The Substitute

by Nicole Lundrigan

  Pinhead Whore caught my angry glare. I expected her to look away, but she glared back. Un-bloody-believable. I admit, with some shame, I was caught off guard by her blatant display of hostility. I had expected to have the upper hand, especially while Button was in the box. I narrowed my eyes, once again, willing her to back down. But then, but then, but then, she actually opened her mouth, pushed her index finger slowly over her bottom lip. I could not fucking believe it. The vomit sign. She shook her body as though pretending to convulse. Rolled her eyes back in her head. Like Button.

  I stood up, striking my mother’s arm (inadvertently). Her prayer book smacked onto the floor, and while she focused on retrieving it, I took a deep step into the aisle. My worn sneakers slipped on the carpet, but I did not fall down. Without making any eye contact, I marched right out of that church. I heard some people murmur, saying it was too much for me, too much, they were so attached, poor thing.

  Stomping straight across the grass, I stopped at the bike rack. Of course I did. I certainly was not going home. Had no plans to take a thoughtful walk all by myself. I tore some kid’s knapsack off the seat of a bicycle, unzipped it, dumped the paper contents onto the grass. Lame pencil drawings, shitty comic book with the cover torn off, chocolate bar that was melted and limp. I leapt onto the bar, and the contents spurted out. I liked the sweet smell. I liked the mess. It spattered onto my pants. Spattered on Noodle.

  Distracted by dirty fur, she began cleaning her side. I bent down near adorable Noodle, and called to her calmly, “Come here, my small friend.” After unhitching her from the leash, she licked some chocolate from the back of my hand. “Not too much,” I said. “Don’t you know chocolate is poisonous to your kind?” Gently, I lifted her off the pavement, and slid her into the open knapsack. “Now that feels better on your paws, doesn’t it?” She sat there, gazing up at me with glittery eyes, her curled tail twitching. She was bathed in a warm red glow. Sunlight penetrating the fabric.

  After zipping the bag, I lifted Noodle onto my back. She barely weighed anything and did not make a sound. We walked four blocks down the street, and turned left into the woods. I could not detect any movement whatsoever in the bag, and when I stopped walking, I assumed the dog was asleep.

  I waited for some time before opening the knapsack, but Noodle was fine. Just fine. Appreciative of the cool soil when she emerged from her carrying case. I could tell because she pranced about, twirling, then leaned down, wiggling her back end in the air. We spent time together, Noodle and I, playing catch with tiny sticks. I petted her tail, uncurled it, watched it snap back up again. Like a metal spring. I thought about Button. Thought about her desire to touch the dog. Stroke that very tail.

  After some frolicking and a small exercise to make amends, I placed her back in her fabric home and walked up to the road. What would I want with a dog? Especially one so small and repulsive as Noodle? I opened the knapsack just a block from my future home, and my small companion ventured out. Timid at first, but she sniffed the ground and promptly scampered in the correct direction. The lively girl. It was nice to witness that sort of enthusiasm, even though she had been through a bit of an ordeal. Such a relentlessly positive attitude should be a good lesson to her owner.

  The pavement was so hot I could smell the melted tar, but after my and Noodle’s little adventure, I doubt she even noticed the pain in her paws.

  [26]

  The next morning, as his sister snored on the couch, Warren went into his backyard. When he reached the tree, sure enough, resting against the trunk were three plush teddy bears. The muzzles were covered in a frosty glitter. There was also a pink candle, wick unlit, and a chocolate bar wrapper. Candy eaten. Warren leaned forward and peered at the bark on the tree. Someone had recently carved a diamond into the flesh of the wood, a bar near each sharp point. A symbol, Warren thought. His mind immediately filtered through every mathematical figure, but he could not identify it.

  He stood up and scratched his head. Then slowly turned around, three hundred and sixty degrees. How could he have lived here for nearly nine months, and never explored his own backyard? He had never noticed the stretch of raspberries, bushes picked empty by chipmunks or squirrels. He had neglected to shape the hedge or trim the shrubs. In all that time, he had never once walked among the tall trees to clear his head.

  A quick glance at his house to make sure his sister was not awake and wandering about, and he slipped between a tight row of yews that bordered his property, entered the surrounding woods. As he walked, he made no conscious decision to turn left or right, just stepped where it felt natural, slightly worn. He passed a hilltop that dropped dangerously onto a strip of sandy beach bordering a huge misty pond. A faded wharf jutted out toward the centre. Pausing on a steep incline to watch the steely water, he noticed a line of ice had formed where water met land. Warren sighed, put his palms out, touched the tips of the wild grass, dried and yellow. Two ducks, no, geese, flew above him, squawking, and then they dipped down, skimming over the water. Floated side by side.

  Nora. Though they had spoken, he had not seen her since Monday evening. Had not touched her or smelled her, or lain beside her as the tips of his fingers eased over her body. He wanted to see her, but now that his sister was there, he was not sure what to do. What would Nora think of Beth? What might Beth do or say?

  Warren continued to walk along the edge of the hill until he came to a chain-link fence, holes torn through the metal mesh, some parts flattened to the ground, gate ripped off the hinges, tossed aside. Without thinking, he stepped over the divider, took a few strides forward, and realized he was standing in a backyard.

  A trailer park. A quick scan and he saw twenty-three, though there could have been more hidden by shrubs, trees. Most of them dented, faded, painted white and red, or white and blue. The one nearest him was salmon coloured, hoisted up onto cement blocks. The shutters were askew, striped awning shredded, and beside the door, a black garbage bag rippled as though kittens were pushing out from the inside.

  “What the fuck?”

  Although it took a moment to recognize him outside of the classroom, Warren saw Adrian Byrd. Appearing there, standing on the sloping deck, lower jaw jutting. He stared at Warren with dark eyes, hands knotted into fists. Even at that distance, Warren saw the stitches on the boy’s face. The black threads criss-crossing.

  “Hi,” Warren said. “I mean. Hi.” Adrian had missed Monday. Warren had no idea if he had returned to school yesterday. Was planning to go today. He certainly did not look ready.

  Hands gripping the rusting rails. “Why the hell you here?”

  Why was he there? Warren looked around, a yard full of dead grass and empty cans. Remains of burned tires. A woman’s soggy coat with a fake fur collar. And a dog, on twig legs, rooting through a massive pile of old papers. He wanted to wrap the small animal in his jacket and retreat. “I don’t know. I mean. You deliver the papers?”

  “Supposed to.”

  “Oh.” He thought of Adrian who biked past his house every Tuesday and Thursday. Doing his job, no matter the weather. “And you leave them?”

  “Who the fuck cares?” Adrian’s feet were bare, covered in mud.

  “Have you been to school?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  Warren walked toward him. Seven steps. “You don’t want to fall behind, right?”

  “And that’s your business?”

  “Not really. No.” What could he say? That he wanted to help? He searched his mind for positive words. “But. I just. It’s important to go.”

  Adrian Byrd did not soften. He glared at Warren, rocking forward and backward, his expression a tangled mesh of hatred and fear. His throat emitted a low growl, sounding like canine distemper. Warren actually glanced at the dog to see if its teeth were exposed.

  “It’s been a difficult time,” he continued. “For everyone.”

  “Fuck you.”r />
  “I know you’re angry, Adrian. Angry at the world.” Something his mother’s friend, Sarie, had said to Warren when he was a teenager. To make him feel better. But had it made him feel worse? He could not remember, and looked at Adrian.

  He grinned, slit his eyes. “The world? You stupid sick fuck. I’m angry at you. You!”

  Warren was not certain what happened next, only that he saw Adrian spring over the railing of the deck and bolt toward him. Before he could count a single second, the boy was there, his fist flying upwards, and for reasons Warren could not explain, he did not lean away. Instead he leaned forward. Into the force of the punch. Making it easier for the boy to reach his face. Knuckles striking his cheek, his thin skin splitting under the pressure. Glasses soaring through the air.

  “Aide!” A woman rushed from the trailer. “Stop it! Stop it! Adrian!”

  The boy ran, then. A startled animal, he darted across the yard, jumped up onto the hood of an abandoned car, and then vaulted over the fence. Escaping into the woods. The dog did not flinch, did not stop its rooting to look up.

  A mint green blur rushed toward Warren. He picked up his glasses and pressed them onto his face. They were not broken, but sat askew.

  “Oh shit,” she said. The woman wore knitted slippers with pompoms on the toes, a long shiny nightgown with a deep slit. Warren could see the sides of her flat breasts, the outline of her bloated stomach. “Shit. Shit. Your face is messed. A real mess.”

  Daubing his pulsing cheek, he looked at his fingers. Bright thin blood.

  “Aide’s a good kid. I don’t want trouble. He’s a good kid. Really.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Mrs. Byrd?”

  “Ms.” Smoothing her nightgown.

  “Ms. Byrd. I’m sure I provoked him. I don’t know what I did or what he’s going through. But I bothered him. Upset him.” Warren retrieved a tissue from his pocket, cleaned the mud from his glasses, slid them back onto his face.

  “He’s just soft. That’s the problem. Born soft in his heart. Trying to roughen himself up now to survive. But it don’t work. He still soft. My girl, now, she’ll be fine wherever she is. Whoever got her. She’ll be good. But Aide. I fought to keep him. They all judge, you know, but I had no choice.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought I might help. If I just encouraged him. I wondered if he was in school.”

  “You his teacher?”

  “Yes.” Warren looked down at his feet. I was.

  “He’s been struggling since that Fuller girl died. Struggling worse. She was here, you know. That night.”

  “She was?”

  “Two of ’em there on the couch. Peas in a pod, now. Like that.” Knitted two fingers together and held them up. “Playing some game with little ships, calling out numbers or letters.” She pinched something off her lip, flicked it. “Above my head, that’s for damn sure. Couldn’t keep up.”

  “Oh.”

  “I think he even walked her home.”

  “He did?”

  “I think. All the way home. Like I said, he’s a good kid.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Tell who? Tell what?”

  “The detective. That’s.” Trying to understand? “She’s looking into what happened. The accident. Her last name is Reed.”

  Ms. Byrd laughed then, bent-at-the-waist type of laughter. Ticking upwards, then a deflated whinny. “I know all kinds about that Deee-tective Reed girl. Used to live here, you know. Three skips away. Too good for us now, though. Driving around, watching us all. Like we’re already guilty.” She scraped her tongue over her teeth. “Nothing I say’ll make no difference.”

  “But, surely. It might be helpful,” Warren offered. Would be helpful to me. He bent his neck toward her. “To know she was here.”

  She straightened her back then, daubed the corners of her eyes. “You are one queer kind of funny. I saw nothing. Aide was home with me. All night. Watching garbage on the television.” Her eyes were like her son’s now, narrow and dark. “Now why don’t you go home, Mister. Not good manners, you know. Traipsing through a woman’s backyard. Surprising them. I don’t know where you learned that, but we don’t act like that around here.”

  “I didn’t mean —” Directly to the left of her head, an iridescent beetle slid through a tear in the screen door. Dropped. Warren heard the faintest click of shell hitting ground. “I’m sorry, Ms. Byrd.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Go home out of it. I got to go find Aide.”

  [27]

  Early the next morning, I went to the cemetery, visited Button. I had come with a gift, and knelt down beside the fresh mound, scooped out a hole in the loose dirt. Placing the item deep inside the hole, I covered it, patted the soil. Button would appreciate my simple gesture. I knew she would.

  After my errand, I returned home, went into Button’s bedroom and sat on her unmade bed. Nothing in her room had been cleaned. Even though she was now out behind the church, drying inside her box, her last worn pair of underwear remained tangled in the corner. A mildewed towel lay beside it. A butterfly-covered summer dress in a heap beside that. Everything was coated in a layer of beige dust. My mother had taken care of nothing, and I was not about to lift a finger.

  I reached under her bed, yanked out Button’s piggybank. A pink pottery hippo with faded white polka dots. Holding it above my head, I closed my eyes, let it drop. I sensed the swoosh of air, heard the splintering smash. I scraped up her coins, stuffed them all into my pockets. Both bulging, hanging down below the raggedy cuffs of my jean shorts, I set off toward Main Street for the pet store.

  The store owner was just about to flip over the sign, Open to Closed, but I slammed my fist on the door, glared at him. He held the door, the bell tinkling above his head, and I brushed past him. The contents in my pocket jangling as I moved.

  “Startled me,” he said. “Made me jump.”

  Six foot, easily, and a balding mass I estimated at three hundred and fifty pounds. I made him jump. I smirked inside, said, “Sorry, sir.”

  “A gentle tap would have got my attention.”

  “I realize that now.” I could smell the animals in their cages. A mixture of shit and cedar shavings. Heard them rummaging about, scratching, gnawing, snuffling.

  “With that type of determined knock, you know what you want, I figure?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied.

  “Let me guess. A goldfish.” Fingers nipping his chin. “No, no. A hamster. Or a gecko. Yeah, that’s it. I’ve got it. It’s a gecko.” Firm nod.

  “Not even close,” I replied, and pointed at the glass-encased bug display on the shelf behind the cash register.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. I’m never wrong.”

  I could not tell if he was arrogant or simply attempting humour. No matter, his verbosity was annoying.

  “Which one?”

  “Third from the left, please, Mister. Upper shelf.”

  He placed the enormous piece on the counter before me, and plucking it up, I brought it close to my face and examined it. “Yes, that’s the one. That’s it.” It would make a nice addition.

  “It’s a beauty, but it’s not on discount, you know.”

  “I know.” I did not know.

  “Do you have enough?”

  Emptying each pocket into my hand, I dropped all the quarters and dimes and nickels and pennies onto the counter.

  “Oh. This might take me a while.” Meaty hand separating the dimes from the nickels, sliding them off the counter and into the cash register. “You been saving long?”

  “No, Mister. Not long at all.”

  “You must have a good job, then.”

  “No. It’s not my money.” He paused his sorting, glanced up, and I, of course, maintained eye contact. Not a comfortable exercise, but I could manage it when needed. “It belongs to my li
ttle sister. She wanted me to come and get something.”

  “Sure, then. You got yourself a nice little sister.”

  “Yes. She wanted to do something in return. I gave her a gift already.”

  “One of these?”

  “No, no. A tail.”

  “A tail, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Like a squirrel tail, or a raccoon tail? That sort of thing?”

  I did not hesitate. “Yes, exactly. That sort of thing.”

  “Does she like it?”

  “Very much, sir. She likes the way it feels. Soft and curly.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Knowing her, she’ll probably keep it until it disintegrates.”

  He chuckled gently, and I saw his large molars, metal fillings. “How about we call it even, so I can stop counting the pennies?”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s fair and reasonable.”

  I turned the Luna moth over in my hands. Pale green wings, four faux eyes, feathered antennae. In a library book, I had read that some cultures believed a Luna moth carried the spirit of a child who died prematurely. A stupidly sentimental notion. Moronic, really. But I admit, I liked the idea of Button sitting on my palms. Trapped inside this large hunk of glass. I would keep her on my night table. She would be the largest insect. The soul of my collection.