Button was gone. My aunt was gone. I had accomplished what was necessary. A fair exchange of energies. I am certain most people would agree, if only they had not been swallowed by a culture as soft-bellied as ours.
Eventually, I went to my window and tugged it open, saw the escaping heat from the house wavering through the icy night air. With my mother’s tweezers, I held the empty bottle of medication just outside my window, pulled a lighter from my pocket. The plastic began to shrink and bubble and blacken, and then the flame consumed the label. Destroying my neighbour’s personal details, address, the phone number of the pharmacy. And the word warfarin. I chose that bottle from his bathroom because of the interesting name. Only that evening, skimming the details in a pharmaceuticals book, did I discover it was a blood thinner, though first used as a rodenticide. Rat-killer. This is what I served to my shrew bitch aunt. Disguised by a splash of alcohol. That was what had killed her. When the bottle curled in on itself, I opened the tweezers, let the remains fall downwards. Into the snow-laden branches of the chokecherry bush below.
Later that evening, I opened my gifts. Books from my mother, and an edgeless puzzle. Then, from my aunt, a scorpion encased in its glass prism, of course, with its tail up, ready to strike. An interesting and thoughtful choice, and after the evening’s events, the irony of her selection was not lost on me.
[40]
The next morning, Warren went out to the back deck with a cup of tea. The wood and grass and trees were covered in icy glitter. If Warren had the mindset to appreciate it, he knew the beauty would have moved him, but he felt nothing stir inside his chest. As he sipped his tea, he thought about Adrian Byrd. How long had the boy been standing in his backyard last night, gliding through the darkness without fear, without trepidation? In Warren’s imagination, he did not hesitate on the deck when he rushed out, but instead ran toward the boy, demanding an explanation. Pointed at the tree with the missing branch, told Adrian to stay away. You are trespassing. You’ve got no right.
But even inside his mind, Warren could not make Adrian back down, could not make him bend. The boy sneered, spat on the ground, called Warren a coward, a fake. And Warren accepted the insults, did not argue, as he knew what was inside the boy’s head. Adrian was nothing more than an angry child, grieving the death of his friend. Grieving how his life had suddenly changed in an irreversible way.
That was one thing he had in common with Adrian. How do you ever sew up the hole?
That evening, when Warren emerged from a long shower, the air was heavy with the smell of food. A savoury scent, strong and familiar, but Warren did not find it comforting. It reminded him of the kitchen where his mother made meals. Where, likely, his mother now sat in a worn wingback chair, staring out the window behind the table, coughing and waiting for darkness to arrive.
Sometimes you got to put the weight down. Were those his mother’s words? Warren put the back of his hand against his mouth, squeezed his eyes closed, but before he had a moment to catch his breath, Nora appeared in the hallway. “Finally,” she said, reaching for him. “I thought you’d never come out.”
“No, no.” He blinked, adjusted his glasses. “I was. Was I that long?” Once again, he had lost track of time. “How did you get —”
“Your sister, War,” grinning, “she let us in. We’ve had a lovely conversation. Just getting to know each other. Why didn’t you tell me you had a visitor?” She locked her arm through his, nudged him forward. “You are a man with secrets!”
Inside the kitchen, it was too bright and too warm. He wanted to open a window, let the November wind cut through the dusty screen, clean out the heaviness.
“You must be starving,” Nora said.
Beth was seated at the table, her knees bent underneath her body, sleeves of his oversized hoodie pulled down over her hands, fabric drawn inside her fists. Libby was seated next to her, and their heads were together, whispering. “No, I’m not kidding,” Libby said. “Right outside there. In the backyard.”
“Holy fuck, Warsie.” Beth glared at him. “How come you never told me?”
“Beth.” Warren angled his chin toward Libby. “You can’t talk like that.”
She clapped a hand over her face. “Sorry. Bad mouth, bad mouth. But c’mon. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I — I didn’t want to worry you.”
“I could have listened.” She chewed on a loose thread. Then said softly, “I would have tried to listen.”
“Totally sucks what they’re doing to you, Mr. Botts. It’s not fair.”
“It’ll be okay, Libby.” Water from his wet hair trickled down the back of his neck.
“Libby?” Nora swatted her gently with an oven mitt. “There’s a basket of warm biscuits there. Can you put them out? And the spoons. I forgot to put out spoons.”
Libby stood up, and reached for the basket. “No more time to talk,” she said to Beth. Then, flatly, “Busy, busy bee, here.”
“I never knew these existed,” Beth said, bumping a paper bowl on the tabletop. “I’ve seen plates, but never bowls.”
“Clever, right?” Nora replied. “Sometimes life is so hectic, you just need to go for convenience.” Lifting a huge pot toward the middle of the table, she continued, “Now, War, sit. Just some beef stew and biscuits. I stole the recipe from a magazine in the dentist’s office last week.”
“My mother.” Libby groaned. “The thief.”
They sat side by side, a mismatched family, chatting as though nothing in the world were wrong. Nora talking about the strange fall weather, rain then snow then rain again. Beth said it was the sort of weather that would make a person sick, especially if they lived outside. Slept on a steaming grate. Nora nodded, and replied, “No matter, it gets us all. Like you, Beth. You probably caught whatever you got from the wacky weather.”
“Um, there might be other factors.” Warren coughed, touched the bridge of his glasses. “When, you know, a person gets sick.”
“Like?” Nora lifted her eyebrows.
“Like a virus,” he said. “Or bacteria.”
“Leave it to you, War, darling, to make everything all science-y.”
He swallowed a mouthful of stew. Soft vegetables, perfect cubes of stringy meat, dark rich gravy.
“Lots of other shit can make a person sick too.” Beth dropped a biscuit in her bowl, liquid spattering. “Not just crap weather and viruses. What about drinking a whole bottle of gin? Or smoking some chemicals your friend, Bob, just gave you? Or sucking —”
“Beth!” Warren shook his head quickly, motioned toward Libby again. “Please,” he said. “Not now.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Botts. I won’t repeat it.”
“Well, then.” Nora tilted her chin downwards, pulled her lips in.
They ate in silence for several moments, and then Warren asked, “How’s Evie doing?”
“She’s good, I think.” Libby said.
“She seemed upset.”
“I’m sure she’ll be all right, Mr. Botts. Pretty much everyone is freaked out. I mean, it’s a crazy thing to happen, right?”
“Just awful.” Nora chimed in. “What kind of mind would think that up?”
Warren looked at the window. The glass was covered in condensation, and the four of them were slightly distorted in their reflections. “Are you doing okay, Libby?”
“I guess so. I just wish things would get back to normal.”
“Everyone wishes that,” he replied, as he stirred his stew. “It’ll take some time.”
“I’m going for a smoke. Appreciate the home cooking, though.” Beth smiled, stood up, sleeves of the hoodie hanging mid-thigh. “It must’ve taken you all afternoon to make it. What a spread!”
“Oh, well. I mean. I hope you had enough.”
Beth never responded, quietly closed the door to the backyard. Warren could not see her through t
he hazy window, but he knew her grey shadow was moving toward the tree. No doubt she was leaning against it, probably punting the stuffed bears with her foot.
“Well.” Nora, clapping her hands together. “I guess that’s that. I’ll clean up. War, can you take a look at Libby’s homework? She’s struggling. Ms. Fairley’s doing her best, I’m sure, but she doesn’t have your knack for teaching.”
“I’m not struggling.”
As Nora piled bowls into the garbage, Warren and Libby moved to the couch. Unopened knapsack between them, Warren said, “Should we take a look?”
“No.”
“Pretend to take a look?”
“Sure.” She pulled a paper out, smoothed it on her lap. “I like your sister, Mr. Botts.”
“Me too. I like her, too.”
“Her hair is cool.”
“Or lack thereof.”
“Yeah. She doesn’t care what anyone else thinks.”
“Don’t be inspired, though. Your mother would kill me if you shaved your head.”
“Your sister seems kind of mad though.”
“Mad?”
“Not crazy-mad, just pissed off. With the world, kind of thing. You know.”
“She’s not well. She just needs to get better.”
“She’s going to be A-OK, Mr. Botts. I can tell you’re all worried, but she’ll be fine.”
Warren’s throat hitched. Libby had a sense of empathy that he rarely witnessed in his life. Especially in someone her age. “I appreciate you saying that.” This time, she will be fine.
“That’s a weird painting, don’t you think?” She pointed to the canvas hanging above the fireplace. The woman’s head. Eyes replaced by ears.
“I thought it was unique.”
“I’d say more weird. But I like it, actually. A lot.”
Warren smiled. “We have something in common, because I like it too.” He shifted in his seat. “I wonder what it means.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know.” Stephen sauntered across the carpet, lay on Warren’s feet. He leaned forward, placed his palm on the cat’s warm back. “I just wonder what it all means.”
“So. Bro. So. I fucking hate her.”
“What?” Warren was confused. Hated who?
“Kid’s got her shit together, I really liked her, but that other one.” Beth tossed two pills into her mouth, tilted her head underneath the faucet, and gulped. “I can’t stand her. Her face reminds me of a shrew. You know those furry shits that lived in our walls?”
“I know what a shrew is, Beth.”
“You can see it, then? And those teeth! And the way she moved around like she owned your place.” Lifting her arms, two wooden rulers inside fleecy fabric. “And that smug little smirk on her ugly face.”
She was talking about Nora. She hated Nora.
Warren nipped the inside of his cheek between his teeth, then spoke. “I like her face. Her face is perfectly fine.”
“That’s because you go all whacked for animals. You don’t see what’s there. I mean, Warren, Stephen is your best friend. A cat. You got fifteen thousand fucking fish.”
“Oh.” Warren glanced at the glasses that Nora had washed, still wet and glistening on an opened cup towel. “She’s a good person. She is. She just cooked us dinner. Brought it here.”
“Dinner? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Beth’s hands were shaking, and she wiped black liner from underneath her eyes. “She’s so fucking fake. I can’t believe you’d fall for all that crap. Jesus, Wars. Her little homemade stew? Totally fake. Did you not notice the carrots were all cut perfectly? That’s cause a machine did it. It’s from a can, War. How many fucking cans did she have to open to fill that huge pot. It’s gross.”
“What?”
“And those biscuits she made? From a tube. Supermarket cooler. I stole enough of that shit to recognize them a mile away. She popped open a paper tube and brought them on a sheet. Like she’d made them. Stole the recipe from a dentist office, my bony ass. That woman never made a real meal her whole fucking life. Mark my words.”
Warren removed his glasses, cleaned them in the tail of his shirt. He could feel his pulse in his face. The place where Adrian had punched him. He looked at his sister, wanted her to be out of focus. “I — I don’t care.”
“You don’t care? What does that mean?”
“It means, I like her. I really like her, and I like Libby. If the carrots are from a can, what difference does it make?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” He cleaned the lenses of his glasses, then slid them back onto his face. “And she cares about me, too.”
“She doesn’t even know you. I don’t know what she wants, but it’s got nothing to do with you.”
“That makes no sense. Why else would she be here?”
Beth threw her arms in the air. “You think that’s what you deserve. I got no idea why. Why? Why are you like that? You should have so much better.”
“It’s just carrots. Just stew.”
“Not just the carrots. If she lies about that, what else is she lying about?”
“Nora doesn’t lie.” As he spoke, a tickly sensation of uncertainty arrived in the pit of his stomach. He clenched his jaw, tamped that feeling down.
“For someone so smart, you know, you’re really, really stupid.”
She yawned, as though the sudden flashes of movement had exhausted her. Her eyes were hollow, cheeks sunken and blemished. Warren stood up, went to the window. Stared out at the place where the tree stood. He could no longer see it in the darkness, and he wondered if it was even there. Perhaps he had imagined it all.
With his back to Beth, he spoke as gently as possible. “You’re hurting me by living the way you do. Hurting yourself.”
“What did you say?” Her words sounding like a truck moving over crushed stone.
He turned. “Please listen, Beth. I have almost enough money saved to help you. Not yet. I — I lost the money I had before. But when I do, I want you to accept my help. Okay? To get better.” He thought about the envelope in the sleeve of his coat, and it was getting fatter. Again. In another year, maybe even six months, he might have enough money saved. Then he would find her and send her to a place where experts could help her.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Warren.” Her words had taken on a medicated slur. “You sound like a poster boy for fucking baby cereal.”
“It’s a repulsive way to live.”
“Repulsive? Repulsive? You’re saying I’m repulsive? At least I’m living my repulsive life, and not wearing a massive set of blinders. Running away. Hiding from reality. Ignorant to everything.”
“I’m sorry you think that.”
“You’re sorry? Why the fuck don’t you ever get angry?”
He lifted his head. “Because I’m not angry.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can see it in your eyes. You think I’m a screw up.”
“I don’t. I mean. I’m not looking at you.”
“You think I’m a fucking drugged-out loser whore who knows nothing about life. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Beth. I just want to help you.”
“You just twist all this shit around. I was trying to help you. To get you to open your beady little eyes and see what’s right in front of you. But you twist it up and make it about me.”
“Beth, I —”
“Don’t say you care about me. Just fucking stop. It only makes my life hurt worse.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just shut up, Warren. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning. If it don’t cramp your style to stay another night.”
“I didn’t. I just —” He lifted both hands, adjusted his glasses. “Beth. I
still haven’t told you —”
She rushed down the hallway and slammed the bathroom door.
About Mom.
Beth remained in the bathroom for a long time, then slipped into his bedroom, clicked the lock. Lying on the couch, Warren tried to stay awake. Listening to the quiet gurgling of his tanks, the sound of Stephen’s claws on the arm of a chair, the occasional squirt of water moving through the toilet. He did not hear the floor creak a single time.
In the morning, she was gone. He felt her absence when he placed his feet on the cold floor.
“Beth?”
No answer.
“Beth? Are you here?”
The bathroom was empty. His bedroom was empty, bed a jumble of sheets and blankets. He knew he would not hear her voice. Answering him.
How had this happened? He closed his eyes. Images flashed inside his head, snapshot after horrible snapshot. Amanda Fuller hanging from a tree, Beth pale and shivering. Then his mother’s face, flushed with illness. He saw Ms. Fairley with her hands clasped. And Nora’s eyes. Detective Reed, finger pointing, accusing him with the twist of her lips. He saw the scratches on his car. Heard those palms banging on the windows of his house. The crowd outside, a constant hum with occasional shouts. Adrian Byrd’s fist mid-swing. The missing handles on the inside door of the police car. The back of his lawyer’s head. Too many pictures inside his brain. Too much pressure. His skull wanting to explode.
When he was a boy, he would have described them all to his father. Image by image, he would tell his father what troubled him. What was building inside his mind. It was so easy then, flicking them away, cards from a scary deck. His father always took them, and said, “Just count something, War. Just count.” Warren had felt soothed, but that sensation of comfort, of security, did not last. His father was unable to hold those cards, to keep them pressed to his chest, and in the end, he gave every single one back.
The Substitute Page 22
