Poplar Lake

by Ron Thompson

  And then I realized what he was saying. He heard my sudden gasp of breath.

  “Oh yes. Our Beloved, Respected Pillar of the Community, Mister Citizen-of-the-Year Hardcastle, is a pervert. Mr Saint Hardass abuses boys.” He paused to swig again. When he continued his voice was tight and strained. “He reels you in, tells you you can be the best if you work hard. That’s what it takes, he says. He reels you in and opens doors and tells you how good you are, how much you want this. He convinces you. Then he does what he wants. And everyone—everyone—keeps their mouths shut.”

  But it eats at you, he said. It eats you up.

  It had started in Grade Ten, when we both got cut by the Lakers. Hardcastle had welcomed him back to the Bisons and made him his starter. He had always been encouraging—now he took a closer, personal interest in Clinton’s potential. The extra coaching he provided, the praise he gave, had made Clinton feel good, the invitations to stay late for one-on-one mentoring had been flattering; and all the extra drill on the playbook had filled in missing pieces in Clinton’s understanding of the game. It seemed like the coach really understood him and knew what he needed. Then there were the tutoring sessions at his office, the job that kept Clinton close.

  I stared numbly out the window. It was clear now. Why had I not seen it?

  “I let it happen,” he said. “I kept my mouth shut like all the others.”

  “What others?”

  “No one talks about it. I’m not even sure about the guys at the office. The Dogs. But the ones who work for him are usually the ones who move up to Junior A. Is that just coincidence?”

  In the distance I heard the wail of an approaching train. He peered towards it.

  “I’m a freak,” he told the driver-side window.

  “What?”

  “Just look at me. I’m a freak. A monster.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said to myself. “I didn’t see what was going on.”

  “I hit Tammy, for chrissake! How could I hit Tammy? I didn’t mean to. It’s not right, and I knew it, but at the same time there was a part of me that really wanted . . . to hurt her. So that I’d feel something.”

  “Listen, Clinton—”

  “I have this numbness. Inside. And I get these . . . thoughts in my head. I want to hurt someone. I mean, really bad, you know?”

  “No! You’re not like that. I know you.” He rolled down his window and flung the bottle out and started the car. “Yeah? Well, I know I can’t live like this. I’m scared of what I might do. There’s a price to pay for what I’ve become, and I have to pay it. ‘Tis a far, far better thing . . .’” He put the car in gear. “Get out.” “What are you doing?”

  “Get out, buddy.” He stared at me and when I made no move he eased off the brake. We rolled onto the crossing. “You better get out.”

  “Clinton, what are you doing? Get off the track.” The train sounded again. Now that we were astride the crossing, I could see its lights in the distance. They profiled Clinton’s face. I could no longer see his expression.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I get so mad I want to break everything. I want to break people, just bust them up, and I hate that, it scares the shit out of me. When I fought you, it just happened, I was like, crazy, crazy mad—and bang, it all came out. I don’t want to be like that. Like this, like I don’t know what I’m going to do next. All I know is I don’t want to hurt anyone. The me inside doesn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Come on, that’s bull—”

  “This is my Sydney Carton moment.”

  “Get off the track.”

  “Get out of the car.”

  “Move the car, Clinton. Get off the track.”

  “No. Get out before it’s too late.”

  “It’s okay, man.”

  “It’s not okay. I’m screwed beyond saving. I’m as bad as him.”

  “You’re not—”

  “Oh, but I am. I kept my mouth shut. I sucked it all up and hid it. Do you know what it’s like to live with something like that? I’ll bet there’s nothing you’ve ever had to hide. You don’t have any deep dark secrets that you can’t tell anyone. Nothing like this. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  The train’s horn sounded again. I could hear the rumble of the locomotive now. The light was still distant, but growing larger. Closer.

  “I do know what it’s like. We all have secrets. Stuff you think. Stuff that happens. You keep it to yourself. You just bottle it up. You’re no different than me or anyone else.”

  “Ah, but I am. I’m a monster.”

  “Look, you can’t just sit here, Clinton. What Hardcastle did . . . he’s the monster, not you. You’re the victim. You can’t do this. You’ve told me now. You can tell others. You can turn him in and make him pay.”

  “Sure. And I’ll be ‘Hardcastle’s fag’ for all time. You know how people talk. I can’t do that.”

  “You can’t just sit here and . . . You can’t give up. Think of the others he’ll hurt if he’s not stopped. This is eating you, I see that. I understand now. You were all alone, and it was a secret, and I didn’t know, but—”

  “Yeah, you didn’t know my dark dirty secret. How could you? It was secret. Tell me one of your dark dirty secrets, bud. One that’ll shock the shit right out of me. You tell me something that does that, and I’ll move the car. Otherwise, get out. Get out now. Save yourself.” He put the car into Drive but kept his foot on the brake. “Go ahead. Talk. Make it quick.”

  Now the engineer in the approaching locomotive could see us in the beam of his lights. He gave us a routine blast on the horn, then he must have realized that the car wasn’t crossing the tracks—it was on them. He hit the train’s brakes and sounded the horn again, first in short urgent bursts, then continuously, a shrill and plaintiff wail, no longer a warning but a herald of death. The train had been moving at full tilt, still far from the point where it had to slow before entering town. It was going too fast to miss the car astride the tracks.

  “Go ahead, man,” Clinton said calmly. “Talk. A secret. Your time’s running out.”

  Clinton wanted a secret, a secret that would shock the shit right out of him.

  “I SLEPT WITH YOUR MOTHER!” I screamed. Blinded by the oncoming light, I could not see his expression. Surprise, astonishment, bewilderment might have appeared there. Anyone else might have frozen in disbelief—but Clinton Sturgis was never one to freeze under pressure. He had never stared stricken and indecisive at the sight of a charging lineman or a blitzing linebacker. He was a scrambler who kept his cool as the pocket collapsed around him. When the play was broken and others panicked, he kept his head and saw what he must do—and now he had the presence of mind to step on the gas. For a moment the tires spun uselessly, flinging gravel into the night. Then they gripped, and the car spurted forward, and almost immediately came to a stop. I barely missed smacking the windshield then craned around to see the locomotive slide through the crossing, the horrified engineer caught in our brake lights staringhelplessly as he rolled past, the brakes squealing deafeningly.

  But he was a pragmatic man and had a schedule to keep, and now, peril avoided, he saw no need to stop the train after all. Kids, he must have thought. Joy riders. Poplar Lake, on a Saturday night. The train rumbled on, picking up speed once more as it passed. My heart was pounding in my chest. “You slept with my mother,” Clinton repeated quietly. I calculated he was shocked all right, because he had kept his word. But was he shocked enough to forget his original intention? The train was rolling past ten feet from our back bumper, and he was one wrist movement away from Reverse. If he had second thoughts, things could still end very badly. If he wanted shocking, I’d give him shocking.

  “Well, we didn’t exactly sleep, if you know what I mean.”

  * * *

  Here, Genny felt compelled to interrup
t my story for the first time, to ask what, in the circumstances, was a pertinent question.

  “YOU SLEPT WITH CLINTON’S MOTHER?”

  “SHHH!” I hissed. “You’ll wake everyone up.” It was time to tell her the whole story.

  CHAPTER 23

  It was a freakishly warm night in early March—weeks before my fight with Clinton, days before his trip into the city for histryout. A balmy breeze fluttered across my cheek as I came around the corner into his yard and saw the glow of a cigarette on the back steps. I went towards it.

  It was Claire Sturgis. And it was such a warm evening that she was sitting out in a sweater and jeans. “He’s not here, honey,” she said when she saw me. “He’s at Mr Hardcastle’s. He’s going to be late. They’re getting ready for his tryout.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I turned to go.

  “Come sit for a minute. Come and talk.” I turned back to see her cigarette glow again as she took a final drag and stubbed it out. “I shouldn’t smoke but I still dosometimes. They’re stress busters. I sneak a couple a day, but I’m quitting. Don’t ever take it up. It’s stupid.” She slid over on the step to make room and patted the spot she’d vacated. The concrete was warm where she had been. She sipped from a wine glass I hadn’t seen in the dark. “I have an excuse tonight, but I’m never smoking again. I’m quitting tonight forever. That’s the last one. It’s my birthday resolution.”

  “It’s your birthday?” She gave a little shrug and smiled vaguely. “Happy birthday! I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “For what? It’s just another day. I’m not going to celebrate birthdays anymore. I resolved that, too.” She looked with regret at the ashtray then cast me a glance. “I know you’re wondering. I just turned thirty-nine.” Now she snorted. “And I’m only ever doing that once, I promise.” She crossed her heart and smiled at her glass before she drank again. “Oh. Well. Happy birthday. Really.”

  “Thank you. I don’t feel that old.”

  “That’s not old at all. Ron Lancaster played till he was forty.” That sounded nerdy, comparing her to a football player, so I added something I’d read on a jokey birthday card: “Besides, they say you’re only as old as you feel.”

  She snorted again and took another sip of wine. “Yes, that’s what they say.”

  We sat for a moment in silence. I looked up at the sky, which was overcast but clear on the horizon.

  She followed my gaze, leaning back to consider the clouds. “It’s nice tonight.”

  I was aware of the tautness of her sweater across her chest but dared not look directly. “My dad said this is the tail end of the Chinook now. He heard it on the weather.”

  “Your dad’s a nice man. We used to get Chinooks all the time in Medicine Hat.”

  “We went through Medicine Hat on the way to Banff once. It seemed nice.”

  She snorted and refilled her glass. “It’s a small town. Bigger than this one, though. Do you like it here?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “Then it’s not fair of me to ask. I’ll tell you one thing. It’s full of gossips. Small towns like this always are.” She shifted restlessly on the step and refilled her glass. “Not everyone’s bad, though. You’re a good kid. You’ll be a decent man. Like your dad. He’s a good example, I’m sure. What are you going to do when you finish school?”

  “I’m still exploring a few possibilities.” She laughed.

  “I mean, I’ll go to university, but I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “Something to do with math?”

  “That’s what people tell me to do.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Not math.”

  She snorted, this time in amusement. “Well, you know your mind. But it’s hard to go against everyone else. Especially in a small town. At least you’ve got role models in your family. Your brothers have done different things. My Clinton hasn’t had many positive role models.”

  “There’s Mr Hardcastle.”

  She sighed. “Yes. There’s Mr Hardcastle.” She took a gulp of wine.

  “Clinton’s learned a lot from him. He’s worked him hard, but Clinton’s definitely gotten better.”

  “I guess he has. Mr Hardcastle sees more of him these days than I do. And he puts a lot of pressure on him.”

  “Clinton can handle it. He’s good enough to get a football scholarship down in the States. Mr Hardcastle played in North Dakota. He’s got contacts there.”

  “So I hear. And he’s got Clinton thinking he’ll make it in football. Not many people do, though. It’s a fantasy. When you’re done playing, or you get injured, you have to get on with life like everyone else. It’s a cold, unforgiving world.”

  I realized this was the most I had ever talked with her. And it wasn’t awkward. It was the dark, the balmy Chinook, the way she spoke to me not as a mom but as an equal, the two of us just talking comfortably like friends.

  “Don’t get stuck in a small town, honey. Don’t get stuck in a fish bowl. Not unless you own the bowl. Get yourself an education and get out. See the world.”

  “That’s what I want to do. See the world. I want to . . .” I steeled myself for a confession. We were talking as friends, and I felt I could be honest. “I want to be a writer.”

  For a moment the pronouncement hung out there. I thought she might laugh. Instead, she studied me seriously. A Chinook breeze ruffled my cheek. “You want to be a writer.”

  “Yes. I want to be a writer.” It felt good saying that. I want to be a writer.

  Now she looked silently into the darkness, considering my aspirations. She drained her glass and put it down, swept a hand through her hair and stood up. She looked down at me for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude and selfish. Wait here.” I waited, wondering if I had made a fool of myself with my honesty. She went inside and came back a moment later with another wine glass, which she filled from the bottle on the step. “Burgundy,” she said, handing me the glass. When she sat back down her hip grazed mine. “Honey, you want to be a writer, you’ve got to live your life. Burgundy. A full bodied red. Taste.”

  I sipped the wine.

  “You haven’t done this before, have you?”

  “No,” I said after tasting again. “It’s kind of—” but then she shifted closer and gently pushed my glass away. Her breath caressed my cheek then her lips found mine and my glass, my rich red Burgundy, full bodied, spilled onto the steps between us.

  * * *

  Genny was scarcely breathing. I waited for her to say something. “That’s sexual assault. That’s . . . that’s statutory rape . . .”

  “No! I never did anything like that. I would never—”

  “Not you. Claire. She was an adult. You were just a kid. She was in a position of authority.”

  “No! Claire wasn’t that way. Claire wasn’t—it wasn’t that at all.”

  “She was in a position of trust. You were a minor.”

  “I was seventeen. Eighteen in a few months. I could look after myself.”

  “How is it different from what Hardcastle did to Clinton?”

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . There was no, uh . . .” I sputtered into silence.

  “Oh, there’s a huge double standard,” she said with a catch in her voice, “but a child’s a child. It’s not right.”

  “I know how it may seem to you, just hearing it like this—”

  “That’s—”

  “—but no one was hurt.”

  “Listen to yourself! You just told me your best friend was abused. By an adult. It doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman. They were adults. You were kids.”

  “But Claire and I, we were just . . . together.” Genny shook her head angrily. Then she was struck by a thought. “You were with her that night. When Tammy came to your house. You mentioned the smoke on your c
lothes. That was hers.”

  “Clinton never brought Tammy home when they went out, so we had the house to ourselves. She liked to smoke after we, uhm . . .”

  * * *

  Back with Clinton in the car, with the train rumbling by in the night.

  “Well, we didn’t exactly sleep, if you know what I mean.” Clinton sat staring forward. The car was running. He still had it in gear. His hand went to the gear shift. There were only two options.

  He slipped it into Park. “Okay. That’s a shock all right.” The shock, or the adrenaline of the near miss, had sobered him.

  “I thought it would be.”

  “Jeezus.”

  For a long moment we sat in silence. “When?”

  There was an edge in his voice. I did not immediately answer. Finally I said, “It doesn’t matter when. It happened.”

  He let that settle. “No. I guess it doesn’t matter when.” I heard him sigh.

  “You already beat the crap out of me. Try it again if you want. This time I’ll fight back.”

  “No.” His voice was flat, defeated.

  “You’ve got to go to the police. He’s the pervert, not you. You know that.”

  “Maybe you’re the pervert.”

  I looked at him. “She’s a beautiful woman. You don’t realize that because she’s your mother.”

  I thought for a moment that he would fight now, and that I had it coming, but he seemed spent, exhausted. “I’m not your friend,” he said. “Not now.” We sat in silence until he spoke again. “He would’ve hit on you, you know. Back when it started. He wanted to. I figured that out later. He just couldn’t read you. You’re too hard to read. So he didn’t make his move and instead he sent you to the Lakers to get you out of the picture. But I stayed for the flattery and thescholarship.”

  “You didn’t know what he was like.”

  “Yeah, well, soon enough I did.” I said nothing and sat wondering.

  “It still could’ve been you, too. You came that close and didn’t even know it. Remember in Grade Eleven, when him and me came to the Lakers and you tried out for receiver and he cut you? Well, he wasn’t going to cut you. He was going to keep you around. He was still interested, I could see that. So I told him to get rid of you. I demanded it. I was already in but at least I got you out.”