The Substitute

by Nicole Lundrigan

  Libby stopped at the back window, curtain pulled aside. She pointed at the tree. At the streams of tape that lost their glow as the sun descended. “That’s where it happened?”

  Warren stood beside her. Libby was tall for her age, all skin and bone, and would soon outgrow her mother. “It’s best not to look.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m not squeamish.”

  “Still. It might give you nightmares.”

  “I rarely dream.”

  Lucky you.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “A lot of kids are talking about it.”

  “I know, I know.” Stephen circled his leg, leaving a line of hair clinging to his trousers. There were almost sixty thousand hairs per square inch on Stephen’s back, even more on his stomach. Warren had read that somewhere, though he could not recall. Who had taken the time to make such an estimate? Someone like him, he guessed.

  “And the more they talk, the worse it gets. It’s almost like a story.”

  Stephen was a polydactyl cat. Six toes on his front paws. Warren often thought they looked like opposable thumbs. “Maybe that’s what they want. A story. So it’s not real.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess that’s the way some people handle things. Cope.” He wanted to tell her that if the mind was unable to absorb something, it twisted, coloured, muted it into an absorbable form. That was something he could understand.

  “I get it, Mr. Botts.”

  “It’s not bad.” He touched the frames of his glasses. “Just the way some minds work.”

  “Some of them are talking about Adrian. Did you know he had a sister, and they came and took her away?”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know. Whoever comes and takes kids.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Not really. She was really messed up. She had this enormous tricycle, and he used to pull her around with a rope. I saw him. He had the rope tied to the handlebars.”

  “Well, that’s nice. Being a good brother.”

  “Not really, Mr. Botts. One time her hair got caught in the spokes and he didn’t stop pulling her until she was tight against the wheel.”

  “Oh.” Fingers to his lips. “Oh.”

  “And another time, he knocked her over when it rained, and left her there, her face in a puddle.”

  “Libby!” Nora yanked on oven mitts. “Where did you hear something so vulgar? And to repeat it?”

  “I don’t know. I hear it around.”

  “Well, try to unhear it around. I’m sure the girl could’ve got up and walked away, like any normal person.” She shook herself slightly, then clapped her oven mitts together. “Now. Dinner’s almost ready. Libby? Get the paper plates from my bag.” Then, to Warren, “I brought a package. Just makes life easier.”

  “Where’s your bag?” Flat tone.

  “I can help,” Warren said. What size package had she brought? Twenty-five? Fifty? He would count them, one by one. “How about I set the table, if you want to feed the fish? The guppies have already eaten, but the lambchops are hungry.”

  “Lambchops?”

  “Rasboras. That’s what I call them. See the pattern on their sides?” He pointed at one of the tanks. “Doesn’t it look like tiny lambchops?”

  “Not really, Mr. Botts.” Leaning forward, she squinted. “But I guess some people have a good imagination.”

  Warren looked out the window. In the slanting light, he could barely make out the yellow scar on the tree where the branch had been severed. A single point in the universe, vanishing. But he could still see Amanda there, hanging by her neck, the navy pompom on her stocking hat rolling back and forth as the wind slid over her shoulder. As he watched her body, her legs began to flick, as though she were running in place, kicking up grass and leaves, and when she opened her dead eyes, waved at him, Warren very nearly lifted a guilty hand to wave back. “Yes,” he said. “Imagination. Some people do.”

  [19]

  “Everyone is wearing white!” I heard my aunt cheep, as Button and I were coming down the stairs. “Isn’t that so classy? A summer send-off party. And if Harv makes a good impression, they might take him on in the

  business.”

  “Good impression? Aren’t they his family?” My ignorant mother.

  “Confusing, right? He did hit some bumpy patches back a ways. Before he got tangled up with me.” Pops of laughter. “They need to see he’s changed. Reliable. Responsible. That kind of crap. He wants back in the fold.” Pumping the air with her fist, “Back in the fold, baby.”

  “Oh.”

  “But he can do it. He’s real good right now. And Christ, there’s a fortune to be made.”

  “Sounds like a lot of pressure on him. Are you sure you want the kids? Button, sometimes, can be, you know. A handful.”

  “If I didn’t want the kids, I wouldn’t take them. It’s good to show how patient Harvey is now. How much he enjoys regular life.”

  I walked into the mudroom wearing faded jean shorts, a navy t-shirt. Button wore a polka-dotted bikini underneath a pink sundress, and I had pulled her feather hair into two side ponytails. After looking us over, my aunt frowned, and Button held up one foot, stabbed an enthusiastic finger toward her sneaker. Which was dirty grey, though was once white.

  “Jesus.” Eye roll. “Do you got anything else? It’s a white party, not a polka-dot-navy-crap-t-shirt-shitty-footwear party.”

  “She hates your sneakers.” My breath in Button’s ear. “Thinks they’re ugly.”

  “I — I didn’t know,” my mother stammered. “They can change.”

  “No time. We’re already late. Harvey hates this formal garbage.” My aunt touched her hair, glanced at herself in the mirror. Red lips. Even I knew they were too red. And bleeding outside the lines. She placed her hands on her hips, hands off her hips, back on her hips. “No one will be looking at them anyway.” She jammed sunscreen into a plastic grocery bag, two threadbare yellow towels, audibly crisp from drying on the line. “Can you buggers move any slower? Your Uncle Harv got the engine running. Wasting gas.”

  “See soon,” Button sang, and hugged our mother.

  “Bye, Kiddle,” my mother said to me, her fingers grazing my head. “Have a fun time.”

  To eliminate that vile sensation of her touch, I rotated my shoulder, the fabric of my t-shirt scraping over my ear. When I left the house, I did not look back. I knew she was in the doorway waving at us. Such theatrics upon leaving the house had always annoyed me. It was for the neighbours, of course. Someone was always watching. My mother knew as well as I did that Button and I were going to be puppets for the afternoon. A fill-in family. We were not going to war. We were not going to die. She did not need to wave.

  Inside the car, Button pressed in close to me. Her arm against my arm was slippery with sweat, and she pushed her cheek against my shoulder, tiny mouth buckling, my cotton shirt absorbing her drool. I had to keep a grip on her, as she was actually shaking with excitement. While Larva skidded around the corners, she tilted her head, looked up at me. Gently blinking. Giraffe eyelashes, pale glassy eyes telling me she trusted me. I did not know it at the time, but I should have heeded her gaze. Taken it seriously. Taken better care of her.

  On our way to Larva’s sister’s, my aunt twisted in the front seat, faced us. “Best behaviour, right? I don’t even got to say it.” Her words slid out alongside a thin stream of cigarette smoke. “This is Harv’s sister’s we’re talking about.”

  “Un-cah Lahvee’s?”

  “Yes, yes. This is not some trailer park we’re going to. These are fancy people. Real fancy! So, watch yourselves.” With her knuckles, she struck the air vent, ashes from her cigarette tumbling to the floor of the car. “Gawd, Harvey. This thing’s giving off no cool whatsoever. My underwear is right stuck to my ass.”

  “It’s nice
to have a second aunt,” I added innocently. “The more family the better.”

  “Aundie Lahvee Sisdah,” Button squealed, “Aundie Lahvee Sisdah.” I was proud of my protégé, could have patted the little chick on the head.

  “Christ, no.” Pinched in her fingers, the cigarette circled at high speed. “She is not your aunt. You hear me? Not. Your. Aunt. You will address her with respect. No, scratch that. Don’t talk to her at all. Not a peep. Don’t even look at her. Don’t even look at her feet. If you need anything, and you won’t, you talk to me. Or you talk to Harvey. Understood?”

  “So bossy,” I whispered into Button’s ear. “Acts like we’re sloppy pigs.”

  “No, no, dey nice. Dey nice.” Button smoothed her hand over mine.

  As the drive dragged on, Button pressed her side further into mine, and without looking at her, I could sense that her oversized head was nodding. “How much longer?” I asked, but neither of those losers responded. At some point I heard Button snoring and puffing. I could feel the dampness of her drool on my arm. Outside the window, I noticed the streets were becoming cleaner, trees taller, and larger homes further apart. No garbage or yellow spots on the perfect lawns. No discoloured stain on the cement around the shiny fire hydrant. I wondered if any of the asshole homeowners had animals, and if so, where did they urinate? Just before I could open my mouth to ask this vital question, we pulled into the circular driveway of a two-storey. Yellow siding, black shingles, sweet red door. The trees were trimmed into neat cones and globes, and two potted ferns sat on the front steps. Everything was symmetrical, perfect. I hated the house instantly.

  A reedy woman with whip-straight bleached hair swept across the grounds. She wore a long strapless sundress, white, of course, and white square sunglasses. Her chest was an alarming freckled tan. First impression revolved around three words: chemicals, cancer, and cunt. She reminded me of an expensive mannequin with movable joints. “Ah, brother, dear. You’ve finally made it.” She touched his elbow, angled her chin toward my aunt. “And who did we bring this time?”

  Larva cleared his throat, stammered, while my aunt gripped my wrist, painted nails digging in. “This is my family,” she said, and she stroked the top of Button’s head. Button smiled, cupped and pinched her crotch. I tore my wrist away and gazed at the ropy skin on the woman’s neck, her necklace of flat green stones. “Should that not be white?” I asked.

  The bonebag ignored me, gestured toward Button. “Does the child need to use the facilities?”

  “What?” My aunt.

  “The little one. She’s — she’s — I mean, we won’t have that in the pool.”

  My aunt turned to look, “For goodness sake, Button, sweetheart,” then slapped the hand. “Stop it!”

  “Yes, well. Come along,” the stick said. “Everyone is already here.”

  My aunt and I followed dutifully behind Larva, while Button skipped, twirled, pranced, tiptoed. Once freed from the cigarette-smoke chamber of the car, she was erupting with energy, ready to moult.

  “We’ve hired a couple of local teens,” Scrawny announced. “To monitor the young ones as they swim. We can actually relax. Have a drink. And catch up.”

  “Yes, a drink. Harvey’s been doing a ton of work.” My aunt’s voice had crawled up several watery octaves, and I could hear her slurp saliva.

  “Is that so?”

  “He’s got to be the smartest person I know.”

  “C’mon. Look. Leave it.” Larv’s articulate response.

  Once in the backyard, Button bounced away, and I retreated up the stairs to a raised deck. My stomach was still churning from the car ride, and I took deep breaths so the nausea would pass. Sometimes I despised my body. My own physical shortcomings were pathetic, annoying.

  I sat down on the stained wood, and watched. Even though I was right above them all, my presence was disguised by two terracotta planters. The planters were filled with variegated ivy and red geraniums. So traditional, to the point of bordering on banal. I plucked petals and squished them into the lattice, leaving red streaks. Some parts of the deck were peeling, lifting, and with my fingernails, I worked away what I could, let the curls of wood drop through the slats. This exercise was unsatisfying, but it did distract me from my stomach woes.

  Spying on the crowd below, I saw several children splashing, screaming, probably pissing in an aqua-coloured pool. Adults clung to a table covered in white cloth, wine bottles, warm fruit, sweating smelly cheese. They were chattering like squirrels, smoking cigarettes, gulping from long-stemmed glasses. And, of course, they were all dressed like moronic angels. The men in white shorts and pressed shirts, the women in flowing white dresses, sheer blouses, basic sandals.

  And then, my aunt. The angel whore. Although wearing white, she must have greased her body before she slid into that second, paler skin. It was amusing to see her so out of place, a bloated pear in the apple bowl. Tight jeans, tight shirt with a deep neckline. Hint of yellowing in certain areas, and a classy grey line of sweat on her back. Even from my position, I could hear the exposed nail on the bottom of her cheap white heel scraping the flagstone. Curiously, Larva remained beside her, even occasionally touched her damp spine with his hand. The only reason for this had to be his supreme asininity. Or else he was rendered immobile by a broken flip-flop. His doting behaviour was incomprehensible.

  Right beneath the upper porch where I was stationed, the hosts had arranged a children’s area. Dishes of dye-riddled candies, disgusting red chips, cheezies, cookies, large bottles of brightly coloured soda. Button had no interest in swimming, and was perched beside the food. Of course. To say she enjoyed junk was an understatement. Her dress had disappeared, and she was wobbling about in a skewed, overstretched bikini. I followed her movements as she skulked around the table, trying to ram as much as possible into her mouth before someone told her to stop. She circled then, like a scolded puppy, only to return moments later, pushing more into her mouth. Revelling in near-limitless access. There was an actual trail of debris marking her path. Then, with unsteady hands, she filled a tall plastic glass with orange liquid. Gulped it down, refilled. Clutching the overflowing glass, she finally left the crap-food table. Her stomach, jutting out over her bikini, appeared inflated. Way to show some control, Button.

  The speed of what transpired after Button’s sugar binge was astounding.

  Beverage in hand, she was weaving in and out of the adults, her carbohydrate-induced cackle cutting through the chatter. She was talking non-stop at high speed. While it may have sounded like gibberish to others, I knew she was searching for me. She was searching for me. A fact I cannot forget, though I have often tried to erase it from the narrative. I heard her saying my name. Over and over again.

  Instead of revealing my location, I pushed in closer to the planter, slid down behind the geraniums. I was not in the mood to be the one to twist the cup from her hand, wash her disgusting face. Force her to sit and breathe while she was wired, frenetic, bursting out of her skin. Music thrumming in the air, she danced among the adults in her undersized bikini, half of her backside and her fatty breasts exposed, distended belly smeared with candy dye.

  “Isn’t she sweet?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, but someone should clean her. Should they not?”

  “Can she not clean herself? At that size?”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Do you remember those troll toys with the big guts and wild hair? I had one as a pencil topper.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Watch it there, little one.”

  “Can we get one of the teen helpers over here? Hell-oh?”

  “Who does she belong to?”

  “Jesus, she is so goddamn hyper.” I recognized my aunt’s voice. “Harv? Harveeee?”

  Button continued, fluttering among the recoiling adults. I even heard her belch. Slap her stomach. Laugh maniacally. I had never seen her more jubilant, as the
doctor would say, than those moments when she twisted and twirled, high on empty carbohydrates and artificial dyes. My sister was happy, full of joy and summer love, until she and her drink-filled hand slammed right into the sinewy body of Aundie Lahvee Sisdah.

  [20]

  Something slammed against his front door. A thud that made Stephen jump, water from his bowl sloshing onto the floor. Warren knew what it was. The local newspaper, several sheets of articles and advertisements wrapped around three pounds of flyers. Complimentary garbage.

  Warren had told the boy, time and time again, he did not want it. Just to skip his house. “Call it in,” the boy said. “I did,” Warren had replied. “Left a message. No one calls me back.” “Not my problem,” he said, swinging another deadly bundle through the air.

  “It’s okay, Stephen.” Warren opened the fridge and removed a thin strip of raw meat. He dropped it onto the floor, and rubbing his fingers together, he coaxed the cat out from under the table. “Here,” he said. Stephen edged toward the prize and took the meat in his jaws. He chewed until tears dripped from his eyes, moistened his black and white face.

  Last night, after Nora and Libby left, Warren had unplugged his phone. Now he noticed the red light on the answering machine was flashing, a repeating pattern. One, two, three messages. Thumb hovering over the button, he flinched, then pushed.

  Sarie’s voice filling the room. “Warren, Warren? Are you there?” Then a long beep, and her voice again. “Get back to me, darling. Really. Please. I didn’t mean to sound harsh on Sunday. You know me. It’s important. If you’re in touch with your sister, I need to talk to her, too.” Warren’s mind spat out the exact number of days since he had spoken to Beth.

  Another beep. The sound of air sucked through teeth. And then Detective Reed’s voice. “Oh, hi, Mr. Botts. Can you come in this morning? We have a —”