His colour is off.” No joke.
His hands were folded together across his chest. Nails trimmed, four fingers resting upon four fingers. When I stood near the box, I reached out, touched his cool skin. I could almost detect a hint of warmth still lingering there, and I entertained the thought he would wake up once weighted under the soil.
Glancing behind me, I noticed funeral-goers were granting me some time alone. A tender moment to say goodbye. I ran my hand over his, then gripped his middle finger, his “swearing finger,” as I had heard kids say at school, and I squeezed it. “Oh, D
ad,” I whispered, “Where are you now?” With another quick look over my shoulder, I cranked his finger backward, pressed down, felt dead ligaments tearing, a distinct and pleasant pop.
When I stepped aside, his finger remained displaced. My mother waddled up for a subsequent pass, and noticed. Cheeks flushing the same unnatural colour as her husband’s, she tried to reposition it, tried to slip it underneath his index finger. Tried to bend it the other way. No luck. It rose up again. Telling the world what he thought of them. I noticed other mourners smirking, nodding. I hope the bastard stayed like that forever.
Later that day, after the last intruder had vanished from my house, my mother swallowed another flat pink pill, fell asleep under a thin blanket on the couch. I had told her not to consume pink pills, that the thing growing in her gut did not require sedatives, and she had glared at me. Said I was too pea-brained to understand (wrong), and it was not my concern (quite possibly). While she snored with her mouth open, I crouched on the coffee table, arms wrapped around my calves, like a sullen bird, watched her chest lifting and falling. Her blatant displays of selfishness made me despise her.
Even though I was only seven at the time, I was left to wander the house alone. I sat on a pillow in the corner of my room, reading. Non-fiction, of course. At that age, I was intrigued by any material about survival — fire-building, shelter construction, knot-tying, methods to purify fusty pond water. Not that I was planning to run away. I just enjoyed collecting useful information.
The Substitute Page 2
