"That's a pretty nasty habit to pick up."
"You didn't have to build yourself from scratch again!" She was glaring. "After my father died, a lot of bad things happened. Our family split up. I was on my own."
"What? You didn't tell me any of this."
"I wasn't ready. Yet."
"I can't believe anything you say. What about all that stuff about being from China? About your father? Your brother?"
She drew in her breath.
"My father was a butcher. He...he was good. But he was just a butcher."
"It was all lies, wasn't it?"
She shrugged. "You wanted to believe them. You wanted me to be something special. Just because they weren't true doesn't mean they weren't about me. I was only telling you what I was going to become."
"I would have preferred the truth."
"You didn't want the truth."
I shook my head. "You're wrong." I stood. The room was too small now; our words had filled it up and were choking off the air.
"I have to go for a walk."
Then I was out the door and into the night.
Twenty Three
Don't Look Back, Don't Look Down, Don't Look!
The image of Violet huddled up on the bed stayed on my mind for a block or two, but I forced it out because I didn't want to think about her. There was just too much to figure out. I made my way down a street on the edge of town and stumbled across a path with a sign saying Hiker's Trail. I followed it.
I climbed higher, a carpet of pine needles below me. Tree roots had slowly snaked their way across the ground, but a sixth sense guided my feet away from them. I didn't think about anything too heavy, feeling a strange peacefulness. The mind has its own defense mechanisms. It acted as if it knew I needed a break from everything, a breathing space.
I obsessed briefly about Odin. Would I find someone I could trust to fix him? What if it was something really expensive? It dawned on me that I hadn't sent Lloyd a birthday present. What would I buy him anyway? He was a farmer through and through. He had no hobbies.
Happy birthday, here's a golf club. You can use it to chase cows.
I headed further into the darkness. I was high enough I could sense the air thinning. At one point the trail became stairs cut into the earth and rock. I ascended them to a plateau and stopped.
Frodo was tingling, had been for the last hundred yards. What did it mean?
"Caw!"
At first I thought it was my imagination, even he couldn't have trailed me here.
"Casey Stewart." A gentle whisper from the darkness in front of me. His voice was completely familiar, as if I had grown up hearing it. "I've come to take what's mine."
My stalker emerged out of the cover of the foliage. It was a slow movement, or my mind slowed it down, because he appeared to not be moving out of shadow so much as taking form and stepping into the world. First legs and arms, then lean body. I was witnessing his birth.
The light splashed across him. He was clad completely in black, his face hidden behind a cloth mask. The only sign of colour was a red sash around his waist. God, he thought he was a ninja.
Or he was one.
"What is it you want?" I asked.
"You lived my life. I'm going to take yours."
"I think you've got the wrong guy."
He responded with a sharp yell and a flying kick. Something in my body urged move! and I dodged, his foot whistling past my head. He landed quietly behind me. We faced each other.
Karate fight at the OK Corral. And me without my black belt.
He advanced, I retreated; careful to stay on the path, in a place where my footing was solid.
He faked a kick, but I fell for it, leaving myself open. He spun, slamming his left foot into my stomach, knocking me down. I skidded to a stop on my back, breathless.
He could have finished me there, but he waited, giving me time to stand. Apparently he wanted to prolong the agony.
Oh great, a graduate from the school of sadistic Ninjas. The forecast calls for pain.
I retreated. He mirrored my movements, silently edging closer.
"We don't have to fight," I said in my sweetest, most soothing voice. "We talk this out like adults. Maybe share a cup of tea and—"
He mustn't have liked it when I opened my mouth, because he tried to close it with his fist. First one then the other flew towards my head. I dodged, attempted to grab his arm to throw him off balance but was too late and his left hand caught my temple. I staggered back.
Uh...Ref...where did all these stars come from?
The perfection of his skill was amazing. He had spent hours honing every reflex, had been taught by a master. But what really frightened me was this feeling he was holding back.
He came in quicker now, with complex combinations that confused my defenses. I was always one beat behind, so that he never connected fully, but the glancing blows took their toll.
I turned to the foliage for help. I darted to one side, moving so a tree was in-between us. We circled each other around it, like cartoon characters.
"Tired yet?" I asked.
He stopped, his eyes glittered with what looked like humor. "Good," he commented, then his hand shot out and the lowest branch, three inches thick, snapped off and flew through the air. I dodged reflexively and he charged, kicking. I stepped aside and he pressed towards me again, relentless.
I jumped back to avoid a double fisted strike, but instead of stone or earth my foot found only open air. I slid down into nothingness, throwing my hands out like grappling hooks, grabbing a web work of roots and holding on.
I glanced below me and immediately wished I hadn't. Only an abysmal darkness. Was I that high up? I could be dangling over a fifty foot drop.
Below me water was rushing and gurgling over stones.
A river? Could I land safely?
I looked up and my friend was squatting there, staring. The Thinking Ninja, by Rodin.
My arms were burning, stretching every muscle to its limit. I attempted to pull myself up but my body had turned to stone, become too much for me to lift.
"You should not die this way," he decided. Finally we were agreeing on something. "I could not face our father saying I allowed you to die an ignoble death."
Our father?
He offered me a hand. I took it, found his palm hot. With a simple, almost majestic movement, he pulled me up to the ground. Retreated.
I lay there, gasping like a stranded fish.
"Thanks," I said when I had caught my breath. No response. He stood aloof, arms hanging down, appeared to be meditating.
I stretched out my muscles, tested various parts of my body. Everything worked. My friend wasn't moving. Time to exit stage left.
I rose slowly, my legs creaking like rusty hydraulics.
He looked up. His eyes displayed an emotion similar to compassion. A soldier who had grown weary of his work, but carried on to the sound of the trumpet.
He slowly pulled off his mask and tossed back his head so his dark hair flipped out of his eyes.
It was my father.
For a moment nothing inside my body worked: lungs failed, heart shuddered, my spine threatened to collapse.
Then I looked closer. It wasn't Dad, but a copy of him when he was in his early twenties, for that matter a copy of me. He had the thin Stewart nose, the arcing eyebrows, the same thick hair and a slight cleft in a sensitive chin.
He stared at me, his dark clairvoyant eyes sad. No wonder he had found me so easily. With eyes like that he could see through time and space.
"Who are you?" I asked.
His face was gaunt. Perhaps his long pursuit had worn him out.
How could he look just like me?
"What's your mother's name?"
"Sarah," he whispered.
Then I knew. My father and Sarah Brennan had been lovers. And standing before me was yet another family secret, over twenty years old. My half brother. Hadn't Mom said Sarah was searching for he
r son? That he lived near Saskatoon? Chris had told me about him too, he was sick—there was something wrong in his head.
Yeah, his whole brain is missing.
"Your mother is looking for you," I said. "She wants you to come home."
Bad move. He began attacking again. And now he unveiled his true skill, every strike perfect and quick.
I retreated towards the path. He advanced like a juggernaut, rolling, striking. He aimed at the vital points: my throat, the centre of my chest, my temples, my eyes. I avoided most of his blows, absorbed others, but soon he would find an opening and do real damage. He struck with a knife hand and I pulled back my head, his fingers brushing against my Adam's apple, bruising the skin.
I could not win.
And so I surrendered myself. Not to him, but to his attacks. His actions and mine became intertwined.
I stuck to him, soft as a piece of cotton. Frodo tingled and I forgot my body, became only energy, a supple power. No matter how hard or fast he came, I yielded; causing him to overextend himself.
He could not hit what was not there.
My mind cleared, cast an invisible net around him. He punched and I re-directed his force, using it to throw him off balance. He charged and I stepped slightly to one side and in the moment of his greatest weakness, I pushed.
He flew past, seemed to flap his arms momentarily, then dived earthward, tumbling through the bush. He shook his head, leapt at me, but I redirected his energy, tossing him in the other direction.
He got up screaming, anger tightening his muscles. He threw himself ahead and I did not resist, only allowed him to go through me, past me.
Three more times he charged, to the same result. He changed his tactics, came in with a chest high roundhouse kick. I pulled him off his feet with such precision that he flipped before crashing to the ground.
He stood slowly, staggered towards me, but his energy was gone and it was only pure determination holding him up. He made a fist, stared at it momentarily as if he didn't recognize it, then punched awkwardly. I guided it past me, pushed him down.
He stayed there. Moaned.
"It's over," I said. I bent, touched his shoulder. In that moment I sensed all his injuries, felt the beating of his heart, knew there was a broken bone in his wrist. Perhaps I could heal it, sew it together again. I had that much energy. I willed it to move into his body, to heal.
He growled and turned, scrambling out from under me.
"Caw!" He yelled through the trees, running. "Caw! Caw!"
And so my half brother vanished into the night.
I stood listening to his fleeing footsteps until there was only silence.
It took me a few minutes to find the path. A peacefulness had descended over me again. I had become attuned and like a parishioner after baptism, I descended, feeling clear.
But with each step my body became heavier.
Finally I returned to the street, to the same place I had started. A moment later I was at my room.
The light was still on. And the phone was ringing.
Twenty Four
The Reason Why I'm Scared of Phones
"Casey?" queried the raspy male voice on the other end of the line. "It's Christopher. You've got to come home. Dad's really sick. We're not sure if he'll...well...you've just got to come home."
"I will."
I put down the phone.
Violet was sitting on the bed.
"My father is dying," I announced, finally, after realizing that Violet was staring at me. I must have looked like hell warmed up in a microwave. "I have to go."
"Go?" She looked frightened. I wanted to hold her, but I didn't have enough strength to lift my arms. "I'm sorry I lied to you, Casey. I'm sorry."
"My father is dying," I repeated. I didn't want to hear her apology. Perhaps a part of me already knew her story, should have guessed long ago. "I'll find you," I promised, but I wasn't sure if I meant it. I didn't cross my fingers, though. "I will. In a month or so. But now I have to go. Alone. Do you need money?"
She shook her head. "I have friends in Vancouver. At One Eyed Jacks."
"Then go to them."
She stared for a moment, was about to say something, then turned sullenly away and gathered up her backpack. She was out the door before me.
I grabbed my suitcase and went to my Volvo. Violet was gone, had disappeared into the darkness. Would that be the last time I ever saw her?
Odin started without a fuss and carried me onto the street. Then the highway welcomed me again. I headed east, eyes barely open.
Home was a thousand year journey.
Twenty Five
Home Sweet Home
I drove constantly, stopping only for gas. Morning brought a bright sun, burning right into my eyes, shrinking my pupils. But the light revealed that I had entered a world of rocks, green trees and wetness. Here, near the ocean, it was still late summer.
The mountains surrounded me then sank behind; a month went by in a few short hours—it became Autumn, the leaves already turning yellow and gold, clinging to branches. The land flattened, the sky widened. Fields of wheat swayed at either side of the road, huge golden armies with their heads bowed. Winter was whispering to them, urging the ground to close up, become hard.
During the long trip home, I don't believe I once thought of Violet or all the things that had just happened to me. They had all occurred to a different Casey; this one was tired, blessed with Alzheimer's and he had only one goal. To get home. To see his father.
Hey Pop, how about some baseball? Stories about ice ages? A poem?
I knew Dad was dying. The tone of Christopher's voice conveyed that to me in some genetically secret code. But I felt it in the air too, in every breath of my lungs there was an emptying of my father's.
Soon I was crossing the Saskatchewan border, home edging closer and me feeling colder, wanting to speed, wanting the journey to end. The Cypress Hills were my constant companion now, on my right. Nestled somewhere in one of the many valleys was my dying father.
I turned off the highway and headed south on a grid road, testing Odin's suspension. Ages had passed since a grader had graced this district, myriad governments had been voted in and out of office. But Odin appeared to love the hardship, responding wonderfully to every bump and sudden shock.
It was dark now, so that the hills were looming in the distance. I met no one else on the road, which made me wonder if everyone had abandoned the prairie, just given up and gone West. But the few homes I passed still had a pale yellow glow in their windows. Some hardy souls remained.
I carried on. Soon I reached the turn off into the valley, four miles from home.
Odin's lights were dim, barely revealing the ruts and gravel on the road. He rumbled across one Texas gate, a mile later another, then a third. We had crossed the threshold into our farm. The place where my grandfather had settled after the First World War, limping from a bullet wound. For over seventy years this land had been in my family's hands.
That had to mean something.
Even in the darkness every rise and fall of the hills was completely familiar to me. I had grown up here, explored each ridge, stood on top of the bench looking as far as I could in every direction. The landscape had left its own impression on me. My body started to slow down, to react as if it always knew this was home.
I wondered how many hours my Dad had spent here, laboring to keep each fence taut, each field green? Had he been trapped? It seemed that way. Maybe the pressure to follow in his father's footsteps had kept him on this land. Hadn't he often spoken of how we didn't respect him as much as he did his own father? Had he loved grandfather so much that he dedicated his life to farming, smothering his other wants or goals, whatever they were?
Or maybe it was getting married early. I remembered Christopher saying once that there were only six months between Mom and Dad's anniversary and Chris's birth. A fact that had frightened me to no end as a child, because I didn't understand how that could be
—the magical number was nine.
It meant something bad if it was only six months. An ill omen.
Had father been trapped here, because of that? A man caught by his duty to his family.
And then one summer he meets someone else, his cousin's wife, and falls in love again. Or for the first time. Except there's no way out, because his codes are too deep. He has children. He has a wife. He is caught.
I made a turn in the road, around a hill and down. All this was just conjecture from a poem and a few brief stories told by my brother. But even if it was wrong, it must echo the truth.
I came to the crest of the final hill, saw lights below me, illuminating our farm house. It was one of those two story homes, white and black with a big front window. A bent t.v. antenna sat lonely on top of the roof. There were five or six cars in the yard and a pick up truck. A gathering. The Chevy 4x4 I recognized as belonging to the Whittles, our closest neighbors, one of the cars was Christopher and Joanna's. Aunt Nancy's Ranger was here too. It must be serious. All these people.
It had to be.
Odin brought me slowly down the hill and I pulled into the yard. The house lights were still on though it was long past bed time.
I stared out the windshield for a long moment. I could still turn around. Nobody had seen me yet.
Where would you go this time Casey? East?
I reached for my suitcase and when I pulled it up to the front seat a box came with it.
A small, intricately carved chest: the Dragonfly's case.
I opened it. Inside was the emerald dragonfly, staring calmly at me, sparkling in the moonlight. It seemed ready to take to the air.
Beside him was a note.
It read:
Casey,
Sorry. That's about all I can say. Who knows if we'll meet again. Keep this, it belongs to your spirit.
Violet.
P.S. I didn't steal the dragonfly. It really is a family heirloom.
I closed the case gently and placed it inside my coat pocket. It felt light and I felt heavy.
The Not So Simple Life (A Comedy) Page 8