She lay on the pillow fast asleep, her tiny naked body covered only by a handkerchief. I gently touched her abdomen and she stirred. “How are you feeling?” I asked, for I could only imagine. Her eyes popped open and then her mouth issued a squeak. I couldn’t help but chuckle at this sound, to which she took offense, shaking her little fists at me and squeaking some more. Regaining my composure, I asked if I should call a doctor, but perhaps I should have suggested this long ago; that she hadn’t mentioned a doctor herself eased my conscience, though I knew that some form of punishment awaited me nonetheless.
What can I say? She was strong-headed. Very much her own person. She never changed her last name when we wed. We kept separate bank accounts, held different religious beliefs, and—except for breakfast—ate vastly different things at different times of the day. That being said, even after seven years of marriage, we still managed to make love once or twice a month. Not bad when you think about it. Now lovemaking was out of the question.
“I would ask you,” I said, “how this transmogrification came to be, but frankly I’m afraid of what you’ll say, so I won’t.”
She squeaked.
“Honey,” I said, “keep calm, no need to get in a tizzy. I‘d take you to the hospital, but don’t you think it’s a bit late for that? Don’t you think we should have moved on that earlier? I would have taken you myself, or at the very least called a cab. Now what? Eh?”
She squeaked.
I prayed for divine intervention. I shut my eyes and prayed. I waited several seconds, hoping that when I opened my eyes everything would be back to normal. Please God, I pleaded, please. Fix what is wrong here. Perform a miracle for us. I who never prayed for anything beg you to . . . I heard a squeak before I opened my eyes and my heart sank for I knew what that meant. God wasn’t there for me. I prayed and He did nothing. Now I knew why I never prayed. But perhaps there was nothing metaphysical about the transformation. Stranger things have happened than people shrinking. A neighbour’s cousin was a victim of spontaneous combustion. All they found of the poor bastard were his charred boots and an ankle bone. But thinking of these anomalies, these freakish occurrences, did not mollify my growing anguish.
How would I manage on my own? I mean, without my wife’s help? For instance, I had trouble getting in and out of the tub, and her assistance proved invaluable. She would push my buttocks over the lip of the tub and facilitate my entry. Then when I was done, I’d call her and she’d come and grab my arm and pull with all her might and somehow yank me out of the tub. And she gave me fabulous foot rubs, my God, she could turn me into jelly when she worked over my feet. My weight had doubled since we married, but she swore it made no difference. A fellow could get self-conscious, but other than calling me a lard-ass on occasion, something I deserved, she tried very hard not to offend me and not to make me feel terrible about being so fat.
The dog bayed and I raced out of the bedroom, stumbling in the hall, knocking down a portrait of my mother-in-law and a green vase on a table that shattered into a million pieces. Jesus Christ, I thought, everything is held together with spit. In the yard, the dog and a black squirrel squared off by the maple tree. The beady-eyed squirrel made a strange rattling sound. The stiff-legged dog snarled and humped his back. And as much as I wanted to see a good scrap, I feared for my dog’s eyes. Squirrels must be ambushed to be vanquished without injury. They have a genius for gouging out the eyes, they go right for them. This one readied to spring, ogling the dog’s corneas like they were candies. The dog stood no chance. I clapped my hands and whooped. The squirrel climbed the tree and then sat on a branch glaring at me. I picked up a stone and flung it but missed completely. I picked up a second stone and pulled back my arm but the dog jumped me before I could hurl it. “What’s wrong with you!” I cried. He pointed his nose at a stone bigger than mine. I dropped it, picked up the bigger stone and once again pulled back my arm.
The squirrel escaped a direct hit, but the stone struck an overhanging branch and knocked snow down upon the startled critter. Fury best describes the reaction, but what of it? What a sunny day it was! The sky so blue you wanted to eat it. Birds chirped in the branches. Cats stalked around. Soft white mist swelled and swirled from the cataract like a pleasant, benign tornado. It wasn’t spring yet, but the air held forth cool promise.
After all the stress, the dog drowsed by the shed with the sun warming his matted fur and highlighting the foxy red in his tail. He was a handsome dog, and for the most part not annoying. The snowmelt tinkled down the drains and vapours rose from heating snow piles. But despite this winter beauty a black cloud hovered over me, over us. I was sad my wife couldn’t be out here to enjoy the beauty. Then an idea occurred to me. I went back inside and took a wicker basket out of the pantry. I layered it with cotton batting and linen napkins. I carried it into the bedroom and set it beside the wife. She squeaked, and I didn’t know if she was happy about it or not. I gently picked her up and lowered her into the basket. She was so small her gesturing signified nothing to me. Anyway, I transported her to the yard. The dog jumped to attention.
But the cold air must have affected the wife; I heard a couple of tiny yipping sounds that I realized were sneezes. Poor little thing. And I had no tissue to offer. I leaned down to her and spoke in my softest voice. “Do you want to go back in?” I asked, but she squeaked. I had to squint to make out the features of her face. She was either smiling or grimacing, same difference. But I felt the bottom falling out of my life. And I could do nothing about it. This was beyond me. The dog sniffed under the basket and then presented his tongue. What did he have in mind? What was he feeling at that moment? Did he understand what had happened to his momma, no bigger now than the vole he startled earlier?
Maybe I have never been a grounded individual. There is a fine line between normalcy and deviance. Well, that’s just it. Veer one degree to the left or to the right and in time you are irrecoverable, skirting distant galaxies, alone and afraid. I fear nothing now, having lived through that day. And later on that evening, as I stoked the embers of the fireplace and gave the dog a nudge and peeled a few roasted chestnuts and sipped a goblet of port and watched the basket where the wife slept, I felt at peace. Then the dog started scratching to go out again and I went with him to take in some air. Orion’s belt glittered like rhinestones in the black impasto and the moon loomed like a giant Pierrot’s head. The dog scuffed around the shed and peed while I listened to the world and what it was telling me.
Grassy Brook Trail
Josh Grenier squeezed on his red parka and hesitated for a moment in the doorway of the Port Robinson Youth Centre before he stepped out into the frigid air. It had snowed all day, but the roads remained unplowed for the most part, the going slippery. Screeching children tumbled and tobogganed in the nearby park. A cone of smoke ascended from the stone chimney of the ancient toll building at the end of the street, a structure of historical significance, occupied by a shadowy custodian. All good but for the thick white blanket. A ghost town like Port Robinson fell last on the snow-remover’s list.
With great difficulty, Josh climbed into the waiting white van. It smelled like burnt hair in there. One of Josh’s counsellors, Marty Bush, sat in the driver’s seat sucking on a lollipop and tapping together his steel-toed boots. He glanced at Josh with his sharp blue eyes, and gestured for him to do up his seatbelt. Josh’s ample girth complicated the task. The van rocked as he worked the belt around his belly. Marty glared at him with annoyance. Finally, Josh managed to secure the seatbelt.
The van crunched out of the snow-banked parking lot and skidded into the street. A discarded Christmas tree laced with tinsel jutted out from the curb. Marty steered around it and tapped the brake pedal as the tires caught a patch of black ice. The van swerved through the black ice and hit the salted intersection, coming to an abrupt and gritty stop.
“Where are we going?” Josh asked.
“For a drive in the country,” Marty said. “It’s part of your the
rapy.”
“It’s almost dark out.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Josh’s plump fingers drummed his thighs as the van sped by stands of snow-capped trees and the white monotony of the surrounding landscape. Low, leaden clouds filled the sky, promising more of the same. Josh pushed his thick glasses up his small nose and sniffed.
Bothered by the icy windshield, Marty blasted the defroster and rubbed the back of his gloved hand on the glass to no effect. He gnashed his teeth and slammed his palms against the steering wheel. Then he raised the volume of the radio, set to a call-in sports station. He listened for a minute, tilting his ear to the speaker and sucking on the lollipop.
“So, Josh,” he said, turning to the youth, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
Josh could barely hear him over the radio chatter. “About what?”
Marty lowered the volume. “Hey, man,” he said, removing the red lollipop from his mouth and pointing it, “have I ever treated you badly?”
Josh frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose. A smattering of acne reddened his wrinkled forehead.
“I’m talking to a wall,” Marty said to himself.
“No,” Josh said. “You’ve been okay. Why? What’s this about?”
“What’s this about?” Marty pulled the lollipop from his mouth again. “Josh, let me ask you something. Why don’t you ever hang out with people your own age—fifteen-year-olds like Ryan and Jesse? I mean, why is it that every time I see you in the recreation room or in the hall, or near the washrooms, you’re hanging out with little punks like Daniel?”
“Ryan and Jesse are bullies. Daniel’s my friend.”
“That’s nice. Daniel and Josh. Like Beanie and Cecil . . . okay. I’ve seen you two wrestling around. You must be four times bigger than Daniel, swear to God. I know he’s twelve, but he’s more like an eight-year-old. You could crush him.”
“He likes to play-wrestle. He starts it.”
“Bet he does. Daniel’s not all there, is he?”
“He’s just different.”
Marty crunched on his lollipop. “I know, I know, Josh. Vive la difference, is what the French say. Ah, those French. I love Montreal! Love it. Some day I’ll visit Paris, mark my words. I want to learn French proper before I do that, though. Maybe I’ll go to night school. Your name’s French, but of course you don’t speak French, do you Josh? Didn’t think so. That’s a shame. Look at me yakking away like there’s no tomorrow. And I haven’t asked you how you’re doing, Josh. How are you doing? Fine? Okay. I can see that. Hale and hearty. Fit as a fiddle, except for the asthma, right? Still on the puffer? How about a refreshment? How would you like a nice hot chocolate. I know you like your hot chocolate, boy.”
Josh said nothing as Marty pulled into a drive-through donut shop. He placed the order into the box on the post and eased the van forward into the pick-up circle. The woman serving Marty retracted her lips, showing dead front teeth. Ball-bearing earrings pulled down her yellow lobes and her hair looked scorched. A strange crush of people dressed in black crowded the space behind the woman, arguing, clanging metal objects. Were they other workers? Patrons? She handed Marty two beverages, and a box of donuts. He paid, grumbled something—not thanks—and she made a gurgling sound. This amused Marty and he clapped Josh’s knee. The knee smarted for some time.
As the van exited the coffee shop, a slushy compact car cut in front of it. Marty slammed the brakes and palmed the horn. The blue-haired woman piloting the compact froze upon hearing the honking and remained that way until Marty inched the van right up to her rear bumper and hit the high beams. Then she lurched ahead, just missing an oncoming Coca-Cola truck. Marty swung his head around with his teeth bared.
“She could have died right there and then, man! Holy shit! It wasn’t her time though. See what I’m saying? It wasn’t her time.” He pointed to the donut box. “Help yourself.”
“I’m not supposed to eat stuff like that.”
“Hey now. I’m the one calling the shots here. Like I said, this is all part of your therapy. If I say it’s okay for you to crush a few donuts, what the hell.”
Up ahead a blue-lit tow truck yanked a car out of a ditch with a steel cable. The owner of the car, a man with a flowing white scarf wrapped around his neck, stood there clapping his hands and jumping up and down. Marty waited for the tow truck to pull the car closer to the shoulder before he passed. The tow truck driver gave them the finger. Josh burst out laughing.
“Funny stuff, eh?”
Wheezing with laughter, Josh nodded.
“Good, laugh it up. Laughing’s good! And eat the donuts. Go on, don’t be shy.”
When he settled down, Josh reached into the box and selected a honey-glazed. His pale fingers held it to his lips and his nostrils quivered as he bit off half of the donut and chewed. He finished it and took another out of the box. He made short work of that one too. Sugar crusted his lips. He gobbled three more, spilling oily crumbs over his chest. Marty nodded and smiled as though he knew exactly what was happening and how good, how incredibly good, Josh felt at that moment.
“It’s nice to see you in your natural element. Swear to God. It’s cool. Complete license. Eat till you drop. Fucking-A. I would have taken you to a Chinese buffet and let you vacuum down some chow mein and egg rolls but this is way better. This is pure. Sugar and fat, that’s what it’s all about.”
“You’re talking a lot of garbage.”
Marty chuckled. “I know, I know. Way to go, man. You’re cranking those things down good. Hey, save me one or two—just kidding! I don’t go for the donuts, my cholesterol. But you don’t give a shit about that. You’re grooving right now. Nothing else matters.”
Josh gulped his hot chocolate. He reached for the donut box but withdrew his hand at the last moment. Marty had turned off the main road.
“Where are you going?”
“Ever been to Grassy Brook Trail?”
“Yeah, with my father once. We went horseback riding. Along the river.”
“That’s right. There’s stables. Pretty country. Must be picturesque with the snow. I saw horses out there the other day. Nice.”
“Are we going horseback riding?”
“Have another donut, Josh.”
“I’ve had enough donuts. I want to return to the Centre.”
“What? And miss the surprise?”
“What surprise?”
“Wouldn’t be one if I said what it was, would it?”
“Take me back to the Centre.”
“Not now, pal.”
“I don’t like this. I’ll file a complaint.”
Marty wasn’t smiling. “Shut the fuck up and eat another donut before I clobber you.”
Josh resisted for a moment then grabbed a double chocolate and crammed it into his mouth. His cheeks and the blubber folds under his chin trembled as he chewed. Sweat streamed down his forehead. Snot flowed from his nose. Sugar and fat coursed through his veins. He drank more hot chocolate, took deep breaths, his heart thumping.
Snow blanketed the new golf course and grey ice plated the still active river, walled for long stretches by tall grey reeds. They passed red stables with black horses steaming in front of them. A series of beautiful ranch-style homes hugged the riverbank.
Marty drove past the buildings and turned down a deserted stretch of road. He pulled the van over and parked by a snowy field but didn’t kill the engine. A flock of black birds rose up from the fence and clamoured in the twilit sky before setting off en masse across the river. Josh tried to undo his seatbelt but couldn’t worm his hand to the release. Marty sat there gripping the steering wheel, humming a tune. Josh wheezed. His hair dripped with sweat. He reached into his pocket, took out his puffer and inhaled a blast. He rolled down the window a little. Cold air gusted into the van.
“Feeling better?” Marty asked after a moment. “Thank God you remembered to bring your puffer. Imagine if you had forgotten it. Jesus. And I don’t know CPR—just k
idding! I’m certified, I know it well. I would have saved you. It’s warm in here, eh? Undo the seat-belt. Take off the parka. Relax. This is pretty country, no one around for miles. It’s therapeutic. Here, let me help you.” Marty unlatched Josh’s seatbelt and then with considerable effort pulled off his parka. Sweat blotched Josh’s grey sweater; a sour milk stench filled the van.
Marty switched on the radio and the sports guys continued blathering. He found a classical station, sat back and spread his legs. Nice listening to this stuff now and then. Violins and oboes soothed a body. Snow fell, large lovely complex flakes, feathering the wind-shield. Marty chuckled to himself, switched on the wipers, and sipped his coffee. What a perfect moment. Everything harmonious, in rhythm. He shut his eyes and listened. What else? A million things. He could talk about a million things right now with the right person. He turned and looked at Josh.
Josh shifted his haunches. Sweat trickled down his ass. Marty kept staring at him with his mean blue eyes. What the hell did he want?
“Christ, you’re humongous,” Marty said, “and only fifteen! I remember when I was fifteen. That’s when I started getting interested in girls. Are you interested in girls, Josh?”
The youth frowned. “Why would I be interested in girls?”
“I mean, you know, sexually. You’re not gay, are you?”
“I’m not gay.”
“Well, Josh, I’m not trying to pry, but I can only help you if I know where you’re coming from. I know you’re self-conscious because of your obesity. But you must have sexual urges by now. I see a bit of facial hair sprouting, I hear the deepening of the voice. It must be happening, no? Help me to understand you.” Marty waited.
“Girls are cruel,” Josh blurted.
“Cruel, eh? Yeah, they can be. Boys, too. Make no mistake. Boys too. Josh, just one thing, I noticed that you like drawing stick figures in your sketchbook.”
“I’m not very good. So?”
Marty leaned closer. “No, but you are good, Josh. That’s the thing. There’s a very expressive quality about them. Look, I brought one with me.” He pulled out the sketch and held it up. “This was the coolest one. I want you to explain what it means. Is it a dream or something?”
Black Rabbit and Other Stories Page 17
