‘When you didn’t call I thought you didn’t want to see me again,’ she said.
He said nothing, kept his arm rigid, his fingertips inches from the thin cotton of her T-shirt. He could feel the warmth of her body next to his, the soft fullness of her moulding to him.
‘I’m going to the store to pick up more beer,’ Scott announced.
‘What?’ said the boy.
‘You heard me.’
‘You can’t buy beer,’ said the boy.
‘I know some guys.’ Scott grabbed his keys, started for the door. ‘You two have fun.’
She squeezed his leg.
They sat and listened to Scott’s Camaro start up, the in-line 286 rumbling as it backed down the drive.
Shelly took a swig of her beer. ‘I like it here,’ she said. ‘Our place in Regina is a dump.’
The boy said nothing.
‘How old are you?’ she said.
He swallowed hard. ‘Sixteen.’
‘Me too. When’s your birthday?’
‘It was last month.’
‘Just a baby. I turn seventeen in September.’
‘I guess.’
‘So what are you going to do after high school?’ she said.
‘I’m going to join the air force. I’m going to travel the world. And I’m going to be a writer.’ These were things he had recently decided, in the last few months. He was going to be a pilot, fight in the next war, the war that was coming. He liked to read history and he knew that there was always another war. And, like Hemingway and Faulkner, he would come home scarred and distant and he would be the guy everyone would whisper about – hey, he was in the war, was shot down, but bailed out and survived. And he would write about it. He hadn’t told any of this to anyone before.
‘My father was in World War Two,’ she said. ‘He was in the army. You should meet him. Maybe you can come and visit me sometime.’ She snuggled closer.
‘What did he do? In the war, I mean.’
‘He never told me,’ she said. ‘He always wanted a son. But my mum died giving birth to me, and he never remarried.’
The boy looked at her, noticed for the first time the differing hues of her eyes, one hazel, the other lake green.
She moved her face close to his, rubbed his nose with her own. ‘Kiss me, soldier boy,’ she said, closing her eyes.
He reached over and put his lips to hers, tried to be gentle. He watched her as he did it.
She opened her eyes and laughed. ‘Not like that, silly. Open your mouth and close your eyes. Push harder. Try again.’
He did as she asked. Her mouth opened. Their tongues danced. She tasted like beer and cigarettes, not like a high-school kid. More like a woman, or what he imagined a woman must taste like. They kissed for a long time. After a while, she took his hand, moved it to her midriff and slid it under her T-shirt, guiding it up her ribcage towards her breast. And then that contact, skin still, but different, amazing. She moaned as he explored, squirmed against him. He could feel himself hardening, pushing up painfully against his jeans. And then her hand was on him, moving up and down across the ridgeline of his button fly. He tried to catch his breath, pull air in through his nose. His head was spinning, his heart hammering in his chest as if it would explode. And then he was back there, on that bed in that musty garage with his face pushed into the mattress. He gasped and pulled away.
‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’ she said, caressing his hair. ‘Don’t you like it?’
He cycled air through his lungs, wiped his mouth. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
She brushed a wisp of hair from his forehead. ‘You’ve never done this before, have you?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it, War? Do you want to stop?’
He shook his head.
She pulled up her shirt. ‘You like?’
He stared, nodded slowly, deliberately. Yes. God, yes.
She smiled. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll take it easy.’ She reached up and put her hand behind his neck. ‘Put your mouth on them,’ she said, her voice thicker now, deeper. ‘Suck.’
He did. She moaned. The sound inflamed him. He grabbed her breasts, one in each hand, squeezed them hard so that the nipples stood. He sucked hard and worked his tongue around the hardening flesh, one and then the other and back again.
And then she whispered in his ear. ‘I am on the pill, you know.’
They rose. She took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom. The curtains were drawn. It was dark. She pulled off her T-shirt, snaked out of her jeans, lay back naked on the bed, a pale phantom. He stripped off, stumbled on to the bed with his jeans caught around his ankles. She laughed, pulled him close. He found her mouth, kissed her. She parted her legs, reached for him, guided him in. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. He moved by instinct only, assuming that her sighs meant he was doing it right. It didn’t last long. A few minutes later, they did it again. And then, after they heard Scott’s Camaro come up the driveway, a third time.
When they emerged from her bedroom, Scott was in the kitchen. He smiled at them, cracked open three beers. They stood around the island and drank. ‘Star Trek is on TV,’ he said. ‘I’ve ordered pizza.’
They went to the TV room and watched the episode where Spock’s brain is taken by aliens and Bones has to reattach it. Shelly snuggled with him on the couch smoking, while Scott sat in his dad’s La-Z-Boy, drinking beer after beer.
I love you. This was what he was thinking. This is what love is, what everyone writes and sings about, what all the girls at school are always gabbing about. Love. So, finally.
They stayed up late watching movies on TV. He drank too much. When she announced that she was going to bed, he followed her to her room.
She stopped at the door and faced him. ‘Goodnight, you,’ she said, kissing him on the lips. Then she turned and went into her room and closed the door.
He stood a long time, swaying from the alcohol, not sure what had just happened. ‘I love you,’ he whispered into the crack between the door and the frame.
Later that night he exploded from a dream, covered in sweat, aching hard, gasping for breath. He opened his eyes. A distortion hovered there a moment and he recognised it as Todd, or an image of Todd. He reached out to touch it, but before he could extend his arm, it was gone. He lay in the darkness and surveyed the living room. He remembered stumbling away from her room, finding the kitchen, grabbing another beer, standing out on the back deck, watching the rain fall in staccato time delay until he was soaked.
The cushions beneath him were wet. He must have found his way back here and crashed on the couch. Scott’s mum would have a fit. He sat up. Each beat of his heart sent a bullet of pain through his brain, each round tearing into the tissues that controlled his personality, his behaviour, his higher cognitive functions. He clamped his hands around his head as if to keep his skull from flying apart. Waves crashed over him. His guts were churning. He rose, swayed, reached out to steady himself. A lamp crashed to the floor. He cursed, bent double at the waist, stumbled towards the corridor and the bathroom. He felt his way along the hallway, past Shelly’s door. And then something made him stop. A sound. He stopped, strained to listen over the pounding in his ears. A cry. Another. A deeper echo, across years. He put his ear to the door. Breathing. Sighs, female. Her. Electricity arced through him, dissolved his spine, the ligaments holding his knees together. He grabbed the door frame, reached for the doorknob, pushed open the door.
Years later, from the cliff edge of time, as existence waned, that moment would return, those images. Her pale butterflying calves. The insistent urging of her sighs. Scott’s glistening back. Her pale fingers laced through his dark hair. Her eyes, the lack of symmetry destabilising even in the darkness as she looked right at him. And then her smile.
He turned and ran. Back through the kitchen and out into the rain. He fell to his knees and heaved until it felt as if his stomach would turn inside out. Then he stood, wiped his
face with the sleeve of his jacket and started down the drive and towards the highway.
March 7th. On the plane to Geneva
Jesus, Dad. What did you expect? Am I supposed to be sitting here feeling sorry for you, for your sixteen-year-old self? I stuff the manuscript into the seatback pocket, down my whisky, ask the stewardess for another.
I actually did dump the manuscript into that bin. I was almost at baggage claim when I stopped. I stood a moment, thinking about it, about him. I’m still not sure why I went back. Curiosity, I’ll call it. By the time I got back, the bin was being emptied out by the cleaners. Breathing hard, I explained that I’d dropped something in by accident. They were very helpful. I rummaged through the bag, immediately regretting my decision as my fingers sank knuckle deep into someone’s half-eaten lunch. Jesus, I breathed. The cleaners looked at each other, then back at me. ‘You want me to—’, one of them began, but I shook my head, kept going. Finally, I pulled the dripping manuscript from the bin liner. The cuff of my jacket was coated with something that looked like egg yolk. My hand was smeared in puke. The cleaners smiled, handed me a rag, watched me blade cold coffee from the cover.
‘Lucky,’ said one of them. ‘We were almost done, about to take all this to the pickup.’
‘Looks important,’ said the other.
‘Not really,’ I said.
I swipe my credit card to pay for the whisky. I drink it down in one go, before the stewardess has even finished printing out the receipt. When I ask her for another, she raises her eyes to show her surprise. Or her disdain. Up in business class the whisky is free – as much as you want – and comes with a smile, even at seven in the morning. If I get this contract and the promotion, I can travel up there instead of wedged here in the back where I no doubt belong. I could use the money. I’m worse off now than I was ten years ago. Divorce will do that to you.
I can still feel where Maria open-palmed me, one of her rings opening up the skin over my cheekbone. My right index knuckle is badly swollen, too. I think I might have broken it. Anyone asks me about it I’m going to say I got it sparring at the dojo.
The traffic from the airport yesterday was horrific. Going back for Dad’s manuscript cost me more than half an hour. By the time I picked Rachel up from her friend’s house we were already forty-five minutes behind. I made up some time between there and the school, broke all kinds of traffic rules, but when we got to the school the play had already started and Rachel was in tears. One of the teachers convinced her to get into her costume and she went on anyway. But she was so upset she couldn’t remember her lines and broke down on stage. I could feel Maria drilling holes in my head from two rows back. That wanker of a boyfriend of hers was there too. Troy is his name, a city lawyer, glaring at me in practised solidarity.
After the play finished, I went backstage. Rachel was being comforted by one of the teachers. I started towards her, but as soon as she saw me, she turned and ran. By the time I caught up with her, Maria and her boyfriend were there. Rachel was sobbing hysterically and Maria was running her hands through her hair and kissing her tears. Wanker-boy just stood there in his expensive suit next to them, trying to look suitably concerned. I stopped a few paces away and was about to say something when Maria looked up at me. She locked her hardest fuck-you gaze on me, one I have seen too many times in the last couple of years, and then let me have it with one of her glass-shattering you-are-such-a-fuckingasshole volleys. I know her well enough. I backed away. Went out and stood in the parking lot and lit a smoke. I decided to un-quit three days ago, while I was looking through Dad’s place. Health is overrated.
So, I was standing out in the parking lot on my fourth Camel, watching the parents trickle out with their little darlings, and along came Maria and Fuckface. I was going to talk to my daughter. I was going to apologise. I fucked up. I tried, but I was late. I had to try. I started towards them. As soon as Maria saw me, she pulled Rachel behind her, pushed her towards Fuckwit, who put his hand on her shoulder. Maria glared at me.
‘I want to speak to my daughter,’ I said.
‘She doesn’t want to talk to you,’ Maria said through tear-streaked make-up. I noticed that she was wearing a new dress, one that accentuated her figure. She’d dyed her hair. She looked good.
I stepped to one side, peering past her. ‘Rachel, sweetheart, can I talk to you, please? I want to tell you how sorry I am.’ I meant it. I could feel myself meaning it.
But before I could finish, Maria was between us again. She glared up at me a moment, and then pulled back her hand and slapped me hard across the face. I should have seen it coming, but I’d let my guard down. The force of it jerked my head sideways. I was more surprised than hurt. I raised my hand to my face. I said nothing, held my ground.
By now, people were watching. I tried again. ‘Rachel, please, talk to me.’ It was a stupid thing to say. What did I expect her to do? And I was about to turn away when the boyfriend decided to get involved. He pushed in front of Maria, squaring up to me, striking distance. He was taller than me, bigger, but with that soft office look. ‘Leave them alone, loser,’ he growled.
I stood my ground, looking past him, trying to make eye contact with my daughter.
‘Did you hear me, loser?’ he tried again.
I ignored him. ‘Rachel,’ I said. ‘Please, sweetheart. I am so sorry.’
Maria shielded Rachel with her body. ‘You don’t give a shit about her,’ she spat. ‘You are the most selfish person I have ever met. The biggest asshole I’ve ever met.’ Her voice went up a notch, if that was possible. ‘You are such a total loser. I never want to see you again. Ever.’
That’s when Fuckwit decided to be a hero. He took a step towards me, trying to impose his size, intimidate. ‘You should leave,’ he said. ‘Now.’
At that point, I’d had it. I coiled up. I knew what I was going to do before I did it, had practised it enough times. It was Dad who got me into it when I was young. One thing I’ve always been grateful to him for. I brought the sole of my left boot down hard on the top of his right foot, pinning him in place. Startled, he let out a grunt and looked down. As he did, I drove my right fist into his face. Driven back, one foot locked in place, he fell back and crashed to the ground, blood pouring from his nose. Maria screamed. I turned and walked through the parking lot, Maria and Rachel crying behind me. I got into my car and drove away, ‘Findin’ My Way’ by Rush screaming on the stereo.
It felt good. For a while.
Peru
From the window of the hotel you could look out across the river that ran through the middle of the city, over to the slums that covered the hills like mange. The young man knew why he was there. She hadn’t wanted to go alone. He was tall, towered over her now. Football and hockey had built muscle, and she knew that he could fight and, since the killing, that he did it far too often, coming home bruised and bloody. And she needed someone to carry the bags.
The flight south to the desert wasn’t until the next morning, so they left the hotel and walked into the centre of town. It was a place he would return to, years later, with Helena, in that halcyon period before the children came, when they were alone in the world, together. But now the young man knew nothing of that destiny before him, nor of the various points at which he might have changed it, nudged it on to another course entirely. He followed his mother along the narrow streets, watched her step over the crumbling kerbstones and cracked pavement, skip girl-like over the grey puddles that guttered the roadside and drained off into the fetid, stinking canal. They skirted the edge of the barrio bajo, felt the stares of the old people who begged from the fringes. The young man, who had seen poverty before, but never like this, walked towards them and pressed small bills, pesos, into outstretched hands until all he’d exchanged at the airport was gone.
In the centre of the city, his mother led him up the stairs and through the entrance of the Gran Hotel Bolivar. After the smoke and dirt of the streets, the lobby was cool and clean, marble and po
lished wood. A uniformed waiter showed them to a table on the balcony overlooking the street. She ordered a gin and tonic, and he a Coke.
‘Rhys would have loved this,’ his mother said after a time. Her gin was half gone.
The young man stared at his hands.
‘Don’t you think?’
‘Why do you always say that?’ The young man looked up. His mother was staring right at him.
‘Because he would have.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do.’
She tipped back her gin, called the waiter over, spoke to him in Spanish. ‘I am having another,’ she said. ‘Do you want another?’
The young man nodded, looked at her. He realised he hadn’t looked at her and seen for a long time. The lines around her eyes and mouth were deeper, longer than he remembered. There was grey in her hair. He’d never noticed it before. His Coke came, a glass of ice, her gin. He pushed a straw into the bottle, drank.
‘What are you looking at?’ she said.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’ve become as talkative as your father.’
He said nothing.
‘Why don’t you say something?’
‘Say what?’
She shook her head, drank.
‘Why do you always—’ he began.
‘I don’t know,’ she said before he’d had a chance to finish. ‘I’m sorry.’
The young man looked out to the street, the traffic fuming past. After a while, he said: ‘Did you see that man, back at the bridge, lying face down in the puddle?’
She nodded, raised her glass to her lips. ‘That’s the way it is,’ she said. ‘Not just here, but in so many places. Most places.’
‘Why doesn’t someone—’
‘Do what?’ she snapped. And then: ‘I’m sorry, Warren. You’re right. Someone should. That’s why we’re here, sweetheart. To do something.’
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