Crosshairs

by Catherine Hernandez

  One night, when sneaking past security cameras to the condo’s dumpster for food, Bahadur noticed a black Grand Caravan with the driver’s window rolled down. A white man and woman sat in the front seats. It was trailing them. Bahadur ran. They bolted from the bin towards a line of bushes, but the van managed to circle around the bushes and drive directly into their path.

  “Bahadur?” said the man from the driver’s seat. Bahadur flinched at the sound of their name. “Are you Bahadur? Get in the van.”

  The automatic door closed and the man began driving. The woman looked back at Bahadur from the passenger seat.

  “We’ve been searching everywhere for you. My name is Liv. I know Firuzeh.”

  4

  I awake to find that Bahadur and I have fallen asleep holding hands, both of us supine under the weight of blankets. Our grip is less like romantic lovers and more like the kind of grasp you use on someone you’re fishing out of the water, someone who doesn’t know how to swim. Only we don’t know who is saving whom, our hands are so tightly clasped around each other. I try to loosen my grasp, but they only hold me tighter. Bahadur’s eyes race right and left under eyelids squeezed tight. Their square jaw is clenched, chewing at a scene I cannot see. Even the tendons of their stocky neck pulse at relived trauma. I wonder what they are dreaming about. I relax into this odd embrace with a stranger, in this moving car driven by another stranger heading to somewhere we do not know. I have not felt someone else beside me in so long that I realize my skin hungers and longs for you. I shake my head of your memory and squeeze my eyes of the sting.

  The van’s radio is shut off and I can hear the wheels crunching along a dirt road now.

  “Wake up, everyone. We’re here.” The white man rolls down the windows. The smell of chicken shit.

  I lift the blankets aside and peek out of the van’s window. Two silos stand against the cooling amber of the afternoon sun. Beside the silos is a low, grey open-air building. Across an expanse of coarse gravel is a two-storey house with faded blue siding. Everything looks like it’s standing on its last legs and could collapse with one push of a finger.

  “Who are these people?” I say to Bahadur, pointing to an old man exiting the farmhouse. He is wearing worn jeans and a sad button-up shirt. At the sight of our van, he looks at our driver, confused for a moment, then settles his face into a grimace. He wipes his greased silver hair off his forehead and dabs the back of his sweaty neck using a handkerchief.

  The van stops. Our driver exits. Slowly, with a faint smile he says, “Hi, Dad.” He rubs the blond stubble on his chin, unsure.

  The old man shifts his feet like a soldier standing at attention. A retired military man. There is a look of recognition. A confirmation in posture.

  “It’s me, Beck.” His voice cracks at this attempt to be forthright.

  “I don’t know you.” The old man maintains a look of solemn contempt.

  “I know you, Dad.”

  “Don’t call me that.” They both look at their shoes. The stalemate is broken when the old man sees Bahadur and me peering at him from the van. “Who’s in there? You brought people?! You brought Others over here?!”

  “I need them to stay here for the next while.”

  “Hell, no!”

  “I have supplies for you and Mom.”

  “I don’t want your supplies!”

  “I know the floods hit McGregor’s Bend hard, Dad. I know you need these supplies. I have food. I have clean water.”

  “I can get that at the Costco.”

  “Twenty-seven kilometres away in North London? Between the fuel cost and them gouging people because of the shortages, you can’t afford that.”

  “Why didn’t you come sooner, then?”

  “I was still in service.”

  “You could have called! You’re just here because you need something!”

  The screen door creaks open and an old woman braces herself against its frame.

  “Just shut up, the two of you, and get inside!” Silence. The old woman waves her cane towards the van. Her clumsy grey coif reveals a sunburned scalp and thinning hairline. “And tell those Others in the van to clean up before we eat. They look filthy.”

  Beck leads me and Bahadur into the farmhouse, and I enter with caution. It feels like forever since I have interacted with white folks other than Liv, and I feel my body folding in on itself, making itself as small, as inoffensive, as possible. The old woman tells me to take off my shoes, but when I do so she sees my socks are no cleaner than my sneakers, so I have to keep them on. Instead, I fastidiously wipe my soles on the mildewed welcome mat outside to ensure the pea-green shag carpet from the front entrance into the living room remains clean, even though it has been stained and tatted by moisture. With armfuls of supplies from the van, I enter and re-enter the house again and again, feeling apologetic for my very presence. When the last of the water bottles are brought in, I stand by the bottom of the stairs where dead-people pictures adorn the walls of a long hallway. I look closely at black-and-white images of babies in bonnets, men in overalls posing in front of a newly erected building, and plain women with intricate hairstyles smiling at the camera. The down on my forearms stands on end knowing these people most likely lived here once and all we have left of them are these creepy pictures. I scratch my arm skin to calm my goosebumps.

  “Kay? Bahadur?” Beck says to us. I look to the side and see that Bahadur has not moved an inch from the front door and looks just as reticent as me. “You hungry?”

  Beck opens four cans of corned beef using the attached key and divides it among all of us. Even with the congealed fat still waxy and yellow, layered between fibres of unknown meat, I bite my lip to keep myself from swallowing the plate whole.

  We cautiously make our way to the kitchen, which is a sea of beige linoleum, and settle ourselves in the booth-like seats, side by side with these strangers. For a moment, all that can be heard among us is the ticking of a wooden clock sitting on the fireplace’s mantel. Beck and his parents exchange soundless glances. Even when the old man and old woman motion for us to say grace before the meal, it is done in silence. Their hands automatically stretch out to join in a praying circle around the kitchen table, but they both realize it means they will have to actually touch us. They silently decide to just hold each other’s hands in prayer. We sit awkwardly outside their grasp. The old woman closes her eyes.

  Finally, she says, “Dear God. Thank you for this wonderful meal, for the hands that prepared it and for the generosity of Beck to bring it here.” The old man’s lips purse. Beck sighs. The old woman opens her eyes and looks at us sideways. An afterthought. “And thank you for these . . . visitors. I hope they like McGregor’s Bend as much as we do. Amen.”

  Bahadur and I share a look, then eat.

  “You all seem hungry.” The old woman daintily places a napkin on her lap and nibbles at her food in polite forkfuls. I am unsure if I should tell her that meals are a luxury after the Renovation, so thank you for letting us share your table, but before I can craft my sentence, she says, “My name is Hanna. I’m Beck’s mother. And this is Peter . . . Beck’s dad.” I open my mouth, about to say, “Thank you.”

  “Don’t tell them our names!” A bit of congealed fat sits in the corners of Peter’s mouth.

  “Don’t tell me what to say. They’re here. They should know our names.”

  “Well they won’t be here for long, I’ll tell you that much. We don’t want to be accessories to whatever this is.” A gesture towards us before Peter scoops more corned beef into his mouth. He shakes his head.

  “No. We won’t be here for long. You don’t have to worry about that. We’ll be gone by the full moon.” Beck downs the rest of his bottled water and looks at the bottle pensively. He heads to the kitchen sink and turns on the faucet. Nothing but a clanking sound followed by a putrid stream of liquid.

  “Not a single clean drop since the flood. Unlike you city people, our wells have been left contaminated. No
thing fixed. Not yet. Not ever. We might as well be those Indians on the other side of the highway, drinking muddy water,” says Peter, who thumbs the last of his food onto his fork and mouths it clean. “Not that you even care.” He suddenly stands, pushes Beck aside and slams his plate into the sink.

  Bahadur and I watch Peter leave the kitchen in a huff, then continue eating in silence. A door slams somewhere down the hallway. Beck goes out the front door. From my seat in the kitchen I can see him inhale and exhale while looking at the darkening horizon. Unsure of what to do, I eat the last of the corned beef, until all that remains is its stain on the plate. Hanna dabs the corners of her mouth, then throws the napkin onto the table.

  “Well that went well.” She looks down at her white knit cardigan and realizes that the buttons are not lined up, resulting in a small ripple just above her buxom chest. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Will you look at that?” She tries to redo her sweater, but her crooked arthritic fingers get in the way. “This is what happens when an old lady rushes to get dressed because of unexpected visitors, eh?” She chuckles.

  “Do you need help?” I ask.

  “Are you getting fresh with me, young man?” I hold my breath for a second, wondering if she’s serious, then she laughs. I laugh. Bahadur laughs along, nervously. We are all laughing. “I guess that’s not the case with you, is it?” Another round of laughter, this time to push the sting of words away. I nod, nervously. Hanna lifts her chin and consents to my touch. I redo the buttons. Each one is in the shape of a kitten’s head. So small. So delicate.

  “Excellent. Thank you, young man. Beck will show you to where you all can sleep.”

  Beck leads us outside to an adjoining cottage. He tells us that this is where the farmhands once slept, back when this was a working farm. Four spring mattresses on simple metal frames sit in one long row in this small cottage between the farmhouse and the silos. Beck struggles to open the tiny windows to let the thick air break through only to let in more chicken shit smell from outside. But at least the air is moving. Whoever was here last left a long time ago.

  He lights two kerosene lamps in the last of twilight.

  “Can we all sit down for a moment and talk? You should know where you are and who you’re with.”

  The day Beck signed up for military service was the day after he was discovered in the washroom with Finnegan Waters.

  Unlike Beck’s family, who farmed chickens, the Waters were a well-to-do family by McGregor’s Bend standards. They raised horses, and according to Finnegan, his parents had earned and lost vast fortunes over their lifetimes, thanks to horses. “Or at least that’s what my auntie said to me about why we moved to this shithole of a town.” The two boys became as thick as thieves when they were paired up during hockey practice.

  “Collins!” Coach Trent screamed at Beck. “Can you teach this faggot over here how to skate backwards? Looks like the fancy-dancy Waters family doesn’t think it’s necessary to teach their eleven-year-old son how to play hockey.”

  Beck looked to the right and saw Finnegan teetering in his heavy gear. Finnegan’s face was overrun by freckles, and when he looked at Beck he gave an eager smile. While the two runts engaged in peewee-level backward wall push-offs, the larger boys repeated backward crossover drills. It was humiliating, especially when that fucker Gary Tulle would come by and clothesline one of them. That asshole looked like he was thirty-five and had just escaped from jail, when he was actually eleven and had just ended a stint in juvie. The entire time Finnegan wouldn’t stop talking.

  “I swear to god!” Finnegan’s voice cracked.

  “You’re lying.” Beck sniffed away a string of snot that pooled under his bulbous nose.

  “But why would your dad put those magazines in the bathroom? Where everyone can see?”

  “It was a mistake, obviously!” Another crack in Finnegan’s voice. The pair had moved on to practising backward steps, this time off the wall. “My dad took a shit on the toilet and forgot his pile of dirty magazines there. He didn’t mean for us to see it. Who would want their kids to see he was a pervert?”

  “Your dad’s a pervert?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Why? What kind of stuff was in there? Like, boobs and stuff?”

  “Well yeah, of course.”

  “Whoa.”

  “But there were dicks too.”

  “What?!”

  “There was one magazine called Slick. There were guys. Big guys. Black guys. Big Black guys with their big Black dicks.” Finnegan’s eyes widened under his new helmet.

  “So, it’s true?”

  “In that magazine it was.”

  Finnegan and Beck heard the sharp screech of the whistle, and Coach Trent waved them over to the group. “Okay, ladies. Once you’re done with your knitting circle, maybe we can learn a thing or two?”

  When Beck was invited for a sleepover, Mrs. Waters asked him to wipe his shoes at the door.

  “Mom!”

  “Finnegan. I ask everyone to wipe their shoes at the door. Beck is no different.” She turned sharply and pointed at the top of her dress, where a hook-and-eye fastener remained undone. Finnegan clicked them together, looked at Beck and made a face. Mrs. Waters was dressed like her outfit was a portal to somewhere much fancier than McGregor’s Bend. As though somehow her soft lavender dress and outrageous puffed sleeves would transport her out of our chicken-farming town to somewhere like the Hamptons. Her hair was styled like Paige Davis’s on that television show Trading Spaces, only spikier on the bottom and more voluminous at the top. Beck felt uneasy looking at her. Like his eyes were unsure where to rest: her colossal sleeves or her towering hair. Beck settled on short bursts of smiles to show gratitude and then looking at his lap. “Now go show Beck your room and get dressed for dinner. Your brother will be here any minute.” She returned to taping the “Welcome Home” banner on the fireplace while the boys ran up the grand spiral staircase. Beck was confused. Wasn’t Finnegan dressed already?

  Finnegan had a train set that traversed the perimeter of the room. With a sigh he said, “Go on. Turn on the switch. Everyone wants to try it out.” Another roll of the eyes.

  “You don’t like trains?”

  “I did. When I was, like, five. I’m fucking eleven years old, which is only two years from being a teen, and I would really, really love it if my mom would stop decorating my room.” Finnegan went into his walk-in closet and returned holding a small dinner jacket. Beck made his way to the window and brushed his overgrown mushroom haircut out of his eyes to see outside. He gasped.

  “What’s happening?”

  From Finnegan’s window, Beck could see the horse stables. In a clearing adjacent to the stables stood what appeared to be a gymnast’s balance beam with four legs. A young woman with waist-length, curly brown hair pulled a stallion from the barn, its coat a glistening brown.

  “Oh, that? My mom says that she’s dad’s lover.”

  “What?!”

  “Yeah. That woman is Francesca. She’s from Italy. They screw around sometimes. My dad fools around with everyone and he thinks we don’t know.”

  “But . . .” Thoroughly confused by the madness of this household, Beck pointed at the stallion mounting the balance beam as if the beam were a mare. “What’s that?!” A short balding man, who Beck assumed was Finnegan’s father, slid a large tube over the stallion’s genitals and collected a generous semen sample. With clinical efficiency, he capped the specimen and walked towards the stable, out of sight. The stallion was whisked away by Francesca, its hide soapy with perspiration.

  “Oh that. My dad is a horse breeder. He’s collecting his stallion’s wet dream so we can keep this house.” Beck’s stomach churned.

  “Mushroom soup?” Mrs. Waters asked Beck at the dinner table later that evening. Beck shook his head, but a bowl was poured for him anyway. He wanted to wretch at the sight of the creamy liquid, with the image of the semen sample still fresh in his mind. He picked at the next course, a dry ch
icken breast, and swallowed hard at the spit gathering in his throat. Across the table sat the guest of honour, Finnegan’s brother, Stewart, who had just returned from serving in Afghanistan. He too had a face overrun with freckles. He too picked at the chicken. He too wore a dinner jacket, although his fit much too small over the bulk of his new military muscle. The place setting for Mr. Waters remained vacant, as did the place setting for Francesca. Stewart picked at his food in silence.

  “You can’t tell me this food isn’t a million times better than what you were eating in the mess halls.” Despite the store-bought chicken and the canned soup, Mrs. Waters adjusted her apron in a way that begged for a compliment.

  “Mom. There are excellent cooks in the army.” His mother flinched at the insinuation. He backpedalled. “But this is . . . it’s better. Yes. You didn’t have to do all this, Mom. I know things are tight right now.”

  “Of course I did! My baby is home safe.”

  Stewart gave a tepid smile and changed the subject. “When is Dad coming?”

  “Oh, you know your father. Always tinkering. If it’s not a repair in the stables, it’s a horse with an injury. He’ll come to dinner when he wants. But that won’t keep us from having our celebration, will it?”

  Later, Mrs. Waters agreed to allow the boys to set up a tent in the field behind the house for the night. “I’m sure the sounds of the barn will help Beck feel more comfortable here on our estate,” she said with pursed lips.

  When Beck made one more trip to the washroom before returning to the tent, he spied Stewart smoking a cigarette on the stoop of the side entrance.

  “You know it’s rude to stare, right?”

  Beck was startled. “I wasn’t staring. It’s just such a big house. I got confused which door I was supposed to use.”

  Stewart took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled smoke into the night air. “Whatever, kid. Stare all you want.” A long pause dissipated as slowly as the smoke.

  Beck twiddled his fingers and bit his lips. “Um. Did you kill anybody? When you were out there. In the war. Did you kill anybody?”