The Substitute

by Nicole Lundrigan

  Between retches, I heard a punchy cry erupt from her mouth. “Hurry.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t worry, I’ll go wake your boyfriend. Post-haste.” And I turned the knob, ever so quietly closed the door. So as not to wake anyone.

  [38]

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Gordie Smit clapped Warren on the back as he came into the kitchen. He dropped a paper bag on the table. “Saw this on your front step.” Newspaper folded underneath his arm. “Not your best look, buddy.”

  “No,” Warren said, as he took the paper. He saw his face. A tall man with slit eyes, scowling, body leaning to the left. A man that looked as though he had something to hide. Warren angled the paper, read the headline just below the fold. Student hangs from teacher’s tree. Then, in smaller text: Gifted student dies, teacher expresses remorse. He folded it again, placed it in the corner near the fridge.

  “I don’t even get it. It’s not like they get paid more to write trash. The newspaper’s fucking free.”

  Warren adjusted his glasses. “But people read it.”

  “Listen, buddy. Don’t let it bring you down. You should see my mugshot. Stole my grandmother’s car when I was eighteen, and she called the bloody thing in. Wouldn’t let it go, either. What a piece of work she was.” He tore open the bag, and spicy steam rose up. “Come on. I’m starved. Could eat a whole cow, hooves and all.”

  “Thank you.” Warren’s voice cracked slightly. “I appreciate this.”

  Gordie sat down, pulled a barbecue wing from the pile, and pushed the whole piece into his mouth. “Okay,” Gordie said, talking around the small bones. “I can’t avoid it anymore. I got to ask. About the girl.”

  A scoop moved through Warren’s stomach, hollowing his gut. He could not talk any more about Amanda Fuller. He wanted to forget. Pretend none of that had happened. Was happening.

  “I mean, how is she? Your sister.”

  A moment of relief, and then a second scoop, duller, wider, scraping at him. His sister. His mother. When he returned from his night away, he found her crouched in a chair, watching television, hood up over her skull, chewing on her nails. He still had not told her anything. The moment had not been right.

  Warren shrugged at Gordie, used a fork to lift two wings onto his plate. Tongs to serve French fries. “Good. Better, I think. It’s hard to determine with any accuracy. She’s sleeping now. Took some of the medication you brought.”

  “She’s —” Gordie twisted a tall can of beer from its plastic holder, snapped open the lid. Three long gulps, followed by a pop of gas. “Your sister. She’s, um.” He wiped his mouth.

  “I’m sorry?” Warren shifted in his seat, pressed his spine against the back.

  “Okay, War. I can’t sugarcoat it for you, buddy. Your sister looked like shit.”

  “I don’t know what to do with her.”

  “Fuck. Superglue her to your wall until she quits whatever it is she’s sticking in her body.”

  “I don’t know how to do that. I would try, if I could.”

  “Yeah. Shit. I got no sister, buddy, but I’d say that sucks.”

  Warren nodded, with knife and fork pulled chicken from the bones. Chewed gingerly, sniffed.

  “Extra spicy, hey?” Gordie said, and winked. “Don’t like them no other way.” Spitting bones onto a cardboard lid. He leaned toward Warren, said, “Did I tell you Daylene’s on about having another one?”

  Eyebrows raised, “Another one?”

  “Kid.”

  “That’s nice. Isn’t it?”

  Gordie shook his head. “You got to be kidding me. I already got three, and I’d give two and a half of them away. If I could.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “Yes, and she’s right on my back. Says even numbers are better. Even makes more sense. Two boys, and two girls. She needs another girl. How the fuck do you make life decisions based on even and odd? It’s not a goldfish she’s talking about.”

  Warren glanced at his fish tanks. He understood numbers. He understood goldfish. He tried to keep his focus on Gordie, remain attentive. It was good to have a conversation about something normal.

  “I mean, it’s a whole creature,” hand pulling another wing from the pile. “And they don’t stay little, buddy. They might be cute when they tadpole-sized, but I got a nine-year-old. He melts down, and fuck me if I’m not afraid of the little bastard.”

  “It can’t be that bad.” He thought of Nora. The pain in her expression when she mentioned her desire to have a dozen children. But with her husband’s constant back and forth between home and hospital, Libby had remained an only child.

  Gordie shuddered, gnawed bones, then rubbed his greasy fingers on the paper serviette, bright orange stains. “You got no idea, my friend. No idea.”

  They were silent for a moment. Warren stabbed a fry, brought it to his mouth.

  “The police thing going to stop now? They stop bugging you?”

  Warren frowned. “I don’t know. Detective Reed, she thinks —”

  “Detective Reed? Jennifer Reed?”

  Warren could not remember her first name. Or if he had ever learned it.

  “Jesus, Warren. Watch your back with her. She’s as squirrely as it gets.”

  “You know her?”

  “Everyone knows her.” Grinding a handful of French fries between his teeth, he snorted. “She was the go-to in high school.”

  “Go-to?”

  “C’mon. You know what I mean. She banged every single dude who was ready and willing, and believe me, there was a lineup. Around the corner and across the parking lot. Then she went away for a couple years, and came back with a gun on her hip. And now she’s giving us the shaft. Fucking us sideways. Every chance she gets.” Waving a wing in the air. “Three tickets last year. One for jay-fucking-walking. Not a car in sight.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.”

  “Trust me, buddy. She’s squirrely and she’s a man-hater. Chip on her shoulder the size of a boulder. But she’s hot though, isn’t she?”

  “Hot?”

  “I know you’re with Nora and all, but don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Why else do you think she’s the one chasing you? To put you at ease as she slides her hand up your ass, tickles your kidneys.”

  “She’s not, um, putting her —”

  “I wouldn’t talk to her no more, my friend. Wouldn’t touch her. Wouldn’t even look the bitch in the eye. I’m sure your lawyer said the same shit. She gets an idea in her head, and she won’t let it go.”

  “He said I don’t have to talk to her. I’m not supposed to. It doesn’t matter if I’ve done nothing.”

  Gordie continued ripping meat from tiny bones, but Warren drifted out of focus. He saw the sticky wings, smelled the spice and vinegar, the grease on the fries, on Gordie’s cheeks and lips. Warren had eaten only three wings, while he estimated the remains on the cardboard lid to be closer to thirty. If there were four consumable portions per chicken, Gordie had now consumed the wings of seven or eight birds. And he was still going. Warren wondered about those maimed birds. He wondered if he should save some for Beth. He wondered about Gordie. All that he did and said. His comfortable banter. Was it only a costume? Did he worry about anything real? Was he the same as most other men? Needing to distract himself from the simple fact that he existed?

  “Yeah, everyone’s gunning for your head on a platter.” Gordie smacked the table and Warren clicked back into the conversation. “Daylene didn’t even want me coming over here. I told her to lick me, of course. Food and beer with a buddy. Who’s going to pass that up?”

  Warren placed his fork on the serviette, knew the tines would stick to the paper.

  “I mean, I tell them they’re stupid. I got a nose for shit, and you’re as straight-laced as they come. That the girl was some messed-up teen acting stupid. Probably some p
rank gone wrong.”

  Warren’s stomach twisted. Scoop moving through again. “Oh.”

  “The lot of them. Like to talk, talk, talk. Hens in action. Few roosters, too. I seen Wilkes out front. Nosy bastard.”

  Warren gazed out the back window. Even though his view was blocked by his own reflection, he knew the tree was there. Branch missing, cut weeping. A growing mass of toys and notes and unlit candles piled around the base of the trunk.

  Gordie stood up and dragged the garbage can closer to his seat, scraped bones into the black bag. An empty tomato juice can had fallen out, lay on its side in a puddle of rusty red. Beth must have drunk it, missed the can when she threw it out. Warren blinked, heard the first wave of Gordie’s words, tried to continue listening, but they began to morph into the background.

  An involuntary snapshot of his mother jumped into his head. Sleeping in the days after his father had left. Her head on a pillow, but he could not see the usual white of the pillowcase. When he crept toward her, he realized she had stuffed the pillow inside of his father’s favourite sweater. She pressed her face into the mound of worn knitting, and Warren could hear her slowly inhaling and exhaling. Her fingers picked out little bits of bark and seed husks, then tucked them back in among the woolly strands. When he tiptoed backward, he heard her say, “Come back. Please. Please come back.” But he did not move closer. He left her lying there, unable to determine if she were speaking to him, or speaking to his dead father.

  “Hey, buddy. You in there? Warren? You didn’t eat much.”

  “I’m sorry?” Mouth open, Warren glanced around. They were in the porch of Warren’s house. Through the glass he could see the people, shuffling their feet, talking amongst themselves. Warren looked up, focused on the moon, low and bright orange in the black sky. Stars flickering.

  “I hope your sister’s up and around soon.” There was a shimmer on Gordie’s face. “Thanks for hanging, buddy,” he said. His open hands held his waist. “If someone poked me with a pin, I’d bloody burst.”

  Warren nodded, smiled, but he did not know how he got there.

  As Warren closed the door, he could hear Beth vomiting in the bathroom. Retching, retching, then gasping and moaning. Without calling out, he walked into the kitchen, turned off the offensive overhead light, began to tidy up the beer cans and remains of the food. He decided against saving the sticky leftovers for Beth. Even a healthy stomach could barely manage the spice and the grease.

  While he waited for her to emerge from the bathroom, he sat on the floor and watched his fish, different species clustering together, moving in unison. Small teams. His lone Betta wriggled through the fernlike plants toward him, and Warren lifted the black lid, pressed a pellet of food to his fingertip, and let it hover over the water. The fish leapt up, biting his skin, pellet consumed.

  There was silence for a moment, then the gagging continued. Warren imagined his sister was a child with a stomach virus. No older than six or seven, cheeks flushed, nest of uncombed hair sticking out of her head. He would make her a tea, spearmint with honey. She had liked that as a child. He remembered her slurping it from a doll’s spoon. Maybe while she sipped the tea, they could talk. About the mess his life was in. About their mother.

  As he was about to fill the kettle, he saw movement in his backyard. Near the tree. Without the glare of the kitchen light, he could see things clearly. In the bright moonlight, a person, a boy, walked out of the woods, and stood there. Light-coloured sweater, ball cap. This was the first time he had caught someone trespassing, and anger shot through his limbs.

  Warren rushed out the back door, across the wooden deck, but not onto the frozen grass. “Hey!” he yelled. “Just what do you think —”

  He stopped when he saw the boy’s face.

  It was Adrian Byrd.

  The boy did not skitter away, as Warren expected, but held his ground, facing the house, hands thrust deep into his jean pockets. He wanted Warren to recognize him, to know that he moved at his leisure. Ten, eleven seconds passed between them, and then the boy turned, took several deliberate strides, and dissolved into darkness.

  “Adrian?” Warren tiptoed toward the tree.

  A dog remained. Warren guessed it was the same dog he had seen in Adrian’s backyard. Emaciated and indifferent. Head bent, it chewed a discarded wrapper from a chocolate bar, then rooted through the pile of stuffed animals. A small bear caught in its muzzle, the dog shook its head left to right.

  He heard the animal’s teeth crunch down through a plastic eye.

  [39]

  After a few moments of waiting, I was uncertain exactly what I should do. Uncle Larva was in a deep slumber, and my mother was completely distressed by pasty lumps in her gravy. I drifted around the house. I did not want to think about my aunt and the mess she was making in our bathroom. In my head, I kept hearing her call Button’s name. The repetition, her needy nasally voice, made me furious. I had to find a way to dampen my anger.

  Eventually, I found a nature book, and began to read about a fascinating type of salamander scientists called a “walking fish.” They do not grow lungs and crawl on land. Instead, they prefer their gills, and stay in water. I like that they had a choice. The one in the accompanying photo was pleasant looking. Had a very congenial expression. Happy and smiling. I focused all my attention on the feathery frills near its head, the small hands that could scoop water, its baby grin. It looked almost fetal.

  Distraction failed.

  “Where’s your aunt?” My mother was right in front of me. I did not see her coming.

  Looking up from my book, I shrugged. “Bathroom, I think.”

  “Bathroom? All this time?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, dinner is ready. Can you let her know?” Then, an afterthought, “I’ll wake Harvey.”

  When I tapped on the door, she did not answer. I did not want to open that door. I pressed my ear against the wood, heard nothing. I did not want to open that door. I tapped again and said her name. I did not want to open that door.

  I called my mother. I called out to Larva. Something was not right. I sensed my contraption had collapsed under the weight of itself. Cracked and fallen, bits and pieces of plastic and wood scattered all over the basement floor.

  Lights whirring, but siren silenced, the ambulance arrived through the clog of snow. Things were grim, my mother had explained. The baby was surely lost, but my aunt might be okay. Might. She had lost a lot of blood. They gave her a shot in her thigh with a thick needle, then loaded her onto a gurney, pushed her out into the snowy evening. My mother climbed into the back of the vehicle with her and they slammed the double doors, backed out of the driveway. Larva skidded down the road behind them. The house was silent. Someone had turned off the radio; two strings of Christmas lights had failed, leaving half the tree in flickering darkness.

  I was alone. Of course I was. No one had asked if I might like to come along.

  I sat down on the hearth, poked the fire with a sooty stick. Expulsion of the jelly ball had not been my intent. But I told myself I had saved the bastard from its own misery, so to speak. I knew what type of existence it would have had under the care of my sleazy aunt, and I was really doing it a service. Was I not? Returning it to the black abyss. Better luck next go round, little person.

  Stabbing the log in the waning fire, I saw a brilliant array of sparks flying up the chimney. I peeled off my socks, and using an enormous set of tongs, I laid a red ember on my foot. Pain shot up to my brain, and the stench of burnt skin immediately hooked my nose. But I breathed slowly, willed myself not to move. Not to remove it. I needed to remain in control. Prove to myself that I was in control. I burnt the tops of both feet, and gently rolled the socks over the injuries. The sensation was a relief.

  Then, the phone. A foreign noise cutting through the air. It never rang in our house.

  “Your aunt.” A
breath. “Didn’t, didn’t make it. Too much blood too fast, they said. Couldn’t stop it. I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe it.”

  “Mom?”

  “Complicated by her drinking. The drinks. The doctors wanted to know. Not that that has anything to do with anyone else. She wanted what she wanted. She’s the adult.”

  “Mom?”

  “All a fluke. She should never have been drinking. Why didn’t she call out to me? In this day and age. To have this happen. Surrounded by all this medical stuff, and still. They couldn’t manage. To save her. Can you? Oh, I can’t believe it.”

  “Mom.”

  “Oh, I’m beside myself here. Just beside myself. The turkey must be ice cold. Gravy like goo. Ruined. Why am I thinking about a turkey? Who cares about a turkey?”

  “Mom!”

  “Oh, I got to go. Hello? I got to. Sign some papers. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe this. I see Harvey. Oh, he’s white as a sheet. White as a bloody sheet.”

  A bloody sheet. What a stupid thing to say.

  She hung up the phone, and I stared at the receiver. After a moment, it occurred to me she had not called to talk to me about my aunt. She called only to talk. Only to dislodge that tangle of thoughts inside of her. It could have been anyone on the other end of the phone. It did not matter that I was me. I could have been dial tone.

  I walked upstairs, and sat down on my bed, waiting for something to happen. Should I be shaking? Was I in a state of disbelief? I anticipated some sort of tingle would soon arrive inside the joints of my wrists or ankles, the tips of my fingers. Shock or regret, or guilt, or fear, or dread, or nervousness. At least a hint of dizziness. A splash. Nothing arrived. Nothing at all. I simply felt sleepy. Hungry, also, for a turkey leg. If any emotion was there at all, it was a vague disappointment. But even that was a puff of smoke in the wind, quickly dissipating.

  Afterwards, I attempted to assess. I had set into motion certain circumstances that contributed to the death of another human being. A never-coming-back type of death. It was a strange and heady concept. I would never hear my aunt’s nails-on-chalkboard-voice again, be assaulted by her cheap perfume, or see her snake-mouthed laughter. Would the world miss someone as lame as her? Should I be concerned over my casual detachment? Would others assume I was traumatized? The simple fact was, I could not care less. I understood then, I could do whatever I wanted, with no repercussions. As long as I did not get caught.