Weeks passed, and I thought this one rip in the psychic fabric was a one-off thing that wouldn’t repeat itself or linger, but it wasn’t the case. By mid-September, the after-school special-type treatment was in full effect and unravelling in bounty.
It was nearing four in the afternoon, a time of relishing the pre-dinner vortex, I thought, walking up the front steps. Despite the glare from the warm sun, I felt a deep coldness washing over me.
I opened the screen door, and Mom emerged in a cloud of cotton, backed by the distinct chugging of the dishwasher, racing through silverware. I knew something was up when she greeted me at the door with a crooked grin Scotch-taped across her pink face.
"Oh, hi, Nate, glad you’re home," Mom said, in a calm but definite voice, slowly turning her body to the living room. Her movement in the hallway was its usual, spectral shift, with the creases in her forehead coming together in a linear fashion.
"Come on, now," she said, rushing me to de-backpack and unshoe myself, waving me in towards the familiar set of pink couches. I imagined a camera crew in the living room, doing light readings, setting up boom microphones over the coffee table. Something was up.
"Why are you home so early from work?" I said, moving lethargically into the living room behind her.
"I wanted to just, now, this is Mary, she is a counsellor, and she’s here to talk to you."
"Talk to me?"
"About you know, how you’re feeling, and you know..."
I moved cautiously into the living room where a woman sat on the couch holding a pad of paper in her lap.
"Hello, Nathan, my name is Mary Greene from Child Services," she said, not getting up.
"What do you want? What is this going to accomplish? He’s not even here!" I said. "He’s the problem … "
"We want to hear your side of things," Mary said. "Talk about everything." She had fierce red hair pinned back, wore glasses. I didn’t like how she kept putting her pen in her mouth. "How you are feeling today," she said in a clear, demure voice, matter-of-factly.
Mom stood nervously in the hallway, looking in on us. "Nate, just put your bag down. Do you want some tea?"
"Don’t you see it doesn’t matter what I say? The police come, and he lies."
"Just relax, Nate," Mom said. "We just want to talk about things. About your violence."
"Are things OK at school?"
"School is fine. It’s here, at home, my father, he wants to fucking kill me!"
Your violence. Never his violence. The words flew in miserable arrangements. I was now parched. "You’re making it out to be all my fault, aren’t you? That’s why she’s here. That’s what this shit is about. Listen, this is not a one-sided thing where I just attack him out of, like, no reason."
Mom spoke up. "We want to figure out what is bothering you. She’s here to help you."
"Are you insane? Figure out what is wrong? He comes home drunk or angry, bursts into my room in the middle of the night to finish a fight we had like a week before. Then, if the police come, they threaten to bring in the Children’s Aid. On top of all this, I have school. He’s making his drunken problems my problems. It’s not my fault. It can’t be all my fault!"
"Nate," Mom said, snorting away, her voice accruing in pitch, her nose red from embarrassment, from helplessness. "We just want to know why you are, you know, acting up all the time. You seem so angry and we want to know what’s bothering you."
I stood up in front of the both of them, trembling and snorting, blowing my nose as Mary, the family’s new narrator, jotted and nodded.
Biographer. Morgue clerk.
"When did these incidents with your father start?" Mary asked, Momentarily taking the pen from her mouth and putting it to paper. I watched the pen. I wanted to spit on the floor. Instead, I started to cry louder, mouth wider, wetter, spit everywhere inside my jaw.
"Well, it’s fine when Nate’s at work, or David is at work, but when they’re both at home..." Mom’s nose was glowing now, red and raw; her eyes watered, mouth gobbled in wet slop. "We can’t function," she said in a liquid voice.
And the muscles on television worked out and posed in my sleeping head, malnourished and altruistic, rusting in my blank head, where I hid against a tide of fluff and laundry noise, hid from human timeshare, where dressers barricaded my knobless bedroom door, where my stuffed-toy lion and giraffe still remained intact, on which I practiced, picking on their weak spots, rehearsing body slams and atomic drops against their weakest counterstrikes until the giraffe’s neck tore off completely. Mom had put a silk handkerchief around its vulnerable neck, but still it leaned to the right, permanently injured. These taxidermy toys had been with me since day one.
Mary looked at her watch, then at me. "Where do you work, Nate?"
I knew she knew. The grocery store, where I pawed at tabloid photos of Marla Maples during my fifteen-minute breaks. I wanted to lie; I wanted to say brain surgeon or bounty hunter. I said nothing.
"Nate, please cooperate with her," Mom said. "She’s trying to help you."
"I don’t understand, I don’t know why this investigation is a...why that asshole isn’t here being grilled for being such a horrible...asshole person."
"I have to assess the situation to see if a formal report needs to be made, to you know, other departments."
"Why can’t he move out? Why does he have to be here? It’s like prison with him here," I said, gobs of spit pooling in my mouth. I began to cry louder. "It’s total hell."
Mom’s nose was dripping, and her face was twisting into a contortion, an odd grimace. One day, I knew I would detect this facial stance on my own skin. Mom posed the question: "But why do you get so violent, Nate?"
The counsellor looked at me, then at Mom, whose eyes were teeming with juice.
"I just remember it wasn’t always like this, remember when I used to take you to the library? Remember—"
"OK, let’s play remember. Remember when he came into my room a few months ago and threw all my shit around, and I pushed him, and he looked at me and said, ‘YOU THINK YOU’RE HURTING ME?’"
The promo I cut was charged with more honesty and sadness than I thought was possible. I hated every word, every little molecule that made up the world I lived in.
"What starts the fighting?" Mary asked, adjusting her position on the couch.
"What starts the fighting?" I asked. "Fuck."
"Nate, please, she’s here to help."
"Help what? Help how? Help me move my furniture against the door so he doesn’t attack me in the middle of the night?"
"Just take your time," Mary said, shifting her position. I detected a pocket of perfume hitting the atmosphere. "What would you like to do?" Welcome to the family, I thought.
"About what?"
"You and your father."
"I don’t know. It’s so hard with him; he’s a bully who lies to everyone. We have a long history of hating each other. He treats me like I’m his little brother, he mocks me, he acts differently when no one else is around. The police side with him; wanna know why? ’Cause he fucking owns us? This house? Pays taxes, right?"
Mary and Mom looked at one another. Then Mary glanced at her piece of paper. Mom to the carpet.
"This one time, we had a fight, and I shouted at him about how I was so sick of his bullying, his like, how he treats us, and how I wanted to sue him for everything he’s got, and he just looked at me and said: ‘YOU WOULDN’T HAVE A LEG TO STAND ON.’ Then the cops come, and he’s like all calm and a fucking totally different person."
I continued bawling, snatching a tissue from the box Mom had in her lap.
"Nate, your father would never say that."
"He did!" I screamed. "No one believes me. What am I supposed to do when no one believes a single word I say?" I shrilled. "Then he tells them, sitting on that couch right there where you are sitting, he tells the cops that he can handle me in a fight, but is worried for my sister and my mom. He’s so Dr. Jekyll, and no one is doing
anything about it; it’s like the goddamn Twilight Zone."
"Why do you think your father reacts this way?"
"He’s worried about the future," Mom inserted9. "We’re all—"
9. A few years later, while dealing with various family histories and my ongoing emotional problems and the negotiations with various doctors and hospitals, Mom would tell me that when I was still a baby, the three of us went to counselling in regard to Dad’s past, involving his own father (my grandfather) and the church. The details were always spectral and vague, but something happened to someone in the church group. There was an accident. And Dad was extremely upset. Though candid, the takeaway was always that this was something we were never to discuss or bring up or inquire about—ever.
"Weeks pass with nothing, and then one night, he starts in on me. And what are you going to do about it? Write down stuff where in the end, I’ll be the bad guy. Why? Why am I the star?"
"We can’t go on like this," Mom moaned, blowing her snotty nose, her voice gurgling in moisture. "It’s so awful."
My eyes were now stinging. "What are you saying? That, ah, he, feels like he hasn’t made his point? That I don’t get it? That I need to be told my behavior isn’t good? Well, I don’t appreciate his fucking behavior, but that’s not what this is about, is it? No! It’s about me, the bad guy Nate. His point is clear; it’s been made, and I have videotaped my weed-pick cuts on my legs from our last battle to prove it."
This went on for a few more minutes until Mary announced she had another appointment. She spoke to Mom alone at the front door.
My legs felt cold on the pink sofa. I got up and went to my room and lay two cans of diet soda and a box of crackers on my bed. Shoes on, eyes closed, feeling weaker than the plastic straw in my mouth. I looked through a notepad until I came to several pages full of dates and erratic checkmarks: plans and escape routes.
The last date was August 21st:
Sweaty as hell. Went to Consumers Distributing but they didn’t have the joystick I wanted. Called Andrew, and we went for a bike ride, played road hockey with for like six million hours. Well, more like three. Then we watched a special about the making of Batman.
The Phantom Cousin10 (1990)
sixteen: anxious, fidgeting alone;
white noise of sixty-five-thousand fans;
popcorn in my sneaker treads.
My ninety dollar Wrestlemania VI ticket;
Toronto SkyDome saved from Dominion
Grocery shifts where a handful of twenty-year
old girl cashiers roll their eyes and one
changed once in front of me. I saw her
panty-crotch rayon or something—It’s just Nate—
and her friend guffawed in terror at the undressing
(a guffaw that made it all the better to jerk off
to on my breaks in the washroom,
imagining things went further than they ever did,
ever would, for all the universe that’s worth.)
10. On the way to the snack bar, I ran into some classmates at Wrestlemania VI. They were watching it for free in one of their dad’s SkyBoxes. I said I was there with my cousin.
PART II:
SAVAGE
(1991–1996)
5 )
Blue Monday
March–April 1991
The edge of afternoon was full of activity. I relished that sprawl of time before dinner—the end of daylight and beginning of evening frost and black. Ventilation. The notion presented itself to me as the only relief from the toxins creeping into my sinuses. I was putting the finishing touches on my special effects laboratory: a galaxy of stars in space on a large particle board, salvaged from a train set I never used.
The large, simple loop of track was set up as a surprise for Christmas morning. The board now served a larger purpose: outer space. It took several more laborious swishes to completely nullify the textured grey particleboard into solid black.
I picked up the spray paint bottle and shook it vigorously, taking a deep breath as a jet of black mist blew across the basement onto the board.
Again. Ventilation.
But which window? The one in my room or one in the workshop basement? Or maybe the side door? Either way there would be questions from above: Nate, what are you doing down there? YOU BETTER NOT BE GETTING PAINT ALL—
I propped open two basement windows letting in cold winter air that disrupted sawdust. It covered most of my sleeve before settling on the floor.
In my highly choreographed basement lair, in which I pantomimed the grand creator role, I hammered, painted and affixed. My after-school ritual of transforming the unkempt space into something fantastic occupied my every spare minute.
Over the past few months, plastic models, makeshift spaceship gears and mechanical innards were accumulating over the basement awaiting a mission, exaggerating my galactic fantasy camp.
I had the school camera booked for the upcoming weekend when, in addition to a class project for English, I would shoot segments of my VHS sci-fi films, all part of my fictional escape plan.
Dad was fettered to the kitchen phone, his head craned down, knocking back coffee and saying "I see," in an ongoing imitation of reality, furiously crossing out phone numbers and adding new ones, cribbing impossible notes. He was trying to locate any type of insurance job, the sector he’d worked in for nearly fifteen years—I can start immediately...
All I had left to add were the stars, which I did with white spray paint and liquid paper.
With a woooshhhhhhhhh from the can, a light white mist hit the black space void. I coughed, my eyes tearing up. I put my nose under my T-shirt collar and moved the basement door back and forth to move the fumes, trying to avoid the chemical daze.
"Looking good!" I said to myself, as if addressing a film crew of sixty.
Now I was hungry and dizzy. I came up from the basement as quietly as I could, still not completely used to him being home so early.
At the top of the stairs, I watched the backs of Dad’s legs: his brown socks gaining a film of dust along his pivoting heel, his pant cuffs dipping into the surface of Sadie’s wet food.
As I crossed the threshold of our off-yellow kitchen (its sour orb of egg-yellow a constant theme, running from wallpaper to tile to fridge colour), my eyes towered up along Dad’s form. He began rubbing his moustache as if it caused him great agitation; his index finger furiously moved through the orange and brown hairs, perhaps to extract a genie wish. I grabbed a plate and glass from the cupboard.
When Dad spoke into the phone, his voice sounded as if his throat was swallowing him, each word barely breaking from within a vacuumed tone as he nervously pinpointed his vocational purpose. "Environmental risk and insurance, yes for twelve years...the complexities of pollution risk explained thoroughly to clients, yes, to make...exactly...informed decisions. I streamlined the underwriting process...four years or so...Environmental liabilities consulting...sure...on site...well, virtually any aspect of a manufacturing and distribution, especially those companies which may find...what was that? Yes, I worked on policy terms and premiums for almost fifteen years. Cleanup coverage? Yes, I was a specialist on those for I would say...the last four years or so. Yes, you may...I see...if nothing comes up, sure, yes. As soon as possible, that would be appreciated. Yes, 7355. Yes, the only phone number...that’s correct."
I had my head inside the refrigerator, unscrewed a jar of kosher dill pickles, snagged one, let it drip out all wriggling wet, grabbed a cheese slice, unwrapped it, slapped it onto a bagel, prodded at a gooey slice of ham all rubbery from its plastic garrison while Dad’s thin voice said, "Good day," and the receiver returned to the cradle. Throat clearing and the hmmph and sigh and the pivoting of his heel.
"Hello," Dad said.
I looked down at the colourful shock of ingredients balanced in between my fingers (mustard, mayo, pickle, tomato, ham) as I squeezed the sandwich together. Mustard painted my hand.
"Having a snack?
" Dad asked, walking slowly towards me.
I nodded and looked at the half-chewed green pickle, the kind Dad had given us in our stockings just four months ago; the brand’s logo could have been sewn onto our family crest, if we had one. The pickle was our thing; a product that united us, with cheese and cracker dust falling across our pajamas.
"That was my headhunter. So we’ll see what he comes up with."
My stomach tingled in uneasy waves. My sinuses still battling toxins, I dropped the bread and ham collision on a small plate. The pickle bite was lodged in my dry throat and my eyes were watering again.
I swallowed hard, turned my neck towards Dad.
"That sounds good," I said.
What would happen? Our whole life, my room, the backyard, Holly’s stuff, my stuff, our bikes, where would we live, would we have to move, put things into storage, live in the woods? I had, on a few occasions, ventured out on long walks in the snow, sat in the dark, even once with Holly when we were pissed off, tired of the yelling, and fantasized, for a millisecond at least, of living out the rest of our days in the icy blue nothing. That was years ago.
I looked down at my hands...black bits of paint illuminated by the margarine in a strange shellac. All those years ago.
"How was school?"
"S’OK."
"I’m going out for a while," Dad said, snorting as he passed me. He shuffled in the hallway with his coat and hat, taking a cigarette from his pocket and putting it in his mouth, anticipating nicotine. The creak from the front hall closet was jingle-like in its familiarity. "I started to defrost the spaghetti sauce," he said. "It’s on the counter."
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