“What job?”
“Security.”
“Where?”
He smiled. “An apartment building. Sometimes in a hospital.”
“Oh.”
“Nothing terribly exciting, to be honest. People coming and going. Good time to read, though I suppose some people are satisfied with twiddling their thumbs.”
“I couldn’t be a thumb-twiddler.” I tilted my head twenty degrees to the right. The change imperceptible, but an effective method implying sincerity. “May I borrow one?”
Two rapid blinks. “Would your mother permit you to read such material?”
“My mother?”
“Yes. Is she okay with you reading at that level? Some of it is quite grim.”
“My mother has never involved herself in my reading selections. I have always followed my interests.”
“With her blessing?”
I pressed one sneaker against the other until it squeaked. Why must adults always require reassurance before making a decision? “Yes.” A soft smile. “She’s very accommodating. My interests tend to be, well, mature.”
Nodding. “Well, in that case, you may choose as you see fit. I respect your maturity.”
I paused for a moment, not quite used to this refined level of interaction with an adult. Most could not manage it, and I rarely put in the necessary effort. “I appreciate your kindness,” I replied. I was quickly developing a mild affection for him.
I ran my fingers over the spines, opened a novel, and touched the pages. As always, I found the sensation of paper on my skin bothersome.
Turning toward my neighbour, I said, “You should use your magnifying glass cautiously. On a sunny day you might just light your book on fire. Or yourself.”
He laughed then. He was not laughing at me. I was already aware of that difference.
“That would be a sight to remember,” he said. “I’m quite papery myself.”
“Not something I care to see, thank you.” I smiled at my little lie.
“No, no. Of course not. You’ve had difficult events recently.”
“Yes. Nothing I wish to discuss.”
“No one says you must discuss.”
“Everyone says I must discuss, Mister. It’s terribly annoying.”
He placed his palm on the package of cookies, slid the container back and forth on the countertop. “I understand, and I apologize for probing. It’s not my place. While talking may help some, for others, a thoughtful silence serves the purpose, don’t you think? I believe it should be up to the individual. Do whatever makes you feel better.”
Do whatever makes you feel better. I smiled, nodded. My neighbour was right. I needed to do something that would make me feel better. I was not certain of what that was, but I would think about it.
The kettle began whistling, and at the same time I noticed the wind. Something attached to the outside of the house was flapping. The kitchen had grown dark from the rolling black clouds, but my neighbour did not switch on the overhead light. This pleased me. I felt relaxed, enjoying a leisurely conversation in shadow.
Through the kitchen window, I could see my Mighty Oak. Branches unflinching as the wind slid through. I was reminded of my father, then. An imagined flash of his accident. Bursting out of the windshield of his bright red car, my tree bracing for impact. I wish I could have heard the thud when his head snapped. “Does it bother you I have appropriated your goods?”
He did not laugh at my wording, as I had expected. Instead, he went to the kettle, filled his mug before returning my gaze. “Do you require use of my tree at this time?”
“I do,” I replied.
“Then it is yours to appropriate. Whatever I have. As you see fit.”
“Anything, Mister?”
He showed his false teeth, spread his liver-spotted hands out in a grand gesture. “Mi casa es su casa, my small friend.”
[30]
After Ms. Fairley left, Beth shuffled into the kitchen. She tapped her nails against the counter, then began scratching the back of her neck. “Where’s those things from your friend?”
“The medicine?”
“Yeah. Pills. The pills.”
“In the cupboard. Right in front of you.”
She yanked open the door, took the tiny bottle in her white hands, and twisted the lid. When it did not open, she banged the cover on the countertop, tried again. “Piece of shit,” she hissed, and she threw it onto the floor.
Warren bent to pick it up, and when he pressed it against his palm, the cover came off easily. “Here,” he said, giving her two. “But use water. Just water.”
Her hands were shaking and she sat on a chair, bent her knees up to her chest. Chewed the pills, lay her head on her knees. Audible breathing. “I’m trying, Wars, I’m trying really hard. But it’s wicked shit.” Warren sat beside her, placed an arm around her shoulders, and watched her silently. After twelve minutes, she lifted her head, blinked. “I’m going to get a shower. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Yup.” Back hunched, she stumbled across the living room, knee bumping the coffee table.
After what seemed like hours, he heard the water running, though it did not sound as though water was bouncing off a skull or back. Warren paced the floor. He should knock on the door. See if she was okay. But instead he continued pacing, counted his steps, counted his fish, counted the scattered snowflakes that batted against one square foot of his window. Then the bathroom door opened.
“Wars?”
“I’m here, Beth.”
He rushed down the hallway toward the bathroom. She was wrapped in his bathrobe, her shaved head jutting out the top, her tiny feet hidden by the mass of hitched terrycloth. A piece of dried macaroni, smear of yellow cheese sauce, clung to the collar. He should have washed it, but instead, he had hung an unclean robe on the hook behind the door.
“I think I’m going to —” She sat down in the hallway. Then slid forward. “Hot water. Little dizzy. And sleepy, now.”
Bending, he lifted her, lighter than he had expected. Even through the thick fabric, he could feel her ribs, the bones in her legs. She smelled clean, and like a male. Mint and spice. He carried her to his bed, and slid her underneath the covers. “This is more comfortable,” he said, though she mumbled, “No, no. Warrrrs.”
“Stephen and I will take the couch.”
She looked at him then, a moment of lucidity. “What happened to your face? Did I do that to you?”
“Soccer ball.”
“Ah. That’s some kid.”
“Yes, with some kick.”
He flicked out the lights, and she whispered, “Warsie?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t play hide and seek with you.”
“You can sleep now, Beth. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“No. You need to remember.” Whining.
“I’m not sure.”
“When we were kids.” She opened her eyes, struggling to focus on him.
“Yes,” he said. “I remember, Beth. I remember.” Though he did not. He had very few memories of his sister as a child. Other than a small annoyance that carried around a homemade doctor’s kit, and whenever anyone came within arm’s reach, she would descend, press her ear to a skull, shine a flashlight down a throat, and write multiple tiny prescriptions for rolls of pastel candy.
“You always forgot to keep looking.”
“I what?”
“Forgot to keep looking. For me.”
“Oh.” He knotted his fingers together.
“Yeah. I waited. And waited.” Yawning, and then she brought her chin to her chest. “You forgot you were playing the game. You forgot about me.”
Warren sat beside her on the bed, and when Stephen leapt up, he pulled the cat onto his lap. He counted her soft snores. Though he
had scoured his mind, he never remembered playing with Beth. He remembered either being with his father, or being alone, and Beth pestering him. He continuously told her to go away, and eventually, she did.
He did grow up with the sense, though, that Beth was the one with potential. She was the smart one, and she had the personality. Warren, as Sarie had said, was just an average brooder. No offence meant, she offered. Though it took him some time to admit it, she was correct.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Beth. “I’m sorry I forgot about you.”
Then he stood up, cradled Stephen in his arms, and left the room.
Just as Warren was shaking dry food into Stephen’s bowl, the phone began to ring. It rang seven times, and the answering machine refused to kick in. Warren put down the bag and walked to the phone. The ring was shrill, louder than it had ever been before, and though his hand was unsteady, he plucked it up, brought the receiver to his ear. Said nothing.
“I know you’re listening.” Anger in her voice. “Honestly, can you just grow up for ten minutes?”
He took a deep breath, prickles of guilt moving up through his abdomen. “Sarie.”
“I’m not just calling for a little check-in, Warren. I’m calling about your mother. Which you would know if you’d bothered to listen to my goddamned messages.”
Warren’s heart began to knock, and he leaned against the wall, slid slowly down until he was seated on the floor, phone cord cutting underneath his arm. Afternoon sunlight angled through the curtains, and he could see dust in the air.
“Sarie? It’s not a good time. I can’t —”
“Christ, Warren. Do you think the world will wait for your perfect moment? I won’t be calling you back. I’ve rang you a half-dozen times.”
Half-dozen. Equals six. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
“I’m sorry. I can’t talk. There are problems here.”
“You can’t talk? Problems? This bullshit has gone on long enough. She told me not to call you. Not to bother. But I’m not meek like her, I say what’s on my mind.”
Meek?
“And you’re being a little shit, you know that? You’re her only son, and she is sick. And your sister. Where the hell is she? No one even knows.”
“She’s with me.”
“She is?”
“Yes. She’s asleep.”
“Well, wonders never cease. You can tell her, then. Maybe she’ll want to know. Your mother is dying, Warren. I thought her children deserved that information, but maybe you don’t deserve a thing.”
“Sarie. I’m —”
“Don’t bother, Warren. Just don’t. Even a worthless crow flies back to visit. Flies home to see its mom.” Sniffing, then quieter, “You’re no better than he was.”
[31]
That night, my mother took her pink pill right after dinner, and she fell asleep on the couch with the volume on the television turned down. Lights from the screen flickered over her face. I perched on the coffee table to stare at her, saw the skin on her forehead and around her eyes was thin and wrinkled. I moved closer. Could smell chemicals and stale black tea on her breath. I touched her dry hair, then moved the blanket up over her shoulder.
Sometimes I hated being alone, without distraction. When she fell asleep so early, I often wished she would wake up and talk to me. Say something. Anything. Ask me if I had brushed my teeth. If I had considered a new hobby. If I had taken my vitamins. At that moment, I would even lower myself to playing a game of checkers with her, because she could not grasp the strategy associated with chess.
As I watched my mother, I dug my teeth into my knee, pushing through the jean fabric. I despised myself then, my weakness. Pain in my knee did not alleviate my longing, so I straightened my spine, lifted my fist, and punched myself twice just above my ear. Two sharp smacks with my knuckles. Jolts of bright light, my teeth clanking, and the empty throb soon arrived. I appreciated it. It cut through my infantile longing for maternal affection, and revived my objectivity. What relief to be free.
No longer wistful, the sight of my mother in her relaxing slumber now irked me. I flicked off the blanket so a breeze would chill her back. I moved her hair so that it fell over her face, and stuck several strands up her nose. She was too drugged, did not stir. I stood up, went to the kitchen, paused at the sink full of dirty dishes. Traced my finger though the cheese powder on the countertop. Brown curling pasta stuck to the burner.
In the darkened window, I caught my reflection. My face was narrow, hard, and if I squinted my eyes, turned my head quickly, my peripheral vision saw not me, but my father. I found it abhorrent that elements of his face were creeping out through my own. We had the same eyebrows and nose. The same dip in our top lip. Maybe that was the reason my mother never looked me in the eye. Avoided me at every turn. I reminded her of a person who had tried to destroy her.
Feet stuffed into sneakers, I closed the door quietly behind me, and wandered the sidewalks of my neighbourhood. The night was cold and blustery, and I crossed paths with no one. Not even a stray cat or dog. Dead leaves scraped over the roads, and in the faint glow of street lights, those leaves appeared alive. Large brown insects scuttling toward me. In pursuit. I pretended I was being chased, and I darted behind bushes, jumped low white fences. One portion of a fence had been knocked down, waiting replacement. I plucked up several long rusty nails, dropped them into the pocket of my jeans.
I turned left, then right, and right again. When I walked at night, I never really knew where I was going, but it did not matter. The homes were cookie cutouts of each other. Small identical bungalows, wide lots, front doors painted garish colours. Many were already decorated for the holiday, strings of festive lights on shrubs and roofs. I stopped in front of a family home, red and green Christmas bulbs hanging from thread along the porch, front lawn a display of inflated ornaments, lit up from the inside. The wind moved through them, made the display shudder. The grinning Santa had one finger lifted, in a you’d-better-be-good gesture, and when I darted toward it, walloped it in the stomach, the finger shook back and forth. Telling me I was naughty. Not nice.
Santa was such a fat ugly bastard.
The family was home, and yellow light glowed from the front window. Tiptoeing over, I peered in at them. I enjoyed doing that. Spying on families. Slipping through the darkness, no more detectable than a fragrance in a snowstorm. I liked it best when I discovered them fighting. A father yelling at his wide-eyed children, or grabbing the upper arm of his mousy wife. A casual slap across a timid face. Lifting a toddler up by his wrist, and once, his ear. Those moments always made my mouth water. Made me feel strong. Balanced. Even good (suck that, Santa!). When I witnessed their coarse behaviour, I made a connection. I understood. They presented a clean cover to the world, but lift the skirt, and under the bed were dust balls and stray hair and crumpled garbage.
Noises in the kitchen, and I stretched upwards to see into their home. I had never spied here before. Everything was bright and warm. Perfect father, bearded face, navy pullover, was opening mail with a silver letter opener. In a yellow apron, the mother buzzed about the kitchen, buttering toast, pouring milk into double-handled mugs. Seated on matching stools at the counter, two young twin boys wiggled and waited, their washed hair slicked, striped pajamas on. Enormous Sasquatch slippers swinging. Perfect Mother slid their bedtime snacks toward them, and Perfect Boys bent their heads, ate and poked each other with greasy fingers. Perfect Father glanced up from his mail, mouthed something. I imagined his words inside my head, Now, now, fellas. Easy does it. Almost time for bedsy. I watched them giggle, swing those furry slippers.
My knees bent, and I turned, slid down the siding, leaned against the house. Bedsy. Almost time for bedsy. A tide of disgust washed over me, nearly made me vomit. Why had I thought that? Why had his words been kind? Watching them, I began to shake, and I could feel the ache in my temple. I hated Perfe
ct Family.
Do whatever makes you feel better.
Without making a sound, I crawled toward the blown-up Santa. I held the massive piece of crap in my arms, and for an instant, closed my eyes and hugged his softness. He was cold and hard and overinflated. Unwilling to hug me back. That did not surprise me.
I retrieved two rusty nails from my pocket, made a fist. Gripped those nails so the sharp ends were sticking out between my fingers. I punctured Santa’s beard first, and then his body, poking holes in the vinyl, dragging a nail across his bloated neck. Tainted air began to seep out, his jolly face sinking, ever so slowly. I stabbed the reindeer next. Hit them in their chests, their abdomens, their groins. Then I slashed the blown-up sleigh.
A line of Christmas elves watched from the steps of the family home. So jolly, their chubby faces tilting to the left or to the right. One at a time, I picked them up, used the nails to gouge out their eyes. The bright layer of enamel was hard, but underneath, the plaster was soft and forgiving. I had thought to score the faces, but I liked the empty look they offered when their cheerful blue irises were removed, revealing dull white underneath.
Surveying my accomplishment, I felt calmer. Excited, even. My only regret was that I would not hear their reaction. I could envision it, though. Come morning, they would skip from their home in their matching ironed school clothes, and they would find heaps of deflated vinyl. Spinning around for answers, they would discover twelve blind elves standing around in wonder. The boys would sense an invisible threat and realize they were unprotected by their parents. The illusion dissolved, they would whimper. Though Perfect Mom and Perfect Dad might embrace them, cover their faces, that damp awareness would never leave them.
[32]
Warren paced from the kitchen to hallway to living room to porch and back to kitchen. He did not know what to do. His mind was overflowing with nervous thoughts, and he sensed something else was going to happen. Trapped inside his house, he could only wait. He pushed everything out, erased the tangle inside his brain. Instead, he counted the ticking of the ceramic clock on the mantel. Counted his footsteps. Counted the number of times Beth’s breath hitched in her throat, the number of times she gasped. Warren looked out the window at the tree with the missing branch. It was completely bare now, all the leaves were gone. Once the snow had melted, investigators had come to take photos of the ground. He had cracked open a window, eavesdropped on their conversations. The yellow tape had done nothing to prevent people from sneaking into Warren’s backyard, and the earth was trampled with prints. Boots and sneakers and animal paws. “If there was anything here, it’s surely gone now.”
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