by Alissa York
His grandfather cut the engine, making the naked bulb above the front door the only light in the world. Darius would learn the next morning that the source of all that spongy, whispering darkness was nothing more sinister than trees. He’d never imagined they could grow in such staggering numbers. Never seen them cross branches and block out the stars.
Inside, the house was no larger than the apartment where Faye lay floating. No, Faye was down in the dirt now, remember? She’d never have a good soak again.
Darius assumed one of the two inside doors led to a bathroom, so the other one had to be for his grandparents’ room. He would sleep on the couch like always, and that was a small comfort in itself. Except it turned out there was no bathroom, and certainly no tub. During the night you went in a big white bowl with handles by the back door—the pot, his grandmother called it. In the daytime you went out to the backhouse. Which left a door unaccounted for, the door that opened onto his very own room.
He could scarcely believe it. There was a bed, a desk and a chest of drawers—not exactly child-sized, yet somehow not fully grown. His grandmother stood beside him on the braided rug. “We’ll get your things put away in the morning. Come on now, pants off and let’s get you into bed.”
She turned the covers back while he worked his elastic-waist jeans down, stood aside while he climbed in. He saw then that the walls of his little room cut off before they reached the ceiling’s peak. Rafters and the shadows they made. Until then the only ceilings he’d known had been flat. Water-stained in the apartment, pocked in school, brushed with stucco swirls at the Miskes’—but flat.
“This was her room.” Her voice so low he could barely hear it. “Her bed.”
Darius nodded. He could feel the slight dip his mother’s body had made. Not just girl-like then, but an actual girl. He wished his grandmother would leave, preferring the threat of the unknown dark to her miserable hovering.
“We won’t talk about her, though. Not when he can hear.”
He nodded again.
“You must be tired.” She patted him through the blanket, the same knee her husband had clutched in the truck. “Good night, Darius.” She sighed his name, as though the sound of it made her sorry.
“Good night …”
“Grandmother. You call us Grandmother and Grandfather.” She found the whisper again. “I like Grandma, but he won’t hear of it.” She bent in close, her words more breath than sound. “You be sure and mind him. Mind everything he says.”
7
The City Book
WEDNESDAY
Metal, Guy thinks. His first thought of the day. Someone striking metal with—not a hammer, the sound has a slipping quality to it. A chisel? He sits up, blinking. Dawn, but only just. It’s not like Stephen to be out in the yard this early, and Lily always comes quietly, bearing her terrified birds. Who, then?
The sound rings out again, and he rises in his boxers, stepping to the window and sliding it open wide. Head and shoulders in the morning air, he turns. A blue jay bobs on top of the red-tail’s cage. It spots him and squawks again.
The hawk twists to turn a malevolent eye skyward. The jay must feel that look along its pale underparts, but it’s a brainy bird, well aware of the barrier it stands on. Its fourth gloating cry elicits a murderous shriek. Guy feels the hawk’s note in his neck bones. Reaching back for the blanket, he drags it up over his shoulders like a shawl.
The jay takes a jaunty step. It turns up its tail—flick, flick—then parts its beak and releases a perfect echo of the hawk’s cry. The red-tail takes the bait: doubling its volume, it pumps on the branch like a set of bellows, blasting the jay. No sign of yesterday’s sore foot, much to Guy’s relief. The hawk’s tormentor answers, and the pair of them let rip with a skirling duel.
It’s a hell of a racket to start the day on, but he can’t help smiling to see the red-tail give as good as it gets. For days after he first installed the diminished hawk in its temporary home, it endured vigorous protest from the local birds. A robin tutted from the bushes; waves of indignant sparrows came chipping; a pair of house wrens stalked and whistled along the top of the cage. Through it all, the red-tail hunkered glumly, prompting Guy to wonder if its spirit was broken beyond repair.
Suddenly, the screeching halts. A standoff? Could be, only the hawk’s holding itself like a victor, the jay merely holding still. It may just be the angle of the day, but the balance of colour seems to have shifted too. The blue jay’s blue is waning, while the red-tail’s red seems to pulse.
Guy turns back to his empty, rumpled bed. If Carlotta were still coming to see him from time to time, she might be lying there now, snoring gently, dead to the world. Nothing could wake her when she wasn’t on duty. Strange, given how alert and attentive she’d been with Aunt Jan—dozing like a guard dog on the cot Guy set up alongside the old four-poster, stirring at even the slightest moan. She’d worked the morphine drip like an artist, finessing the dosage so the dying woman could keep her wits about her while they still mattered and then lose them when they were no longer any use.
The first time Carlotta climbed into Guy’s bed, he knew it could only be because his aunt didn’t need her anymore. It wasn’t love—not for either of them—but that didn’t mean it wasn’t good. When she was awake, Carlotta was more awake than most. The sex was vigorous, therapeutic; it left him feeling contentedly weak. How often she visited depended on the requirements of her latest patient. Then came Mr. Havelock, her most demanding patient of all.
“He’s got this big old house over in Rosedale. You wouldn’t believe it, Guy. There’s so much ivy, it’s a miracle the place can stand.” She took a breath. “He’s going to be sick a good long while. He’s going to need more than a nurse.” After a moment she touched him on the arm. “You understand?”
“Yeah.” And in a way, he did.
Guy stoops to pull the sheet straight, then swings the blanket down from his shoulders and smooths it flat. Still no sound from the warring birds—which reminds him, the hawk must be hungry. He should see if there’s anything new in the traps.
Coyote Cop’s Blog
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
A right to be here. Thats funny coming from a guy like you soldierboy. You don’t seem so concerned about peoples rights. What about the right a little kid has to play in his yard without wondering when a pair of jaws is going to snap shut on him. I bet you grew up watching nature shows and feeling sorry for the poor prisoner animals when your mommy took you to the zoo. Well guess what. While you were standing there thinking oh what a pretty polar bear why can’t he be free that polar bear was looking back at you and thinking food. Thats all. Food. Some of us know a thing or two about wilderness soldierboy. We know its always there and we know its the enemy. And hey if you understand so much about soldiers and blood then you ought to know what you do with the enemy. Or did you miss that day of basic training? Well nows your chance to catch up.
POSTED BY Coyote Cop at 4:56 AM
soldierboy wrote …
Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t get the whole enemy thing. Take coyotes—that’s what this blog is about, right? Farmers say they’re the enemy because they kill livestock. So how come a study out in BC found that mutton made up only 0.2% of the diet of so-called sheep-killing coyotes? Less than half of one percent, and even that could have come from scavenging.
In case you’re wondering, 70% was small rodents (something else farmers don’t like), and other wild animals and plants made up the rest. So coyotes are the enemy because they eat sheep—only it looks as though they hardly ever do. The same goes for attacks on humans. Seriously, how often does it really happen? Rover and Fido are more of a worry. And you know who attacks people even more than dogs do? Never mind murder, way more people die by suicide than by any kind of animal attack. Which means the average human being has more to fear from his own hand than from any coyote’s jaws. In which case, maybe you can explain to me what this war of yours is really all about.
POSTED AT 9:08 AM, May 28, 2008
Stephen rises and crosses to the Naugahyde couch. It squeaks when he stretches out on it. He hooks an arm over his eyes. It’s a question he can’t seem to get shut of—a stupid question, really. What is any war about?
As a boy, he was taught not to sully his karma by using physical force. Beacon Hill Alternative wasn’t so different from other elementary schools in Victoria; there was violence on the playground—everything from dodge ball with intent to Indian burns—but being the biggest kid in school meant he could sidestep the worst of it. When weaker kids required protection, he wasn’t so much the sheepdog as the sheltering tree. Ruby Hopper found her way to that shelter more often than most. Home-schooled until her mother remarried and reconsidered her ideas, Ruby wore whatever she felt like wearing, said whatever she thought.
Things changed with the move to junior high. Here was a forest rather than an open field; Stephen was surrounded by trees taller than himself—grade tens in hoodies or, worse, in rugby jerseys gone wet beneath the arms. He became a master of passive resistance. When slammed into lockers, he righted himself and stood with his fists at his sides.
He made it to grade ten without ever lifting his hand. Then, one afternoon during his final semester at that unhappy, piss-yellow school, he walked around back to unlock his bike and came upon Ruby Hopper in the centre of a crowd—girls and their boyfriends, maybe a dozen in all. Ruby had spoken her mind, or worn something she shouldn’t have, or done nothing, absolutely nothing at all. Stephen saw her drop, saw the Nikes and ballet flats and boots of the group draw back. He didn’t actually bare his teeth and come bounding on all fours—it only felt that way. In truth, he ran headlong into the cluster, taking as many of them down as he could.
He would find out later about the damage he’d done—a shattered elbow, several chipped teeth, countless abraded hands and arms—but at the time he knew only the vicious intimacy of the fight. He raged on for a minute or more, until one of the boyfriends got his bearings. Stephen felt his head hit concrete and bounce. From the depths of the ensuing darkness came stars. Then Ruby, bursting out of the carnage and sprinting for the school’s back door.
Kline let him sweat. Left him alone in the office marked Vice-Principal to nurse his sore head and think about what he’d done.
“I had to close the store,” Ariel told him when she finally showed. “You know Mica’s leading a workshop today.”
“Mrs. Carnsew.” Kline stepped in behind her, closing the door.
“Ariel.”
“Sorry?”
“Ariel. I don’t use my last name.”
“Ariel, then.”
But Stephen could remember a time when her name was Mom, even Mommy—back when she and his father were still Amy and Mike. They’d wanted to hear their new names as often as possible, so they’d told Stephen to start using them too. You can change yours if you want, Mica said, but Stephen decided to stick with Stephen. It felt safer if one of them stayed the same.
“Stephen,” Ariel said, still standing, “you know how Mica and I feel about violence.”
It was hard to look directly at her—the clear blue eyes, the brown hair loose and natural, like a girl’s. He stared at his skinned knuckles instead. “I know, but they were hurting her.”
“Hurting who?”
“Ruby.”
“Ruby who? Who’s Ruby?”
Kline cleared his throat. “Your son was protecting a friend of his. A girl who doesn’t … well, who doesn’t fit in.”
“Is this true, Stephen?”
Stephen nodded.
“Unfortunately,” Kline went on, “things got a little out of hand. Well, a lot out of hand, actually. Several students had to be taken to the walk-in clinic.”
“Stephen.” She said his name quietly, almost gently. “You know how to deal with negative feelings.”
“It wasn’t a feeling.”
“Pardon me?”
He looked up. “It wasn’t a feeling, it was a situation. It was an emergency.”
“Okay.” She took a breath, closed her eyes for a long moment before opening them again. “Try and come into the now, Stephen.”
“I am in the now. Jesus, I just—”
“I don’t think this environment is helping.” She reached for the door handle.
“Mrs. Carn—Ariel,” Kline said, “I’m not sure you understand. This incident is far from over. I’ll have to speak to the other students, as well as their parents, before I decide on the appropriate course of action.”
Stephen saw his mother’s eyes close again. Her breath slowed and became even. He could almost hear the litany of restorative thought.
She said little on the drive downtown.
“Why can’t I just go home on my own like usual?” he asked after several silent blocks.
“Because we need to process this.”
“Process what? I saved a girl from getting the shit kicked out of her.” He’d never spoken to her like this, his voice hard, almost ugly. He took a breath. “It’s just, Ruby, she’s this weird, sweet girl. She wouldn’t hurt a—”
“Stephen, breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You know what I mean. Focus on your breath, follow it inward.”
Stephen tried. He followed a breath until it bumped up against his struggling heart, and held it there for as long as he could. By the time they pulled up in front of the store, he’d gone quiet inside. Quiet and dark.
The sign caught him off guard. He came close to laughing, though he’d never found the name funny before. Sage. It was perfect—part spiritual quest, part soothing interior design. It fit the place—fit his parents, for that matter—like an Andean alpaca wool glove.
Ariel unlocked the door and held it open for him. Fairy bells and a face full of sandalwood. She brushed past him on her way to the CD player. Strains of airy flute came floating, making his head hurt all over again.
He looked down into the brassy shallows of a Tibetan prayer bowl. “Two hundred bucks.” He felt giddy. “That’s some markup, Mom.”
She turned to look at him. “Why don’t you go spend a little time in the meditation room.”
“Go centre yourself,” he muttered.
“Mica should be back soon,” she added.
“Just wait until your father gets home.” He headed for the back of the store.
“If you speak, speak clearly, Stephen. Own your words.”
“Ohm,” he chanted loudly over his shoulder. “Ohhhhh-mmm!”
Slamming the door to the little white room felt right. He threw his backpack down and stood motionless, his fists clenched. When that got old, he sat down, centring his ass on the yin and yang rug.
Yang—that was the warrior energy, wasn’t it? So what was so terrible about accessing your inner yang when the yinnest person you knew was about to get her kidneys kicked in? He already knew what Mica would have to say on the subject, some tai chi nugget about inner discipline triumphing over external force. Which was fine when you were waving hands like clouds, but not much use in the face of a bloodthirsty mob.
Stephen didn’t know how such thoughts had leaked into his mind. Maybe the fight behind the school had changed him. Maybe now was the time to pick a new name—Rocko, or Spike. His head felt a little better. He closed his eyes and lay back on the black and white rug.
Mica woke him by nudging the door in against the soles of his sneakers.
“You asleep?”
Stephen sat up, blinking. His head made an internal whimpering sound.
His father’s gaze was mild. “Ariel told me what happened.”
“Yeah? How would she know?”
“I don’t follow.”
“She never asked me anything about it.”
Mica nodded. “You know, Stephen, everyone has their own path.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you may believe you can alter another person’s experience in this l
ife, but that experience is something he or she has created. This girl today—”
“Ruby.” Stephen stared at his father’s knees, baggy in white cotton pants.
“Okay, Ruby.” He said it as though they were agreeing between themselves to call her that. As though it wasn’t really her name. “The point is, only Ruby can change the path she’s on. Only Ruby can alter the energy she puts out into the world, the energy she attracts.”
“You mean she asked for it.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Yes it is. You think she asked for it. Like she’s some kind of fucking freak who wanted to get wailed on. Like she hoped those assholes would be waiting for her when she went to unlock her bike.”
“Stephen, that’s your stuff, not mine.” Mica glanced over his shoulder at the tinkle of the front-door bells.
“Don’t let me keep you.”
Mica looked at him then, one of his probing, reflective looks that only went one way. “There’s a lot of anger in this room, Stephen.”
“You don’t say.” Stephen stood up, the whimper in his skull spiking to a howl. He steadied himself before stooping for his pack. “I’m going home.”
He was only fifteen, but when he straightened, he met his father face to face. It was like looking at a snapshot of himself a couple of decades down the road, still tall and handsome, but hollowed out somehow, his gentle face bearded, lashes blinkering his eyes. When Mica stepped aside to let him pass, it was as though the photograph flipped over, showing the blank on its other side.
Stephen walked slowly up Fort Street that afternoon, each step echoing in his tender head. Those blocks were familiar to him—known by heart—and yet they had a strange, almost enchanted feel. Had there always been that many homeless hunkering in doorways? That many hanging baskets dripping blooms? Not long after crossing Blanshard, he noticed something else that had eluded him before. In among the antique shops and the happy little cafés, one storefront stood out. Canadian Forces Recruiting Centre.