“You are lucky today,” she said. “That thing could have chewed you up.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I was watching you.”
“You were?”
“I’m always watching.”
“Oh.” He lifted his legs.
“Don’t budge,” she yelled, then punched him in the stomach. “I need to examine you.”
“Get away from me. I don’t need to be examined.”
Tugging at the leg of his pants, she touched a cut, raised her fingers to show him the blood. “You got a serious wound there. Can I use a tourniquet?”
Warren leaned forward and looked at the scrape. “I don’t need a tourniquet.”
“You could bleed to death.”
“It barely broke the skin.”
“Oh, c’mon, Wars. I’ve never done one before. I want to practise.”
“Like that’s a life skill you need.” He stood up, then, turning the mower back over, yanked the cord.
“Please?”
“Leave me alone.” It coughed back to life, and he shoved it back and forth, tried not to look at the cuts in the rubber soles of his sneakers, the shredded leg of his pants.
“You’re so dull,” she had hollered over the motor. “Just dull. You need to talk to someone, you know. My chair is open! I’m cheap!”
Warren touched his glasses, pressed them back into place. Why had he not thought more about Beth when he left home? Why had he not realized she needed him? Wanted a brother, a friend. He could not understand how, in the years since he left, she went from child charlatan to what she was now. Had his absence contributed? He could have offered for her to come live with him. Gone to his school, studied something. She was more than capable. Instead he took off, and never looked back. Held so tightly to the barb of hatred he had for his mother. As though that emotion were the elastic keeping his blades from spinning.
He stared up at the ceiling of the jail cell. He tried picturing his mother’s face. Her shy smile. He had been so certain of that small, single fact. His mother was to blame. And now, nearly two decades later, when he turned the whole thing over in his mind, he could not identify one logical reason to support it.
“And can someone get the man a pair of shoes?”
Wood smacking against wood.
A slender man with a gun on his waist was removing the cuffs around Warren’s wrists. The judge had spoken for several minutes, but Warren drifted away. In the courtroom, everything was made of darkly stained wood panels, and he tried to determine how many individual pieces were needed to build the entire room.
“Dr. Botts? Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Judge says there’s not enough to hold you.” His lawyer did not blink. “Seems the detective’s actions were a bit premature.”
“I can go?”
“Yes. Absolutely you can go. But you need to stay close to home for now. I’ll check in with you, though.”
Warren rubbed his wrists, shuffled through a low swinging door, moved between the benches. Detective Reed’s eyes focused on his face, did not waver, and Warren looked down at his socks. Felt them catch and hitch on the rough wood. He did not have to go with her or talk to her. He would take a taxi home.
As Warren left the station, a woman approached him. She wore black pants, a jean jacket, and a looping orange scarf. The heels of her boots dug into the grass, but she did not move to the cobblestone sidewalk.
“Sir? Excuse me, sir?”
Warren blinked, touched the arm of his glasses, traced the plastic line back to his ear. He did not recognize her, but believed he should. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you have a minute?”
Tiny stones were digging into his feet, and icy cold moved up through the soles.
“I would really appreciate it.”
Her gentle insistence made him pause. Perhaps she was a marketer. Warren always pitied those people who came knocking door to door, or strolled up to him in a supermarket, clipboard in hand. Selling subscriptions to magazines or pushing credit card applications or lawn-care services. What terrible employment, he always thought, and did his best to listen attentively before explaining that he was in no position to purchase their services. He was always apologetic.
Even now, looking at the woman’s hopeful face, he felt a soggy guilt.
“We’d like your side, Mr. Botts. It’s your time to talk. Tell us what really happened?” A fat microphone appeared out of nowhere. “What really happened?” Another step toward him, her hand moving closer to his face. “Give us your truth. We can set the record straight.”
Warren felt dizzy, exhausted. “I can’t. I can’t talk to you.” How could he have thought she was a marketer?
“What did you see — hear? That night. Take me through it. Every detail. I can give you a platform, Mr. Botts. Tell us your side.”
Warren shook his head.
“Tell us how Amanda died.”
Hands up, “Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.”
Then a man rushed closer, stout, bearded, black plastic in his hand. Swift movements, jostling Warren, and lightning flashed in his face. One, two, three pops. “Got a good one,” the man yelled.
Warren, tripping in front of the courthouse, in a sweatshirt and dirty socks, glasses askew, smudges of navy ink beneath his eyes.
[37]
My aunt lifted her feet onto the coffee table, flicked her toes inside her pantyhose.
“Like a picture, isn’t it?”
When I turned my head toward the window, the street light burst to life, as if on cue, and the thick snowflakes were visible.
“Isn’t it, though? Here we are. A perfect holiday scene.” Cheerful Mother.
Perfection, indeed. How to describe it? The fire was crackling and the Christmas tree twinkling. Smells of turkey and spice hung in the air. Someone on the radio was singing carols with a soulful voice. My mother was humming, and my aunt (bless her and her unborn child) was nestled into the shoulder of her sleeping amour. We were like a holiday card of joyfulness. And to steal my sister’s special word, we were jubilance personified. A pretty, pretty picture.
Button, are you watching this bullshit?
My aunt emptied her glass. Again. And I was up on my feet before she could say Kris Kringle, wrinkled cup towel over my forearm.
“Another?” I said.
“What’s gotten into you, Kiddle?”
“I don’t know.” Sweet grin. “Holiday spirit?”
“Well, I like it. But I shouldn’t. Really. Should I?”
“It is Christmas.”
“Harv?”
“He’s passed out.”
“Okay, Kiddle. Seeing as you look so sharp in that shirt. Don’t want to disappoint the butler.”
I plucked the glass from her hand. “Another of the same?”
“Sure, Kiddle. But don’t tell Harv.”
“Not a chance.” I winked, went to the kitchen. Dumped gin in her glass, each drink progressively stronger. I could hear my aunt and mother cheeping around the corner, Larva’s snores whenever they paused for breath. Two loser hens. One fat rooster.
“Yes, oh, yes.” Slightest slur. “The doctor said a splash here and there was perfectly acceptable. Harmless.”
“Of course it is.”
“Women have been growing babies, sure, for thousands of years.”
What did they do before that? Pluck them from a tree?
“Yes. People always going on about this and that, but I doubt we got much control over what happens in there. Why stop living your life?”
That was my mother, announcing her support of fetal drunkenness. Severe underage drinking was totally acceptable. Why not have a chug or two at twelve weeks in utero? Not like the thing can get into much trouble. Get
all rowdy and punch up those uterine walls. Jab to the placenta. Pass out in its amniotic fluid.
I dribbled in a little more, then returned, pleasant faced, with the refreshments.
“Isn’t it quiet this year?” My aunt, again.
My mother knotted her fingers together in her lap.
“It’s so much more peaceful this Christmas, and I, for one, appreciate the calm. In my state, it’s a welcome relief. I’m sure I won’t have it for much longer!”
My aunt took a long sip, and I watched my mother’s chest rise and fall. She said nothing in response. We all knew the house was peaceful because of my sister’s absence. Why did my mother not react?
“Mother?” A distraction to control my anger.
She straightened her back, frowned at me. I loved how she always appeared nervous when I directed my attention toward her.
“What.”
“I think it’s time.”
“Time?”
“I would like you to open my gift.”
“Oh — oh. Your gift.” Relief in her settling eyebrows. “Yes, I can do that. It’s okay, right? Nobody minds?”
“Who would mind?” I glanced at my aunt, who had her chin pressed into her chest, and appeared to be admiring her swollen breasts. “Besides, it’s nothing much. Not worth getting excited over.”
“Now, now. I appreciate it, whatever it is.”
Liar.
I handed her the box. “Okay. I’m excited,” she trilled.
Liar, again.
One of the many things that annoyed me: watching a hesitant person opening a gift. My mother picked at each individual piece of tape with her chewed fingernails. Next, she unfolded the paper and laid the box aside. And then she folded the used sheet of wrapping into a neat square. One side over another side, smoothing, creasing. I wanted to get very close to her greasy face and yell at her, Time is passing! Time is passing! But I counted my teeth with my tongue. I counted my mandibular cusps. I thought about that little flap of skin that connects the upper lip to the gum. Did that membrane have a name? Time is passing. Finally, she brought the box to her lap and opened it up.
“I thought you’d never get around to it,” my aunt said.
Rare words of truth from that filthy mouth.
Inside: two bottles of salon-quality styling products, a boar-bristle brush, and a nail care kit.
“Where did you get this?”
I widened my eyes, blinked. “At the hairdresser’s.”
Unzipping the nail kit, she opened it up to find shiny metal tools laid out on a velvet interior. “It looks so — so expensive.”
“I did chores for, you know. Our neighbour.” She glanced at me. “I know, I know. You think it’s weird that he’s always on his front porch. My estimation, though, is that he’s quite average.”
“You’re right. Of course, you’re right. He just keeps to himself. Who am I to judge?”
It was exceedingly easy to alter my mother’s opinion. Just a few words, and she had morphed from neighbour-phobic to neighbour-receptive.
She stood up, held my shoulders. “Thank you, Kiddle. That was very kind of you to spend your hard-earned money on me. I appreciate it.”
Then. She. Hugged. Me.
Actually placed her arms around me and squeezed.
Of course, I flinched. My waiter towel fell to the floor. I was not startled, but I despised the tactility. Pressed out against it, in fact, the way I imagined a moth might press against a cocoon. “Yup, yup. That’s enough. That’s good enough.” My words were muffled in the shoulder of her fuzzy sweater.
In that moment, I abhorred my mother. Found her repugnant. Loathsome. No better than trash. It was not simply a hug, but an over-hug. Her gesture had nothing to do with the junk I had stolen months ago, wrapped in already-used Christmas paper. No. It was a second-rate attempt at connecting, designed not to show affection, but to alleviate her guilt. Her vulgar display had nothing to do with me.
“Stop it. You’re choking me.” I broke free from her grasp, stepped back, scowled at her. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing through her mouth. I watched her eyes glaze over again.
“I — I don’t remember you being so hard.” Stuttering. “Your bones all sticking out like that.”
“I’m not har —”
“Well,” singsong voice again, “I should check on the turkey. Get this dinner underway.”
Then she left the room. Left me alone with my aunt and sleeping Larva. My aunt moaned. “I’ve been glued here too long. Can you help me up? I’m bursting to piss.”
I picked up the towel, wrapped it around my forearm, and let her touch me there. Away from my skin. With further moaning, she hoisted herself up, “The springs on that couch are abominable,” then wavered down the hall to the bathroom, stopping to touch the walls, putting her palm to her cheek, pausing with her hand on the doorknob, finally disappearing, closing the door.
I followed. Of course I did. My aunt was looking decidedly unwell.
After several minutes, I gently tapped on the door. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, Kiddle? You there?” Bathroom door cracked open, my aunt was leaning on the toilet, peering out. “Can you go get your mom?”
“Oh, geez. She’s just lifting the turkey out of the oven.” I leaned my head to the side. “Do you need extra toilet paper?”
“No, no. Not that.” Coughing. “I’m just feeling a little light-headed. Not myself.”
“Oh, dear. Should I wake up Uncle Lar — um, Harvey?”
“I think I’m fine. I’m just. I don’t know. Maybe a drink of water?”
I nodded, mock concern. “You want a drink of water while you’re sitting on the toilet? No offence, but isn’t that kind of nasty?”
“Of course I don’t. Of course not.” She slammed the door.
Sliding down against the wall, I began counting backward from one hundred. There was no way I was leaving the hallway. I wanted to witness everything. I had only reached sixty-three when I heard the familiar creak of the door. In the narrow opening, I saw her bloodshot eye, a bunch of fabric, a flash of her bare leg.
“Kiddle?”
“Yes?”
“You still here?”
“Apparently so.”
“Is your mom still at the turkey?”
“Yep, again.”
“Can you get her?”
“If you really need her. But you know how she is about the turkey. Is something wrong?”
“Well. I don’t know. I can’t be. I mean. I’m having a bit of. Well.”
“You don’t feel good?”
“I don’t. No. I don’t feel right.”
“Stomach pain?”
“Yes, yes. And a bit of. Well. Something not normal.”
“Normal?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know, you did have a few glasses of, well —”
“Splashes, Kiddle. Not glasses. Mmm.”
“That could make you feel off. Especially in your condition. Did you know your blood volume increases during the early stages? Plasma is increased at a greater rate than red blood cells, so that’s probably why you’re feeling a little off. It’s called hemodilution.”
“Thank you, Kiddle. That’s, um, reassuring.”
Gentlest expression. “I thought it would be.” Then, “Why don’t you just put some water on your face? A cold cloth?”
“I — I’m afraid to get up.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
With both hands, she gripped the inner portion of the doorknob. “Someone turned on the tap.”
“You want me to turn on the tap?”
“No. The tap. Like. Inside me.”
She was bleeding.
Shivering, she closed the door again, and I continued my backward c
ount. After I reached zero, I counted all the way down to absolute zero (Kelvin, of course), and then stood up, pushed open the door, peered in at my aunt. She was bent over on the latrine, one hand gripping the countertop, the other reaching outwards, grasping handfuls of air. Her skin was pale, appeared damp. Likely sticky, but I was not going to reach out and examine it. Obviously. I could see blotches of red on her legs, on the side of her thigh, on the toilet, her fingers, the shower curtain. To be honest, the entire scene was rather grotesque, and I was not quite sure how to absorb it. Everything appeared slightly, well, distorted. I had planned for stomach upset, a ruined meal, maybe she might crap her pants in front of Uncle Larv, but not quite this.
Cause and effect. I had not fully defined the parameters in my contraption, and suddenly the effects were out of my control.
“Button?” she whispered. “Is that yooou? Buh-uht-ton!”
Button?
Elastic band snapping. Why was she asking for Button? My Button. Was she delirious? I stared at her, hating her. Hating her. Hating her. I remembered watching Button convulse on the cement, orange soda trickling from her nostrils. I remembered the sounds in her throat, the candy smell on her skin. I remember my aunt telling her to “Show some respect to your Uncle Harv.”
I hated that whore pig. Hated her guts. Hated the cells that lined her guts. Hated the molecules that made up those cells.
She reached out, dirty filthy hand trembling, her eyes squeezed shut. Her feet were spread on the linoleum, but connected by a ridiculous stretch of pantyhose. She was trapped, and the sight of her suffering did not frighten me. If anything, it made me feel warm. Full of a curious satisfaction, as though I had eaten a nutritious meal, high in protein.
“Button’s not here,” I hissed.
Then, in between (rather unflattering) groans, “Need help. Call help.” She twisted her head, and our eyes locked, in a genuine, touching moment of personal connection. “Oh god oh god oh god. Please, please.”
The Substitute Page 20
