by Lori Weber
Tim is drinking more than usual. He usually nurses a beer all evening because he’s the one who drives a bunch of people home in his Jeep. I’ve always loved to watch Tim drive. He seems to meld into the machine, his hands and feet working the pedals and gears gracefully, like a choreographed dance.
“Hey Tim, how many have you had?” I try to say lightly, tugging his sleeve. He shrugs.
“Dunno. What’s it to you?”
Nikki comes back with a beer for each of us.
“Well, cheers,” I say to Tim, knocking my plastic mug against his. He looks a bit stunned, like this may be a trick.
I carry on like that, trying to pay him attention when normally I wouldn’t. The music is so loud it’s impossible to talk. I have to communicate through gestures and expressions. But I can feel him softening a bit. I mimic dancing with my fingers on the table to ask if he wants to. He shrugs in response and we both get up.
We dance one fast tune. It’s a college cover band that’s playing top ten kind of stuff, some rock, some pop, even a little bad rap. At the end of this number the tempo changes to slow and Tim actually holds out his arms to me. I step into them. He’s stocky and I like the feeling of being little and wrapped up inside him. His breath is on my neck and his hand is drawing gentle circles on my back.
But when the song ends Tim just lets go and walks back to the table where he downs another beer. Nikki looks at us, confused. I’m sure she’s wondering when my delicious moment of revenge will strike. The pyramid on the table is getting higher. Some of the cups still have a bit of beer in them and they sway precariously.
Next thing I know, Tim is pulling Nikki up, coaxing her onto the dance floor. She looks back over her shoulder at me and shrugs as she follows him. I decide to go to the bathroom. When I come back they’re still dancing. I can barely see them tucked way into the middle of the dance floor, thumping away in the crowd to a heavy metal number. I’m completely alone at the table.
An image of my father, his face hardened by pain, flashes in my mind. I see him turning away, acting as though he has nothing to give me. I’m just a sixteen-year-old girl that he has no idea how to reach. He has no idea what I might need. Like the time I got my first period. He knew and I knew he knew because of the rolled up pads in the bathroom garbage which he would empty at night, as if to hide the evidence. He was going to leave all that to my mother, but she was gone. My reverie is interrupted by the huge crash of a table collapsing in the dark. Nikki is weaving her way back through the crowd.
“Hey,” she says. “Everyone’s up there. Why don’t you come?”
I know she’s right. If I don’t force myself to join in, I’ll be sitting on the outside forever. I need to find Tim and make him like me again. But when we get back to the dance floor, he’s dancing with some girl I don’t know. He seems so into the music, his eyes closed, his square hair banging against his face. I take a deep breath and move right up beside him. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll be attentive, I won’t turn away. I’ll be soft and sweet, and yield completely. If only Tim will open his eyes and fix me with that adoring look.
Suddenly, I remember when I was twelve and wanted to show my father that I could do a perfect dive. I wanted to show him how gracefully I could spring off the edge and slice into the water, like a dolphin. I was so anxious, I ran and dived in too soon, too close to the shallow end, and scraped my nose along the bottom. I didn’t want to emerge, for him to see the red streak along my nose that proved I had screwed up. But when I came up he had already turned to go home. I never did know if he saw me. It was the summer after the accident and he had already started to drift away.
I’m diving into the pool again now, beside Tim. I dance as though I really mean it, to make it clear to this other girl that Tim’s with me. Eventually she twirls away, not seeming to care. I tug on Tim’s sleeve to get his attention. He opens his eyes and looks down at me, a slight flash of recognition in his eyes. Then he’s gone again, bending and twisting to the beat of an old Rolling Stones hit, oblivious to everything. Or so I think, until he suddenly pulls me against him. He dances me around, leaning heavily on me. It’s obvious he’s drank way more than he’s used to. He keeps pulling me close then pushing me back, sometimes hard enough that I feel my ribs slamming into his. The music changes tempo and Tim and I just keep doing this weird dance around and around. If he’s looking at me at all it’s between half-closed eyes.
Finally, the band stops playing and announces a short break. Our bodies stop moving and readjust slowly to the pull of gravity. Tim is finally looking at me.
“Can I take you home?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, hoping it’s just the two of us in the Jeep. It’ll give me a chance to make a gesture.
We walk back to the table holding hands. Nikki is there, watching us. She raises her shoulder slightly, to ask me what’s up.
“I’m taking a lift with Tim,” I tell her. I know I’m breaking our unwritten rule about never leaving without the other, but I hope she’ll forgive me.
“Okay,” Nikki says tentatively. She probably still thinks I’m up to something and have plans to dump Tim in the parking lot. She winks as if to encourage me and calls out, “See you guys later” as she heads to the bathroom.
Tim is finishing his last beer. I can’t tell how many he’s had. I hear Nikki’s mother making us promise to call her, but I can’t back out now. The anger in Tim’s voice over the phone is still fresh and cutting in my mind.
Tim stands abruptly, stumbling into the table. He reaches up, swaying, and places his plastic mug on the peak of the wobbling pyramid. Before I can back away, the whole structure collapses. The mugs tumble, dousing me with a shower of warm beer.
“Shit,” says Tim.
I almost scream something nasty, but don’t. “Never mind. Come on, let’s go.” I pull him along, trying to ignore the voice in my head that’s telling me it’s not safe to go home with him.
Once in the Jeep, Tim seems to sober up. At least, he has no trouble fitting the key in the ignition and working the complex system of pedals and sticks to back us out of the parking lot. He still hasn’t really acknowledged me, not in the way I want him to. But there’s time. It’s a half hour drive and I don’t have a curfew. We could stop somewhere. My father doesn’t even notice what time I come home anymore.
“Let’s take the scenic route,” Tim calls across to me. The tarp isn’t up and the night wind pulls his voice away.
“Sure, I guess.” The scenic route means taking the winding road along the lake instead of the highway. I remind myself of all the times Tim has driven me and Nikki safely home.
We wind along, not speaking, twisting down toward the lake. I know that Tim’s silence is my fault. I’ve rebuked him too many times. If he were driving someone else, he’d be more chatty. He’d be laughing across the stick shift, making gestures with his free hand.
Tim takes an abrupt right turn onto a dark wooded road. It goes by fast, so I can’t be sure, but I think I saw a No Entry/Wrong Way sign at the corner. I must be wrong. Tim would have seen it for sure. He must know this as a short cut down to the lake. If I question him, he’ll think I don’t trust him and it will make things worse.
My breath catches. In the distance, I see headlights approaching. What if this really is a one-way street? Will the oncoming vehicle see our lights and stop? Or will Tim see the white lights and figure it out?
My father’s face flashes in my mind, again. I see him shrug and walk away. I see his head hung low. I see the way he feels he can’t help me. And in that instant, with the opposing headlights looming so close I think I can feel their heat, I understand my father’s shame. He isn’t ashamed of me, but of himself, of his inadequacy. How can he be father and mother to me all at once? And how can he take the place of Nathan?
I am Nathan in the front seat, staring helplessly at the approaching headlights, unable to maneuver around them. My mother is beside me, frozen in terror. Our hands reach for one anoth
er as the brakes screech. I see my father, receiving the news of my death from the local police. He crashes and falls to the ground. I hear him scream. It hits me, like the full force of a truck, that I am all he has.
“Tim, you idiot! You’re going the wrong way! You’re going to get us killed!” I yell, forgetting all my resolutions about being nice.
Tim jumps on the brakes and steers the Jeep to the right, sliding us to an almost graceful stop by the side of the road.
“You could have killed us! You shouldn’t be driving — you know you shouldn’t. What the hell are you trying to prove?” I keep yelling, unable to stop. I know I promised to be soft and sweet, but the words won’t stop coming. It’s as though my anger is out of control, careening across the frozen space between us and ramming into him.
Tim’s head is down on the steering wheel. He pulls it up slowly. He looks shaken, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes.
“God, Cal, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I just wanted to be alone with you somehow, to show you …” His words break off and I brace myself, waiting for him to turn on me, to yell at me the way he did on the phone, as if it’s my fault that he’s so messed up, as if it’s my fault he couldn’t see the sign at the top of the road. I see my father again, his characteristic shrug of the shoulder, his helplessness at not being able to undo the tragedy on that other dark road.
But then it happens. Tim looks at me the old way, his soft blue eyes gazing at me from under his bangs. He looks at me the way I crave, the way I’m afraid I’ll never stop craving.
“Cal, I feel so stupid.”
I know that he’s calling on me to help him, to give him a little something. He is calling on me to tell him it’s all right. I reach across and push the thick bangs away from his face, gently.
“It’s okay, Tim. It was an accident. Forget it. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” I know I’m talking about tonight, but I’m also talking about something else, something way beyond this moment. Something that has to do with connections and how tender they can be and how deep the hurt can cut when they’re broken.
“Let’s get out and walk around. You’ll feel better. You shouldn’t be driving you know?”
“Yeah, I know. Pretty dumb, huh?”
Yeah, pretty dumb, I think. But I don’t say it. I’m just as dumb for taking the lift. I hop out and run around to the other side to help Tim out of the Jeep. Then we hook hands and look around. In the distance, moon-light is stretched out on the surface of the lake, like a long white arm. It’s the only light on the otherwise dark road. Without any hesitation, we turn and head towards it.
MY COUSIN JACK
Today is the day of my cousin Jack’s homecoming. My mother and I have come over early, to help my aunt decorate her house, which is the top floor of an old duplex We’ve laced the hallway with twisted crepe paper, dotted the living room walls with balloons — rubbed on our hair for stick — and hung a green banner that says “Welcome Home” over the entryway. This whole fuss seems totally wrong to me, as if Jack is a soldier returning from war, with purple hearts hanging off his chest.
The truth is that Jack is coming home from the mental hospital where he has spent the last four months recovering from a nervous breakdown.
“Jody,” my mother calls from the kitchen. When I get there, she points to three bowls sitting on the counter. In them are chips, Cheezies, and pretzels. Suddenly, I can’t hold my tongue. “Isn’t this a bit much? I mean, this isn’t really a party, is it?”
“Just spread these around the front room. Please.” Her last word is a plea.
“Okay, but Jack’s going to hate all this fuss.”
My mother shoots me an angry look, covers her lips with an index finger, and points in the direction of my aunt’s bedroom. She’s in there getting ready, probably dressing way up in some party dress. I suddenly understand who all this fuss is for. It’s necessary camouflage, to help my aunt forget where Jack has been and why.
I place the bowls as gingerly as I can between all the porcelain ballerinas that decorate my aunt’s living-room. Between two swans a picture of Jack sits in a gold frame. It’s Jack as I remember him, with gentle brown eyes and a warm smile. It’s hard to imagine this face going through what Jack’s been through in the last few months. It’s hard to imagine it bruised or bloated from the drugs they gave him in the hospital.
There’s nothing to do now but sit and wait. Wait and speculate. What will Jack look like? What will he say? What will he be like? Will he still be my Jack, the kind and gentle kid I was best friends with until we moved away from Verdun last July, almost a year ago?
My father finally shows up. “So?” he says sarcastically. “Where are they?” He says “they” with scorn, like my mother and aunt deserve his anger. My father has no patience for this entire affair. According to him, Jack’s downfall was inevitable. He asked for it by being too soft. My father grew up on military bases because his father was in the army. He spent a lot of time telling Jack he had to be less sensitive, to grow a thicker skin. He said he knew this downfall would come if Jack didn’t toughen up. “Besides,” he once said. “People get attacked every day. Most of them just pick themselves up and get on with it.”
My father has spent the year trying to convince me to forget about Jack. He reminds me, whenever he can, that Jack isn’t really my cousin and his mom isn’t really my aunt. I only call her that because she and my mother have been best friends forever. I sometimes think that my father moved us to the suburbs to separate me and Jack.
As if the new neighborhood could wipe out sixteen years of friendship.
I WAS AT my boyfriend Dutchie’s house watching him and his friends play pool when my mother called to tell me that Jack had been attacked. The ringtone of my phone made Dutchie lose his concentration and he fanned, sending the white ball into the middle of the green, nowhere near anything.
“What happened?” I asked, but she wouldn’t tell me. She just kept repeating that Jack had been attacked. Then she said, her voice squeaking, “Come home right away,” as if I was in danger too.
Dutchie said I was as white as the cue ball when I hung up.
I walked home, down the streets of the new neighborhood that were still strange to me. They were wide and quiet, with tall hedges separating the houses, so that all you could see were the roofs. A gray driveway rolled out beside each one like a tongue. I shuddered as I passed Diane’s house, certain that she must be smirking down at me. I guess she was the closest thing to a friend I had here, although “friend” sometimes seemed like the wrong word. Halloween night, she’d told me not to bother buying candies. “Nobody will ring your bell,” she said. “They don’t know you yet.” As if we might slip razor blades into apples or dip candies in poison.
When I got home all the lights in our townhouse were off and the blinds were drawn.
“Why’s it so dark?” I called out.
“Sssh! Come in and close the door,” my mother whispered. She’d been acting strangely ever since our move away from Verdun, the beloved neighborhood we’d both grown up in. The day of the actual move, my father practically had to drag her into the high cab of the truck he’d rented. All year I’ve been expecting her to migrate back there, like a lost cat. She still can’t get used to hav-ing a backyard and sits on the back steps to smoke, as if the grass might be a mine field. And without corner stores to walk to we are constantly running out of things like milk and bread. My father drives her to the supermarket every Saturday and urges her to do a big order. Get it all in, for the whole week, he’ll say. But she can’t. She’s never piled an entire shopping cart with food in her life.
My father came home right after me. I guess she’d called him too. Both of us sat anchored to the sofa while my mother paced above us in the dark.
“Well?” my father asked, swinging his leg. When he threatened to turn the light on, my mother pushed him back down and blurted out the story of how Jack had been attacked and left bl
eeding on one of the little bridges that span the aqueduct near his house. Whoever had done it spray-painted the word “fag” on the railing beside him. Jack was now in the hospital.
“He has several broken ribs and his face is smashed. He might lose an eye. He’s barely conscious and he may have frostbite on top of everything else.” My mother was sobbing. I didn’t know what to say. I imagined Jack all purple against the white hospital pillow. I felt as though I’d been punched myself, especially when I thought about how poorly I’d stayed in touch with Jack since our move.
“Why are you so upset?” my father eventually asked when my mother wouldn’t stop crying. “Jack’s not our son.” I didn’t know how my father could be so callous. He’s always resented the closeness of our two families, possibly because he’s the odd man out. My aunt’s husband died when Jack was little. That left no one for my father to pair off with when we got together. I tuned him out by picturing the word “fag.” Did they do it graffiti style, with round or triangular letters, or did they just spray paint it fast and careless to get away faster?
Then I thought about its meaning. Fag — gay — homosexual. It’s what some kids used to call Jack, just because he was quiet and mild-mannered. When we’d fish in the river, Jack would sit too far back and barely skim the water’s surface with his hook. Once, he saved a kitten that some kids had tried to drown in a plastic bag weighted with rocks. Afterwards, he cradled the petrified kitten in his arms until it stopped shaking. Jack loved animals. He wanted to be a vet. But that didn’t mean he was gay.
And, even if he was, that was no reason to beat him to a pulp.
That night I cried, burying my face deep in my pillow to muffle the sound. I whispered to Jack, hoping he’d hear me, that we were still connected, like we used to be. I’m sorry, Jack. I’ve been a shitty friend. I just didn’t know how to get back there from here, to fit in here and still be with you. And then I met Dutchie.
Could I really explain Dutchie to Jack? Could I tell him that ever since I’d started going out with Dutchie, I had begun to feel grounded? That before that, the new neighborhood was like a foreign country and I was desperate to learn its rules and customs. In Verdun, the boundaries were visible, the St. Lawrence River to the south, the aqueduct to the north, the Wellington Tunnel to the east. But here in Dollard, a big beige suburb with hardly any trees and no water, the boundaries were invisible. Sure, there was the Trans-Canada Highway to the south and another suburb farther north, but they didn’t mean a thing. The boundaries that I kept trying to figure out were the intangible ones, the codes of dress and behavior that I was constantly getting wrong. But going out with Dutchie had kind of let me in.
