by Darren Hynes
Wayne looks away again just as the door opens, and it’s Mr. Ricketts, the janitor, and he wants to know who’s there because he’s got mopping to do.
“It’s Wayne and Marjorie,” says Wayne.
Mr. Ricketts steps forward and peers over the rim of his bifocals. “It’s nearly suppertime.”
“We were rehearsing,” Marjorie says.
“We just finished,” says Wayne.
Mr. Ricketts reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a hanky and dabs at his eyes because he has this condition that causes them to leak. “Well, I’d like to mop in private if you don’t mind. That’s all I need: to miss a spot and have you tattling to the school board and they’re just looking for a reason anyway, so then where will I be?”
Wayne looks at Marjorie, then back at the janitor. “We were just leaving.”
“Who’s there the minute a light bulb is blown, eh? Or when a john overflows because some wise guy thinks it’s funny to try stuffing as much toilet paper in there as possible? Me: that’s who.”
Marjorie stands up and walks stage left and down the stairs and joins Wayne.
“Thirty-odd years I’ve given ’em, and now these youngsters on the school board—because that’s what they are, youngsters , not much older than yourselves—are telling me it’s time to have a rest. So I say: ‘I’ll rest soon enough! Don’t need any help from the likes of you!’” He dabs at his eyes again and puts the hanky away and says, “Going to be good this year? The play?”
“Best yet,” Wayne says. “Now that we have her.”
“Who’s her?”
Wayne points. “Marjorie.”
The janitor nods.
“Better than the Hollywood crowd, she is.”
“Is she?”
“We’ll make the local drama festival for sure, and if we win we’ll get to go to St. John’s for the provincials.”
“Couldn’t be worse than last year’s,” Mr. Ricketts says. “Daphne was slumped over in her chair and I thought she was dead, but she was only sleeping. ‘On account of the play,’ she said. That and the young one forever running spit through his hair.”
“Les,” Wayne says.
“Huh?”
“Les Faulkner: the one at his hair.”
“Oh. He wouldn’t be half bad either if he could keep his hands at his sides or in his pockets or something, not that I’m an expert or anything.” He pauses and turns and says over his shoulder, “I’m going to get the mop now, so be gone when I get back, ’cause heaven forbid I miss a spot.” He pulls open the door. “I should have them youngsters spend a day with Daphne and see how they like it.” He leaves, but his voice can be heard trailing off in the hallway. “Drive anyone to an early grave that woman would.”
Marjorie and Wayne listen to the old janitor’s footsteps recede down the corridor. After a while Marjorie takes a step closer to Wayne and says, “You like this planet, Wayne Pumphrey?”
He tries to answer but is suddenly conscious of their proximity, that were he to jut his head forward and stick out his tongue he might be able to taste the flavour of her flannel shirt or catch a whiff of her body wash or soap or whatever it is she uses.
“Wayne Pumphrey?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m waiting.”
“I know, and my answer’s yes.” Then, “You?”
She crosses her ankles and puts her hands in her back pockets and flicks her bangs out of her eyes and says, “Can take it or leave it.”
“Yeah, me too: take it or leave it.”
“It’s too late to change your answer.”
“Well, it’s a bit of an odd question, don’t you think? I mean, what choice do we have?”
She says nothing.
Wayne looks past her shoulder at the floor-to-ceiling mural designed by last year’s graduating class, standing on the edge of tomorrow in letters as tall as himself. Beneath the writing is a group of graduates, diplomas in hand and wind in their hair, and there’s a huge sun and a clear sky filled with birds, and the graduates are standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down upon a bustling city and it occurs to Wayne that they’re not really looking forward to the future so much as dreading it. In fact their smiles look more like winces, their wide, hopeful eyes belying the fear underneath, their erect backs and young knees readying themselves for the leap over and downwards onto the gridlocked parkway. Mashed and crumpled and twisted because what now?
Marjorie’s talking to him.
“What?” he says.
“You’re different, I said.”
“Different how?”
“More serious.”
He says nothing.
They collect their things and start for the door.
“Wanna come to Woolworths?” Wayne says.
“What for?”
“Every Tuesday Mom gives me free fries with gravy and Pepsi in a tall glass, and I could share with you.” He holds the door for her. She walks past him.
In the hallway, she says, “They have swivel stools, don’t they?”
“Can spin around all you like.”
Marjorie nods. “Okay then.”
TWO
Wayne’s mother puts a basket of fries down between them (the gravy on the side as per Marjorie’s request) and two Pepsis full of ice and lime wedges and with bendable, candy cane–coloured straws. She steps back and watches, hands on her hips, hairnet, Woolworths uniform, apron, and name tag.
“A lot of fries here, Mrs. Pumphrey,” Marjorie says.
She smiles. Juts her chin in Wayne’s direction. “Isn’t every day he brings someone to share them with.”
Wayne adjusts his straw and takes a sip.
A fat man in a toque and parka comes and sits on a stool at the far end of the counter. Rubs and then blows into cupped hands. “Cold front moving in,” he says to no one in particular.
“When isn’t there one moving in?” Wayne’s mom says.
He laughs and his shoulders bounce and everything on the counter shakes.
“I suppose you’d like coffee?”
“I’d like a pot.”
Wayne’s mother nods. “Be right there.” She turns back to Marjorie. “Wayne says you’re the best actress.”
Marjorie shrugs and dunks a fry in the gravy and takes a bite.
“She’s better than the Hollywood crowd,” Wayne says.
“Yes, that’s exactly what he’s been saying: that you’re better than all them in Hollywood.”
Marjorie’s redder than the ketchup. “Well, Wayne’s a very good assistant director.”
“Is he?”
“Mm-hm. Always jotting away in his notebook.”
Wayne’s mom looks at him. “He’s like that at home. Hunched over his desk writing God knows what.”
The fat man coughs and takes off his toque. Unzips his jacket and glances over.
Wayne’s mother holds up a finger and says, “One sec,” then steps forward and leans across the counter so that her face is close to Marjorie’s. When she speaks her voice is a whisper. “How’s your mom?”
Before Marjorie can answer, Wayne goes, “She’ll know to make the beef chunks smaller from now on.”
“What?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Pumphrey. She’s fine.”
Wayne’s mom wipes her hands on her apron. “That’s good.” She heads over to the coffee pot. “Better not see one fry left over.”
“You won’t,” Wayne says.
She takes the pot over to the man and he thanks her and says again how a cold front’s moving in.
Wayne dunks two fries into the ketchup, then into the gravy, finishing them off in one bite. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
The fat man wants a cheeseburger with extra cheese and extra bacon. Onion rings instead of fries. Extra onion rings. He’ll pay the difference.
Wayne’s mom goes through the swinging doors.
Marjorie says, “It wasn’t the beef chunks.”
Wayne lets go of his Pepsi and
looks at her and waits for ages.
Finally, she says, “Her nerves. Thought she was dying.” Marjorie grabs the counter and starts swivelling to the right, then left, and back again.
The fat man adds spoonful after spoonful of sugar to his coffee and enough cream to fill a pastry. His bulk hangs out over the edges of his stool as he stirs and sips, then adds another sugar packet and stirs and sips again.
Wayne says, “How can nerves kill you?”
Marjorie does two complete spins, raising her hands in the air like she’s on a merry-go-round, then stops herself and says, “You’d be surprised. I think it’s like being depressed.”
Wayne stares at his Pepsi for a long time. At last, he says, “Are your nerves bad, too?”
“Don’t know. Maybe.”
Quiet again except for the fat man’s breathing.
A voice over the intercom: “Price check in aisle four.”
Wayne fiddles with his straw, then dunks a fry. Keeps dunking it.
Marjorie says, “Trying to drown it?”
He lets go and watches the fry disappear beneath the gravy.
Then his mom appears with two plates. One holds the burger, the other the onion rings. She puts them down in front of the man. “Looks great,” he says. “Enjoy,” she says back, before disappearing again into the kitchen.
The fat man stuffs onion rings into his mouth and then lifts up his burger bun and grabs the bacon and chews that too, but now he’s put too much in his gob and he’s choking, so he spits into his napkin and balls it up and rests it beside his plate and then gulps coffee.
Wayne says, “Keep finding these notes … in my schoolbag, on my desk, my locker. Sometimes I’m in the washroom and there’s a note on my back that I didn’t know was there. Always the same message: PAYBACKS COMING PUMPHREY! There’s never an apostrophe and it’s always in capitals. He follows me home, too, and he gives me these looks, but they’re different, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking—”
“Price check in aisle four,” goes the voice again. “My God, Blanche, will you come to bloody aisle four already!”
Marjorie says, “Go on.”
“I don’t know. It’s like he’s waiting for just the right moment or something.” Wayne goes to reach for his glass but changes his mind. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be a lot worse than what came before.”
They’re quiet for a long time.
The fat man licks his fingers.
The intercom voice again: “Never mind, Blanche. Went and did it myself, didn’t I?”
Wayne says, “Why does he hate me?”
Marjorie swivels in his direction and stares for ages and then says, “Same reason he hates me: because we don’t fit.”
Wayne looks past her shoulder at the fat man now picking his teeth with the prongs of his fork and whose plate looks like it’s just been put through the dishwasher, then focuses back on Marjorie in time for her to say,
“Because you’re odd and small and your eyes are too far apart and you like to write and I’m skinny and I keep the meat department at Dominion in business.”
Getting a few crumpled bills from his wallet and setting them beside his plate and getting into his jacket and standing up exhausts the fat man. He leans against the counter for support.
Wayne’s mother comes out and collects the money and starts clearing his section and tells him to come again and the man wonders if he’s mentioned the weather that’s moving in and Wayne’s mom says yes, he has, so the man wishes her good evening and waddles away.
Then his mother is standing in front of them, her arms full of the man’s plates and cup and utensils and used napkins. “Odd for you to leave so many fries, Wayne,” she says before going back into the kitchen.
After a while Marjorie says, “Mom’s actually going to be out tonight if you can believe it, so you can come over.”
“Really?”
She nods. Then, after a long time, she adds, “I’ve got something I think you should hear.”
THREE
They’re standing in Marjorie’s driveway. She’s wearing Wayne’s toque, hands jammed in her pockets and red cheeks beneath the glow of the streetlight. Purple lips. Icicles for eyelids.
Wayne’s hood is up. His fingers—to keep frostbite at bay—are fists inside his mittens. Breathing’s like swallowing shards of glass.
So quiet—not a car or skidoo or barking dog; no bus full of tired miners, their heads slumped against windows in sleep; no street hockey or children in snowsuits and neck warmers, sucking the tips of frozen mittens and building snow forts; no people shovelling their driveways or the walkways to their front doors—nothing … just the silence that’s like being forgotten. Left behind.
Marjorie says, “I can’t feel my nose.”
“Me neither. Or my ears.”
“How long to die from hypothermia?”
“Don’t know.” He looks up and thinks that the northern lights are cold, too. Why else would they be dancing like that? The stars, it seems, are huddling the moon for warmth.
She says, “Come inside.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” She turns and walks to her front door, then says over her shoulder, “Jesus, Wayne Pumphrey, you testing to see how long it does take?”
“What?”
“To die of hypothermia?”
He runs over and they go in and it’s so dark there’s not even an outline of things. A smell like meat left out too long. She tells him to come on and not to bother with his boots.
Taking his hand, she guides him into the dark, through another door and down a staircase and the air’s musty like things unwashed and she makes sure he holds on to the rail. The stairs creak and he can feel the cold coming off her and, at the bottom, she tightens her grip and turns right and says, “This way.” Along another hallway and a sharp left, then she stops and he nearly bangs into her. She lets go of his hand and he hears her unzipping a jacket pocket and then a key inside a lock and a twisting of a door handle and it being pushed open and then her voice: “Mom says I’d be better off in the sunshine. Like she’s got room to talk. No one glares at me in here, or whispers behind my back, or calls me slut. And who cares if I am anyway. Probably having more fun than the rest of them.”
She guides him in and sits him on a wooden chair and tells him to stay put while she gets the light. He hears straining bedsprings and then a chain being pulled and suddenly the room’s awash in red and it’s like being in a dream. There are posters of bands he’s never heard of on her walls and who’s Thom Yorke? A dresser’s in the corner with its drawers hauled open and a disc player’s on top and CDs are scattered everywhere. The bedspread’s red too, as is the carpet and the colour of her walls. Her desk’s strewn with magazines and a biography of Dakota Fanning and The Outsiders and there’s a picture in a frame too and it’s of a smiling, unshaven man in a sweater and a tweed cap leaning against a fence with crossed arms.
Marjorie shrugs off her jacket and kicks articles of clothing underneath her bed, saying, “I’m far from a clean freak.” She goes over to the CD player and puts in a CD and presses play, and then sits on the edge of her bed with her hands on her knees and her face towards the wall with closed eyes.
Wayne listens and the song’s sort of haunting-sounding and lonely and he looks over at Marjorie and she’s bobbing her head and stomping her foot and mouthing the words and it’s like nothing he’s ever heard before and he thinks he likes it, but he isn’t sure. Then she’s turning up the volume and telling him that her favourite part is coming up, and then she’s on her feet and pointing towards the music, saying, “Here it comes! Listen! Just listen!” Eyes closed again and now she’s bouncing at the knees and swaying her head, and if her hair were longer, Wayne thinks, it would be flying.
He doesn’t catch all the words, but the ones he does hear talk about being a weirdo and not belonging anywhere and then he lifts his head and Marjorie’s staring right at him and she’s nodding and her eyes are g
listening and she says, “Well?”
He pauses. “Well what?”
“Whaddya think?”
He shrugs. “It’s good.”
She lowers the volume. “Good! That’s all you can say? It’s better than good, Wayne Pumphrey, it’s great is what it is. It’s everything—it’s you and me and being creeps and wondering what the fuck we’re doing here and how there must be somewhere else. It’s like Thom Yorke is singing just for me.”
Marjorie points to one of the wall posters. “Thom Yorke: the lead singer.”
“Oh.”
Marjorie sits back down and lets the rest of the song play out before turning down the volume a bit more and saying, “Whole album is amazing, but ‘Creep’ is the best.”
Wayne looks again at the picture on Marjorie’s desk.
“Dad,” she says. “Radiohead was his favourite and this CD is the most important thing he left me.”
Wayne slides forward in his chair to get a better look.
“He was young when it was taken. Not that he ever got old.”
“He looks like you.”
“I look like him, you mean?”
“Yeah—that.”
“He smiled all the time. But he wasn’t happy.”
Wayne looks at her.
Marjorie turns her face away then makes herself more comfortable by resting her back against the headboard and taking off her sneakers and crossing her feet at the ankles. “You can take your jacket off, you know.”
Wayne does, draping it on the back of his chair, then says, “Where did you say your mom was?”
“Group.”
“Group?”
“Yep.”
“What’s that?”
“People get together and talk about their dead loved ones, but mostly they cry and blow into tissues and I went once, but it only made me feel worse.”
“Oh.”
“At least it gets her out of the house.” Then, “Tuesdays never come fast enough.”
Quiet save for Thom Yorke.
Marjorie shimmies over and pats the spot left vacant beside her. “Why don’t you come over, Wayne Pumphrey.”