Black Chalk

by Yates, Christopher J.

  Oh, she says. OK then. Will you give me just a minute?

  I say yes and she smears her cheekbones with the back of her hand.

  Chad’s mom gets up, goes to the stove and turns it on. She goes to the fridge and takes out a sausage-shaped cylinder. She opens a kitchen-cabinet door and takes out a bag of chocolate chips. Turning to me and holding the cookie dough and chocolate chips, she says, I just add extra chips to the store-bought dough, that’s my secret, she says. But don’t tell anyone.

  LXXIV(iv) He’s Chad’s father all right, she says, there’s no doubt or dispute about that. But maybe that shouldn’t need saying. Oh, that’s not a very good start.

  Frank and me got married old, she says, for people our generation at least. Both past thirty. Even older by the time I fell pregnant with Chad. So he was our only one. She looks up toward the ceiling. Perhaps I should just say it more simple, she says.

  She takes a deep breath. Frank never loved him. And I don’t know why. Maybe he never should’ve had children, or maybe it was something about Chad. But I adored him. I did, I still do.

  Chad was smart as anything at school, I was so proud. But Frank wasn’t proud. I think it only made him jealous. Frank is a smart man, it’s true, he likes to watch the news and talk back, tell them what he thinks. He has all this knowledge, who knows where from, I certainly don’t. But once Chad was old enough he liked to talk back as well. But he talked back to his father talking back to the news. Anything Frank said was challenged. So that’s part of it maybe. And they didn’t just disagree on the news, they disagreed on everything. Even about facts, even about things as silly as the longest river in the world. So whenever they argued, Chad would bring back a book from school and point to the bit that, you know, said he was right all along. And Frank always said the book was wrong. Every time, the book’s wrong, the book’s wrong. The Webster’s Dictionary, the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  Frank never thought Chad was tough enough, you know, that he wasn’t growing up to be a real man. Money’s always been tight around here, so Chad had to help out on the farm and he hated it. He’d rather be doing his homework instead, which to Frank was perverse, a kid who likes homework. So he gave Chad harder and harder jobs to toughen him up. But all Chad ever got better at was schoolwork. He didn’t even play sports except when he had to at school. Not that Frank was ever such a star but he did like to watch and offer his thoughts.

  But this is just stuff, you know, and I’m not saying it makes the rest of it make any sense. But there has to be something to everything, doesn’t there?

  Anyhow, you get the idea. They didn’t seem to like each other much and then Chad went to college. Well, with such a good scholarship it didn’t matter what his father thought. He didn’t need us for the money all of a sudden. And I don’t think Frank ever said well done. Probably not. But anyway, that was the two of them parted for a while and perhaps for the best.

  When Frank heard Chad was to spend a year in England all he did was snort and say it figured. I didn’t even ask what that meant and if I guessed I’d rather not say.

  One day Frank was clearing weeds and he thought he’d probably got rubbed by some poison ivy around the side of his forearm. Well, Frank never really suffered much from poison ivy and it didn’t really itch him much. I just rubbed on some calamine and thought nothing more about it. But then this blister wouldn’t go away. Even two weeks later it was still there. So I made him go see the doctor.

  Well, long story short, it was skin cancer. Skin cancer on the same arm he always hung out the truck window, I won’t let him do that any more. I was terrified, you hear such frightening things. I mean, cancer. I think even Frank was scared, not that he would ever say anything. But he went and borrowed all these books from the library, that’s how I could tell. Every day another few. He must have been through hundreds. But Frank keeps it all in, you know. He’s just a guy like that, typical man. He wouldn’t even let me come with him to see the doctor.

  But they’d caught it and so they arranged to remove it and that’s when Frank agreed we had to tell Chad. Because how was I supposed to cope with everything? A husband with cancer. This place hardly makes enough for the two of us, we couldn’t hire any more help. And Chad wanted to be here anyway, that’s what I think. He may never have loved his father, and maybe he had no reason to, but we taught Chad right from wrong.

  So he came back and took over the running of this place. We thought maybe a year would be long enough, we told him, just for a year. And he may not have liked the work but he knew what to do. The two of them even talked more than before. And while Frank didn’t want to tell me anything, Chad would ask him questions, so at least I learned a little that way. I didn’t even know there were different types of skin cancer until I heard them talking, right here at this table over dinner, Chad’s first night back. It’s a melanoma, Frank says. Now we have to wait and see. Chad tells him not to worry and not to think about doing anything. Frank says he feels fine but Chad insists. Tells his father he’s long earned a rest and he should save his strength. And I was so proud of him, you could see it just the way he held himself, my little boy all grown up. It was like when our daddies returned from the war, came back men.

  So we waited, and Frank had to go back over and over for treatment, and then one day he comes home and says it’s not good news, the cancer’s back. Who knows what he was planning to do next, how far he would have taken it. But I thought that was it, the end. Frank went up to his room as if he was climbing up there to die and I fell face down on this table and cried with my son. And that’s when it came out. I suppose Chad must have read as many books as his father. Because when I said, how can a man die of such a little thing? And I said that I should have done something earlier but it looked like just a little red blister . . . Well, that’s when he started asking me questions. I was just so confused. Was it a blister or a mole, Mom? What colour was it? Was it round or irregular? So I described it, like a little red button, and that’s when suddenly Chad runs up the stairs and starts yelling all these obscenities at his father.

  I have to go slow here to get the words right. Chad was shouting, Is it basal cell or squamous, basal or squamous? over and over. Yes, that was it. Well, I had to look up all the words later on. And Frank is yelling how he has no right and what does he know about anything anyway. And then Chad is yelling, I bet it’s not even squamous, it’s not, is it, you . . . and I won’t say the word he called his father, and whatever happened that word wasn’t right. It’s not even squamous, you . . . it’s definitely not a . . . melanoma and I bet it’s not even squamous.

  Chad runs to his room and starts to pack right away. Frank meanwhile won’t say a single word to me. I’m in such a state here about my husband dying and now my son is shouting at him and leaving. So I run to my son’s room and he’s so angry he can barely speak. But eventually he grabs me by the shoulders. There was such a look in his eyes like I won’t forget. And he says to me, Next time he goes to the doctor, you go in with him, Mom. Dad had a basal cell carcinoma, not a melanoma, he’s a liar. You go and you ask the doctor the difference, Mom, almost no one has ever died from a basal cell carcinoma, it’s a whole different thing. Even if it’s squamous cell then it’s very low risk. You find out the facts, Mom, and then you can decide if you ever want to see him again. That’s your choice. But I will never ever come back to this place, you understand me? I will never come back unless that man is dead or gone.

  Frank was at the door to the room. He starts saying things. Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be back, Mommy’s boy. That’s what he kept calling him, Mommy’s boy this, Mommy’s boy that. And you won’t stay away from your mommy for long. Just like when you were a boy. You’ll be back. And he had this look of . . . just this absolute horrible certainty. Sneering like he pitied his own son. And then he reaches out with his hand and says, A hundred dollars says you’ll be back. Chad doesn’t flinch so Frank keeps taunting him. You’ll be back, I’ll stake my life you’ll be b
ack. And then Frank said, I always knew you were a little . . . and this time he didn’t say Mommy’s boy. And I won’t even use the word he said.

  Well, Chad just finished packing all the while this was happening. And he refused to even look at his father while those vile things were coming out of his mouth. Frank was blocking the door and Chad had his bag ready. And then he walked to the door and just stood there, six inches shorter than his father. Just stood there and looked up at him slowly. And Frank I think tried to stare him down. But then he looked away, looked past him at me and said, He’ll be back, just wait and see, he’ll be back.

  I thought someone was going to hit someone. But Frank stepped to one side. And that was the last time I ever saw my own son.

  LXXIV(v) As I listen to Chad’s mom I try to picture the farmhouse rooms upstairs, I think of needlepoint roses and orange wood. I see the door frame that the farmer filled, Chad’s room full of the books in which he searched for all those facts to prove his father wrong.

  I try to picture Chad in his room. But instead of one Chad I see two of him standing there, squaring up to the farmer. The first Chad is the boy who stumbled over his words while I rubbed my sore hands that first day on front quad. And beside the first Chad stands a second, the one who stared at me across the coffee table when the Game was down to three, the Chad in whose eyes I had seen the daily surge of resolve, the gloss of his strength.

  And while I picture this, the second Chad grows immensely clearer than the first. The scene becomes very vivid indeed. And then the farmer, six inches taller than his son, steps to one side.

  LXXIV(vi) Chad’s mom starts to weep softly. A buzzer goes off. She gets up and takes a tray of cookies out of the oven and transfers them to a cooling rack.

  Mrs Mason, I say, I promise I will speak to your son. I’ll do whatever I can.

  She turns around. Her tears flow harder and she nods at me. She tries to smile.

  LXXV(i) Chad looks at me like a doctor waiting for a frail old lady to begin listing her complaints.

  I respond with my own look, a tuck of the chin, a puffing out of the cheeks. And then I say to him, Go home and see your parents, Chad.

  LXXV(ii) He tries to act as if my words are only the well-meaning advice of a friend. Well, thanks for the suggestion, Jolyon, Chad says, his cheeks flushing. Obviously it was already part of the plan, he adds innocently. But thanks all the same.

  I stretch out on the sofa like a starlet in a silk dressing gown. Oh no, I say, I don’t think you quite understand, Chad. Or perhaps you’re being deliberately obtuse. What I mean is that you mustgo and see your parents. That going to see your parents is your consequence. And then I laugh gaily. I mean, it’s hardly a consequence at all, Chad. Although obviously I’ll have to accompany you to ensure fair performance, I say. And then I add, I seem to remember it’s quite a charming drive up there. To the old farmstead.

  He stares at me. When at last he speaks his voice is low, a guttural threat in the back of his throat. You can’t do this to me, Chad says.

  I scratch behind my ear. That’s funny, I say, because I think I can. It was you who offered me first move. And I don’t think there’s anyone would try to argue that a simple visit to the very people who gave birth to you belongs anywhere but the least serious pot. We must remain objective here.

  The threat is rising in Chad’s voice. This isn’t happening, he says. And then, louder still and his fingers stabbing the air, Chad says, You can’t do this to me, Jolyon. It’s not right. Because I’ve won. You have no idea.

  I remain perfectly calm. I have no idea of what? I say.

  And at last his rage rushes out. Of everythingI’ve done to you, Chad shouts. He pushes down on the arms of his chair as if he’s about to rise, as if he might attack. But instead Chad falls back, and suddenly his strength is gone. When next he speaks it is as if there has been a key change, the slide from major to minor. You don’t understand, he says. You have no idea of all the ways I’ve beaten you. So you can’t do this to me, Jolyon. I’m winning. I’m . . . Chad closes his eyes and his voice trails away.

  I’m sure you’re right, Chad, I say, nodding thoughtfully. So it’s simple. Just go and see your parents.

  No, Jolyon, Chad says, his anger pitched quietly now. This can’t be happening. This is not how it ends.

  Chad falls silent. He stares over my head, out beyond my windows, his arms flat at the sides of the chair as if he is waiting, as if he wants to feel the earth turn beneath him and the truth will have drifted away.

  I say nothing. I watch Chad’s chest heaving up, falling back, as little by little the heaviness in his breathing subsides.

  Finally he tips back his head. Jolyon, this is what you don’t understand, Chad says, his voice turning bitter-sweet now. I haven’t been in New York for four days. I’ve been here since before I called. I’ve been beating you every single day and nightsince that phone call. Chad lowers his head to stare at me. Jolyon, I’ve been running your life for five weeks.

  And now it is my turn to pause, to think everything through. And the earth doesn’t turn beneath me, it lurches wildly. It feels as if I am staring through the side window of a speeding car and I can’t turn my head, I can’t find anything on which to focus. Snatches of the last five weeks go spinning through me. My routine, my story, my life. Until gradually everything begins to slow – the world, my thoughts – and my eyes find something on which to focus. I am looking at Chad, his mouth foreshadowing a smile. I stiffen at the sight of it, remembering my edge, recovering my game. Bravo, Chad, I say. That’s really very impressive. Yes, I understand now. So why not simply go and see your parents . . . ? I reach out my hand as if offering him a gift.

  Chad’s smile dissolves. No, you really don’t see, he says, beginning to sound impatient. Don’t for one single second make out you understand what I’ve done, he says. I’ve . . . Chad is rubbing his forehead in disbelief . . . I’ve been leaving your notesfor you, Jolyon. I’ve been inventing and placing mnemonics, writing half your book. I’ve been pulling the strings of this pointless life of yours every day for five weeks.

  Chad begins to look desperate. If you’re high on pills, Jolyon, that’s because of me. More whisky every day? Me! Don’t pretend you understand. I’ve beaten you every single day. Who took away your water? Me! Well, except for the one glass you kicked over yourself, I’ll admit you provided the spark for a good number of the ideas yourself. And who made you drink whisky instead of your water? Who kept gradually changing the line on your glass? And more pills as well, more drugs whenever we felt like it, whenever we thought you were starting to get suspicious.

  Chad sees me flinch.

  Oh, what’s that, Jolyon? he says. Did you mishear me or did I say we? Yes, we, Jolyon! Me and Dee, both of us together. So you can’t do this to me, you haven’t won, because everything I’ve done, everything I’ve . . . Chad runs out of words as he fights to take in enough air.

  I try to hide my feelings. Dee as well? I want to leap up and attack him, I want to punch and kick and choke him. But I know this isn’t the way to defeat Chad. Instead, I lift a knee to my chest and rub the sole of my foot in circles as if fighting off an impending cramp. I applaud you, Chad, I say, feigning a distracted air. I’m truly impressed. If anyone were keeping score, how much do you think they’d say you were winning by? A thousand points? A million? But, to use an old sporting cliché, it ain’t over till it’s over, right? I suppose I’m like a boxer in one of those movies. Bloody and reeling, only one punch left in me. I throw it. And out of the blue, smack. You fall. The count begins, one two three . . . Will you make it up? Seven eight nine . . .

  Please, Chad says, spare me your metaphor. I’ve read it a thousand times. The boxer, the fighter. He rolls his eyes.

  Wow, I say, smiling appreciatively. You know, using Dee as well. That’s really very clever. I had no idea.

  Of courseDee was part of it, Chad says, outraged. And do you have any idea as to whyshe did it, Jolyon, any g
uesses? Chad taps at his head with his forefinger. Because she’s married to me, he says. Because she’s my wife, Jolyon. I’mher saviour, not you.

  I can’t stand to look at him any more. I turn away. Married? Chad married to Dee. Jack married to Emilia. And where am I? They loved me first. I can almost smell Chad’s pleasure at having wounded me and quickly I turn back to face him. Then I suppose my invite got lost in the post, I say.

  Chad snorts.

  Seven eight nine . . .

  And now I think it is time to end this. So when we head upstate, I say, obviously Dee should come with us, right, Chad? A family outing. I suppose now it’s clear that the whole suicide poem thing was just another part of the act. A truly audacious move, I really am impressed. But yes, definitely bring Dee along. Because don’t you think your wife should meet her in-laws? Your mother would find her charming. Your father also, I bet he’d just love her. What do you think about your father?

  Chad’s head drops and he puts his hands to his eyes. Soon he is rubbing his face as if trying to work soap into a lather.

  Seven eight nine . . .

  Chad? I say, as if perhaps he didn’t hear me. Chad, I said, what do you think about your father?

  He sits up stiffly and blinks several times. It takes him a minute to gather himself. A minute during which I try to piece together Chad’s revelations of the last five weeks.

  My shoes and WALK NOON. Dee’s framework and my strict adherence to a fixed schedule. Mnemonics and routine. Pills and whisky.

  I cannot say with utter certainty that all of the words in this story have been written by me. It seems that some of them may not have been my own.

  Perhaps I am not the washout who stumbled pathetically through his life every day of his comeback. Maybe I am stronger than I thought.

  Chad takes a sharp breath and I look up at him. And then, in a voice no louder than a whisper, Chad says to me, OK then, Jolyon. You win. God knows how, I truly have no idea. But you win.