And then I know. I understand what should have been obvious the first time I met Sheri. She’s a—
No. I’m not going to ask. I don’t want to hear the answer. This conversation should be over, right here.
“What exactly does Sheri do?” There I go again. The words come flying out of my mouth without my permission. My mind doesn’t seem connected to my tongue tonight. Maybe I have one of those brain injuries that knocks out your ability to edit your thoughts. Or Tourette’s syndrome. That’s probably it. I have sudden-onset Tourette’s.
“She’s a dancer,” Dad says as he pushes himself out of the reading chair the way he was supposed to five minutes ago. He heads upstairs without meeting my stare.
“That’s great.” Just great. She’s a stripper.
Once he’s gone, I realize I didn’t even tell him about the deer. I turn off the lamp, flop into Mom’s chair, and see again the spurt of blood from the animal’s skull. How many spurts before something’s really and truly dead? Does the brain know it’s dead before the heart or vice versa?
Maybe neither realizes. Maybe there’s just darkness. And maybe it’s better to go like that. At least it only took a few minutes for the deer.
• • •
My mom died of pancreatic cancer. There were only a few months between the diagnosis and her death, months filled with doctors and hospital rooms and words like “malignancy,” “adenocarcinoma,” and “Trousseau sign,” whatever that is.
When someone who’s close to you dies, you learn there are a lot of things people don’t talk about. I mean, there’s that whole Hollywood scene where you sit by the side of the hospital bed breathing in urine and antiseptic and you share memories, as if they’ll hold you safely in the past. “Hey, Mom, remember the time you taught me how to run the Slinky down the stairs? That was cool.”
That really happens, just like in the movies.
There are other things that don’t get said aloud. We never said “you’re dying” or “terminal cancer” or “when you’re dead.” Soon the doctors were saying “palliative,” and I knew that meant “dying,” but I still never said it, and neither did Mom. Maybe Mom and Dad said it when they were together and I wasn’t there. I doubt it. Why say what you already know?
Afterward, when she was gone, there was a whole bunch of new ways for everyone to avoid talking about what actually happened. At school, teachers said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” The gym teacher put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Heard you’ve had a rough time of it.” No one ever, ever said, “Sorry your mom’s dead.” Which was okay, I suppose. It just left this big circle of silence inside me, like the blackened ring of stones around an old bonfire pit.
On the day of the funeral, there was a wake at our house.
I’m not sure how that day got planned, to tell you the truth. Dad and I were shuttled from our front door to the funeral parlor, then the cemetery, then back into our driveway. When we reentered our house, chairs had been pushed along the edges of all the walls and the kitchen table was loaded with sandwiches, grocery-store fruit-and-cheese platters, plastic jugs of pop, and stacks of plates and napkins and cups.
Greg and Dallas were in the living room, stuffing their faces with chicken salad rolls. Lauren was there too, flanked by her parents. They stood firm and straight on either side of her like fence posts.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Lauren’s mom said.
“Our prayers are with you and your family,” her dad said.
Lauren flung herself at me, her arms wrapping around my neck and her whole body pressing against mine. It helped. For a minute, it was like being bandaged.
Then Lauren’s mom tapped her shoulder, eyes flashing “inappropriate display of affection,” and Lauren pulled herself away. Her dad passed her a tissue and she dabbed beneath her lashes.
So formal.
If Lauren and I were together for twenty more years, would we sit at family gatherings like TV news anchors with lacquered faces and insincere smiles? I wanted to ask her parents. And I wanted to ask why they were already drawing Lauren toward the door. Did they think cancer was contagious? Or death?
Then someone else put a hand on my shoulder and had more meaningless words to share, and I never did get to ask my questions. Which was better, I suppose. Inappropriate display of aggression.
“You should eat something, sweetheart,” one of Mom’s friends told me, and put a plate of sandwiches in my hands. I was happy to eat. Starving, actually. But it didn’t seem right to stand in the middle of those people—did they all actually know my mother?—and scarf sandwiches. I took myself across the landing and sat in the semidark at the top of the basement stairs, listening to the murmur of hushed conversations.
I had polished off one tuna fish and two egg salad halves and I was just starting on the ham and cheese when I heard my name. You know how voices can surround you, all running into one another like the colors in an oily puddle, and then someone says your name and it’s like a car tire driving through the puddle? That’s what happened.
“Cole must be devastated.”
“I can’t get over how fast it happened.” That was Aunt Claire, my dad’s sister from Saskatoon. There was a crack in her voice that made my throat want to close. I had to stop chewing until I’d taken a few deep breaths.
“Such a tragedy.” That was Mom’s best friend, Lily Daniels. She and her husband own an orchard on the east side of town. When I was small, I used to climb all the trees, one after another, while Mom and Mrs. Daniels had coffee.
“At least he’s practically grown up,” my aunt said, sounding like she was trying to pull herself together.
“Poor Douglas, though. He’ll be on his own,” Mrs. Daniels said.
Cue background music. Something tragic and orchestral.
Why would she say something like that? We were grown men. We could manage. We’d already been managing the whole time Mom was in the hospital.
“Damn it,” I muttered. Damn the funeral, the wake, Lauren’s family, and the entire stuck-eating-on-the-stairs situation.
Aunt Claire and Mrs. Daniels must have heard me because they both scurried away. I couldn’t look at them for the rest of the wake. I could barely look at anyone.
• • •
Lauren picks up groceries on Monday afternoons. She says her mom finds the store overwhelming—too many people, too many fluorescent lights. So Lauren goes instead. Every Monday.
I know this. So if I happen to be driving past the grocery store at three o’clock on Monday, is that a coincidence or is my subconscious screwing with me?
She’s walking along the side of the road with Lex, both of them lugging canvas bags. I pull over and roll down the window.
“Can I give you a ride?”
Lauren’s cheeks are flushed and strands of her hair have escaped her ponytail.
“We’re fine,” Lex says, barely glancing up from the sidewalk.
“You sure? It’s baking out there.”
Lauren hesitates.
Lex is a few steps ahead when she realizes her friend has stopped. She sighs. “Fine. Go,” she says. “You can take my bags. I’ll meet you at your house.”
“You can squeeze in,” I tell Lex.
“Not likely,” she says. She’s looking at me like I’m a crack dealer or a recently released prison inmate.
“She’s feeling a little protective,” Lauren says once we’ve pulled away.
“Between Lex and your mom, it’s a miracle we were ever allowed to date in the first place.”
She smiles, but only a little. I’ve broken her golden rule. No one’s allowed to speak badly of her family—not even as a joke. She’s quiet, straightening her hair, catching the little strands from her neck and retwisting them into her ponytail.
I search for a neutral topic.
“You working this summer?”
“Part time at the library,” she says.
“Cool. Maybe you can get them to order some new docs.�
��
“Maybe.” She half turns toward me. “Did you actually need to talk to me about something?”
She’s not my Lauren anymore. I used to get to see a side of Lauren that no one else knew. A more relaxed Lauren. Someone who could be silly or unexpectedly funny. Now she’s smoothed herself into the person that she lets everyone see.
“I just . . . wanted to say hello.”
She nods, processing this. “Hello, then,” she says.
I wonder how many Laurens there are, really. Are there two—one for public viewing and one for close friends? Or do Lauren’s parents and Lex and her other friends each get a different version? Maybe my Lauren was only for me, and now she’s gone. That thought stabs me inside, as if I’ve killed something.
“I’ll grab your bags,” I say as we pull up at her house.
“Don’t bother. I’ve got them.”
Halfway up the walk, she adjusts her grip. Then her shoulders square, and her head tilts up, and her ponytail swings as if it’s never had a down day.
I drive away, taking deep breaths.
It felt weird driving with Lauren. But if only our words counted, then maybe it wasn’t so bad. On film, you can’t show interior monologue. On film, that ride would have seemed normal. Ordinary.
I push away the heavy feeling that’s creeping up on me. It’s time to move on. I can do this. I can go forward from here.
• • •
I’m waiting at the door of the auto shop when Greg gets off work. I like hanging out here. The smell of grease and the sounds of revving engines are the mechanical equivalent of comfort food.
It’s not hard to convince Greg to head downtown for dinner after work, but it is hard to get him off the subject of aliens.
“You’d believe me, right? You agreed.”
I’m filming him as we walk. If he’s going to go bat-shit crazy, at least I’ll have a record of his decline.
“If you see aliens, I’ll believe you,” I assure him. “Because it’s important that there’s at least one person in the world who will believe you. See? I’ve been listening.”
“But that’s not exactly it,” he insists.
Now, a big-ass UFO sweeping through the shot at this precise moment—that would be amazing. That would be worth filming.
“See, it’s one of those paradox things,” Greg says. “Unless someone believes me, there’s nothing to keep it from happening. A green guy could walk right up to me, punch me in the nose, and there’s nothing I could do. I’d be on antipsychotic meds the minute I tried to tell someone.”
“So by believing in your aliens, I’m preventing their appearance?”
“Exactly.”
Perfect. Bring on the antipsychotic meds for both of us. I turn off the camera. We’ve reached Canyon Street, and we cross directly in front of the bar.
“You know that woman walking with my dad the other night?” I say.
“Oh, yeah.” Greg makes the universal sign for enormous tits.
“Do you think she was a stripper?”
He looks at me sideways. Then he makes the universal sign again.
“Is that a yes?” There’s a bad taste at the back of my throat, but I need to confirm this out loud.
“Oh, yeah.”
We’re at Burger Barn. Cocking an eyebrow at me, Greg reaches for the NO PARKING sign in front of the door. He wraps a leg around the pole. Then he pumps his hips and pretends to lick the metal.
“Okay, okay, enough.” I’m laughing and wincing at the same time. I can’t watch.
He starts groaning like a porn soundtrack.
“Boys, do you think that’s appropriate behavior for a busy street?” Ms. Gladwell is staring at us. To her credit, she’s smiling. Just a bit, though.
Greg stops his gyrations with a cocky smirk, while I wait for the flush of embarrassment to climb my neck and reach my cheeks. Yup. There it is.
As Ms. Gladwell continues down the street, Greg flicks his tongue toward the pole one last time. Then he raises an eyebrow.
“You’re completely purple,” he says. He turns to look after the counselor. “Hey . . . did you and she really . . .”
“No!”
And my dad didn’t screw a stripper. I hope.
chapter 8
the laws of physics and nature, made real
“The Web, take one.”
On Tuesday, I drag Greg to the sidewalk in front of the bakery in time to catch the early evening light.
“Here’s my concept,” I tell him once we’re in position. “You live in a small town. It looks peaceful and quaint and perfect. But it’s actually a big spiderweb and you’re tangled up in the middle of it.”
For the right angle—one that includes both Greg and the gingerbread details along the top of the bakery wall—I have to sit on the sidewalk and tilt up the lens. Greg looks as if he has enormous nostrils.
He also looks mildly confused.
“You get the concept, right?”
“I get it,” he says.
I press the record button and signal him to begin.
Silence.
“Anytime . . .”
“I haven’t figured out what to say.”
“Just talk. I’ll edit later. Start with something like . . . is Webster as nice as it seems from the outside?”
“It’s nice, especially this time of year,” he says.
It’s hot. That’s what Webster is. Hot. The back of my shirt sticks to me, and beads of sweat run down Greg’s temples. I stop the camera and make him dab his face. Then we try again.
“I mean from an insider’s perspective,” I say. “Is Webster really the pretty, peaceful town it looks like on postcards?”
“It’s got its problems, I guess. Some of the economy depends on the tourist trade. When tourism’s down—”
“What about personally?” I interrupt. “Do you feel trapped here? Isolated from the rest of the world?”
“Sure. Isolated.” He’s sweating again, and he looks stiff, as if he’s standing against a scarecrow pole. His eyes look abnormally round.
This isn’t going as well as I’d hoped.
“Just tell me your thoughts on Webster. Whatever comes to mind. And remember, I can edit it afterward.”
Ideally, my film would be cinema verité. There would be no formal interviews. Instead, I’d follow my subjects through multiple days and weeks, then edit the vital moments together until the viewer gleaned a sense of their lives.
More realistic to watch, entirely unrealistic to make. It would take me years to create.
“Webster’s okay,” Greg says. “Not everyone likes small towns. But people here are mostly good, and it’s easy to buy land or a house. I mean, I’d like to travel, maybe drive the autobahn. As a place to live, though, Webster’s pretty nice.”
“What about school? Are you getting out of town for school?”
He looks away. “Still haven’t decided.”
This is not working. Greg wasn’t a good choice for my first interview. He knows it, too. He’s looking at me like a kid who’s failed a test.
“Cole, can you just tell me what I’m supposed to say?” he asks.
I’d like to. It doesn’t seem quite right, though.
I snap the viewfinder closed. “You know what? You were great.”
“I sucked,” he says.
“I’m sure there’s something I can use.” It’s only the first interview. I have plenty of time to film something that will actually be useful. Repeating this to myself, I manage a reassuring look for Greg.
“Okay.” He seems relieved. “Listen, I have to get home. Call me later?”
“Sure. I’ll call you.”
That’s what I’d say if this were an audition. We’ll call you. Except we wouldn’t. Greg would definitely not be on the callback list.
• • •
When I walk into my house, the air is saturated with the sharp, slightly alcoholic tang of gardenia perfume. There’s an overstuffed pink purse at t
he door, flung beside high-heeled white sandals.
“Well, speak of the devil,” my dad says from the couch. Judging by the lipstick on his neck, they were not just speaking of me. I look from Sheri to him and back again. I’m probably scowling like the devil. My dad is becoming a cliché, right in front of me.
“You’re just in time,” Sheri chirps, hopping up. “I made paella. It’s my absolute spec-ee-ality.”
I have no idea what paella is, although it does smell good. Underneath the overwhelming layer of gardenia, that is.
“I think I’ll leave you two—” I’ll call Greg. No, he was busy. I’ll call Hannah. She can pick me up. Getting into a car with Hannah and driving into the dark somewhere sounds about a billion times better than being in this house right now.
“What? A big guy like you, Cole, and you can’t eat dinner? C’mon. It’s delicious. Did I mention it’s my specialty?”
I’ve heard she has other specialties. I bite my tongue before I say it. My Tourette’s syndrome must have been temporary, thank God, because the words stay safely locked inside my head.
Dad is in the kitchen now, dipping a spoon into the electric frying pan, looking as if he’s about to swoon. “Stay,” he calls, bits of rice spraying from his mouth. “You gotta try this.”
“I don’t know if you’ve had paella before,” Sheri says, setting me a place at the table. “It’s Spanish. A few years ago, I thought, ‘Why not try something new?’ Turns out I have Spanish in my blood, way back on my mother’s side.”
If a filmmaker were following my life, cinema-verité style, this would be a scene-worthy moment. You really couldn’t invent a stranger secondary character than Sheri.
Now that I think about it, the very first feature-length documentary ever made was about the daily life of a family. Granted, it was an Inuit family. I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a scene called “Dinner with Dad and the Stripper.”
“It’s nice to have something a little exotic around here, isn’t it, Cole?” Dad beams.
Not particularly, when that something exotic has red lipstick and cleavage like the Grand Canyon. But Dad seems oblivious to the irony. He scoops the paella into a huge casserole dish and sets it in the middle of the table.
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