Sonja & Carl

by Hillier, Suzanne;

  “I want,” I told Carl, who had been huddling with his crew before classes started and now separated from them on seeing me approach, “you to pick me up a block from the school this afternoon. I don’t need your gang’s noise again.”

  He shrugged his agreement and grinned, his square white teeth shining.

  During the lunch hour I used one of the school’s computers for research. I needed to find out what I was dealing with, to identify what Carl’s problem might be.

  After school we went to Carl’s empty house, as Gerda and Carl Sr. were attending the Dare’s annual dinner. Carl seemed less guarded without his parents and because, I suspected, what he considered to be his ugly secret, coiled in his scoured body, had now become mine. I did not speak of my findings until we had eaten. We sat for once side by side at the kitchen table, helping ourselves from a casserole of beef stew that Carl had removed hot from the oven, and then returned to our study room.

  “I went to the library and researched your problem.”

  He stopped his usual pacing and sat down at the table in our study.

  “You’re dyslexic. It’s neurological.”

  He did not reply but stared at me, perhaps not knowing what I was talking about.

  “The wiring in one part of your brain is a bit . . . tangled. It means you have a hard time processing words and it gives you problems with reading and spelling. There’s no cure, but you could have been helped a lot if they had diagnosed you earlier, even as young as five or six. Forty percent of those who have it also have an attention deficit disorder. That’s why you’re so restless, always moving. Sometimes they give you a medicine for this, to help you focus, to inhibit the inhibitors, if that makes any sense. It may or may not have worked.”

  “But is there a cure?”

  There it was again, the screwdriver mentality. Did he want me to go in and straighten out the tangles?

  “No, but it could have been helped. The good part is that it has nothing to do with intelligence. Brilliant people have this: Einstein, Walt Disney, Thomas Edison, and talented actors like Dustin Hoffman and Jack Nicholson. I read Tom Cruise can’t read a word, learns all his scripts by having someone read them to him or by hearing tapes. And Generals Eisenhower and George Patton. Patton had to have his wife read to him. But so many have exceptional talents. You can inherit this.”

  He shook his head: I had given little comfort. “I guess it’s Hollywood or the army. Good I have hockey . . . I love it, you know, the excitement, the cheers, the way we are together as a team, the rush I get after a goal. It sets me free, hockey does.”

  He looked away, as if in confiding this, he had revealed something of himself that he had not intended me to know. And I already knew so much. I felt a closeness to him, a closeness I had not expected. We sat in silence, and then I said softly, “There’s still Lear.”

  So we started again, over and over. I could, I had discovered, give him strategies to help. Finally, at seven o’clock, he produced a printed, memorized version of Act I with only the occasional reversal of letters; then on to Act II with my reading the original and then interpreting it, spelling all the words, and then Carl printing—or attempting to. At seven-thirty, we had to stop; hockey practice was at eight o’clock.

  “Fed up?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” I lied. It was incredibly boring, and the final results, leaking out clumsy and painful, hardly seemed to justify the effort.

  “They have talking books on CDs and videos of plays you could see and listen to. They may have a movie of King Lear. I know there are movies on Hamlet and Macbeth. They have a movie of The Great Gatsby, in fact several, but you’d be better with the talking book. Ask Mutti to order it.”

  “Okay,” he agreed, “but it’s better with you. You keep my mind from wandering.”

  Sonja, the attention deficit antidote, the synapse connecter, Sonja with her little hammer and screwdriver.

  But I wanted to help.

  As we drove back that evening, I thought about his problem while looking out at the long violet shadows from the bare maples lingering over the snow-covered lawns of Davenport’s suburbia. I started to formulate a strategy, but I would wait until tomorrow to share it with him. We had done enough today.

  “I HAVE AN idea,” I told him the next day, after we had settled ourselves in the study. “I’ll read the play to you, explaining as I go, then I’ll select five questions. I’ll write out the answers and you’ll memorize them. It means you’ll have to copy them over and over, but it’s the only way you’re ever going to pass. If you listened in class, you could tell what’s going to be on the test paper and the exams.”

  “Isn’t it a bit underhanded? Like I’m using your work?”

  “Not really. I’ll discuss the answers with you. It’s just that you’ll be able to communicate in writing because you’ve practised and if she questions you, you’re fine with the spoken word.”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine. We have to be practical. We haven’t touched the history and political science yet, and we’ve been a whole week well, four days anyway, because we did some Gatsby and one act of Lear. That’s crazy. We’ll never get through anything that way. There’s one thing, though: you’ve got to stop cutting up in class. Just sit there and shut up, or better still move away from your gang and try to answer some questions. Silly to get everyone’s back up, especially Steinbrink’s, when you’re trying to pass high school.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  I was aware that I was aiding him and indulging in some convoluted form of plagiarism, and I knew I must try to reduce the answers to as basic and simple a format as possible. Suspicions might surface, but detection must be avoided for both our sakes. I did not know why I was risking myself in this way. Was it because I had become Carl’s confidante and cared about him, which was something new for me? I was aware it was for more than the twenty dollars an hour and great dinners.

  IT WAS A Friday night and Mutti and Carl Sr. were staying overnight in Toronto, as Carl Sr. had been attending a business meeting for the company that afternoon. It was the second time Carl and I had been alone. Mutti had phoned at five giving oven instructions for the macaroni and cheese she’d prepared for our dinner.

  It was strange, just Carl and me sitting at the kitchen table in the silent house. Mutti was such a presence that she made the house come alive with her ceaseless chatter and the cleaning and cluttering of endless pots and pans. Carl removed the macaroni dish from the oven and placed it on the table, but instead of having me serve myself, he spooned it onto my plate.

  “Say when.”

  “When. You’ll have me fat as a seal.”

  “I never think of you as fat, just nice and round where you should be nice and round.”

  He smiled when he said it.

  “Thank you.” I was not used to compliments, except of the academic variety, and did not know how to reply—or if, in fact, a compliment was intended.

  “My mother used to cook a lot of fried stuff: sausages, fries, and hamburger meat. I sort of blamed her for my dad’s heart attack, probably unfair of me. The bottle of vodka he drank every night didn’t help.”

  I didn’t know why I confided this to Carl. Perhaps it was because he’d told me so much and I wanted to reciprocate, or I just wanted to talk about Pops. I never had, even to Ma.

  “You miss him?”

  “Yes, sometimes more than others. He was always proud of me when I did well: Ma was too tired to care.” I felt a heaviness in my chest and a suspicious burning under my eyelids. I stopped eating.

  Carl got up and stood behind me, his large, warm hands on my shoulders. I felt the warmth spread down my arms and across my chest. Then he gave them a slight squeeze before he sat down again.

  “I know he was proud of you. If I’d been your dad, that’s how I would have been. That’s what you’ve got to remember, the times when you made him happy and proud.”<
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  I was shocked. I had not expected such words of comfort from hockey hero Helbig. I had underestimated him.

  “Let’s get a little air before we start the King Lear waterboarding.”

  The kitchen door led directly to the backyard, so we stepped outside without our jackets. I wore only my socks, having deposited my boots as usual at the door when I entered Mutti’s immaculate house. It was the middle of March and there was a harsh chill in the air, and the bone-like branches of the maples were still bare. The soaked grass on the lawn was flat and brown, and had a stale tobacco smell, while a blurred moon gave little light. We just stood there on the back steps, not speaking, breathing in the silence. I gave an involuntary shudder, and he took my hand.

  “You’re freezing. I’m such a dickhead. Let’s go back in and I’ll let you start earning your twenty an hour.”

  He took my cold hand in his warm one and led me back to the kitchen, where he vigorously rubbed my arms and hands, even rubbing my feet. I was not used to physical contact and it mesmerized me. I stood like a robot and then when I sat down obediently lifted each foot as ordered.

  “I’ll make you some hot coffee; Mutti’s got some Blue Mountain from Jamaica. It’s great, it’ll warm you right up and even keep you awake while you drill idiot-boy here.”

  The coffee was hot and rich and we sat sipping it at the kitchen table, delaying going to the study.

  “If,” he said, looking at me with a smile, “you’d come to the movie with me when I asked you, I could’ve kept your hands warm all the way through.”

  I could have told him why I refused, but I didn’t. It would sound silly. I merely said, “Sorry, I didn’t really know you then.”

  “Just a stuck-up snotty little teacher’s pet,” he teased, and he had me smiling as we headed for the study.

  After that night I never felt quite the same way about him.

  THE NEXT FRIDAY’S session crawled on in its usual way: reading, explaining, writing, spelling, and then the clumsy pain of regurgitation. By nine o’clock the answer to Lear’s redemption on the heath in the storm and the Fool’s contribution had been condensed to a page and a half of printed discomfort, with no brilliant insights, but readable and hopefully passable.

  We drove back to the apartment, fellow conspirators, easy together, the secrets of dyslexia and plagiarism giving us a relaxed intimacy, as had our moment on the back steps a week before under a cold early spring moon. I felt a surge of warmth that I attempted to ignore. We were in it together, working as a team. Two spies in foreign territory moving with stealth through the darkened academic world of Davenport High, with its chipped lockers filled with sour running shoes and discarded lunches. Restless classrooms, filled with slouched, blue-jeaned students with glazed eyes and slack mouths.

  “What do you do on weekends?”

  “Study. I need the scholarship.”

  I refused to fabricate a social life. I had never been part of the giggling groups of girls discussing dates and parties, ponytails bouncing with shampooed aggression, ears studded with multicoloured fake jewels, and bright eyes outlined in dark pencil: girls with tight designer jeans, snug T-shirts, and spearmint breath, girls who spoke of “hunks” like Carl Helbig. I was Sonja, number-one Davenport High School nerd, the girl who teachers sought out for the right answer. Sonja, with her black bun, pale face, hidden body, and high clear voice.

  “Ever been to a hockey game?”

  “No.”

  I would not say I thought hockey, in fact any sport, silly, but that I was aware he was a very big deal when it came to hockey. His name constantly drifted out from the pockets of gigglers in the school cafeteria as I sat eating lunch with Donalda and Margaret.

  “It’s not as if I’m not interested,” I lied, “it’s just that I’m really busy, especially now, because I haven’t been putting in my hours for my own studies.”

  That should stop him from pressuring me, and even deliver a small smack of guilt to that unblemished square jaw of his. He was fully aware why I was not putting my hours in: I was too busy drilling him to plagiarize my test summaries so he could become a high school graduate.

  He ignored the smack as a love pat. He had, I thought, something of the rigid Mutti, not yet a tank but the parts were in place.

  “I want you to come to the game. It’s against Mississauga Secondary and they’re coming all the way here by bus. It’s a top team and these are the playoffs. I want you to come, just this once. The game starts at 2:00. Then I’ll never ask you again. It’s only fair that you see something I’m good at.”

  I found the urgency in his voice compelling. Besides, in the pocket of my black duffle coat with its attached hood were $360 in hundreds and twenties, neatly folded. This would be the second in a series of bank deposits, which would build up week by week, paving the way for my exodus from Davenport and a successful future life. No doubt Carl skated well and wanted to showcase his efforts. And I did not want him hurt. Never by me.

  “Okay,” I said, stifling a sigh and attempting to remove the resignation from my voice. “I’ll go.”

  Just this once.

  3

  THE GOLDEN EAGLE OF DAVENPORT HIGH

  DAVENPORT WAS PROUD OF ITS arena. Built with public donations through a series of drives, dinners, and even lotteries, it was the equal of arenas built in much larger cities such as Brampton, Mississauga, Markham, Newmarket, and Barrie. It seated sixteen hundred around a large rink and had two food and drink concessions at each end that gave off smells of hot dogs, hamburgers, fries, and coffee, which wafted toward the long lineups at intermissions. Its sound system was state of the art and usually echoed the rich tones of Jim McNeil, who was well known as a sports commentator for professional leagues before retiring to Davenport, where he had been born.

  MA HAD LEFT at nine for a prearranged house-cleaning job for a woman I’d spoken to who informed me she wished to be present when “the char woman” was there, “just in case.” I watched Ma leave with a mixture of guilt and relief. I wanted to avoid her Camels, coughs, and sharp glances, as this tiny injustice collector never forgot a fight and could recite the hurtful words of any opponent for years to come. On the other hand, she looked like a beaten figure, with her pail of harsh detergents and swollen red hands. Years later, long after she was gone, I always pictured her that way, small and shrunken, her flannel coat falling tent-like from her narrow shoulders, shuffling in her flat boots, a cigarette hanging from lips as grey as oysters.

  “I’ll get some groceries,” I said in Ukrainian by means of apology. Ma merely nodded, obviously still upset by my morning outburst two weeks before. To lessen my guilt, I bought some groceries at the corner store before leaving—some bananas, low-fat cheese, a pumpernickel loaf, a dozen eggs and orange juice. I saw no need to spend more of my hard-earned money when I could be assured of five mouth-watering dinners each week, courtesy of Gerda Helbig.

  The bus was full, so I walked three miles to the arena into the bright of an icy March Saturday afternoon, crossing the street so I could catch the remnants of the sun on the other wet sidewalk. My toes and hands were numb and the redemption of spring seemed far away. The cold pricked my cheeks and I held my nose, giving it a temporary break from the chill. Why had I promised Carl that I’d attend? When I reached the arena, it was one forty-five and a FULL sign had already been posted outside.

  “Standing room only and very little of that,” said the large man at the door. He had a grinning overbite and a wool cap was pulled over his ears. “Mos’ everyone’s been here since one.”

  I was relieved. I could now get a return bus, go back to the empty apartment, wrestle with the thermostat, and try to complete the week’s assignments. And I could honestly tell Carl that I couldn’t get a seat.

  “Sonja,” said a loud voice, “we got a seat for you right up front. Carl was afraid you wouldn’t get a seat.” It was a smiling, shuffling Jerry Henley, dumb as they come, his cap with the school colours on backwards.
He’d obviously been told by his idol Carl to see to it that I had the best seat in the house.

  I followed him awkwardly, pulling the hood of my black duffle toward my face as a form of disguise. There was nothing shameful about appearing to see Davenport High’s hockey team compete in the finals, but it was something I’d never done. It might interest Candace Stewart and the group who saluted Carl and me when we left the school for our study sessions. As well, it did not reflect the image of number-one nerd, Sonja Danychuk, whose interests, I thought, should be on a loftier plane.

  “Didja hear about Carl being scouted?”

  “No.” I wasn’t even sure what he meant.

  Jerry continued with his information, the fact that I wouldn’t know about scouting not even entering his mind. Even a geek like Sonja Danychuk would know about scouting.

  “There’s reps up here from the Pittsburg Penguins and the Ottawa Senators, anyway that’s what the Davenport Guardian said, and there’s only one guy they’d be looking at. Ain’t that amazing, really awesome.”

  I nodded my head, still not certain what I was agreeing with.

  The arena was erupting in a kaleidoscope of noise and colour. Shrill whistles tortured the air and assorted chants went up from pockets of supporters of both teams. I was seated in the best seat in the middle of Carl’s Davenport following, who appeared to be the loudest group in the arena. The Choir and the girls accompanying them wore large T-shirts over heavy woollen sweaters stating, WE’LL GIVE YOU HEL, or YOU’LL GET HEL ON EARTH. It was a winter circus, with the smell of fries, beer, and packed humanity, chilled and expectant, all waiting for the arrival of HEL.