Darren Effect

by Libby Creelman

  Isabella imagined the next hour or more, sitting with her son, toiling over a letter of apology. “Lesley-Anne?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Martin?”

  “I’ll just keep Cooper home tomorrow.”

  “You have a safe evening, Mrs. Martin.”

  Isabella put down the phone and turned to see her husband giving her a spirited thumbs-up. But victorious was not how she felt.

  Isabella’s plan the following morning was to register Cooper for tennis. Though he had not been out of the house in weeks, Benny announced he wanted to go as well. He put on his old Adidas jacket and waited by the back door, much the way, she thought when she saw him, a youthful Inky once waited to be taken for a walk. She decided not to say anything about the slippers, and Benny followed her out to the car.

  Spring had arrived. They passed lawns of fuzzy pubescent grass bordered by beds of tulips whose beauty was today, at best, shaky. Rain and time had done them in. Petals dangled upside down from flowers that two weeks ago had been flawless and intact. Still, it was a clean, washed day. The towering leafy trees looked to Isabella joyful and fresh.

  Benny had always done the driving. Then one day he stopped. She had been driving ever since.

  The last time he drove was the day she had come home from a morning of errands and found him, un-showered and unshaven, casually dressed. It was clear he had not left the house yet. She could smell it on him: a perfunctory, stubborn paralysis. When he suggested they take a drive, she thought, Now he will leave us. Now he will tell me about that woman.

  She had got into the car. She had buckled in. They set off for Portugal Cove, and along Windsor Lake he told her instead a different story. A story about pain, fatigue, tests, results, prognosis. He brought their car up tight behind another car, unable to pass, but unable to hang back and keep to a moderate speed. Benny had always driven too fast. She suggested he slow down. She had suggested this a thousand times. Her toes were pressed into the floor and she was beginning to feel car sick. The air seemed vacant. Looking across the lake, she believed she could identify individual needles and leaves, the glazed glint of a rocky shore, the iridescent feathers of crows.

  As Benny came within inches of the other car, then released the gas and dropped back, Isabella’s stomach lurched. Her anger did not surprise her. She reached for the emergency brake and wrenched it up. The car whined and bucked, but did not stop. Benny made a sound — not a complete word — slowed the car and pulled over, and Isabella found herself opening the door.

  She crossed the road towards the lake. Behind her Benny called out, “What are you doing, Isabella? Where are you going?” She was aware he had rolled down his window, but not opened his door. She thought that of all the things he had kept from her, none would equal this: for months suspecting, followed by knowing, that he was gravely ill; then, in what must have been a dreadful, nearly impossible way, accepting it, preparing for it alone, without her. Was he God? Did he think he could make decisions for everyone? For her? For Cooper? She knew then, moving along the shore of the lake over rocks that in close focus were surprisingly bland and ugly, that this was the end of their marriage. We are finished, she decided, and she laughed at the irony. Then she was coming wildly back down along the lake towards him where he waited in the car, though she wouldn’t cross the road, she wouldn’t get that close to him again.

  “Does she know?” Isabella shouted. “Have you already told her?”

  He didn’t turn his head, but she saw he was surprised. “Who?”

  “Her! Heather, is it? Her name is Heather?”

  “Come get in the car, sweetheart. Please.”

  “Never. Your driving habits are despicable.”

  He laughed, quickly turning to look at her. There was the way his laughter remade his face. I’m going to lose that, she thought; then, the world is going to lose that.

  “I’m telling you first,” he said.

  A string of cars was passing.

  “I didn’t know you knew,” he said quietly.

  But Isabella could not tell him about Cooper and the camcorder. A telephone conversation in their kitchen that had awoken Cooper, yet not her. It made her so angry she was afraid she might hurt herself, or him, or someone.

  She crossed the road, her shoes heavy on the pavement, and stood beside his door.

  “Move over,” she said. “I’m driving.”

  The River Valley Tennis Club was empty and cool, not at all like the day surrounding it. As Benny shuffled around in his slippers, inspecting the trophies, Isabella went out onto the courts. She wasn’t going to wait around. The only person in sight was a stout, sandy haired young man hitting balls against the practice board. When he saw her he stopped and came back towards the clubhouse, once or twice breaking into a jog.

  “I’m looking for Aiden,” she said.

  He nodded. He did not look particularly athletic or rugged, but he was, apparently, the new coach. He would be teaching Cooper this summer. Well, better than a coach who already knows him, Isabella thought. He looked quite likable. She briefly considered taking her son to the other club — for the coach’s sake.

  Inside she sat down across from him at the massive oak desk where registration had been conducted for decades. She noticed a strong chemical smell. Beyond a sofa upholstered in a shimmering orange synthetic, a television was on, the community events calendar set to mute.

  “You’ll have to give me a minute,” Aiden said, flipping through a box of index cards. He was squinting. It was dark in here, but she suspected he normally wore glasses. His face was freckled and fair. Behind her, Benny made a scraping sound and Aiden looked up.

  “Didn’t see you there, sir,” he said. Isabella wondered how a mother brought up a son to be so polite. “Are you two together?”

  “We are,” Isabella said quickly, unaccountably embarrassed for the young man.

  “Have a seat, sir, if you’d like. What’s your child’s name?”

  “Cooper Martin.”

  “Okay, got it right here. I have him down for the beginner’s group?”

  Benny leaned forward. “Our son has been on the court since he was five. What’s that smell? It’s making me sick.”

  “Benny.”

  “Unfortunately, our son Cooper doesn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground.”

  “Benny!” Isabella turned to glare at her husband, but when their eyes met there was that familiar twinkle. She spun back around to face Aiden, the muscles of her face tensing. She didn’t know if she wanted to burst into tears or laughter.

  Aiden looked startled, but recovered quickly. “As long as he wants to play, where’s the harm? Personally, I’m thrilled to be back coaching. I was off for two years. Knee surgery.”

  Cooper hated tennis. Aiden’s enthusiasm dismayed Isabella.

  “Well, I’ve got cancer,” Benny said. “Bad things happen.”

  “Indeed they do, sir. We just had the floors varnished. I apologize for the odour.”

  “I did my share of volunteering here,” Benny said. “I was largely responsible for raising funds for that locker room, by the way.”

  “The locker room is definitely convenient. That’s one hundred and fifteen, Mrs. Martin.”

  Isabella bent to write the cheque. Yes, a lot had happened in this dim, unremarkable space. A lot more would happen, though for other children, other parents.

  “I used to be quite active here,” Benny said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

  “No,” Aiden said. “But then, like I said, I’ve been away.” Isabella handed him the cheque and he looked at her, then Benny. The smile he gave them now was more tentative.

  Outside, the sunlight was a relief. As they strolled towards the car beneath the canopy of leaves, Isabella was aware of a muffled roar and wondered if it was the river, running past the parking lot. Then she realized St. Margaret’s was holding Sports Day on the grounds just beyond the courts, hidden by a chain-link fence hung with nylon mesh — a windbreak and p
rivacy measure Benny may, or may not, have played a role in securing.

  Isabella got in the car, hoping Cooper was home, either watching television or playing video games. Benny was look- ing drained. She put the key in the ignition, then paused and turned, lightly placing her hand over his where it lay pressed into the seat as though supporting much of his body. He was staring out the window. Nothing registered on his face.

  “My life insurance is not much, Isabella. I’m not prepared for this.”

  “Is that what you’re thinking about? I’m not going to worry about that now. We’ll be fine.”

  “The smell in there was making me sick. And I think that young fellow was lying.”

  Isabella nodded. Though she was anxious to get home, it seemed rude to start the car.

  “He’s heard of me.”

  Isabella thought it more likely that Aiden had heard of Cooper, who was often at the centre of mischievous goings-on. But she said nothing. She tried to imagine it. What would you most want to leave behind in the minds of others? That you worked tirelessly to improve your tennis club? Spoiled your son? Loved women? Or would the concrete evidence of these things be more important? Locker room and windbreak? A rambunctious, nearly uncontrollable child? Grieving women?

  They had realized as soon as Cooper learned to walk that he was experimental by nature. A bottle of dish soap squirted into the dryer, plastic bags ironed, coloured markers sucked white for their unusual flavour. Matches held an irresistible allure from the get-go. Cooper was five when he scaled a bureau for a pack of matches and, alone in his parents’ bedroom, lit them one by one. Isabella found him sitting cross-legged on the rug, his hands uncharacteristically empty and folded in his lap, the look he gave her pleasantly blank. There was the unmistakable smell of sulphur.

  She wanted to remind Benny of that day. Of its adorable, happy ending.

  “You’ve been lighting matches!”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Yes, you have. Don’t lie to me. You’ve been lighting matches.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I’ve read you a hundred stories this morning and played a hundred games — ”

  The phone was ringing.

  “Don’t move.”

  It had been Benny on the phone. What had he wanted? She remembered launching into a tirade. She was close to crying, she was so fed up with finding that her son had nearly poisoned himself or burned the house to the ground or destroyed something irreplaceable. Benny, logical and calm, told her he would deal with it. In the meantime he wanted her to find all the matches and lighters in the house and get rid of them. She hung up and turned back to Cooper, who was on his feet now, staring out the window and looking as though he hadn’t heard a word of the conversation, and carefully searched his pockets and the immediate area. She told him to stand still. But the phone was ringing again and he went for it. She sat back on her heels and took a deep breath and waited.

  “Hell-o.”

  As she watched his face she felt a tug of worry. He was nodding and his eyes had glazed over. He lowered the phone and cupped the receiver with his small hand. She marvelled at his skill at mimicking adults.

  “Mom.”

  “Who is that?”

  “It’s the fire department.”

  Cooper’s eyes turned inward again. He was rocking on the balls of his feet and nodding excitedly. “I know what he says. I know! I know!” he cried into the phone. “Sparky the Fire Dog says, matches-and-lighters-are-tools-not-toys!”

  Somehow he bounced his way over to her, insisting into the phone that he knew what Sparky said, and onto Isabella’s lap, where she hugged him tightly and closed her eyes.

  Isabella doubted Benny would have been able to disguise his own voice. It would have been someone else from the office. She had never asked him who. She realized she would never know if she didn’t ask soon. She reached for the ignition.

  “Isabella, I want to talk about something else before we get home.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to argue about this in front of Cooper. It would only upset him.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m about to tell you.”

  She put her hands in her lap.

  “Isabella, I know you’re scheming to have Inky put down.”

  She turned, surprised. “I’m doing no such thing.”

  “Just hear me out.” He paused and she knew it would be better if she said nothing. It was like a test. If she spoke, he would go back to the beginning.

  “I love that dog.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Just hear me out.”

  “I’m not going to have him put down.”

  “Will you just let me speak!”

  Isabella watched a yellow Land Rover come tearing into the parking lot, driven by that thin woman whose name Isabella always forgot. She realized that for someone whose name she didn’t know, she certainly knew her story. Or one of her stories.

  “It would break my heart to lose that dog,” Benny said. “He understands me better than anyone.”

  “I have no intention of getting rid of Inky. You have to believe me.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know what to believe.”

  Although Isabella allowed for some distortions and embellishments, she did not doubt the central facts and thus carried a clear, disturbing image of the Land Rover woman slumped miserably on her bed, surrounded by friends tempting her with dainty sandwiches, fish and chips, turkey soup. No one had realized how hard the woman had taken her husband’s desertion until a friend dropped by and found the children — unwashed but cheerful — still in pajamas at the end of the day, jars of peanut butter and jelly scooped clean, the blinds closed. The woman, dehydrated, docile and melancholy, was the main concern. A few of the friends were nurses. While the children were sent home with their aunties, the women got an IV into the house, hooked her up and had her talking sense in no time.

  That would never happen to me, Isabella thought. I’d never fall apart like that. I’d always find a way to get through the day. She started the car.

  When they got home, Cooper was watching television.

  “How’s Sports Day going?” Isabella asked.

  “Word!”

  Benny looked from Isabella to Cooper and back again, suspicious.

  “It’s just slang,” Isabella explained. She was tired now.

  “Well, I’m not sure I like it,” Benny said, but he was leaving the room. He would be heading upstairs for the Pepto-Bismol. Yesterday, Isabella had placed a new bottle somewhere. She hoped it wouldn’t be difficult to locate. She wanted to find it before Benny discovered the empty bottle in the bathroom and started a fuss. She was already in the hallway when Cooper called her back.

  “Look, Mom. Wanna see something?”

  Obediently, Isabella returned a few steps into the room.

  “I got a nail up my nose. Like on Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

  “Where did you get that?” she asked, but she was turning away.

  “It’s a colossal nail too,” he called after her.

  The following week Benny discovered Cooper’s DVDs and viewed them. He might have been at it several days, Isabella wasn’t sure. She also did not ask what had initially prompted his interest in them. Most likely he simply came across them in his idle wanderings from room to room and had grown curious by the sheer number of them. It would seem later that Benny’s discovery marked a turning point in their life, when Isabella began to notice the greatest change in him. She had read that boredom was a distant cousin to melancholy, and Benny not only had time on his hands, but the sure knowledge that this time, which he was at a loss to fill, was running out. She was aware of him moving further and further away from his family, becoming a strange, unpredictable man, a man who might spend days keeping his own dark counsel, then surprise her with a rambling chattiness.

  Gradually she came to see, bitterly, that she would be robbed of retribution.
Angry and unforgiving as she sometimes felt, she would not have chosen death as punishment for her husband’s betrayal.

  It had been over a year since Isabella had made the same discovery in Cooper’s DVDs, and yet in all that time she had said nothing to either Cooper or Benny. She had allowed them to sit plain as day on a shelf in her son’s room, almost as though she were hoping a different wife would arrive and deal with them. When early one evening the camcorder was retired — Benny standing on the second floor landing in his pajamas and throwing it down the stairwell — she was relieved, despite her recollection that it cost nearly eight hundred dollars — a birthday gift for Cooper that Benny had been unable to resist.

  She was just on her way out the door to the Avalon Nature Club lecture where it was her custom to sit by herself in the dark watching the nature slides and listening to the speakers above the whirr of the slide projector. Tonight someone was bringing in penguin decoys and talking about using them to elicit aggressive behaviour in other birds.

  She was wearing new silk mules. She had looked down and watched the camcorder — it seemed surprisingly light — come bursting apart like a cheap, plastic toy around her. Bits split and shot away, while the green strap that had once wrapped around the back of her son’s hand landed on the toe of one of her new shoes.

  Cooper stood across the stairwell from his father, leaning too far out over the banister, screaming at him. Isabella considered the impossible odds of catching her son should he fall. Now Benny was snapping each DVD in half before furiously casting the pieces over the landing. Meanwhile, Inky was shuffling along the downstairs hall towards her, stumbling when he reached the edge of the rug. He sniffed the broken camcorder, defecated, then sat down, panting. The odour of dog shit rose quickly. Benny put his hand over his mouth and disappeared back into his bedroom.

  Isabella knew it was unlikely she would get to the lecture that night. A gentle resentment began to fall over her. She hunted down Inky and grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out to the backyard, a large fenced-in space that had once satisfied him, but being abandoned there now elicited terror in the dog.