by E. R. Brown
From the very first, I’d been careful. Neither Randle nor Skip knew anything about me or my family. We were too new in town to be in the phone book and even then, Beth and I had different surnames. Randle might have seen her on the job, but she was just one of the budders. He wouldn’t have noticed her, and even then, he wouldn’t make the connection. All he had on me was a Gmail address and the number for Skip’s throwaway cellphone. When I was ready to disappear, it wasn’t going to be hard. All I had to do was leave town.
The kitchen door let out a pained squeal and Beth’s bag thudded on the floor. She was in mid-sentence before I could hear what she was saying.
“— where your new clothes come from. And staying out late again and again. I knew it wasn’t the coffee shop, I know Jeannie. Those expensive shoes —”
“And the new sink and the new front steps.” I finished her sentence. “That’s where they came from, and every other repair in this broken-down dump. It was my money that paid for them.”
If she wanted to go on the offensive, I’d cut her off right now.
“Hi, Mom,” Bree spoke loudly over the music in her head, and Beth’s lips thinned, registering her presence.
“You must be hungry after all that work,” I said, as I dried a salad bowl and placed it casually in the cupboard. “Supper’s in the fridge. We’ve eaten.”
She nodded tolerantly, her smile almost a grimace, and closed the door, lifting it carefully to avoid the screech. She turned to me, one hand on a hip, the other with index finger extended.
I said, quietly, “They pay you well, the greenhouse?”
She closed the finger to a fist, and, with nothing to strike, swiped at the light switch instead.
“How can you see in here, it’s so dark?”
Outside, the early evening sun shone brightly. Her eyes flicked to the overhead light, which remained off. “Doesn’t anything work in this house?”
The switch had been broken the entire time we’d lived there.
“They should be generous, considering the risk you’re taking. Have you thought about that?” Keep her off-balance, I figured.
“I will not discuss what I do. This is about you.”
“Ah.” I looped the dishtowel though a cabinet handle and reached for the tea. The kettle had calmed, its whistle just about to build. I said, “Green or black tea, or ginseng? I’m seventeen. A guy’s gotta have a job.”
“No —” she tried to cut in.
I wasn’t having it. “You have responsibilities, you know. Bree, the house. What if you get caught? I mean, not to be impolite, but you’re no young offender.”
She thrust me out of her way and pulled down the teapot, slamming it on the counter with such force that I thought it would shatter. “I will not discuss this. Not here. But you — I forbid it. I’m your mother and I want you out of this business.”
“The direct command. Wow, you think that still works?”
Bree looked frustrated as she hunted through the soapy water for anything she’d missed. She probably couldn’t hear much through the music, and was desperate to know what we were saying. But turning the volume down meant wet-handing the iPod, and pulling out the earbuds would be obvious.
I mimicked Beth’s lecturing tone. “Let’s review the situation. You’re my mother. In what ways have you been mothering me? Have you fed me? No, I pay for the food. Cook it too, more often than not. Clothes? Oh, right, those are on me too. You provide the shelter, I’ll grant that. You dragged us all the way up here for a free roof. Except that pesky sink wasn’t free, or whatever else craps out. Who is the mother around here? I think it’s been me, since you disappeared into the oncology ward.”
That went too far. She was having trouble controlling her breathing.
“You sound like I did that to you.”
I reached to her, but she pulled back.
I said, “Come on, you know how I feel. But what did you do to try to keep me in school? Did you ask anyone to come in and look after Bree, or did you just take it for granted that I’d drop out and get a job?”
Her face lit. “And when you leave in the fall, what then? Then I’ll need a job, won’t I?” She had an attack point. “I know more than you give me credit for.”
Somehow she knew I’d been accepted back to school in the fall. I’d received the email a week ago, but hadn’t told anyone.
I kept my voice calm and modulated, and, I hoped, below Bree’s headphone level. “If you want a job, that’s fine, but not that job. Picture this: I’m living in Vancouver going to university and you’re working at the greenhouse when it’s swarmed by men in flak jackets with ‘Drug Squad’ on the back. What happens then? When the authorities phone home, who’s going to take the call?” I indicated Bree’s back. “How will that go over with child welfare? And who’s going to come up with Mom’s bail?”
Beth sagged, suddenly shrunken and hollowed out. Bree pulled the plug to drain the sink, and then dried her hands, eyes down, her face florid and blotchy.
I said, “When you’re locked up she won’t be able to come live in my dorm. And if you expect me to drop everything again —”
Bree whipped off her earbuds. “This is about drugs.”
“Darling, no,” Beth almost wailed.
“I’m not selling drugs, I never did.” She spoke in a monotone. “So you don’t have anything to worry about, either of you. But you wouldn’t believe that, would you?”
She bumped me in the chest, hard with her muscled palms. She was larger than me, I realized, and still growing.
“I’m not with Nolan anymore. Hasn’t anyone noticed that I’m here every day and every night? That I don’t have any friends, that I don’t do anything?” Her voice rose. “He tried something once, all right? It was stupid, but it was just once. And you wrecked it —” She shouldered me out of her way and left the room, tears streaming “— in front of everybody. And he hasn’t talked to me since.”
Beth gaped, dazed, at the space where Bree had been. After a moment the sound of frantic typing carried in from the piano room.
Beth nodded to herself and moved slowly to the stairs. “I’m off to Vancouver now. For my show’s opening. It’s tomorrow, in case you’d forgotten.”
“That’s right.” I had forgotten, completely. I followed her, offering a cup of tea. “Good luck, break a leg, whatever.”
She bent down to me, laying her forehead on my shoulder, “Please, Tate, don’t ruin your future. Please.”
“It’s my future, Mom, not yours.”
The acceptance letter lay opened on my bed. It was a formality, the printed version of the email I’d received a week earlier. But it was addressed to me, not her, yet there it was, open. I had no privacy here. Or maybe she wanted to push me out too — make me angry and remove any lingering doubts I might have about leaving.
Yes, I’d been accepted, but the letter made it clear that I’d barely squeaked in. Not in so many words, but the message was unmistakable. I remembered the welcome letter they sent me when I was a high school prodigy: it congratulated me on achieving such a high academic standing, and was pleased to welcome me with a full scholarship, blah, blah, blah. This letter was a terse two paragraphs. It stated the fact of my acceptance and the procedure for registering my courses. I was in. And that was all.
However, acceptance was better than rejection. At the end of the year, there were scholarships available, if my results were good enough. I opened my laptop to check my course options and texted Rachel at Five Star.
I’d phoned her every day when she’d first got the job. I liked talking to her, especially when I was on a long drive to a rundown farmhouse or some scary clearing in the deep woods. But some Five Star customer must have complained, or her boss had found out, because phone calls were now forbidden. Her boss didn’t seem to know about texting, though.
I typed: u free after the shift?
While I waited for her to notice the message and reply, I registered my new university ID and
logged on. Tuition and student fees had gone up again. My estimates had been way low. Blowing that scholarship had been a really stupid move.
My bedroom was at the back of the house, in a cramped dormer with angled ceilings and a tiny window facing the forested slope. The room was pretty impersonal, I’d never really felt like I wanted to move in, and I’d done nothing to fix it up beyond tacking up a couple of band posters that I’d pulled off telephone poles. There was nothing that I’d care to bring with me when I left.
If I climbed out on the roof, I could look a hundred feet uphill and see the overhanging corner of the tree house where my money was stored and my truck was parked.
In her room, Beth made a bad-tempered clatter as she packed to leave. She cursed as she rummaged through the bathroom for toiletries, slid coat hangers around and thumped her suitcase. When her closet door stuck on the warped floor she slammed it so hard the mirror in my room quivered.
My phone chirped: sorry. 2morrow?
Tomorrow she had the afternoon shift, so her evening was free: ok. drinks on me.
The response was instant: yum. cu @ marina
No, I didn’t want to go to the marina again. I wanted somewhere special to celebrate, where we could watch the sun go down and to talk about our fall courses, together. Somewhere private. I’ll surprise you.
The reply was quick: k
I’d never seen her naked.
Down the hall, Beth clunked her suitcase downstairs. She didn’t call out her usual goodbye, but the door squealed open and closed, and a minute later the Volvo groaned to life and drove away.
The screech of the kitchen door jolted me. I’d dozed off in the muggy heat of my cramped room, exhausted by aggravation and too many long nights on darkened roads.
“It’s me,” Beth called out for all to hear.
I fought off the fog of sleep. What was she doing back home? I’d been so far gone, the sound of the Volvo’s shredded muffler straining uphill hadn’t roused me. Or maybe she’d been forced to walk back home after some gasket had finally blown. She must be stressed over the delay in leaving.
Her voice was directed at me. “I have made a decision. I am not going to Vancouver —”
She was going to miss her opening?
“— although my show is opening tomorrow, my first show in years, and you both know what that means to me, I am not going because I’m needed here. This family is in a crisis.” Something smashed. Pottery, a dish, maybe.
She’d gone for a drive and decided on a new angle of attack — and attack was the word. She was past any form of discussion, she was going to throw things and break things until I caved in, simply to make her stop. She’d win at any cost. I’d seen it before.
A heavy thud and the clang of piano strings. Something had hit the Bösendorfer, or she’d pushed its teetering leg off the thesaurus that held it up. “I hope you’re happy, Tate,” she called, barely audible over the one-person war. “Because of you, I’m missing my own opening. Lord knows what Eleanor will say. Or the press.” In the next room, Bree locked her door. She’d be safe, this wasn’t about her.
Violence and guilt were Beth’s endgame. No debate, no discussion, she just threw things while screaming the same points again and again until she wore her adversary down. When I was younger, I’d face off with her, and I’m ashamed at the things I could do and say, but the end result was always the same, and I have the scars to prove it. This time, I decided to skip the intermediary steps, skip the conclusion, skip all of it. I slipped my laptop in its case and slid it out onto the roof. Stuffed my messenger bag with a handful of clothes and tossed it out too. I paused, thinking, this is too fucking Huckleberry Finn, but her footsteps came stomping up the stairs and it was out the window for me.
I didn’t dare put a light on in the tree house, not with her down there, screaming my name out every window and door. If I thought the neighbours could hear her I might be embarrassed, but if any of them were home they’d be snug behind their triple-glazed windows, sound muffled by the air conditioning.
It was only nine or so and there was still plenty of summer-evening light to see by. After some time to sit and breathe, I put my mind off her with busywork. I counted my money and revised my budgets based on the final numbers for tuition and fees. I was still short, assuming that I had to support Beth and Bree as well as myself.
Beth must be making decent money as a budder. If she kept it up she might not need my help. But if she chose to make a dramatic moral stand about the dope business (which is what I expected), she’d probably quit her job and dramatically reject my corruptly obtained money. Which looped back to the fact that I’d have to support the two of them, which I could only do by working for Randle, whether or not she knew about it. At least until school began.
The only way I could manage that was to keep my distance. For that, the tree house was perfect. All I’d need was an air mattress. Like camping, but easier. When Beth was out, I could go down to the house and use the plumbing and hot water, and check on Bree. If Beth stayed angry, I’d keep on avoiding her until I was settled in Vancouver. From there I’d make the first overtures and we’d all reconnect. It might be easier to deal with her once we had some distance between us.
I passed an hour or so trolling the Internet, researching home hydroponic systems and nutrients. Randle wasn’t the only one with a turnkey grow op. There was an apartment-sized grow-room kit that you could order from some unspecified address with a California phone number. There were self-contained units the size of refrigerators, which fit a few dwarf plants, and smaller grow boxes disguised as bar fridges. One looked exactly like a floor-standing PC. Even a dwarf variety could pull in five hundred bucks a plant, minimum. One or two of those in a college dorm could definitely supplement my income.
“You can’t leave me alone with her,” Bree said from the shadows.
“Damn, you scared me.” I jumped to hide the money, then realized she must have been watching for a while. Stacks of bills covered the floor.
“I’m sorry.” She shuffled closer. “But you can’t. She’s gone mental.”
I waved her to a camp chair. “How’d you know I was here?”
“There’s an orange wire running from the back porch.”
Right. I felt stupid. How long ago had she followed my power cable up to the tree house? Weeks ago, she said, but she hadn’t been ready to come up and visit because she was angry with me over the Nolan thing. But she’d watched. She knew about the truck, and had a pretty good idea of what I did in it. I wondered whether she knew how much money she was looking at.
“I’m sorry about that grad-night mess. I didn’t mean to break you up, you and Nolan.”
She shrugged. “He wasn’t very smart.”
I laughed, and she laughed with me.
“You know, you’d better go. If she can’t find you she’ll be even crazier.”
“I’m afraid to be alone with her.”
I walked to her and took her in my arms like I used to. “I know.” It didn’t feel right. We were older, and she was taller, and we both backed away.
“It’s just noise,” I said. “You know her, she never really does anything, and she always calms down.” Once Beth was convinced that I was really gone for the night, I was certain that she’d get back in her car and head to Vancouver. “She’s desperate to get to the gallery. Her show’s opening tomorrow, and believe me, she wants to be there. It’s really important to her.”
“My mom the artist.” Bree made a face.
“You don’t remember much of it, do you?”
“Sure I do.”
“Not just her painting upstairs, but her being a painter, and kind of famous. You were nine when she had her last show, maybe you’ve forgotten. Rich people bought her paintings, paid a lot of money. She was in newspapers and art magazines. She has a box of clippings saved in her studio, I’ll show them to you later. You’ve got to encourage her to go to the opening, it’s what she needs more than anything right
now. Once she sees her old art friends she’ll be on top of the world.”
“You think?”
“I do. You better head down there, so she’s only taking it out on me and not both of us.”
I knew that Bree wasn’t afraid of being on her own in the house. She could defend herself fine, and alone was how she preferred to be.
“If she drives you crazy, you can hide out up here.” I told her the combination to the padlock.
“You’ll be here, right?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be in and out, but I won’t be sleeping here.”
If Bree could follow the power cord up here, so could Beth. I had to get out now.
I took to the road, shifting like Randle, blasting down the highway with the windows open. At the video store I slowed for a glimpse of Rachel at the cash, slim and poised as always, probably counting the minutes left in her shift. Her hair was bleached again, with pink tips. She didn’t see me.
I headed along the border and looped up around the lake, past Soowahlie and east through the Fraser Valley, before pulling over to chill for a while and watch the moon rise.
Four Harleys pounded past me, shattering the quiet. Then four more. While I sat and watched, I added up an even dozen. At first I thought they were hobby riders out to enjoy a warm summer evening, just a bunch of guys who liked to hang their bellies over their gas tanks and destroy the tranquillity for everyone in hearing distance. Then I spotted the vests and the gang badges, and the license plates from Washington and Oregon.
Randle had told me they almost never rode their bikes as a group. Riding together, in formation, was an event. They’d fill the highway for a biker’s funeral, or a PR stunt like Toys for Tots, where they tried to convince the world that they were just a harmless bunch of motorcycle enthusiasts, but if you saw them riding together showing their colours they were making a statement. And you didn’t want to be the person they were making that statement to. I wondered whether Bullard knew about the Americans in his territory, or whether they were just passing through on the way to another destination, where someone else should be worried.