by Ian Williams
I didn’t do anything, Heather said. With her forearm, she swept her hair back over her head.
How many guys, Heather? Oliver said. How many? What is wrong with you?
I’m telling you the truth.
If you turn up pregnant, I swear—
I’m not pregnant. We didn’t do anything.
Whenever Heather tried to explain, Oliver turned up the radio incrementally until they settled into a parking spot and classic rock was blasting through the dark underground. Oliver slapped the steering wheel and shook his head. He took Hendrix’s suitcase and walked quickly in front of the children; Hendrix kept pace with him, running a little. Heather struggled behind with her luggage.
At the departure gate, Oliver was cool to both of them. He was going to leave without hugging Heather, but she opened her arms weakly, like a question, so he answered with a hug and passed his lips across the top of her head, then turned away.
* * *
+
Oliver intended to open the garage and drive his truck straight through into the barbershop, into Army, and pin him against the wall.
His only daughter. Right under his nose. By this boy who just wanted to take, take, take. He still didn’t have his guitar. Where was his guitar?
The hair Hendrix had scattered was blowing down the street like mini tumbleweed from a Western.
No one was in the garage.
Oliver banged on the house door. He had a key, not on him, but it didn’t cross his mind to retrieve it. He had a different idea. He ran upstairs. He strode to the black door and undid the deadbolt. The other side was locked.
Army! Oliver called. He punched the door four times. Army!
He threw his shoulder into the door.
Open this door! Oliver rammed the door a second time and it exploded with the sick sound of wood cracking.
He snapped his head around, searching the hallway for Army. Then he went straight for Army’s room, the nasty, sweaty, bleachy smell of teenage boys. Bed unmade as well, mattress indented with groin weight, underwear on the floor.
I need you to identify yourself immediately, you hear me, Oliver said. His voice sounded like a monitored alarm system.
I heard you, I heard you, man, Army’s voice came from the bathroom.
Where else would the horny little bastard be?
The toilet flushed.
I just in here taking a dump and minding my business and you’re waking the dead. The faucet opened. Damn, Mr. O. The faucet closed. Can a brother have a second to himself?
When Army emerged from the bathroom shirtless, drying his hands on his boxers, Oliver was occupying the entire doorway, standing on his hind legs like a bear.
Put on some clothes, Oliver said. He couldn’t look at the boy’s skin.
I’m all right.
Oliver went into Army’s room, picked up a white T-shirt from the floor and threw it at Army in the hallway. Put on some clothes. I don’t know if people dance around naked where you’re from but—
I was born here, Mr. O. That’s some offensive KKK—
I said, Put on some clothes!
Fine. Chill. Army stretched the shirt over his head. You don’t have to go busting down doors and stuff before a brother can get a little Froot Loops in his system. Don’t you have a key to your own house?
I want an explanation.
About?
About? Oliver opened his eyes wide. About? You’re going to ask me about?
Army started walking down the stairs toward the kitchen.
I’m talking to you, Oliver said.
Yeah.
Don’t yeah me. Oliver barrelled down the stairs into Army and the boy lost his footing and slipped down two steps before rebalancing.
What’s your problem? Army asked.
Boy, who do you think you’re talking to?
Listen, Mr. O. I ain’t given you nothing but respect all the—
I want an explanation, Oliver raised his voice and enunciated. What were you doing with my daughter all summer?
Army paused in the living room.
Heather told you I was doing something with her?
Yeah, she told me, you bastard, you son of a bitch.
And you sure she was talking about me cause I, I, I, no sir, not me. He made his way to the front door. I don’t know what you’re, what she’s, what you’re talking about.
Oliver charged again and Army flew out the door into the garage.
You see all this here? Oliver said, motioning to the barbershop, the barbecue, the weights. Finito. I want you and your mother out of my house.
Look, Mr. O. We didn’t do nothing. I swear.
Oliver picked up a glass bottle of blue alcohol and aimed at Army.
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Army said. He held up his wrists over his face.
Oliver threw the bottle. Army deflected it with his forearm and it shattered against the weights.
Oliver crouched and rotated his body so he was blocking Army from exiting the garage. Army was pinned between the weight bench and the back wall of divorce rubble.
You haven’t given me my explanation yet, Oliver said. You must think that I’m a woman you can charm. You must think I’m playing with you. You must think you can take whatever you want from whoever you want whenever you want and not have it come back to bite you. Well, son, I’m older than you and I’m smarter than you and your mother put together. God help me if I don’t kill you now.
Mr. O, it’s absolutely not what you think.
Where’s my guitar?
I’m working toward finding you a suitable replacement and believe you me—
I want an explanation.
And that’s what I’m providing.
I said I want an explanation. Oliver approached. Army was losing ground.
Heather was real sad after that guy in Boston and we just got to talking.
And you thought it was okay to stick your dick in my daughter. Oliver lunged. There was only the barbell between them now.
It wasn’t like that, Mr. O. We talked. I didn’t even touch her. I mean—
How many times?
How many times what?
How many times didn’t you touch my daughter?
Like one one once maybe twice maybe I don’t know like not more than a couple of times she came on to me—
Oliver lunged. You’re blaming Heather now?
No, of course not, Army said. I mean I had, like, what do you call it, like feelings for her.
Oh, you love her now?
Not love-her love-her. Like brother-and-sister love-her.
Oliver wrong-sided Army and grabbed the tail of his T-shirt. You’re disgusting. You hear me?
Army surrendered. If that’s disgusting, then I guess I’m disgusting.
That’s your explanation then—you’re disgusting?
At the time, it wasn’t brother-and-sister. I thought she was— I mean, before she ran off with that guy, I thought. Maybe. But I don’t expect you to understand.
I understand that you wanted to get off. He took Army’s shoulders and slammed him against an unstable wall of divorce rubble for punctuation. And that you saw an opportunity. Slam. And you took it.
A box toppled.
Look, Mr. O, you’re going after the wrong fish in all of this. I didn’t run off to Queen West with her. Heather’s no Mother Teresa.
That infuriated Oliver more. He hooked his forearm under Army’s chin and pressed into his throat.
I want an explanation.
Army tried to shake his head, which was turning the colour of an engorged penis. The ex had told Hendrix that he, Hendrix, was more of a man than his father. How could a woman say such a thing?
Something fell behind Army and gave him room to escape. He spun around so he was facing Oliver’s back. Oliver turned and lunged. Army took a running step backward, stepped on part of the smashed bottle, and his hip collided with the side of the barbell—and in a long, slow-motion second, he fell to the floor, the barbe
ll tipped over and the unsecured fifty-pound weight plate slid down the sleeve of the bar unto his foot. The edge of the weight struck the inside hump of his ankle.
Army closed his eyes and grit his teeth. He leaned back and lay in the pool of broken glass and alcohol. His shorts were soaked. Oliver saw the boy’s flaccid penis through the leg holes of his boxers.
Oliver scanned outside to see who might have seen.
I want you and your mother out of my house, he said.
Army didn’t say anything. It was unlike him. He was sucking in sharp breaths. Frowning and breathing. Frowning but breathing.
Oliver stepped over Army’s body and entered the code to close the garage on the boy.
* * *
+
But Oliver couldn’t stay upstairs.
There was an unusual quiet in his house. The whiff of his children taunted him. He froze, trying to identify or preserve it. Not a sound downstairs. Hendrix had left a belt on the stairs. Heather left her cereal bowl on the coffee table, spoon still inside. She used to put her feet against the table’s edge, and watch TV while talking to Army or “Diane”—how many guys, Heather?—on the phone.
Oliver decided to get in his truck and go to The Mansion. He didn’t want to be home when Felicia got home, not because he was afraid of her, he convinced himself, but because he was afraid / of what he might do if he saw that boy again. That was why.
In fifteen minutes he was at The Mansion.
Yes, The Mansion to see les danseuses. Yes, in the middle of the day. It was night inside.
Two other fellas sat on stools right against the stage. The girl was already topless, doing a classic routine, school girl or librarian, and not one of the more topical routines, sexy military, sexy Québécoise, sexy Olympian. She was crawling on beat to Cotton Eyed Joe. Oliver made eye contact with the bartender who used to be a danseuse earlier in her career. She was moving up. Good on her.
He deserved it. He had it coming to him. Whatever it was. He wasn’t dead. Felicia could call the police on him if she wanted. Oliver knew how to talk to the police. All they wanted was an explanation. And he’d give them an explanation, oh he’d give them an explanation that would make them chain their daughters to their desks.
Disgusting was the ex-wife’s word. Disgusting. With the strip clubs. If that’s disgusting, then I guess I’m disgusting. I’m just in here taking a dump and minding my business. But I don’t expect you to understand. She became a fat nun after Hendrix. No Mother Teresa, Army had said about his daughter. Not love-her love-her.
Me and my big house, Oliver thought. I have a big house to shuffle my big fat self around.
* * *
+
Oliver was planning to kill the rest of the day at The Mansion, but around three o’clock, he realized that Felicia might be returning late (orientation weekend was coming up at Brownstone) and the boy was on the garage floor—he wasn’t bleeding—injured.
He wasn’t tanked yet. He was actually in the best shape to drive, he believed. Relaxed. So he headed home as inconspicuously as possible through the early rush-hour traffic.
As he expected, Felicia’s car wasn’t in the driveway when he arrived at home.
Oliver didn’t open the garage door to see if Army was still lying near the weight bench. Instead he walked downstairs through the broken door (could he fix it before Felicia got home?) and into Army’s room. The window was open. Army was lying shirtless, listening to his Walkman. His foot was already swollen. The skin was blotchy.
Oliver slid Army’s closet door open. Army jerked awake.
Put this on, Oliver said. He tossed a T-shirt and a pair of shorts on the bed. He would take the boy to Emergency.
* * *
+
Army and Oliver waited a long time in the ER waiting room. There had been no service since they returned a questionnaire (a questionnaire!) to the intake nurse and she arranged a wheelchair for Army.
He fell, Oliver had said.
I’d like to speak to your son privately, the nurse said.
His son? That confused Oliver’s feelings. But he didn’t correct her, which confused his feelings even more.
He’s a minor, Oliver said.
Have a seat, sir. The nurse was black. Oliver was sure Army would go in there and rat on him. And he’d be charged for child abuse. Plus he had the incident that cost him his teaching job.
Presently, Oliver and Army watched a muted TV in the corner. They were on mute themselves. Oliver periodically went to the triage desk to speed up the service. What was wrong with the health care system?
We’re doing the best we can with the staff we have, the nurse said.
Oliver returned and sat next to Army’s wheelchair. Army froze him out. It was hot in the waiting room. Wasn’t it hot in here?
What did you tell her? Oliver asked.
That I fell.
I mean, that’s the truth, isn’t it? Oliver asked.
Army shook his head. Nope, it ain’t.
They returned to watching Wheel of Fortune. Army seemed more interested in it than Oliver. It was after seven and no one had called Felicia. Oliver bounced his knee. He read an old entertainment magazine. Enough with the Sophie Fortin nonsense.
Moments later, Oliver was striding toward the vending machine. He came back with two Pepsis and a bag of Skittles. He opened one Pepsi for Army and waited for him to sip before opening his own.
Army wasn’t going to talk to him, although Oliver felt that he should be the one not talking to Army, all things considered. Oliver would not be brought down to the level of a fourteen-year-old. He was the adult here. He’d have to model good behaviour. He took a long drink of his Pepsi in preparation. It could use a good shot of rum. All right. Now.
Are you going to tell Mom or am I? Army said first.
Oh, that’s the game he was going to play?
I don’t know that we need to call her right now, Oliver said. We’re not even sure if it’s broken.
It’s broken, Army said. Mom was going to take a bunch of us to Wonderland. She can barely afford it but it’s my birthday, y’know?
Oliver took the fiduciary hint. We can still go.
Well, I can’t anymore.
Let’s wait on the X-ray. Oliver was at a loss. But either way, they’ll patch you up and we’ll get ourselves going, won’t we?
Army said nothing for a long time. He folded his arms with the Pepsi in one hand, dangling at an elbow.
Oliver wrinkled his forehead.
When do you want us out by? Army asked.
Let’s not think about that right now, Oliver said and immediately imagined himself in the house alone again, inspecting the rooms, opening and closing the windows, walking up and down the stairs as if searching for something he full well knew the location of.
The nurse gave them an eye from her station.
Let’s get you healed up first, soldier, Oliver said and slapped Army’s good leg with gusto. He made sure the nurse saw.
Army was no fool though.
I think you need to stop charging us rent, he said.
Oliver wagged his jaw.
Yeah, Mr. O. I think you need to stop charging us or drop the rent or something. Army adjusted his leg with his hands. Else this situation could get very expensive for you.
I’m not dropping the rent.
Have it your way, Army said.
Oliver leaned on the armrest of Army’s wheelchair and whispered, I’ll drop it fifty bucks.
I was thinking more like two hundred, Army said.
Fifty and I’ll take you to Wonderland.
Two hundred and I won’t tell Mom you broke my leg.
A hundred and I won’t tell her how you spent your summer.
Oliver reclined. Army reclined. They both took sips of their Pepsis at the same time and that’s how the deal went down.
* * *
+
Five and a half weeks later, the Sunday before Canadian Thanksgiving, when Oliver h
ad returned from dinner at his sister’s house, the ex-wife called.
Who is this? Oliver said, trying to kill her.
Heather has something she needs to discuss with you, the ex said. Hold.
Three times in one month the ex let his kindergarten-aged daughter come home without—
Hey, Dad.
Call me directly, Heather, if you need to talk to me.
I wasn’t going to call you. Mom’s making me.
And then a plank in reason broke and he was sinking to the kitchen chair, flickering, because he already knew what she was about to say now then now then now then
THE SEX TALK
I think I have the wrong number.
Peace.
* * *
+
Hi, I just called. May I speak to Felicia Shaw?
She’s at work.
At work. Of course. At work. I’ll call back later.
Peace.
* * *
+
Hi, it’s me, I just called. Who’s this?
That depends. Who dis?
* * *
+
Hi, I called a week ago for Felicia Shaw. Is there another number where I can reach her?
At work.
I tried her work number.
Yeah, well. She’ll be home at six, six thirty. Is there a message?
No message.
Do you want to leave a number or anything?
She has it.
* * *
+
Hi, sorry. I hate to call back so soon. Am I speaking to her son?
Yeah.
Armistice?
Army.
Army. How are you, Army?
Been better. Broke my foot. You want a cut?
Of?
A haircut. Best in Brampton. It’s 55 Newcourt. Come through.
I’ll come true. You think your mother—
It’s through. Come through.
Cool. I don’t know what you kids are saying half the time.
Listen, call back later, okay? Peace.