Y: A Novel

by Marjorie Celona

  “Don’t be mean to me,” he says, digging his finger into his sneaker. “Listen. My brother gave me this incredible shit, not like the stuff you get in the city. It’s at the house.”

  “What do you know about the city?” She feels him warming back up to her, and so she runs her fingers down the back of his neck and fiddles around in his hair. He likes this. He closes his eyes.

  “It feels like bugs are crawling in and out of my bones,” he says. “When I do this shit, it ends like that.” He snaps his fingers and then gestures to Yula’s pregnant belly. “After—you should try some with me.” She leans in to him, lets him cradle her. He takes another joint out of his pocket and waves it in front of her face.

  “I can’t,” she says. “I have to get back to Eugene.”

  Harrison lets go of her and she watches him walk down the beach, balancing on logs with his arms outstretched, his cheap sneakers slipping every couple of steps, his ankle threatening to twist, the sound of his footsteps on the rocks and sand. She climbs the long staircase that leads to the car, slowly, holding the wet metal rail in the dark. It is frightening here; my mother has forgotten how dark it gets, that this is a place where homeless men live. She can see their fires farther along the beach; if she kept walking she would meet one, or a group of them, all of them high. They think they’re psychic here; if you grow up in the woods you think you’re some kind of visionary, and now in the parking lot, where Quinn’s car waits, there are four men in a Volkswagen camper, bearded men, looking at her, waiting for her to leave so they can claim her spot, the best part of the beach on Dallas Road at night, right under the lookout. The men run their eyes over her belly. She looks behind her for Harrison and holds her breath.

  When he finally appears at the top of the stairs, his eyes are bloodshot, the joint in his hand smoked down to a roach. He waves to one of the men in recognition.

  “That’s Darryl,” he says to Yula. “Let’s stay a little longer. Ten minutes, that’s all.”

  It’s hard to say what happened next, or why so many hours later my mother was asleep in the back of the Volkswagen camper, peacefully high on weed. At eighteen, she still sleeps like a child: deeply and happily. Her hand rests on her pregnant belly, and her eyelids flutter as she dreams. My father is on the beach with the men. They pass around a bottle of Irish whisky. It is three in the morning and their campfire is smoldering, but they’re all too drunk to be cold.

  “I hate my life. I hate life,” my father is saying, letting the waves slop up underneath his boots. He leaves the group of men, walks to the pay phone at the top of Clover Point, and calls his brother, Dominic, who lives a couple of blocks away. He is so high that at first he holds the phone away from his body, unsure for a second what it is.

  “You up?” he says into the phone. “Can you drive us home?”

  IX.

  by sixteen, it is clear what I am and what I am not. I’m not going to be a supermodel—Vaughn didn’t tell the police that my mother was only five feet tall and that her shoulders were almost twice as wide as her hips, giving her the build of a miniature linebacker. This becomes my build. It also becomes clear that I am completely blind in my left eye now, though we still don’t know what or whom to attribute that to. I get headaches; I can’t see in 3-D. I’ve gotten used to it. I don’t like fickle men (are they all fickle?), and I don’t like Baptists or people who can’t make up their minds about people being gay.

  Miranda and I are still tense with each other. There’s a kind of desperation that comes from having a small family, a palpable strain between her and me, especially when Lydia-Rose isn’t around. Each of us tries too hard—each must encompass, for the other, an entire family combined. When I can’t take it anymore, I go down to Dallas Road and watch the tide come in. I try to be grateful that I live in this beautiful place. I try not to be so restless. But I feel like I grew up on the moon. When you live on an island, all you can think is, “How am I going to get off it?”

  Some of the kids at school get cars for their birthdays. Miranda gives me a bus pass and a five-dollar bill. She says if I fold it a certain way I can make Sir Wilfrid Laurier’s head look like a mushroom, but I’ve got other plans.

  “Ticket to Tsssshhwassen,” I say, my right eye focused hard on the queer spelling under Destinations. “That’s Vancouver, right?”

  “Yeah. Well, almost. You get the bus, little missus. Traveling alone?” He pushes the ticket under the glass but keeps it under his thumb. “Nine dollars.”

  I start counting.

  Here’s a trick: mind over matter. When you’re counting five bucks in change but it’s got to add up to nine, say “twenty-five” instead of “five” when you throw down a nickel. They’re almost the same size.

  “Safe trip.”

  “Yup. Thanks.”

  The ferry’s engine rumbles to a start and so does my stomach. I stand on the deck and watch the water move in big white sprays. Most people have cameras. The wind picks up, rattling the tarps slung over the safety boats, and I watch the island move farther and farther away. My hair is in my face, in my mouth. The air is salty and cold, but the sun is hot on my back. When the ship’s whistle sounds, it is so loud that I jump. Someone behind me says “Let’s get a hot dog” and I dig in my pocket for more change but find one lousy paper clip instead.

  The inside of the ferry is warm and smells like vinegar. After one safety announcement ends, another begins. This goes on for what feels like an hour. I wonder what everyone’s so worried about.

  Here’s another trick: walk up to the vending machine, slide in a paper clip, press A5 or B6, or whatever.

  “What? Hey! Hey! This thing ate my dollar! Give me my chips! Aw, c’mon, I don’t have another dollar—”

  “’Scuse me? Honey? Here’s a dollar.” It’s a nice mom or grandma, and I hope she buys me a root beer, too. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Shannon.”

  “You traveling by yourself?”

  “Yeah. I have to take the bus into town. I’m pretty hungry, too.”

  The woman looks behind her, searching for her husband. “Maybe we could give you a ride. Why don’t you come over to where we’re sitting and we’ll see if we can work something out.”

  Here’s the thing: I’m not trying to be a user, but people are curious about me. They stand and stare and try to figure out if I’m mentally slow or what it is exactly that makes me so odd looking—I’m saying I pique their interest. I’m saying they’re very happy to give up a dollar or a seat in their car to find out what’s wrong with me.

  “Hugh, this is Shannon. She has to take the bus all the way into town by herself, so I thought we—”

  “Sure we could! Hi, Shannon. I see you’ve met my wife—”

  “My name’s Belle, dear. I forgot to tell you my name.”

  I smile at her and admire her little outfit, which is color coordinated, right down to her clip-on earrings and ankle socks. Everything is the same magenta shade. Her husband taps her leg with a shaky hand. He’s wearing a Rotary Club vest and blue jeans with an elastic waist. They look like the nicest and most naive people in the world.

  “Plenty of room in the car, Shan,” he says. “Our kids grew up years ago—where you going all by yourself?”

  I have to stop and think about this, because I don’t know the answer. I want to get off the island; I want to get away from Miranda and Lydia-Rose for a while. I want to see what it feels like to be alone. Miles and miles of alone, big empty stretches of alone, endless trails through dark green woods alone, pebbled beaches and nights spent with only driftwood for a pillow—alone, alone, alone. “Vancouver?”

  “Yes, dear, but where do you want us to drop you? Is someone meeting you at the bus station? I hope they won’t find it odd, us giving you a ride. Will they find that odd?”

  “No, I don’t think so. The bus station is fine, thank you so much.”

  “Belle, why don’t you offer the girl a piece of your Toblerone?”
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br />   By the time we’ve rounded Active Pass, Belle and Hugh have bought me a tuna sandwich and another bag of potato chips. It’s my sixteenth birthday, but I’ve told them I’m twelve, and Hugh says that when he was twelve he was independent also.

  “Had a job at the shoe store,” he says. I can tell he’s a nice man, that he’s been good to Belle. I guess they’re in their sixties, but I can’t really tell. Neither of their children has married, and that makes them sad. They want grandchildren. Belle, I bet, wishes she had a granddaughter like me, only not so funny looking.

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Belle asks.

  “A firefighter. Or dog trainer.”

  The police find me the next day at a homeless shelter on Burrard Street, just around the corner from the Y. Vancouver has a bigger Y than Victoria does; I think, actually, it has more than one. Miranda called the police after I’d been missing for twelve hours, and my description was faxed to every station in B.C. Short; stocky; frizzy blond afro; lazy eye. I’m hard to miss.

  “You’re Shannon, I bet,” one of the officers said and held my arm tight.

  I had an okay time. Vancouver smelled like rain and pizza. The Sky-Train was like a big white snake that darted all over and into parts of town where no one spoke English. Everywhere I went, someone wanted my money for drugs. It’s a gray city, mostly because the buildings are made of glass and the sky is gray. Someone should have thought this through a bit.

  I met a lot of people in fur coats. Some were homeless; some were rich. Everyone gave me a dollar or two. One lady paid me three bucks to hold her poodle while she went for lunch, and I met a guy who hadn’t slept or eaten in six days. He said it was the crystal meth. He told me about the homeless shelter, and we walked together and talked about hot dogs.

  “You can get six dogs for a dollar at the Mustard Seed and they throw out perfectly good bread at this bakery on Robson,” he told me. “The dumpster’s got a lock, but a small hand can fit inside.” He stared at my hands as he said this. We bought the pack of hot dogs, then walked to Robson.

  “Get as much as you can, don’t let anyone see,” the guy said and tossed me his backpack. His name was Matthew, and he had curly hair that reached his shoulders. He wore a black trench coat with a hole in the armpit and a silver pentagram around his neck. He smelled like cigarettes and sweat and something I couldn’t put my finger on, something like a wet carpet. He said he was twenty. I liked his boots, which he said were from the army surplus store. They were two sizes too big, but he said he liked them that way, ’cause then he could wear four pairs of warm socks. He took long strides when he walked and kept his head down and his arms by his side. I’d never met anyone who walked like that before, as though they were out to avenge something. He told me that if the dumpster wasn’t locked I should climb inside, and then he disappeared into an electronics store.

  I stood in front of the bakery. Two Asian women were working behind the counter, putting together sandwiches and toasting bagels for businessmen and women in jogging suits with big strollers. I slung Matthew’s backpack over my shoulder and walked down the alley. His backpack reeked of beer and the wet carpet smell. I wanted to take him and the backpack to the laundromat and soak them for hours in soap. I tried to imagine him with shorter hair and wearing a nice sweater. He’d be attractive if he were clean, I decided. But who was I to insist that someone look better? I stared down at my chubby legs in the tight jeans I’d chosen for the occasion, my white Adidas shell-toes with fat pink laces, white tank top, suspenders from The Gap, the brand name cut out so no one would know. I’d combed out my curls, and my hair stood straight up all around my head like a big bright halo. A couple of weird-looking guys walked by and gave me the eye, but I stared at them so hard and fierce that they scooted away.

  The dumpster was locked. I dragged a pallet over and then another and stood on them, finding my balance, until I could reach inside. The bread slid right into my hands; it was all there, right there, filled to the brim. I wormed it out, using my elbow to prop open the lid as best as I could, and got out five loaves—flattened and squished—before I heard someone coming. I crammed the bread into Matthew’s backpack and ran back onto Robson, where I was quickly sucked into the crowd. My tank top was covered in sweat and grime, and my sports bra was showing through. I studied my reflection in the glass window of the electronics store. With Matthew’s big canvas backpack on, I didn’t look like anyone I’d ever seen before.

  Inside, Matthew was trying to sell a watch to the clerk, but it was a fake and the clerk knew it. He asked us to leave. We walked up Burrard and it started to rain, so we walked faster. There were cops outside the shelter, and when Matthew saw them he grabbed my hand and we bolted.

  I’ve never run so fast in my life. Matthew’s trench coat flew out behind him like a cape, and the straps of his backpack whipped against my back so hard I thought I might start crying. He had my hand tight in his. We ran all the way down Nelson until we reached Granville. The blood was pounding in my temples and it hurt every time my feet landed on the concrete.

  Matthew pumped his fist in the air and hooted, then ducked into the doorway of a liquor store to light a cigarette. He offered me a puff and I breathed it in deeply, surprising us both when I didn’t cough. It tasted good, like warm rye bread. He told me he’d teach me how to blow smoke rings. We stood on the corner of Granville and Drake, across from the 7-Eleven. I looked at the White Spot across the street with envy; I wanted a hamburger and French fries more than God. Matthew pointed down the street to the Cecil—a strip club, he said.

  “You’re like a little Marilyn Monroe.” He cupped my cheek in his hand, ran his fingers through my hair. His nails were caked with dirt, the skin on his hands rough. He opened the backpack, hooted again when he saw how much bread I’d taken. I waited outside while he went into the liquor store, then he emerged minutes later with a mickey of Jim Beam in his hand.

  “Come on,” he said. “Got a buddy who lives upstairs.”

  He held open a door that I hadn’t even noticed; it was the same color as the wall we’d been leaning on. We walked up a stinky flight of stairs covered in cigarette butts and junk mail, then stopped in front of a door with FAG spray-painted across it in big sloppy letters. The hallway reeked of pot smoke. It was dark except for a flickering black light at one end. Matthew kicked the door, his hands full with the mickey of Jim Beam and a loaf of what looked like cinnamon raisin bread. The pack of hot dogs stuck out of his front pocket. I hoped he couldn’t hear my heart, which was pounding so fast and loud that I thought it might rip out of my chest and dribble down the hallway like a basketball.

  A tall skinny man with long hair and wire-rim glasses opened the door and looked at us, the bread, the Jim Beam, the hot dogs. “Let’s do it,” he said, and held the door open.

  Matthew walked ahead of me and plopped down, wide-legged, on a couch in the middle of the room. There was an old television on top of a milk crate in the corner and a chest of drawers across from it with empty bottles of booze, some with candles shoved into their spouts, the wax spilling down the sides. Two sleeping bags were splayed out on the floor beside a hot plate. Aside from that, the room was empty. The only window looked out onto Granville Street and I walked to it, stared across to the 7-Eleven. I turned around and studied the room again. There was no bathroom, no kitchen. I rolled my shoulders back, tried to hide the look on my face. I looked at the cigarette butts on the floor, the ragged hole punched into the wall, the single burnt-out bulb swinging from the ceiling, as if none of it surprised me. As if I’d been in rooms like this all my life.

  I found my voice. “We got bread.” The man in the glasses looked at me and nodded. “I’m Shannon,” I said.

  “Gregor.” He opened the chest of drawers and took out three plastic glasses. Matthew poured the Jim Beam, and we each took a sip. I drank it as though it were apple juice. Gregor took a little cassette player out of one of the drawers, unplugged the hot plate, and plugge
d it into the wall. He pressed Play, and the Ramones shot out through the speakers. I felt proud that I knew who the group was and tapped my foot in time. This was all going to be okay. The Jim Beam was sweet and Matthew passed me his cigarette and I sucked on it then blew the smoke out into the room. He ripped open the pack of hot dogs with his teeth, tore off a hunk of bread, and pushed two dogs into the center. He handed this to me and grinned. It was getting dark out, and I was starving. I crouched and ate the cold hot dogs like a wild animal. One of my suspender straps slipped off my shoulder and I let it drag on the ground while I ate my dinner. Gregor and Matthew sat on the couch across from me, passing the whisky back and forth. They were drinking out of the bottle now, using the cups as ashtrays. I could hear people on the street. Girls screaming and crazy men shouting back. The buses clanked along and blew exhaust, and their brakes squealed and whined. There was no air in the room, and I struggled to breathe. I hoped we would go for a walk or something. I wanted to see more of the city. I looked out the window and saw a woman lift up her skirt for some guys in a beat-up sedan. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, and the guys honked the horn and one of them threw something at her that looked like a crumpled-up paper bag. I tried to pretend I didn’t find it shocking, the dark swatch of pubic hair, her skinny thighs, her birdlike hands as she awkwardly caught the bag then threw it at the car, screaming “Fuck you, too!” as they sped away. I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen anything at all.

  Someone knocked and Gregor leapt up, peered out the peephole. He opened the door and a tall, bone-thin woman walked in, covered head to toe in tattoos. Her lip was pierced, pluglike earrings stretched out her earlobes, and her long black hair was shaved on either side of her head so that it fell to the side like a horse’s mane.

  “Sexuelle Monstrositäten was number one this week at the store,” she said to Gregor. Her voice was as deep as a man’s—guttural and raspy. She held up a videocassette. Women with four-inch-long nipples and men with more than one penis dominated the cover. He kissed her cheek, took the video, and tossed it to Matthew, who studied it for a minute and then put it aside as though it weren’t the least bit interesting.