The old woman was still in front of the fireplace, gazing up at the portrait, speaking in the hushed tones of half a conversation. The boy stood a moment looking at the daughter, this woman who seemed so much like a child. And then he ran.
He ran as fast as he could. Out of the room, along the darkened corridor, past the dead eyes and faces. Halfway along, his foot caught a fold in the carpet and he tumbled to the floor. His helmet bounced away towards the dark peripheries of a curtained bay. One of the women screamed. He scrambled back to his feet, didn’t look back. His heart was beating harder than he had ever imagined possible, as if it would jump out of his chest. He gasped for breath, launched himself down the stairs, taking them three at a time. Was this what drowning felt like? Footsteps behind him now, Maude’s voice calling. He sprinted through the kitchen, the half-finished cookies still there on the table. When he burst out on to the back step it was as if he’d risen to the lightened surface of a gentle ocean. He gasped in deep breaths of summer air. The door slammed shut on its spring behind him. In seconds he was away, over the fence and out on to the street.
The boy never went back to the house, never saw the old woman or her daughter again. For weeks after, he lived in fear that they would tell his mother of his behaviour. But as the days passed, and nothing happened, he began to think that perhaps he had escaped punishment. And then, one day after school, his mother came to his room. She was holding his army helmet in her hand. She set it on his desk and sat down on his bed.
‘Maude brought this over today,’ she said.
‘Oh. Thanks,’ he mumbled, waiting for the inevitable.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me, Warren?’
He shook his head.
‘You know that Maude is not well, don’t you?’
‘She was talking to her father. I saw her.’
His mother closed her eyes. She left them that way for a long time, as if she was sleeping. Then she opened them again. ‘Maude’s father was killed in 1942 at Dieppe,’ she said. ‘He was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross.’
The boy had read about the VC, knew what it signified. ‘What is posthumous?’ he said.
‘After you die.’
And that was when he knew. And it struck him as strange – that they would give a medal to a dead person, a ghost.
He’d never told William, or anyone else, about what had happened that day.
And so, not wanting to appear to be a pussy, he had followed William through the hedge and the two of them threw stones at the house until a neighbour shouted out in the darkness and they ran away, hearts racing through the hot, humid Toronto night.
Now, he stood with the results of his good aim crunching under his shoes and looked back over his shoulder towards the street.
The door opened.
The family seemed nice, normal. The divorcee was pretty, in a sad, damaged way. She smiled as she took the basket from the boy’s mother.
‘Sorry about the glass,’ she said. Her voice was like the sound the wind made in the tree outside the boy’s window in winter. ‘The panes were broken before we moved in. I simply haven’t had a moment.’
The boy could feel the colour rise in his face. He turned away, looked at the floor. When he looked back up, the daughter stuck her tongue out at him. She looked to be about his age.
‘This is Todd,’ said the divorcee, putting her hand behind her son’s back. He was tall and lanky, with a brush cut and bad skin. He smiled at them.
‘I’m in the army,’ Todd said, standing tall.
‘The reserves,’ said his mother.
‘For now,’ said Todd. He turned his summer-lake blue gaze on the boy.
‘The man who used to live in the house won the VC,’ the boy said.
‘He died at Dieppe.’
‘I’m going to win a medal,’ Todd said.
‘He won it posthumously,’ said the boy. ‘That means—’
‘I know what it means,’ said Todd.
‘Boys, please,’ said Todd’s mother, the divorcee.
Todd stared at the boy, held his gaze for a long time. ‘You can come over sometime,’ said Todd, ‘if you want. I can show you the equipment the army gives us.’
The boy did not stay that day, despite the invitation. But over the next few days, the last days of summer, he did visit the older boy. He never went inside the house though. Todd had set up the old garage as his own place. There was an old sofa, a radio, a bench where he kept his army stuff. There was even a bed. The boy marvelled at Todd’s steel and Kevlar helmet, felt the glory of its weight on his own head, down through his spine. The camouflage helmet cover was the same as the ones the US Marines in Vietnam used. Todd told him that as soon as he could get away, he was going to take a bus down to Detroit and enlist in the US Marines and go to Vietnam to fight. He let the boy try on his fatigues, sizes too big, put on the webbing, the ammunition pouches and the sling satchel, hold the bayonet. The boy decided that he, too, would go to Detroit and enlist in the US Marines when he was old enough. He’d go and fight. He hoped the war would last long enough. And then one day, he, too, would come home with a medal, be a man.
On the last Saturday before the new school year, the boy took his father’s revolver from the place he’d hidden it, put it into his army-surplus carry bag and went to Todd’s house.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ he said when Todd opened the front door. ‘It’s a secret.’
They went to the garage. Todd turned on the light, locked the door. ‘My mom is away,’ he said. ‘What’s the secret?’
The boy pulled out the Smith and Wesson.
Todd held the gun in his hands, spun the barrel.
‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Thirty-eight. Good at short range.’
‘I’ve got bullets,’ said the boy.
Todd put out his hand. The boy reached into his pocket and poured a handful of the .38 calibre slugs into Todd’s palm. He liked the sound they made, the softness of the lead slugs against the hard-edged copper casings. Todd stood a moment weighing the ammunition in his hand. Then he loaded the chamber. His fingers were long and slender, the knuckles skinned.
He spun the barrel, levelled the pistol, aimed at the garage wall. ‘I know a place we can shoot it,’ he said, closing one eye and bracing his gun arm with his free hand. Then he put the pistol on the bench near the door. ‘I’m going to Vietnam,’ said Todd, after a moment.
The boy was very impressed.
‘I could die,’ he said.
The boy said nothing. He knew that soldiers sometimes died. He’d seen it on TV, in movies and in the news. He’d read about it in books. Two of his great-uncles had died fighting the Japanese in World War Two. One had been captured at Singapore, and later was being transported with other prisoners back to Japan when their ship was torpedoed by an American submarine. The Japanese locked the prisoners in the hold before the ship went down. He had nightmares about it sometimes.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ said Todd.
‘What did your mum say?’
‘She doesn’t know. I’m old enough. I’m not going to tell her. It’s a secret.’
Todd took a step towards him, reached up and put his finger under the boy’s chin. ‘How old are you, War?’
‘Thirteen next year.’
Todd glanced back at the gun. ‘Does your father know that you have that?’
The boy shook his head.
‘You wouldn’t want him to find out, would you?’
‘No.’ Dread rose in the boy’s stomach, gripped his chest.
Todd put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. ‘I need someone to say goodbye to,’ he said, ‘before I go to the war.’
‘I can do that,’ said the boy. ‘I can say goodbye to you.’
Todd smiled. He had strong, even teeth, a nice smile. ‘We can pretend,’ he said.
‘Pretend?’ The boy could feel Todd’s grip tighten on his shoulders.
‘You know,’ said Todd. ‘Like in the movies. The soldier says
goodbye to his wife before he goes to the war. She cries and tells him she loves him.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Like in the movies. We can pretend you are a girl.’
The boy shook his head. ‘No. I’m not a girl.’
Todd pushed the boy back towards the bed. ‘We can pretend,’ he said, his voice suddenly deeper.
The boy’s ankles hit the bedframe and he fell back on to the mattress, the older boy falling on to him, crushing the air from his lungs.
‘Come on, War,’ he breathed. ‘I could die.’
The boy struggled, but the teenager pinned his arms. He reached with his free hand and pulled down the boy’s shorts, ripped off his underwear, tore off his T-shirt.
‘What are you doing?’ cried the boy, ashamed now of his nakedness.
‘Saying goodbye,’ said Todd. ‘Wives are supposed to be naked.’
‘Stop, or I’ll scream,’ cried the boy.
‘Go ahead. I’ll tell your dad about the gun.’
The boy was aware of Todd’s forearm pressed down across his upraised arms, the weight of the older boy’s knee pushed down across his torso. And now, Todd’s free hand moving across his chest, down towards his nakedness.
The boy thrashed his head, tried to flail his legs, but Todd was stronger and heavier. And then a hand over his mouth and nose, his airways blocked, his attacker’s face above him, very close, pushing down on him. ‘Fight me, and I’ll kill you,’ the older boy hissed. And then, when he thought he would pass out from lack of air, the hand was gone and he was flipped over on to his stomach. Something drove hard into the back of his neck, crushing his face into the mattress, and then a hand was opening him up, and something pushing into him hard, the pain rushing through him in pulses with the pounding, on and on until he was burning and crying out in agony, the shameful tears soaking the bedsheet and the breathing faster, everything covered in sweat until the shivering, grunting, crying out.
And then it was over. Todd rolled off him, lay open-armed on the bed. The boy scrambled from the bed, reached for his clothes. He stumbled to the bench and grabbed the gun. He turned, faced the older boy, raised the gun.
Todd’s eyes widened.
The boy pulled back the hammer on the gun, pointed it at the teenager.
‘What are you doing?’ said Todd, sitting up on the bed. ‘Are you crazy?’
Tears stung his eyes. Pain shot up his spine, hot and wet. The gun shook in his hands.
‘War, don’t, please.’ Todd’s voice was high now, like a girl’s, his eyes wide with fear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
The boy took a deep breath and eased the hammer back down. ‘I hope you die,’ he said. And then he turned and ran out into the day.
March 6th. Heathrow
I switch on my phone and there are two text messages waiting for me. One is from Maria, reminding me to pick up Rachel and take her to her school play today. The implication is clear: she still hasn’t forgiven me for missing the last event. I mean, how many plays and recitals and jamborees and fucking bake sales can a single school put on in a year? I swear I spend more time sitting in that school auditorium clapping than I do at my fucking job. The second message is from Constantina. There are three x’s and an o and a picture of her naked. She really does have great tits.
I delete the mobile number the stewardess gave me.
Outside, it’s raining, as usual. A grey early morning in London. I need to pick up Rachel, take her to school. The play will only take an hour. Then I have time to get back to the flat and clean up and get to Embankment for the meeting with Gould and Associates, and the dinner after. It’s a big contract, and if I can land it, things could start to be good. I’m starting to feel like I’m getting pretty damned good at what I do. Can’t help feeling that my old man would have been proud of me if he’d ever bothered to listen. Not like I didn’t try, at first. But you tell someone to fuck off enough times and eventually they get the message.
Tomorrow morning, I need to take the early flight to Geneva to see Borschmann. Shit, I wish I could see Constantina before the weekend, but there just isn’t time. I don’t think I can last that long, though. Just looking at her picture makes me want to jerk off right now. Maybe in the shower when I get home. She’ll be pissed at me, though. Likes me to keep it all for her.
During the flight, I reread the letter from my old man’s lawyer. Apparently, the will leaves me everything. There is the Calgary house and contents; not sure how much it’s worth, a couple of hundred thousand Canadian, maybe. A bank account with a few grand, not much. The letter also mentions some additional stipulations that must be worked out in a final face-to-face meeting. The whole thing has me reeling. After all these years, it’s the last thing I would have expected. Still, I’m not going to argue. I’ll have to contact the lawyer next week, after I get back from Geneva.
I keep thinking about my old man and that manuscript of his. I’ve decided I’m going to keep reading the stories in order, the way he had them stacked up in the pile. He never did anything without a reason, without thinking it through. Makes it worse, knowing that. But Jesus Christ, that last story. Explains a few things. Raises more questions, too.
Thinking it through, I can only believe that he wanted me to find it. That’s why he left me the house. Must be. I mean, for a long time there were only the two of us, even if he did think he was alone. And now, well, there’s just me. Maria doesn’t care. She never liked my old man. Too right wing, she always said, a throwback. Too old-fashioned in his views. Not that he was easy to like. Rachel’s seen him maybe three times that I can recall, and two of those were when she was too small to remember.
So, that’s why he left the manuscript on top of the journals like that. Must be. There was no way he was ever going to present it to me and say: ‘Here is this thing I’ve written, son, to explain everything for you.’ No way. That was not the way he ever did things. I can see him lying there in the hospital thinking, If the son of a bitch makes the effort to look around and find it, then he can read it. Maybe he trusted me enough to get it right, after all. Maybe.
All these things he never told me. Jesus. Some things you just can’t share. I sure as hell would never have been able to. I guess this was the only way.
There is so much that needs to be kept separate. It’s only when things collide that people get hurt. That’s what lies are for. To protect the people you care about. Secrets keep people safe. My old man knew that, and practised it. And now I’m thinking that maybe I don’t want to know any of it. I’m walking along the concourse in Terminal 4, towards baggage claim, and I see a rubbish bin. I reach into my bag and pull out the manuscript. I’ve lived this long just fine without knowing.
Love
He stood at the bottom of the driveway and looked up at the house and wondered if she would be there. It was the summer of his sixteenth birthday, the year after they’d moved from Toronto to Vancouver. The summer he discovered Thomas Hardy and Ernest Hemingway and Faulkner. The summer Todd was killed near An Lôc.
He filled his lungs, exhaled long and loud, slung his bag over his shoulder and started up the drive. First steps towards a new life. Destiny awaiting.
She was the cousin of his best friend, Scott. A big-boned prairie girl from Saskatchewan, her parents had sent her out west for the summer to work in her uncle’s real-estate business as an office assistant. She had long hair the colour of beach sand and a big smile that she turned on him the first time they met. She wasn’t like the other girls he knew, the girls in his year at school, Erin and Catherine and Josie, with their home-sewn skirts and peach shampoo hair and their secret and segregated lives and talk of love and marriage and babies. Even her name was different. Shelly.
He stood awhile outside the house, looking up at the windows and over at the pool. Scott’s dad drove a Jag. They had a big house and Scott had his own 1976 Camaro. He answered the door. Smiled in that confident way of his, like he knew what life would bring him and it would all
be good. As it turned out, he was right, mostly.
‘Hi, War,’ Scott said. ‘Come on in. Want a beer?’
The boy hesitated.
‘Don’t worry, my parents are away for the weekend. It’s just us.’
Us. One word. His heart beat faster.
Scott led him through to the kitchen and living area. It was a new house with long wooden beams spanning high ceilings and a cantilevered front balcony flung high over the sheer rocky slope where you could stand and look across English Bay to Point Grey, and on clear days like today all the way over to the Gulf Islands. She lay sprawled on the sofa in a pair of tight faded jeans and a loose white T-shirt, a beer in one hand. Her hair haloed out around her head like one of those Byzantine illuminations he would see much later, in Cyprus, when he was so much older.
‘You remember Shell,’ said Scott, opening the fridge.
The boy nodded, swallowed hard. ‘Hi.’ He turned his head slightly to hide the angry blemish burrowing under the skin just below his jawline.
‘Hi, sweetie,’ she said, opening up that smile. ‘Did you miss me?’
The boy tried to think of a way to reply. All I have done since I met you last weekend is think of you. My insides ache and I feel dizzy. I have masturbated thinking about you so many times that I am sore. ‘I guess,’ he said, finally.
‘He doesn’t say much, does he?’ she said to Scott.
‘Naw,’ said Scott. ‘Like that all the time. I keep telling him. Never get laid if you can’t talk to a girl.’
She laughed, raised the beer bottle to her mouth, took a sip.
He’d never seen a girl like this before, so obviously braless, legs splayed, confident. He grabbed a beer and drank hard.
‘Can you stay over?’ said Scott.
He nodded.
‘Oh goodie,’ said Shelly, sitting up and patting the couch. ‘Come and sit with me, you.’
He stood mute, looking down at her. He could feel it happening, feel the pull. She smiled at him again and it was as if he was being drawn in, by time and history and everything that had come before him. Fear choked up in the back of his throat. He took her hand, sat. She pulled his arm around her shoulder, so that his fingers hovered perilously close to the swell of her breast.
Turbulent Wake Page 5