Pluto's Ghost

by Sheree Fitch

  t

  “Did you say the cops were after you?” He tilted his head. I saw Derucci get out of the car. And the other door opened. Brett Manderson! Wha the f—?

  “Please,” I said, “you gotta hide me.”

  “Now why would we do that?”

  “I’ll do whatever you want?” I said.

  “This way,” said Pauline, picking up my backpack. The trailer rocked as I made my way down the hallway. I hid under a bed in a back room and overheard everything when Derucci knocked at the door.

  “Never seen no one,” Robin said. “No sir. But yeah, my shed was broken into. Wait till I get my hands on the guy.”

  Derucci said I was a dangerous car thief and left.

  “You don’t look dangerous to me,” Pauline laughed after I came back out.

  “Thanks,” I said. “What is it you want me to do?”

  Robin smiled. Old piano mouth.

  “Deliver a vehicle to Dartmouth. Park it in a driveway on Pineygrove Avenue—the address is tucked in the glove box. Simple, eh?”

  “Then?”

  “You make a phone call.” He lit a cigarette and squinted at me through the smoke. “Use a public phone.”

  “Where?”

  “Walk until you find one, numbnuts,” he said. “There’s a library down by the ferry terminal.”

  “And walk fast,” said Pauline.

  “Why? Not a nice neighbourhood?” I asked.

  Robin laughed, stained teeth showing, his lip curling back to expose huge gums.

  “You got the pik-ture, BUD.” He nodded. He was pacing by this time.

  “Once you reach the phone booth you dial this number. If no one answers, keep dialling until someone does. Got it?” I shrugged yes.

  “So when they answer, you wait until they say: ‘Hello. Yo. Who’s your daddy?’ This means you say, ‘I ain’t got no daddy but you.’ Then you hang up. Simple, eh?”

  Simple. His favourite word. I figured maybe the truck was stolen, or somewhere, like in the spare-tire compartment, was a stash of cocaine, but like I say, what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me and I only knew I needed those wheels. Did I care what was in the van? No, to be honest. Not a bit. All I knew was I was that much closer to Skye. I was the one who’d lucked out, I told myself. Not Robin the Hood.

  “One more thing,” Robin warned, “you weren’t here, okay? If the cop comes back, I’ll tell him you stole my truck and headed off in the opposite direction, that I chased after you up the road, saw just as you were turnin’. That should buy you time if they sniff too close. Us, too.”

  Pauline was packing suitcases, humming to herself. “They won’t,” she said. “I figure we’ll be long gone by then.”

  So that was it. All I had to do was park the truck at an address.

  We shook hands. Pauline gave me a sandwich to take with me. Dry clothes. She tried to hug me. What was that about? Breath like an ashtray. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. Then, to complicate matters, you’ve got your good bad guys and bad good guys. I figure Robin and Pauline were good bad guys. Maybe. I can relate. Being a good bad guy is better than being a bad good guy—or so I think. At least what you see is what you get. Sort of. There’s a little hope for the good bad guy whereas the only way for the bad good guy to go is down. Bad. Good. Confusing shit. I sound like the men at the Cabin Diner at their work-free smoke place. So, like Brett Manderson: Bad good guy. Me: Good bad guy. I wondered what Skye would say about my theory and what I’d just agreed to do.

  I got in the van, waved at them, watching in the rear-view as they stood waving, dogs barking, all of them sending me off like I was family. I was glad to be back on the road again.

  When I turned the radio on, there was a song playing I knew Skye liked. The one we played in my basement when we got together. One she put on the night of the Valentine’s dance. The words were ours. Who knew anything could taste this good. I drink your eyes. You’re all I need for food. And tell me baby would you fly away with me. Sky high. Skye high.

  Skye high. When I’d discovered I could get high on Skye Derucci I knew I was about to become a changed guy. But I never figured I’d end up being a parent.

  I sang along with the tune and I figured that it was a good-luck omen. I’d find Skye. Soon. We would talk about the baby. Really talk. See, somewhere on that lonely road in the storm the night before, I’d decided. I wanted this baby. A baby. Our baby. Yep. I really wanted Skye to give birth to our child. New word: Serendipity. Translate: Happy unexpected chance.

  u

  Have you ever been around someone

  you just couldn’t stop touchin’

  Ever felt your heart fill up so much and

  Ever thought every old love song you heard

  Was written for you almost word for word…

  “Your eyes are the colour of ale. Deep amber ale,” Skye told me once. At the time, her face was so close to mine her words tickled like feathers, and her breath, sweet as candied almonds, kissed my lips. “The boy with amber eyes,” she kept repeating, her voice dripping slow and hypnotic. Her eyes changing like blues of the sky.

  I could hardly wait to look into those eyes again.

  Patches of snow melted beneath the morning sun and soon the highway was bare and I sailed along with that radio cranked up full-blast. I drum-thumped the steering wheel in time with the music, driving even faster. A head rush, a heart rush, I was electric and the miles sped by. By my calculation I’d arrive in Dartmouth by noontime.

  Just as I was relaxing, a police cruiser, sirens screaming, sounded. Sometimes I feel that whole time I was living in a rear-view-mirror reality. Along with a long line of other vehicles, I slowed down and pulled over. The car hurtled towards us, top speed. I hunkered down in my hood and turned my face away as it sped past. It was Derucci, and Manderson was with him. Manderson? What was going on? That’s when I remembered something I’d been trying to push out of my mind ever since they’d appeared back in the woods. How Derucci had talked about Manderson hanging around their place. Thinking he was the father. Funny how Skye never mentioned Manderson at her place to me. What if…what if Skye had been cheating on me? I broke out in a cold sweat. Grinding my jaw. No, no way. I grabbed my phone and sent a text.

  WHERE R YOU?

  Why the fck aren’t you answering me?

  I drove like a maniac then, past the exit to the Halifax airport, and made the twenty-minute drive in fifteen. The burnt-hair smell was back; I hummed and thumped my collarbone. Breathed deeply. The strategy worked. I had to keep my head about me. Like in the sucky poem my father was always quoting. “Then you’ll be a man, my son,” it ended. In other words: Men get hold of themselves. No matter what.

  I held the steering wheel like it was some sort of lid on all I was holding inside and reached the outskirts of Dartmouth. The traffic was steady, horns honked, a few drivers shook their fists and wagged their middle fingers. I smiled back. Totally in control.

  I pulled into a coffee shop, got out and stretched my quivering legs. First things first. Deliver the van. But this was where my curiosity got the better of me. I opened the back of the van, glanced in and slammed the door shut fast. Kee-rist! Hydroponics equipment. I was transporting the makings for some sort of grow-op. I knew a little about it because back in the day when I still hung out with Dylan he’d had a friend who had a little grow-op in his cellar. Shaking, I paced the parking lot, jumped when my cellphone buzzed. I was back in the land of the living—I had cell phone reception again! Teddy had sent a text.

  Jake u okay?

  Skye’s old man sniffin askin where u are yesterday took off

  He’s pretty pissed brett manderson with him???

  Watch out looking for u

  The next message reminded me why I was where I was.

  Jake daddy daddy daddy-o

  What about my own father? My father wouldn’t have slept a wink, I was sure. There was a voice message from him. I huddled inside my coat, tryin
g to hear against the wind.

  “Jake, call me, please. You have to keep your head about you.” Right.

  Shit. Never a blame kind of person, my father, like I said, and there were times I’d almost wished he was. Why not turn around and say, Jake, you’re a troublemaker, or, Jake, why do such a stupid thing again? or, Jake, you are one hell of a hard kid to take. Why not hit me? I used to wonder. Really. Even thought he was like a wuss sometimes. Weak even. But no, he just kept saying things like, “Jake-Jake-Jake—self-discipline is only allowing your better side to take control, you’ll get there.” Or the never-ending “Jake, keep your head about you,” or “Jake—I honestly do not know what to do—you hurt yourself more than anyone else.” Sometimes he’d grow so silent I felt kind of scared. But then he’d say, in a very low voice, through clenched teeth, the cords of his throat bulging, “Jake, I think maybe I’m about ready to blow a gasket.” But I never saw him lose it—though once he got close. That time, I’d been all set to put my fist through the dining-room window—but he grabbed me, held my arm behind my back and pinned me against the wall.

  “So help me Jesus,” he’d breathed into my face, “do not allow me to harm this child! Jake—now listen—listen, listen to me, look at me in my eyes, steady, look here—and it’s like this, okay look at me, Jake, you could seriously cut an artery doing that, so make a choice—you do or you don’t smash that window when I let you go. If you do, know that I won’t drive you to the hospital and you’ll bleed to death and that would be sad and I don’t really want to be held accountable for neglecting my child and manslaughter and spend the rest of my days in jail because you couldn’t solve a math problem. That would just make no sense whatsoever now would it?” I stopped squirming and settled down and he let me go. I guess he’d been praying for real because he was shaking bad all over, then I saw him wipe his eyes, too, at the kitchen sink, a few minutes later, heard a sound like he was maybe choking on the water he’d poured himself. I left the window alone. That time.

  So yeah, I wanted to dial my father’s number and say, “Dad, I’m okay. Really.” But I snapped the phone shut and entered the coffee shop and went to have a leak, clean up a bit, and because I was feeling sick, I ordered lunch.

  The chicken soup and ham-and-cheese sandwich were delicious—especially compared to Pauline’s peanut butter tobacco ones I had earlier.

  Opening up the map Robin had given me, I tried to get my bearings. I was somewhere on Portland Street.

  “Are you lost?” The voice was as creamy as the inside of the doughnut I was biting into.

  v

  Halifax is famous for its hospitality. Right then, I discovered why. I looked up into the eyes of a girl almost as gorgeous as Skye.

  Her hair was long, almost to her waist, and her skirt short. She was wearing brown leather boots, a purse slung over her shoulder, and her coat was a little puffy blue thing—I thought it looked like some sort of flotation device and I wondered if she was warm enough in it. She had white, even teeth. Her name was Libby, she said, and I just kept staring.

  “I’m Jake,” I stuttered finally and we touched hands. We didn’t shake exactly, just briefly sort of held hands.

  “I am,” I admitted, looking over my shoulder like I was afraid the whole of the place could hear. “Totally lost.”

  “Can I sit?” She didn’t wait for me to answer but shoved her tray up against my hand-drawn map, wrinkling it up.

  “Tell me where you need to go and I’ll be your navigator.”

  “If I could just find my way to Pineygrove Avenue, I could figure out the rest.” I smiled.

  She laughed and pointed.

  “Two streets over thataway.”

  “Well, I was going to go that other way, so you saved me a lot of trouble.” I stood up, folding the map.

  “Leaving so soon?” She pouted. Her lips were pink, shaped like a small and perfect bow.

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate today, you could say.” I backed away.

  “Looks to me like you ate everything on that plate. Licked it clean.” She bit into a sandwich and licked mayonnaise off her lips. Slowly. A come-on if I ever saw one.

  I turned my back on her, emptied my trash into the bin and had turned to say goodbye when I saw them. A pair of coppers, coming in the door, zeroing in on me. Derucci’s pals? I wondered, and froze. They rushed to the table.

  “Libby,” said the man.

  “Up to your old tricks?” said the other, a woman.

  “Leave me alone,” she said. “I’m just having lunch with my friend here.”

  “That so?”

  “That’s right,” she said, her eyes wide, turning and giving a quick wink at me, and I immediately sat back down with her.

  “Yep. Libby and me are old friends.” I nodded.

  “That so?”

  Libby huffed and flashed a fake grin. “We are just studying.”

  “Right,” I said. “Did you know Pluto the planet is no longer a planet because it lost its status and it was named after the Roman god of the underworld, not the Disney character. There are three things a planet needs to have in order to be a planet. One, it needs to be in orbit around the sun. Two, it needs to draw in enough gravity to be in a spherical shape. And three—”

  “All right, smartass. What happened to your forehead and hand?” The cop gestured to my bandaged left hand. I’d forgotten how banged up I still must have looked. Robin’s clothes were not the best fit—or the cleanest, either. “A little accident,” I said. “Right,” she said. I didn’t like how carefully she studied me. They moved on then, and the woman officer almost good-naturedly waved to Libby on her way out the door. Afraid they’d check the plates on the van, I watched as they strode through the parking lot. As they closed in on the van, one reached for a walkie-talkie, yelled something to her partner and both officers pivoted and made a beeline to their cruiser. Sirens whooped and the car squealed out of the lot. Saved in the nick of time. The title of the story of my life.

  “You looked more scared of them than I did,” Libby said, her eyes searching my face.

  “You’re a—?” I didn’t know what word to use.

  “Used to be,” she said. “Kinda sorta,” she said. “I was. Why? You interested?”

  “I’ve got a girl,” I said.

  “Course you do—handsome guy like you are.”

  “Why?” I asked. It made me sad to think of her walking streets in that little coat, making money that way.

  She shrugged, her eyes narrowed, like she was aiming to be tough. “Because,” she said. “Just because.”

  Once, after one of my famous episodes in school, when I was hauled into Pritchard’s office, the principal had asked me the same question I’d just asked her. And I’d given him the same response. The way I figure it now is if a person always knew why they did what they did, knowing how lousy they felt afterwards, well, if a person knew why—they’d no doubt not do it, if they could help it, right? “Just because.” I nodded.

  “It’s as good an answer as any.” She lifted her chin in the air, defiant, like a little guilty kid might.

  “I know exactly how you feel,” I said.

  She smiled and moved in her seat like a small little squirrel and she looked at me for what seemed the longest few seconds of my life.

  “I think you do. I really think you do. Anyhow, these days I’m a student.”

  “What are you studyin’?”

  “Nursing.”

  “Think I need stitches?” I asked.

  “I think you need healing,” she answered.

  “I’ll see you around maybe,” I said. I was feeling pretty weak in the knees if you want to know the truth.

  “Remember, two streets thataway,” she said.

  If I was a real musician—if I was—I would have written a song called “Two Streets Thataway”:

  She gave me her smile and said come back in a while

  She gave me directions

  I almost had an erection


  See why I never finish a song? My rhyming mind sometimes leads me straight to the gutter.

  w

  I navigated through the traffic, two streets thataway, found the house and backed into a narrow alleyway. The side mirror of the van scraped against the brick of the house next door. Turning off the ignition, I slipped out the passenger door but the whole damn time I had a feeling I was being watched. After I deposited the key on the back verandah under a clay pot, I saw a curtain move and heard muffled music, the bark of a dog and a kid crying. Garbage bags on the porch overflowed. The smell? A mix of dogshit and pizza boxes.

  In the next yard, children’s tricycles and a jungle gym made my heart sink. Was I doing something to put a kid in danger? For a moment I imagined myself like some sort of Paul Revere, running up and down the street, pounding on doors and yelling, “Fire! Drug dealers! Get out while you can.” I kept my hood on, pulled my coat collar up and adjusted my backpack in my arms like I was carrying a small child—a shield to cover my face from whoever was behind that curtain. Then I leapt off the porch and walked away. The street corner seemed an eternity away. People like me were shot by people like them. In the back. Disappeared. Killed in graveyards. Killed in their own apartments. I’d known a few wannabe thugs and I was pretty certain Dylan Hempleby had gotten messed up in the gangs. “Drugs are here to stay,” Dylan had told me his last visit home, as if it were a good thing, as if somehow he’d been brainwashed by someone and forgotten which side of normal he’d once come from.

  “All those hard drugs,” Teddy said, “have made Dylan a little crazy, man, don’t you think? He’s even scarier than you, Jake, when you’re in one of your rages.” Teddy’d witnessed my outbursts more than once—in school, and once at a hockey game. One time he’d even talked me down. “Jake, yo, bro, we soooo don’t have to prove anything—now okay, let’s go the other way. Chill.” Then he’d steered me by the elbow back to the bleachers, away from the visiting team’s cheering section. I’d been jaw to jaw with a red-headed fellow twice my size, a square-set face in a hulk of a body, his face painted brilliant blue with a white star on his cheek. At times, Teddy could be very convincing in his happy puppy dog way. I obeyed. I wished I had Teddy for protection at the moment.