Jaysus.
“Do bats got balls?”
“Sure, b’y. Big ones. That’s why they calls your old man batty—he got big balls.”
“Is a bat a bird?”
“Yes, b’ye, like you. That’s why we calls you Big Bird.”
“Always wanted a big bird.”
“Go sit with Alf Pittman’s wife. She likes a big bird, twat on her.”
“How’d you know about her twat?”
“Borned Edgar, didn’t she—fuckin’ head on him.”
“Ever hear of stitches, low-life? I had a tumour in my belly twice the size of Edgar’s head. Nothing there now but a pretty seam.”
“Shoulda left out a stitch, you’d have your own twat.”
“For you, arse, you gets any closer.”
They scraped back chairs, settling noisily around the table. The boys kept putting drinks in front of him, and Kyle kept drinking them. The band started up with their bass and guitar and electronic drummer and its beat pounded through his head. He got up for a piss and staggered. Passed Julia going to the can and looked away. Kept walking.
Found his way back to his chair. Pushed aside somebody trying to haul him onto the dance floor. Rose called his name and he faked not hearing. He watched the horde of dancers shaking and twisting and Rose stood before him, too-tight sweater and a saucy grin. She grabbed his hand, yanked him to his feet and onto the dance floor. He caught a scowl from Hooker and winked and pushed away from Rose and staggered into Julia and her arms folded around his neck and his body folded around hers, soft, sweet…put a candle in the window…and he swayed with her and Creedence and his dick started swelling against the tautness of her belly…I feel I’ve gotta move…and then he pushed her away, Chris’s girl, she was Chris’s girl, and he was starting to sweat and he took long swaggering strides across the bar and made it outside and stood in the cone of yellow from the overhead light above the door. Fresh air caroused through his head. Fast. Too fast. He staggered off the steps and onto the road. Someone whispered near his ear and he startled sideways and was met with a meaty fist cracking against the side of his jaw and pain splitting through his head. Last thing he saw before hitting the ground was Clar Gillard’s nice rounded face smiling at him.
He woke up to a pounding head and Creedence’s final guitar lick. He saw the cone of light through a scraggly screen of dead timothy wheat. He was lying in a ditch across from the bar. His back was sore and his shirt hauled up, bared skin against rough, cold ground. He sat up—jaw aching, head splitting. He tried to clench his teeth but couldn’t from the pain. Mouth tasting like rust. Jaysus. It was bleeding in there.
He spat and got to his feet, reeling towards the bar. The young ones had gone off; there was no one about. He thought of going back inside and getting the boys and tracking down that fucker Gillard. But his feet were already embarked upon the road, weaving towards Bottom Hill, and it was easier to keep going. The road T-boned Bottom Hill near the top and he looked down Hampden way for Clar’s truck—scarcely a light visible through the fog.
He was starting down the back side of Bottom Hill when he heard a creaking sound coming through the woods. There was a pathway coming up to his right, a shortcut down through the brush, passing the scorched remains of the Trapps’ sawmill and ending at the bottom of the hillside, directly behind his house. His father had cut the trail to shorten their walking distance to Hampden. Faster route getting to school in the mornings than walking the length of Wharf Road and then cutting back up Bottom Hill. Kyle hurried past the shortcut. Rather a longer walk than passing that creaking, stinking ruin in the dark.
Another creaking started to his left and he picked up his step. Jaysus. He hated this gawd-damn stretch of road; there was always someone seeing a bear prowling around here. Chris wouldn’t be scared. One night like this they were both walking down Bottom Hill and heard something coming up the road towards them—click-clap, click-clap, click-clap. And then a reddish pinprick of light appeared in the distance, weaving through the dark in their direction. Kyle almost had a fit thinking it was a fucking bear, and he drew back, readying to throw himself off the road and thrash insanely through the woods. But Chris reached back and took his hand and it was warm and strong and he, Kyle, was a big boy of thirteen or fourteen but he let his older brother lead him towards that click-clap, click-clap and the reddish pinprick eye burning closer. Chris’s step never faltered while Kyle’s heart was kicking with fright. And then the thing was in front of them. A young fellow running with two Pepsi cans stuck onto the bottom of his boots, smacking his hands to his sides, a cigarette stuck in his mouth. Chris released his hand and they kept walking. Kyle looked back.
“What’s that fucking idiot doing?”
“Scaring off bears,” said Chris.
Kyle thought for a minute. “Good thinking. But he’s still a fucking idiot!”
Chris busted out laughing. It felt good, his making Chris laugh like that. Felt more like a friend than a kid brother. It was the first time he had ever felt a sense of his self.
He wished Chris was here now; he wished his big warm hand was holding his. “Where you at, old buddy?” he called to the heavens. He felt himself choking on unleashed tears and bent over to get a grip on himself. He bent too far and staggered off balance. He was closer than he thought to the edge of the road, and with a yelp, he fell over. Rolled down a rough slope, his shirt scraping up his back and his ribs striking against the cold rough bark of a black spruce. He tried to get back up, tried to pull his shirt back down, but the pain in his ribs cut off his breath. Jaysus. He heard something or someone cry out—a faint cry—more like a scream, a weird scream.
He lay still, listening, and heard nothing, only the wind rifling through the trees. The fog crept through the woods and drifted over his face like melting snow, and he smiled. Julia…
—
A knife-cutting pain through his ribs. He opened his eyes to darkness and wet ground pressing against his face. He tried to move—oh Christ, his ribs. He held on to them and crawled back up the bank to the road, wondering how the hell he’d ended up down there. He smelled smoke. Someone had a fire lit. Kate.
He started down Bottom Hill, legs straddling the quavering road like a fisherman negotiating a heaving boat on choppy seas. He turned onto Wharf Road and then onto the gravel flat, his stomach roiling. He bent over and vomited so hard he emptied his stomach with one heave. His stomach kept heaving and he fell to his knees now, gagging on bile and gasping for breath. Water leaked through his eyes and nose and his head spun and he held it in his hands. Jaysus.
Dragging his coat sleeve across his mouth, he stood. He waited a moment, his stomach settling. He weaved cautiously towards the glow of the fire. It was just Kate sitting there, picking at her guitar strings.
“Hey.” He lowered himself onto a log opposite her and missed, his butt hitting the beach rocks hard. “Hey, Kate. Sing us a shong—song!”
Kate tightened a key on the neck of her guitar. She didn’t look up, didn’t speak, didn’t smile in greeting. Her fingers weren’t calm and fondling and patient with her tuning, but fidgety and stiff. She tightened and plinked and tightened. Her hair wasn’t braided tonight, but fluffed out in soft, rippled curls that floated around her shoulders. Hardly ever saw her hair loose. Going to church, sometimes. She always went to church Sunday mornings.
“What’s up?” he asked. A dog barked from up the road and he shivered. “Arse. Near broke my jaw.” He wriggled his lower jaw.
“Who, the dog?”
“Close enough. Gillard. He sucker-punched me.”
Kate bent her head over the neck of her guitar.
“Down by the bar. Just out of nowhere. Punched me.”
“He’s been prowling about of late. Something getting him stirred again.”
Kyle wriggled his jaw some more. “Don’t think it could wriggle if it was broke?”
“No.”
“Yeah. Good, then. What’s up, Kate?”
&
nbsp; “The moon’s up, Kyle. Somewhere.” She gave him a wan smile. She popped him a can of beer and he sucked back a mouthful, sloshing it around and spitting it back out, staring after it for blood—couldn’t rightly see. He reached for a stick and gave the fire a good stoking. Flankers popped like orange stars. He laid the stick down and sat back, feeling nauseated again. He watched Kate’s fingers plinking at her strings in a non-rhythmic manner.
“Hey, got a new song?”
“Not a night for singing.”
“Got a new song, though? You always got a new song.”
“Yeah, I got a new song.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Don’t got the words yet.”
“What’s it called?”
“Papa’s Quilt.”
“Kinda quilt?”
“Made from my grandpoppy’s PJs.”
“His PJs? Is he dead?”
“He is. My mama made me the quilt.”
“Sorry, Kate.”
“He’s not. Be over a hundred if he was still alive.”
“Right, then. I like old men. Old men piddling about. Was it all right then, when he died—or passed? My sister Sylvie. She don’t like saying dead. She says passed. Like they’ve passed on by and are still passing.”
“It was a nice passing. I’m sorry, Kyle. We don’t all get the gentle goodbye.”
He lowered his head, then got the spins and sat up rapidly. He heard a series of low coughs coming from over by the river, somewhere.
“Someone back there?”
Kate strummed her guitar.
“I think I heard someone. Over there. You hear anything, Kate?”
“A boat, I think. Someone in a boat.”
“In this fog? Fools.”
“Lots of fools around, Kyle.” She kept strumming, her face turned from him.
“Seriously. They can drown in this.”
“Death bothers you, don’t it?”
“Thought it bothered everybody.”
“Been walking to greet us since the minute we were born.”
“Cheery thought.”
“Nothing’s perfect, Kyle. What would we sing about?”
“Pissin’ in the rain?”
“Pissing’s good.”
“Let’s hear a song, then.”
She shook her head. “Not tonight. Go on home now. Might want to check on your father—drinking and driving. Saw the cops out earlier.”
“Father? You seen Father tonight?”
She stopped strumming and gripped the neck of her guitar as though it were an irksome pet, laying it aside.
“Kate, you seen Father tonight?”
“Yes. Earlier.”
“He was here? He was here, Kate? Sonofabitch!” He stumbled to his feet. Sonofabitch, sonofabitch, he left her alone. When she was so needing someone with her. Holding on to his ribs, he staggered across the gravel flat and turned down the black stretch of Wharf Road, cursing. Water suckled over the beach rocks to his left and suckled down the black cliff wall to his right. It suckled from his eyes and through his nose and his mouth and he felt like he was being corroded by water and he wiped at his eyes and his face, trying to make it all stop before he dribbled into bits by the roadside.
He got to the wharf and softened his step. No need to wake her. He crept to the door and stumbled. Christ! Felt like he was getting drunker. He reached for the doorknob, but then noted a sliver of light coming through the drawn curtains and peered in. Bonnie Gillard. Sitting at the table with his mother. Their heads were bent towards each other like two crooks in a crowd exchanging secrets. He couldn’t see his mother’s face, but he could see Bonnie’s. She was bawling. He pressed closer to the window. His mother took Bonnie by the shoulders and gently shook her.
He looked around but there was no sight of Bonnie’s car. Then he remembered. His hand instinctively went to her keys in his jeans pocket. She’d tried to off herself, that’s what. And was now bawling to his mother about it.
He staggered sideways, near fell. Clutched onto the windowsill to hold himself steady. Good. Good then, his mother wasn’t alone.
He stumbled to the side of the house and slumped down against it. Good. He didn’t have to go sit with her. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear another thing. His mouth was parched; he wanted water. He turned his head and pressed his throbbing jaw against the cool of the clapboard. Fucking Clar Gillard. He slid sideways and was half sitting, half lying, keeping his ribs from touching the wharf. To hell with it. He let himself fall to the wooden planks and near cried from the pain and then stared up at the fogged-in night, wishing for stars.
He shifted for comfort. He groaned, his ribs aching. He was shivering. What the fuck. He opened his eyes. Had he slept?
He tried to sit up. A dog was barking and snarling, its nails scrunching through beach rocks. He leaned sideways to see through the dark and felt himself falling, falling over the wharf, and as he clung onto the grump he stared in astonishment at a dolphin’s head flickering white out of the water. The dog—Clar’s dog—danced on the water’s edge, snapping and snarling, and then plunged into the water towards the dolphin. Get back, get back, Kyle yelled and the dolphin threw back its head and made its tic-tic-tic-ing laugh. It sank back into the sea and now Kate was looking down at him, tic-tic-ticing with a steel slide on her guitar, and she was crying, her tears dripping thick and bloodied onto his hands. He cried out, scrubbing his hands clean on the rough, splintered planks of the wharf, but her tears kept bleeding down her face and the night behind her morphed into a blacker shadow of itself, threatening to engulf her. He tried to say her name but it warbled in his throat and the dog’s barking grew mad, frenzied, its nails cold, hard, gritted with sand as it scampered over his hands. Ee-asy boy, ee-asy…
—
A cold ashy dawn shouldered him awake. His body hurt and he was shivering uncontrollably. His bloodied hand rested beneath his cheek. He raised his head and pain cut a sickening streak through his skull. He lifted a hand to his jaw, flicked his tongue around his teeth—they were all there. He ran his tongue over lips that were crusted with dried blood and tasted like stale water in a rusted rain barrel. Clar must’ve busted his mouth.
He tried to sit up and moaned. His ribs! Like shards of bone jabbing through flesh. He fought his way from beneath the bulky weight of a tarp. What the fuck—where did that come from? He pushed himself onto his arse and was jolted fully awake by his father’s hulking frame leaning against the side of the house, staring down at him.
“What, you tucking me in, now?”
“Your mother’s up. Time to go in.”
Time to go in. Right, you old fucker, why didn’t you stay with her last night, he wanted to yell, but couldn’t. His father’s stubbled face needed shaving and his scruffy hair told he hadn’t been to bed yet, either. And the legs of his jeans: stiff, wrinkled, and damp-looking. Pissed himself agin.
He looked away. Never could bear the shame in his father’s eyes after a night’s boozing. Those times his father did catch him looking only added to his shame.
He tried to stand, his legs too palsied. He grasped onto the side of the house and rose and got the spins so bad he near fell over the wharf. The dog. Clar’s dog. On the beach and staring up at him and whinnying like a sick horse. Fuck’s wrong with you.
Addie rose from her chair by the table as they entered. “What happened to your face? And your hand?” she asked Kyle.
“Fell down.” He gestured to the back of the house. “Coming down the path. Tree roots everywhere. Think I drove a tooth through my jaw. We should clean up that path—break a leg some night, coming down there.”
She listened as he rambled. Sylvanus pulled off his boots, the smell of damp wool rising from them. He took off his coat and Kyle removed his, and they stood before her like naughty boys caught sneaking home after a night’s shenanigans. Her face was pale, her hands, the skin on her throat—all pale, whitish, ethereal in the greyish light, as though she were already l
eaving them, fading beneath the folds of her clothes.
“I’m telling you this, Sylvanus Now,” she said, her voice low yet fervent, “and you hear me good. If not for you drinking yourself to death and taking Kyle with you, I’d take no treatments. Rather live out my days with hair on my head and my eyes open than traipse about like the living dead on drugs. That’s the only reason I’ll take this treatment—to keep another of my boys from an early grave. But I won’t fight it alone. If you takes another drink, I’ll stop the treatment.”
“Now, Addie.”
“Don’t now Addie me. I’m doing this for you and Kyle and I wants something in return, I wants you off the booze, the both of ye. Do you promise me that?”
She was speaking to them both but it was Sylvanus she was staring at. Waiting. For him to lift his eyes, show himself. His shame.
Kyle tore past them and locked himself in the washroom. He twisted on the shower and stripped off his clothes. He stood in the hot steam and scrubbed his skin, scrubbing it clean, scrubbing it hard, trying to scrub out that knotted lump of upset inside his belly that couldn’t be touched, couldn’t be assuaged no matter how hard he scrubbed. Water. It could forge trenches through stone. It could wear skin to bone. But it couldn’t so much as fray that knot of nothing in his stomach.
FOUR
His father was sitting at the table by the window, drinking coffee, when he came out of the shower. Addie was laying a plate of beans and runny egg yolks before him and Kyle’s stomach curdled and he lunged for the door. Holding on to the grump, he spewed into the water, his ribs spearing through his side like knives. He looked up, seeing two men in a boat paddling offshore from the outcropping of rock and cliff that blocked his view of Hampden. Hooker’s father, Bill, and his grandfather. They were standing now, tensed, looking ashore towards the rock face. Their voices grew louder, alarmed. Bill grabbed the oars and, still standing, rowed furiously towards the cliff, vanishing behind the outcropping.
Kyle heard his mother coming to the door, calling him, but he eased himself down over the wharf onto the beach and trekked across the shoreline towards the outcropping. As much to escape her attentions as to satisfy his curiosity.
The Fortunate Brother Page 6