I chewed my fingernails, spit the peeled strips down over the stairs. My aunt was lying. It had not been anything close to a real day for her. I doubt she even understand the phrase. How could she, when she was always acting?
That night, I kept waking up. Soreness inside my chest tore me from my sleep. As though foreign fingers had hold of my empty stomach and kept yanking me, stretching my membranes to the point of burning. Time after time, I awoke, already sitting up, mouth screaming, my gut full of sharp pangs. I scratched my cheeks, found them itchy and wet with salty water.
Around 3 a.m., I noticed dark shadows drifting across my wall. I rolled over, peered out the window, and saw a strange sky, clouds skittering over the moon. At once, torrential downpours came, and they gusted in with cooler temperatures, wiping away the heat. It felt as though someone had lifted a blanket up, folded it back over the earth.
I slid out of bed, went downstairs, heard the refrigerator rattle and hum. Two hours earlier, my mother had taken her new usual (one and a half flat pink pills) and gone to sleep. She was upstairs, snoring lightly, but the house seemed empty. Had I ever been aware of the sounds Button made? Not consciously, but perhaps my body heard her. Some part of me that was numb, that was inaccessible, must have heard her. Otherwise I would not have noticed the near silence. Pleasing, almost. To hear my throat swallow, my blood rushing through the cords in my neck. I liked knowing I could do what I wanted, go wherever I pleased, and no one would know. No one would care. If I were gone, not a single person in the world would miss me. There was an ounce of freedom inside that little thought. It helped bring me back to myself after my atypical demonstration of emotions after Button died. For a few wearisome moments, those feely eels had encircled my legs. And pulled. Me. Down.
Outside, in the darkness, everything glistened. The rain had lightened; the air was fresh and cool. In the glow from the street lamp, I could see movement on the pavement. Drowning worms had burrowed though the soil, over the grass, and edged onto the driveway.
Wearing only my father’s old t-shirt, I crouched on the asphalt and watched them slither. So methodical in their movements. The army of nightcrawlers. Blind ends twisting, undulating, yet never scrutinizing their direction. Always onward without question. March! Why did they not stay in the safety of soil, soaking in a dirty bath, heads poked above water? What was so bad about a few short moments of discomfort?
Button had been like that, wriggling toward whatever felt good, whatever made her happy. She trusted everyone and everything. A rare human paradigm that led to her dying in a rather grotesque manner. I tried to push the thoughts down. I could feel the eels, cold nubs bumping my calves, my ankles.
At that moment, I can now admit, it was difficult to control my rage.
I stood and moved my toes toward the closest worm. A tap along the swollen length of it, then a light step, and finally my foot settled. The faint sense of pressure, then the gratifying pop. I liked it. I placed my foot upon another worm. A second pop. I took a deep breath, started hopping across the broken pavement, squishing worm after worm underneath my heels. Jumping and dancing, I stomped them into oblivion. There was something soothing about the smears on the pavement, the slippery ooze building on the soles of my feet, the soft smell of digested earth permeating the air. I knew some of them were still alive, worm ends lifting then striking the driveway. Seeking assistance. At some point, would they realize no one cared? No one was coming? They were stuck tight, and when the sun rose tomorrow, they would dry out and slowly die.
I destroyed what I could, and only stopped when a light in my neighbour’s house flicked on. His face was in the window, watching me. I lifted my arm to his image, hoped my waving hand said, Don’t worry, old man, I’m going inside now. I did not need him trying to connect with me, or worse, speaking to my mother. Telling her about the faceless ghost he saw in the middle of the night, naked but for a now-grey t-shirt, racing around in the rain.
Without wiping my feet on the rug, I walked straight across the kitchen floor, into the hallway, up the stairs. A trail formed behind me. As though my feet were stamps, shreds of flesh, blood, mud, and grit. My organic ink. In the morning, my mother would get down on her knees and, with a rough sponge and soapy water, scrape the worms off the linoleum. She would strip my bed of sheets, stuff them into the washing machine, lean against the wall, and wait for them to tumble clean. She would insist I take a bath, and then she would scour the ring around the tub. This might take her hours, and it would be a relief. Hearing her clean instead of complain.
[24]
Fourteen minutes later, someone tapped on the front door. Warren cracked it open and peered out, saw his friend, Gordie Smit, wearing a black bomber jacket with Andy’s Pets embroidered across the heart. The crowd had not thinned, and the police cruiser remained in place.
“Shit, buddy. You got a major crowd of fans out here. Fucking nosy neighbours.” He stepped into the porch, held up an unopened package of cigarettes, and a clear bottle. “You wouldn’t believe how much garbage Daylene got in the medicine cabinet.” Jingling the bottle. “Where’s the patient?”
Warren glanced toward the kitchen, and Gordie moved past him. Within moments, he had knelt down beside Beth, lifted her head. “Wet cloth, Warren. Cold. A glass of water. Now. And a pillow and a blanket.”
He helped her to swallow three pills, “Give it a few minutes, and you’ll come right round,” and she sat up, shivering, pillow balanced on her bent knees. She tried to stand, but he put up a hand, said, “C’mon, doll. Don’t move. Just keep it down.”
“What did you give her?”
Gordie stood up, put his palm flat on the countertop. “Sedative. Probably’ll take the edge off. Daylene’s got them for her nerves. Knocks her fat ass right out. She’s going to lose her shit when she sees they’re gone.”
“I’m sorry, Gordie. I don’t want to be trouble.”
“Oh c’mon, buddy. Have you ever met me? I spend all day in a pet store, staring at rodents and snakes that nobody wants to buy. This is the biggest thrill I’ve had in ages. Besides, you got more than enough going on. Your plate is mile high with crap. Looks like the lot out there want your head on a spit.”
Warren looked at his feet. He was still wearing his shoes. Twenty eyelets. Ten per shoe. “I don’t know why,” he said softly, and touched his glasses.
“Why?” Gordie snorted. “Don’t be looking for a reason. Human nature don’t need no reason.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. I mean. I really do. I just feel bad.” Guilty. He felt guilty. For bothering Gordie. For the sight of Beth on his kitchen floor. For the storm of suffering inside her scraggy frame. For running away at eighteen, and never looking back. But he had to leave. When he finished school, he had to walk out those doors. He thought Beth would forget about him. He also thought his father’s ghost would stay behind on their small farm. But he was wrong on both accounts. Beth and his father followed him. Followed him every place he went.
“Shit, War. What does she do?”
“I don’t know.”
“And that’s your sister?”
“Yes. It is.”
Gordie shook his head. “A librarian, I would have expected. You know? A little matching pair of girly glasses, pencil-in-the-hair type, ready to spew some statistics on book people. But that thing there? Not so much.”
Warren said nothing, carefully moved his glasses back into place.
“Geez, buddy. That sounded harsh. Didn’t it? Might’ve been my asshole talking. It’s a noisy little fucker.”
“It’s okay. She is. I don’t know. She’s in some trouble.”
“You don’t choose, do you? You don’t choose your family.”
“No.”
“Man, though. You’ve had some sort of shit week. Haven’t you?”
A tiny insect was crawling across the left lens of Warren’s glasses, and he took
them off, blew. He watched its wings flutter.
“Buddy?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled as he slid his glasses back on. He felt confused, only aware of what was right in front of him. “I —” then Beth stumbled to her feet, and reached for the package of cigarettes.
“I’m going for a smoke,” she said, and smiled a hazy, suggestive smile at Gordie. An expression that made Warren queasy, and he had to look away.
When the back door closed, Gordie said, “That’s my cue. I’m out of here before Daylene knows I’m gone. She’d give me a quiz that you know I’m gonna fail.”
“Thank you, Gordie. I don’t know what I’d —”
He waved his hand, “Nuff said.”
After Gordie left, Warren retuned to the kitchen, paced back and forth across the floor, counting the number of times he swallowed until he heard Beth rattling at the doorknob. When she came in, her arms were full of yellow caution tape. “What’s this shit?” she slurred. “It was all over the place. Halloween is done. Over.”
Staring at the ribbons of yellow plastic, Warren’s mouth opened. How was it possible that he had forgotten all about it? How could that have slipped his mind, even for a second? Since arriving home he had not looked into his backyard a single time. The image of Amanda never once fluttered up behind his lids. Man, you’ve had some sort of shit week. That was what Gordie had said to him, and he could only think of Beth.
“There was — was an accident back there. An accident.”
“An accident?” She dumped the tangle of tape on the counter. “And there’s three teddy bears underneath a big tree. You getting weird on me, Wars?”
“No, not weird.” Teddy bears? Who had put them there? Someone else had come into the backyard, moving about, or hiding. He had spent countless moments peering into the darkness, but had seen no one.
“Then what?”
“Can we talk about it later? I need to put the tape back.” That would allow him time to make something up. Beth did not need to know what had happened. It would only upset her.
“Yeah.” She yawned, made her way to the couch. He was relieved that the curtains remained closed. “Fuck. I’m wiped. My legs ache. Arms feel like they’re falling off. But I feel better.”
She sat down, drew her knees to her chin. Warren made her a cup of sugary tea, pulled open the cellophane on some oatmeal cookies, and brought her the package.
Between slurps, she said, “War, why did you leave?”
“You ask me this every time I see you.”
“I know.”
“I had to go, Beth. Go to school.”
“Couldn’t you have gone to school closer? Come home on weekends? Come home, ever?”
“I don’t know. I thought —”
“You left me alone. I had no one, you know. No one.”
“You had friends from school, right? Our mother.”
“My friends were shit. And our mother? I don’t want to say she was bad. She just wasn’t much of anything. I did everything I could to get her to see me. Even a lot of shitty stuff, just wanting her to lay into me. Knock me in the face, even. I think she was afraid of me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“She never touched me. Never even brushed against me.”
Warren sighed.
“Things might have been better if he were there.”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“Your father, too.” Warren clasped his fingers together.
“She was just a plain and simple person, Warren. When he died, she died, too. How could she ever trust a single person after that? How could she ever love anyone? Even us? I think about her all the time.”
That’s not how it happened. He was not to blame.
“Now, Father,” she continued. “He was a complicated bastard. Don’t think I ever remember him smiling. Not once.”
“You were five. You didn’t know him.”
“Who did? Certainly not you, even though you want to think you did. Want to think he was perfect. A perfect daddy.”
“I don’t think that and don’t want to think that.”
“C’mon, Warren. That’s the thing with people. They don’t see themselves. They don’t know themselves. Do you think I can step aside and look at myself? Fuck, no. I’d probably slit my throat if I did. Ear to ear.”
“Don’t say that.” He pushed another cookie into her empty hand.
“It’s true. So I fill myself up with shit. It’s going to kill me, but it makes me feel glittery. It makes me feel good. Good enough to live. And I can go from there. But I don’t dare look underneath it. Scrape it off, and see what I got.”
“Beth. You have to. Scrape it off. There’s so much good underneath.”
“Thank you, brother dear.” She yawned, and Warren could see all the way to the back of her throat. “I don’t know who your friend was, but this stuff really works.”
“Gordie. His family owns the pet store.”
“Pet store? Well, thank you, Gordie baby.”
“He’s a kind person.”
“Yeah.” She lowered her head, her body onto the couch. “Sorry I’m always showing up, ruining your life.”
“You’re not ruining my life.”
“I am, War. Admit it. Don’t keep it in. Say it so I can hear it.”
His throat tightened. If he told her the truth, she would never believe him. Having her there, having her safe in his small bungalow, did not ruin his life. It made his life better. It meant there was hope. That there was a possibility things might change.
“I want eggs,” she mumbled. “Eggs in the morning. Six of ’em. No, eight. Fried in butter, Wars. Actual butter. None of that spray shit in a can that Mother used.”
“Non-stick?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t have any. Mist gets in the air. You know, not good for Stephen. I think he might have asthma. And, well, my fish.”
Her eyes were closed, but she smiled. “I love you, Warsie. I love —”
And then she slipped under, disappearing from the world. But still there. Right in front of him. Her heart beating steadily, lungs still moving air in and out. Alive. He covered her with a blanket. Ran his hand over the soft stubble on her skull, bent to kiss her crown. She smelled different now. Less like a rodent, and more like something dried and smoked. A strip of brown meat hanging in a darkened room, air full of chemical pollutants.
“I don’t know how to help you,” he whispered. The hook. It’s stuck tight in your back.
[25]
Funerals bring out the bullshit in people. I understood what to expect, and was not surprised in the least. Everyone in town was there, shaking their lowered heads and spewing whispered thoughts about the shock of it all. Losers. As I waited for the monotonous hour to pass, I heard none of their drivel, the prayers, or the singing. What I did hear was a fucking yappy puppy.
Seated at the end of a wooden row, I was near a wide-open window, and when I stretched my neck, I could see the piece-of-shit animal tied to a bike stand. Whimpering and whining. The dog’s leash was not long enough for it to reach the cool grass, and it did not take a genius to know its paws were burning on the pavement. I stared at its compact body, its foxlike face, foxlike ears, and then I recognized it. Noodle. Fucking Noodle. There was no doubt; that was the dog Button and I had seen after that shitty haircut. Dancing from the heat, she flicked her curly tail back and forth. The tail. Yes. I remembered it all. The same tail Button was not allowed to touch.
The dog yipped.
I made a sincere effort to ignore it. I really did. Tried to face forward and focus on the squat box perched on some wheelie thing with cloth over it. The white box had six closely placed handles on it, which I do not think were necessary. Four handles would have sufficed. Was my mother trying to make
a statement regarding Button’s mass?
The dog yipped.
The collar on my shirt was chokingly tight, done up to the very top, and I yanked at the cotton. I hated anything touching my neck, pushing against my throat. Hated that my mother insisted I dress up like a stupid puppet. Everything made me sweat. Who cared? “People will be looking at you,” she explained as she licked her fingers, patted down the hairs on the back of my head. “God, you should have got your hair cut. So shaggy. In your eyes. Down over your ears like that.” I had twisted away from her, disgusted that strands of my shaggy hair would smell like her fusty mouth. Besides, where the hell did she find her priorities? In some discount aisle?
The dog yipped.
Back to the box. Stay with the box. It was difficult to avoid. Yes, she was in there. The star of this little show. I closed my eyes and imagined her. Lying down, with the lid on. I hated that the lid was on. Cheap gold-coloured clasps locked. I hated that my mother and aunt had somehow decided that was The decent thing to do. To have her sealed in. I was not involved in these choices. When it was me who knew best. Knew her best.
Did anyone even wash the fucking orange off her face?
The dog was still yipping.
I remained motionless, watching the useless ceiling fans near the front of the church. Circulating stale shitty air caused by funeral breathing. Wailing, weeping generally involved increased respiration. It was vile. The fans did nothing to combat it. Lazy rotations, one moving clockwise, and one counter, cancelling each other out. Sweat trickled down the sides of my spine. My legs were sticking to my pants. I snapped my toes inside my wet socks. The Man of the House was standing on a higher level, speaking in low, even, annoying tones. He probably had better-quality air. The fans turning above him. Maybe the placement was designed for that purpose. The holy man gets the fucking air.
Shit. The dog would not stop yipping. And yipping. And yipping, yipping, yipping.
Sliding forward on the damp wood, I wrenched my body around. Where the hell was the asshole bitch? I scanned the crowd, systematically, and of course, had no trouble locating the negligent piece of shit. The idiot was seated just two rows behind me. Two rows. She wore a prim dark blouse with a prissy cardigan, and was squeezed between dorky mother and fat father, and two barely-clinging-to-life geriatrics. The grandparents, I assumed. The five of them were in the family area, but were not our family. We had next to no family, and my suck-up mother did not want those rows left empty. She had invited them to sit there simply because the loose-skinned grandfather had sent over a few bags of groceries. Not a van full, just a few lousy half-empty paper bags stuffed with nearly expired shit. A way of being supportive to the community, he had said. Not surprisingly, when the local newspaper covered Button’s unfortunate demise, they mentioned his generosity in the second-to-last paragraph. They did not mention the green mould creeping across the packaged cheese.
The Substitute Page 14
