For a few hours each week, he could just be.
That all changed when he got home late one Thursday night.
The game had gone long—a hard-fought battle with their closest rivals. They had won by a single run, Martin’s run, a late-inning homer that had sailed over the midfield fence, bouncing white in the parking lot. His teammates, his friends, had hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him around the infield. The coach slapped him on the back, offered to buy everyone ice cream to celebrate.
Normally Martin would have bowed out, slipping away in the post-game confusion and heading for home. But this was his night, and when the coach looked at him and asked, “You coming?” he had nodded.
The whole time they were celebrating, though, all Martin could think about was how thrilled his mother was going to be when she heard about the game-winning run, and how he wished she had been at the game to see it for herself.
He practically ran home, throwing open the main door of the building, taking the stairs two at a time.
He stopped dead outside their apartment, key at the ready, hand extended. From behind the door he could hear Tessa wailing, the deep, throaty roar she got when she had been crying for a long time, and his mother’s shaking voice. A door slammed.
He fumbled the key into the lock and opened the door slowly. “Mom?” he called out.
She was screaming as he came around the corner into the living room. “Where have you been? Where did you go?” Her face was bright red, her eyes wide and bright, her hair a tangled mess. She was holding Tessa, her upper body lurching as if that might quiet the screaming child. “Where were you?”
Martin flinched under the force of the words. He had never seen her like this.
“Where were you?” she asked again, stepping toward him.
“I was at baseball,” he managed.
“Don’t lie to me,” she screamed. “I know when you’re lying. I can tell. I can always tell.”
Martin took a step back, into the doorway. “I was at baseball,” he repeated, weakly.
She slapped his face. He could hear the sound of it before he felt the blow. It was so hard it snapped his head to one side, and left a vivid red handprint on his cheek.
“Mom—”
“Don’t lie to me,” she snarled. “You come in here from God knows where, telling me lies. . . .”
“Mom, I’m not—” He could feel the tears burning in his eyes, the pain radiating from the slap.
“You ungrateful little—”
Behind her, he could see the door to Andrew’s room crack open, could see his brother peer out, his face stained with crying.
“You’re as bad as your father.”
“Mom—”
“I work so hard. I work so hard to make a home for you, and what do you do? Nothing. You waltz around here like a little prince, you come and go as you please, you never lift a finger to help out—”
“Mom!”
She raised her hand again and he shrank back. Andrew’s bedroom door closed without a sound.
“I give and I give and I give and you do nothing but take. You’re not a part of this family. You’re a parasite. You suck up everything that’s good—”
He didn’t hear anymore—he couldn’t bear to. Stepping all the way out into the hallway, he pulled the door shut and ran for the front door as fast as his legs would carry him.
He couldn’t make out any of the words she screamed behind him. He turned the corner, pushed open the door, and was gone into the night.
He closed the guest room door behind Tessa and stood for a moment just listening to the sound of his own breath, savouring the feeling of being alone for once, finally.
It didn’t take him long to dress—he didn’t have much in the way of clothes, and he had pretty much lived in jeans and a black t-shirt anyway. Before.
He sat on the bed to pull up his socks, to tie his Docs. As he ran the laces through the top couple of eyelets, he could feel the slow burning start within him, the cool, stony feeling of inevitability that would build and build until he gave it release.
He smiled.
It wasn’t always like this. Sometimes the anger came too fast, too surprisingly, and he had no chance of controlling it. That’s what had got him into trouble: those flashes of anger, the sudden bursts of fury that left him blind, almost devoid of memory of what he had done.
That’s why he had spent all those years away.
But this, this feeling of cold fire in his belly, this was almost comforting, a familiar friend he knew he could count on. A feeling that had never let him down.
Standing up, he looked at himself in the mirror. Not at his face, not checking his shave or his hair, but meeting his own eyes in the cold glass, recognizing himself there. Centering himself. Steeling himself.
He tugged on his leather jacket, made sure his wallet and cigarettes were in the pockets, then nodded at his own reflection.
Before he left, he took one last look around the room that had once been his home. There were no details there to consign to memory, nothing to take with him, even knowing he wouldn’t be back.
Martin ran to the playground at the end of the block, clutching his cheek as if he could touch his mother’s hand there, as if he could pull the pain, the very action of the slap, away.
He didn’t let himself cry until he was sitting in one of the swings.
How could she do that? How could she say those things? He tried so hard, and he thought . . .
His tears ran down his cheeks, collected at his chin before falling to the ground. His back buckled with the weight of his sobs.
He tried so hard. He did everything she asked. He took care of Andrew. He made dinner. He did everything he could, didn’t he? How could she say things like that? Why was she so angry? What had he done to make her so mad? To make her hit him?
He twisted in the swing, dragging the tops of his shoes in the sand.
What had he done wrong? What could he do better?
“Are you all right?”
Martin choked back his surprise, stopped spinning and looked up. He hadn’t heard anyone coming, but there was someone there. A man.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was soft and gentle. “I saw you sitting here and I thought you might need some help.”
“That’s okay,” Martin said, wiping his nose as he looked up at the man. “I’m all right.”
The man crouched down, bringing himself to Martin’s level. His hair was dark, almost black under the harsh yellow of the streetlight. His eyes were blue, and they seemed to look at him with a calm warmth and understanding. “It’s a little late for you to be out here by yourself, crying, if you’re all right.”
“I’m okay,” Martin said, less strongly.
“Are you sure?” the man asked. “You look like you could use someone to talk to.”
Martin looked away, wiped at his nose again. The man was making him feel strange. His mother had warned him about talking to strangers, about some of the dangers boys faced at the hands of strange men. He knew better than to talk to him.
But he seemed so nice. His face was friendly and open; it looked like he might really care, like it might actually be good to talk to him.
Martin didn’t know what to do.
The man cleared his throat. “I’m Jackson,” he said, extending his hand. “Jack.”
Martin took it carefully, shook it. “Martin.”
“So what’s going on, Martin?”
He shook his head, his resistance starting to crumble. “Nothing.”
The man half-smiled. “Do your parents know that you’re out here by yourself? It’s pretty late. They might be worried.”
Martin shook his head just once, not saying anything.
“Ah. I see. What was the fight about?”
/> Martin looked at him sharply.
“You think I don’t remember what it was like to be your age? Clearly there was some sort of fight. Most boys your age are tucked fast in their beds by now. But you’re out here all by yourself.”
“It’s nothing,” he repeated.
“Let me guess,” the man said, sitting on the swing next to Martin’s. “You got into a fight with your mom and dad—”
“Just mom. There’s no dad.”
“Ah. Well, that makes sense. You got into a fight with your mom and things got pretty hot and you came out here to cool off.”
Martin didn’t nod, didn’t speak.
“So what was the fight about? Something you were supposed to do around the house? Something you forgot to do?”
“No,” Martin snapped. “I do everything around the house. Everything. And she never—”
“She doesn’t appreciate you.”
“It’s always Tessa this and Tessa that. She never puts her down. Carries her everywhere.”
The man nodded as if he understood.
“And Andrew—Jesus. I walk him to school, I look after him after school, I cook him dinner and get him ready for bed. I hate it. There’s never any time for me to do any of the things I want to do. I never get to have any fun.” He didn’t know where the words were coming from, and didn’t know how true they were, even as he was speaking them, but they felt good to say, a hot rush of anger pushing out the sadness he had been feeling.
“It’s hard being an older brother, isn’t it?”
Martin nodded. “Sometimes.”
The man leaned forward.
“I just wish I had a little more time for myself, you know? Like tonight. I know I came home late, but . . .”
“But you went out with your team.”
Martin nodded, surprised that he would know this.
“You were celebrating. You scored the winning run.”
“How do you—”
“What did your mom say when you told her about the game? About hitting the home run?”
Martin sank into himself.
“You didn’t tell her.”
He shook his head. “No,” he whispered.
“Because of Tessa. And Andrew.
“She was so mad.”
“Did she hit you?”
Martin’s first response was to lie, to deny that the slap had happened, to deny that such a thing was even possible. But he nodded. Slowly.
“I thought so.”
Martin felt like he might start crying again. He knew that if he spoke, it would be in tears, coming to his mother’s defence. And he didn’t want to do that.
“Does she hit your brother too?”
“Andrew?” He snorted a laugh. “No.” As if it was the most ridiculous idea he had ever heard.
“That’s not fair to you, is it?”
“None of it’s fair.”
“No, it’s not. It’s not easy being a big brother. Always having to be responsible. Always keeping an eye out. Never able to have any fun.”
Martin felt himself nodding along as the stranger spoke.
“Never getting a chance to just be a kid yourself.”
“Sometimes I wish he’d just disappear,” Martin muttered, mostly to himself.
The stranger looked surprised. “You don’t really mean that.”
“Yes, I do.” He didn’t, but he didn’t like the sceptical tone in Jack’s voice.
“You think that everything would be better if Andrew wasn’t around anymore?”
“Even for just a couple of days,” he said, his voice threatening to break. “I could play baseball and hang out with my friends. I wouldn’t have to worry about him making noise and bugging Mom. Even just a few days of not having to worry all the time.”
“You think that three days without your brother would make everything better?”
Martin shrugged. “It couldn’t make things worse.”
The man smiled. “You should be careful what you wish for.”
In the years he had been inside, Victoria had changed. It wasn’t any single thing, but an accumulation of small changes that left Martin feeling like he was walking through a dream. The roughest hotel downtown, where he had spent many happy afternoons in the bar flying high and picking fights, had been turned into condominiums. The strip club he used to hang out at had turned into a pub, full of university students and hippies. There were no more hookers working along Government Street, and everywhere he turned there were coffee shops.
The city hadn’t changed completely, though. It took him less than half an hour to get his bearings, to figure out where Tommy was likely to be.
Most people avoided that block of Pandora. The sidewalks were clear and wide, but as Martin walked past the old church, people stepped out of the shadows and stairwells.
“Smoke?”
“Crack?”
“X?”
“Got a little blow.”
All of them young men, sunken-cheeked, with hoods pulled over their heads so only the lower halves of their faces were visible, their eyes gleaming in the shadows. They rolled when they walked, as if their joints were all too loose for proper coordination, and their pants sagged off their skeletal hips.
Martin shook his head to each question and kept walking, his eyes fixed on a small crowd across the street from the McDonald’s.
Tommy stepped away from the ledge he had been leaning on when he saw Martin approaching, stepped through the crowd that parted easily for him, and stood there, shaking his head, a broad smile across his face.
“Well shit. If it ain’t himself, back from the dead.”
“Or something like that,” Martin said, smiling. He extended a hand, but Tommy pulled him into his arms, slapping his back soundly. “Good to see you, man,” he whispered into Martin’s ear. He stepped back, surveying him. “I bet it feels good to be out.”
“Oh, I dunno. I was starting to enjoy the group showers.”
Tommy smirked, and a few of the people around them laughed. The small crowd had gathered close, sensing something important, something different, at last, happening.
“So you behave yourself in there?” he asked, leadingly, knowing the answer full well.
Martin shrugged. “I ran into some trouble. You know me.”
“I know you.”
The crowd began to drift away, already bored. One young guy, wearing a black marshmallow jacket over a stained white wife-beater, stayed close, rocking on his heels and staring at Martin.
“Who’s this?” he asked, punching out the words. He had a long scar up one cheek, narrowly missing an eye before it disappeared into his hair-line. There was something familiar about him. Maybe his cold blue eyes, or the set of his jaw.
“This,” Tommy started, already building extravagance in his voice. “Is my old friend Martin. Martin and me—” he shook his head “—we were legends when you were still pissing your pants.”
The kid ignored the jab, focussing on Martin’s face. “Martin Corbett?” he asked dismissively, as if he could barely be bothered to ask.
Martin nodded. “Why?”
“Heard you was in prison is all.”
Martin didn’t believe him, and it was clear that the kid didn’t expect him to.
“I got out.” Still searching for something in his face to confirm the familiarity he was feeling.
“It happens sometimes,” Tommy said, looking between the two of them. “You wanna give us a minute, Marco? I think we’ve got some catching up to do, Martin and me.”
Marco made a snorting, dismissive noise as he turned away, walking over to the rest of the group.
Martin watched him go, watched as he positioned himself so he could keep an eye on him and Tommy without looking like he was looking.
“How long you been back?” Tommy asked.
“Couple of days.”
“How’s your mom?”
Martin shrugged.
“Right. And Tessa?”
“She’s living in Vancouver now, going to school.” He waited a beat. “Criminology.”
Tommy looked at him incredulously. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
Tommy chuckled. “Well, you tell her I say hello the next time you’re talking to her.”
“Right.”
Tommy slapped him on the shoulder, smiling like he might burst. “It’s good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be out.”
Tommy leaned in, lowered his voice. “You need anything, man? Little toot? Little smoke? Something to get your legs back under you? Maybe we oughta go out a little later, find us some girls?”
Martin was warmed by his old friend’s obvious concern for him.
“I do need something,” he said quietly.
“What do you need, man? Anything. Anything you need.”
“I need a gun,” Martin said simply. “Tonight. As soon as you can get it for me.”
Tommy stepped back, his smile replaced with a thoughtful scowl. “Sure,” he said. “No problem. It’s gotta be tonight, though?”
Martin nodded. “Tonight. As soon as you can. There’s someone I’ve got to meet.”
His heart was racing and he was a bit out of breath as he bounced on the bag. Second base. And now Billy was up to bat! He puffed a little air out from his cheeks, then glanced at the fence, keeping one eye on the pitcher.
Andrew saw him looking and waved. Martin nodded back and smiled at his little brother, then turned his full attention back to the pitch.
Everything at home seemed back to normal. By the time he had come in from the park his mother was in bed, and she hadn’t said anything the next day.
When it was time for him to leave for his Saturday game, he had told Andrew to put on his shoes and coat.
“Where are we going?” he asked, pulling his attention away from the television.
Seven Crow Stories Page 12