“You sleepy, Dad?”
“No, my darling. I’m not.”
“Why aren’t you not?”
His father did not reply, but looked away, eyes wet, as they often were. In his expression, Warren saw what he had never noticed before. A worry. Or a secret. As though his father understood something important that Warren had yet to discover.
“You should sleep, Dad. It’s almost morning. Do you want me to count for you?”
His father sighed, and said, “No, no. I’m going to enjoy these last few minutes. Last few minutes before light comes.”
Warren curled like a bug inside the cup of his father’s frame, and watched him as the sun rose and filled the room. Finally, his father’s head dropped to the pillow, and he began snoring softly. Warren stared at his father’s curled fingers. Those images were in there, he knew, and at the time, he had wondered if he should have given them to his father, or if he should have been a braver boy, and hidden them away for himself.
“Something caught your eye, Mr. Botts?” Detective Reed twisted in her seat. “You were gone there for a bit.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know, spaced out?”
Inhaling, Warren could feel his father, so familiar, so warm, the smell of cotton and dry earth and sunshine, rough hands touching his small cheek, and he felt a sudden and painful pang of false hope. He shifted, peered out the rear window, found the sign in the distance. The place beneath it was empty, as though the person had vanished. Or was never there at all.
“Here we go, Mr. Botts. I’ll get that.” Detective Reed yanked open the door to the car so Warren could climb out. “Don’t go too far,” she said before slamming it.
It was dark, and Warren’s car was the only one left in the parking lot. In the light of the street lamp, he saw the white line. A deep scratch through the paint. Too thick and irregular to be from a key, it looked as though someone had pulled a jagged piece of shale along the side panel. Perhaps he had driven alongside a wall, parked too tightly against something, and just could not remember. That would not be unusual. He might have been counting, not heard the noise. Though if he had parked, how would he have gotten out? Through the passenger’s side? He could not make excuses. Someone had done this on purpose. Damaged his car.
Warren examined the shadows beyond the light, strained to see through the growing darkness. Detective Reed was already gone, and he was alone. He noticed no one, but for the second time that day, he felt unsafe.
[17]
My father was a wife-beater. People were fairly comfortable with that. I could tell when they saw my mother at the post office, scrambling for the mail, or at the grocery store, paying with her head down. Her bruised face, long clothes in summer, shaky skinny hands. They frowned, shook their heads. But they accepted. Believed, no doubt, that such an existence was unfortunate. Shit happens.
One afternoon, my father was also an almost-wife-killer. A label that might have garnered far more attention, if anyone had known about it.
I remember my father stomping into the house that summer afternoon. A human-sized battle tank, fully loaded. He appeared so out of place in our kitchen, with its rooster wallpaper, shrivelling apples in a bowl. Something had happened before lunch, something about a “lost deal,” but I never learned what that was. When he returned home from work, he dropped his brown briefcase, slammed the door, and paced back and forth over the doormat. Rubbing his hand over his stubble, a lock of his greased hair fell over his forehead. I could sense his energy, his jack-in-the-box mood, tinny chords of music almost complete. Surprise!
Sitting across from me, his knee joggled, hands tapped. I was aware of his scent. I have always had an extraordinary sense of smell, and this moment I detected something earthy. Yeasty. Almost like mouldy bread. As usual, he didn’t look at me. I have no memory of my father ever peering into my face, or speaking my name. Never a “Hallo, my little friend.” Or, “Hey, buddy, do you want to toss the ball around? Watch a show?” Around him, I was only vapour. A wisp of exhaust. And a man could not interact with a wisp of exhaust.
Instead of looking at me, my father stared at my plate. Peanut butter and bread, stuck together and torn into consumable pieces. A plastic cup of juice, as milk gave me intestinal pangs. He stared at the string of bunnies chasing each other around the edge of the dish.
“You fed the kid first?”
“You weren’t home yet. Child’s got to eat.” A shaving of force in her voice. Just a shaving.
“What? What did you say?”
My breathing slowed. The clock inside my chest ticked quietly, and evenly. The faintest current moved down my spine.
“I said, almost ready, dear. One sec. Just one sec.” She slid the sandwich out of the pan, hacked it into two pieces, dug into a bag of potato chips, dropped them next to the sandwich. A glass of brown soda, sides slick with moisture. “All set. Here you go. It’s new cheese. Did you know they made a new kind? I just bought it today. Thicker slices. Not that stuff you can practically read through. Do you want ketchup? The bottle’s almost done, but I could add a bit of water?”
Two ways my mother gave away her fear: her voice adopted a canary quality, and she talked way too much.
She hovered over my father. And watched him eat. One forceful bite. A second. A calmer third. And then, boof, a small tuft of offending cat hair stuck inside the melted cheese. It tickled his throat. Made him hack. Snort. Spit onto his plate. (Sounding very much like the offending cat, by the way.) Poking through the chewed lump of goo, he dug out the clump, worked it between his fingers, held it up to his glassy blue eyes.
Snap. Lightbulb bursting.
“Oh my, oh my. I’m so, so, so sorry. I’ll make another one. Right away. I’ve got a fridge full of those slices. Plenty of bread. Don’t move. I won’t be but a minute.”
Rambling, again, but my father did not hear her, and floated up from his chair. Slow motion. Calm. Collected. An onlooker might imagine he was about to kiss her gently on the cheek, refill his glass of soda, admire the shine on his shoes. I watched his fluid movements, understanding that this was when he was most dangerous. A drop of poison snaking through a pitcher of still water.
The hair obviously belonged to my mother’s cat. A lanky stray she had adopted before I was born. At that moment, the geriatric tom was lounging on the window ledge, enjoying the lunchtime sun, unaware it had caught someone’s focused attention. It extended a thin tabby leg, raked its pink tongue over the inside of its thigh. Dander and dust billowing in the rays of light.
Several long steady strides toward the window, and my father reached the cat. His expression was purposeful, heavy with glee. Scooping the culprit underneath its belly, he stroked its head, said softly, “Now, puss.” Then, arm poised, full force, he catapulted it across the room. The cat flew, legs spread, tail straightened. Thunk. It struck the wall. Sound like a hammer hitting a rotten tree. Yellow-brown liquid squirted across the wallpaper, and the sour stench of feline diarrhea filled the room.
I saw my father wipe his hand on his trousers, and when I glanced back, the cat was gone. I never noticed it drop to the ground or skitter away. It vanished the same instant it hit the wall. A cartoon poof into air. It became like me, I considered at the time. Another wisp of exhaust.
My mother cried out, covered her open mouth with spread fingers, a jail over her teeth. She retched, though nothing came out of her.
“Shut it!” The kitchen floor shook as he marched toward her. With each of his steps, I saw concentric circles moving on the surface of my juice. His eyes were so wet, so focused, he appeared almost holy. Sharp religious rage, his fists about to perform a miracle. “Don’t you make a sound.” A strike to her forehead. “You.” Another strike. “Bloody.” Knee to her hip. “Bitch.”
I lined up my sandwich parts along the edge of my plate. Covering the bunnies. I remember wondering if they
might be hungry, and how the bread was so close, yet the bunnies could not touch it. How torturous to be fused to a plate. To have nowhere to run but round and round, face practically pressed into the dirty tail of a brother who would always be ahead. Why would anyone ever design that for a child? A juvenile image of Hell.
He continued assaulting my mother, and not once did I move from my chair, defend her, intervene. I never tried to worm myself between them, my sharp elbows swinging left and right. When she collapsed, and he showered her with kicks, I still never budged from my seat. His fighting leg weakened, face sweating, and eventually he stopped. I realize now he was not in great physical shape. Such a burst of activity had led to exertion.
As he was leaving, he offered his explanation to her. “Is a decent lunch too much to expect? I don’t ask for shit from you. Just a fucking lunch. How do you expect me to do anything? No wonder I fucking lost my deal.”
Whenever I remembered this, I always pressed pause at that moment. Closed my eyes, and moved through the memory slowly, purposefully. I watched her weep, body shaking, curled like a frightened pill bug on the linoleum floor. There was a smear of blood coming from somewhere. Her mouth? Her nose? Her ear? Am I afraid? Excited? A marbled swirl of both? Once I heard the car screech away, I took two steps forward, said, “Mom?” She did not adjust her crying, meet my gaze, or reach out her fingers, letting them waggle in the air between us. Her waving hand saying, Come here, my good baby.
She is ignoring me. I understand that now, but at the time of that incident, I did not. I admit, I experienced many childish and embarrassing thoughts. Even wondered if I was invisible to her as well. As I was with my father, I had become that way with her. Was I imagining my heart pumping, my lungs breathing air? Was I a ghost?
I do not exist. I am incapable of offering her comfort or assistance. Because I do not exist.
That realization made me angry. I edged closer, placed the heel of my shoe on her bare foot and pressed down, nipping the very edge of her skin. She squeaked, pulled her knee closer to her chest. “Don’t touch me,” I heard her mumble, even though her arms covered her face and hands. “Don’t touch me.” I liked the sound of her desperation. I liked that she acknowledged me.
“Mom.”
“I said go.”
“Um. Do you want a wet cloth? For your head.”
“Just stop, will you? I’ll get it myself.” Now she was the one sounding irritated, indignant. How quickly roles morph and bend.
“Oh,” I replied. “I understand.” Though actually I did not.
I stayed beside her and thought about the many times my father injured my mother. The sight of it did not make me sad or anxious or confused. It was simply noise in the afternoon. Noise in the evening. Noise in the middle of the night. No matter the experience, as I have learned, a plastic brain will shift it, squeeze it, shape it, until it eventually becomes natural. Normal. A humdrum form of amusement, even. It was not shocking to witness my father launching the cat across the room, punching holes through the drywall, lifting and slamming chairs. Stabbing a knife so deeply into the countertop, it stood upright and twanged. For him, this was his way to exist, to cope, to manage with the everyday doldrums. Hardly different than those cookie-cutter families who sat side by side, a table without corners, fried chicken and coleslaw neatly arranged on mottled blue plates. Except they kept themselves hidden, their anger locked inside their jaws, while my father held nothing back. Not a word, not an act. He was a container, its bottom full of holes. Everything spiralling in a cloudy eddy, draining down and out. Liquid rage or liquid love. A sloppy sort of mess that always left the man empty.
I did not leave right away. I stood beside my mother until my interest waned. Once my mother was silent, I grew practically numb with boredom. She had brought me into this world, yes, but she was a stranger to me. An unwanted shadow wavering in the doorframe. And by the time I turned my back to her, I felt very little. Perhaps even nothing at all.
[18]
“Just breadcrumbs,” Nora said, as she reheated some chicken pieces in the oven. “Add some herbs, a bit of grated parmesan. Everyone makes such a big deal about cooking, but it’s not hard.”
“Smells just like, like — what’s the name of that place?”
“I know what you mean, War. It does. But it’s so much healthier to do it yourself.”
Warren was relieved to be inside his own home. Listening to Nora’s pleasant banter about recipes. When he had pulled up outside, there were neighbours still gathered in his driveway. And two white vans parked near the curb. One had Local4 on the side, but he could not make out the text on the other. The same woman as that morning rushed toward him. “Just a few questions about Amanda,” she called, as Warren tripped up the front steps. “I have nothing to say,” he mumbled. “I told the police everything.” As he closed his front door, she called, “Who killed Amanda?”
He had twisted the deadbolt. Killed Amanda? Someone might have killed Amanda. Or she could have rigged the whole thing herself. Or it could have been a few of his students, trying to play a prank on him. A prank that went terribly, terribly wrong.
“You look completely worn to bits, War, darling.”
“I’ll be okay.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek.
Over her shoulder, she snapped at Libby, “Can you stop wandering around the kitchen? Haven’t you got no homework?”
“Nope to no homework.”
“What does that even mean? You got none, or yes, you got some?”
Warren coughed, said, “I think she just meant to say no.”
“I know what she meant, War, doll. But it was a simple question, and she replies with attitude. I mean, did you give your mother attitude?”
Warren’s heart started to beat. De-dun-de-dun-de-dun. No, he had not given his mother attitude. He gave her nothing. Barely spoke to her, walked around her as though she did not exist. And she had accepted this behaviour. She never tried to change anything, was content for him to mow the lawn, replace the rotten boards on the fence, press seedlings into the turned soil. While she washed the laundry, peeled the potatoes, painted the new boards. Every night, they ate at the same table, Beth chattering incessantly, but other than that, when he entered the room, she stood up and quietly left. His mother had ruined everything. With her apathy, her flatness, her ice-boxed affect, she had destroyed the one thing he had treasured.
“War?”
Only once did she react to him. He was seventeen, and had been standing before the sink, running the water until it was cold. She came up behind him, gasped when she saw he was wearing his father’s plaid shirt. A torn Feed ’n Seed cap balanced on his hair. He had found the items in a box in the shed. “You can’t. No.” She grabbed at him, grabbed at his shirt, and he tried to spin away, but she chased him. Chased him around the thick wooden table, down the hallway, out into the yard. When she caught him, she knocked him to the ground, straddled him, slapped the hat from his head. Gripping his hair in both her fists, she shook his head, just barely missing the earth. “Why do you punish me?” she screamed, her face wet and crazy. “All you’ve ever done is punish me.” It was one of the very few times he had seen her cry. The next morning, he received an acceptance letter in the mail. One hundred and thirty-nine days later, he left his childhood home. And never once went back.
“Warren?”
“What was that?”
“I was going to ask you.”
“Oh, right, right. I didn’t give her attitude.” He glanced at Libby, said, “Nope to no attitude,” and caught her smile. Nora said something else, but he closed his eyes for a moment, reached up to touch his head. Strange, there were moments when he could still feel his mother’s hands on him. Her fingers knotted deep in his messy hair, tugging at his scalp. It had burned, for certain, but he remembered none of the pain. None of the nauseating dizziness as she shook his skull. Instead, he recalled
the curious desire for her to continue. To hold him, however forcefully. To not let go.
When he opened his eyes, Libby was still staring at him. She shrugged, as Nora continued to say something about being responsible.
There actually was science homework, a handful of simple Punnett squares. But Warren did not know what was going to happen tomorrow. Who would be teaching his class? Likely the homework he had assigned would be ignored, forgotten. He did not want to mention yet about the school board’s decision to put him on leave. What would Nora think? Would she become fearful? He did not want to lose her.
“I wouldn’t worry, Nora,” he said, feigning calmness. “I’m sure she’s old enough to know her schedule, right, Libby?”
Libby continued to glance at him, and he wondered if she was nervous as well. If she was thinking about what had happened in his backyard. If she had questions. If she suspected him of — He swallowed, tried to erase the thought.
“You okay?” he whispered to Libby. “With, you know, everything?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a lot. And it’s scary.”
“Yeah, strange. Just permanent, you know. Someone there one minute, and gone the next.”
“Is Evie okay? Her mother made her leave practice.”
“I saw. Don’t worry, Mr. Botts. I’m sure she’s all right. Her mom is just way protective.” Then after a moment, she added, “She hasn’t really been herself lately.”
Warren nodded. “I noticed. Well, I hope she gets better.”
“Yeah. I do, too.”
“Do you want to play checkers?” Warren could see Libby was upset. He wanted to count something, but there was too much movement in the kitchen, too much chatter, and he could not focus. “Scrabble?” Perhaps she was closer to Amanda Fuller than he knew. Maybe they were good friends. The whole thing was such a shock. While he knew he should try to talk to her further, he did not want to ask. What if he said the wrong thing again? What if he made her cry? What if Nora gripped her daughter by the wrist and walked out the door? “Cards? Rummy, or something? I think we have a bit of time.” In a lower tone, “We could do the Punnett squares together. It’s super simple. But,” he thought of Ms. Fairley, telling him not to come back to the school, “I wouldn’t really worry about them.”
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