He was silent for a second. "You know," Bumpa said suddenly, "that was the last time I saw Thursten. He left a message with Emma a few days later that he wanted to see me, to talk about something important that only I would understand. But he got sick before I could make the trip to see him and his family took him back to Gimli. He died a few weeks later. I guess he got sick helping to dig the grave for that Haydes guy who killed himself after killing that drifter."
Rand had heard stories about that, but they were murky. "When did that happen?"
"Oh, That was back in September of 1949. I remember clearly cause it rained all that week."
"Why did he kill the other man? The drifter?"
"Oh, that's a long story. A sad one. No time tonight. But Thursten buried Stephen Haydes. He said it was his duty. I have no idea what an old man was doing out there digging a grave. I'll always wonder what he wanted to talk about." Bumpa shrugged. "I guess that's what life's about, wondering what you missed. More tea?"
Rand nodded.
That night Rand went home and dreamed he was an Indian in a time many years ago, when white men first started to make their way across the grasslands. He was burying a bulbous, fleshy shape. In the ground. In the forest. He kept pushing it deeper and deeper into the ground, but the shape had arms and hands and it kept crawling back, its scaly hands grabbing at Rand. He could see its skin was like bark and its hair like long green seaweed. He could almost see its eyes.
He pushed down. It crawled back. For hours. He felt no fear as he worked, only the need to keep it down. Then finally, like a wave striking the coast, the dream scattered into darkness.
Rand slept peacefully.
11.
Mother?
Wayne was sleeping, his head against the truck's passenger window. A bump shook the truck, shook Wayne, but he didn't awaken.
Mother?
In his dream he was in his old room, listening. It was very hot and he was a little boy and the scars were new and red on his face. He was sitting on a mattress in the middle of his room, his dirty clothes piled on either side of him. He was wearing just his shorts. The room was very hot and it smelled like rotting fruit but he was used to the smell because he had lived in this room for years. There was no window to open because his bedroom was actually the closet underneath the stairwell. There was only one part of the room where he could stand up without hitting his head. The light in the corner cast a dim glow.
Wayne was listening to the noises. They were like growling and crying at the same time. He heard them every night, coming from his mother's room. He would hear the steps go up to her room, he would hear the noises, he would hear the steps go back down. There was a vent from her room that led directly past his.
He had always heard the noises as long as he could remember and he knew it was men that made the noises with his mother. What did they do in there? He wondered if they were choking her, if maybe they were killing his mom.
The noises were very loud this time. They hurt his ears, they made his head ache. His mother was yelling: No! Stop! No! And the man was growling like a bear. Wayne covered his ears, but that only amplified everything. His mother was still screaming.
He rose very slowly and opened the little door to his room, an act his mother forbid him to do at night. With the door open, the sounds were louder and clearer. He started to shiver but he stepped out onto the floor, went around the corner and up the stairs. His mother's door at the top of the stairs was open part way. He looked in.
There was a monster in the room. A giant monster. It was killing his mother.
Wayne watched for a few minutes then went back down to his room and sat on his mattress. He waited. In time the noises stopped. There was silence, then footsteps echoed above him and the man walked heavily down the stairs. Wayne stayed awake, still listening.
Soon he heard the creaking of the floor and his mother's soft footsteps. She went slowly down the stairs and with each step she grew heavier. Creeak! Creee-ak! The steps above him were curving under her weight, threatening to snap. In his mind he saw her metamorphosing, her hair thickening into knots, scales growing across her skin, claws extending out of her hands, tentacles stretching and dragging on the stairs. She was coming for him and he deserved it. He had opened his door. He had looked in her room.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and the floorboards moaned under her mass. Raspy, snarling noises made their way through the door as she lumbered closer. Something scraped along the walls and Wayne imagined deep grooves being cut in the walls by her clawed hands. She stopped in front of the door, the snarling was a roar now. The room tipped towards her. Wayne grabbed onto his mattress with both hands and held his breath. The doorknob turned slowly, so slowly he had time to swallow twice before the bolt clicked. The door swung open.
His mother was standing there, her eyes glowing red. She stooped over and forced her tentacled bulk into his room.
"Never look in the room," she said. "Never."
The house shook suddenly. He could see his mother's misshapen mouth moving, she was talking to him but he couldn't hear her words. His room shook again and he bumped his face against the wall. Again the room shook and the walls of the room lengthened and stretched away from him.
"Watch the bumps, Dear, you'll wake him."
Wayne opened his right eye, saw only fog from his breath on the window.
The dream slipped out of his conscious mind and he sighed, softly. For a moment he saw his mother's face floating in front of him then she was gone.
"I think he might be awake now," a man's voice said. Wayne had to struggle for a moment to remember where he was. He was riding with someone, wasn't he?
"Are you up?" the woman asked and Wayne's memory clicked, he remembered the elderly couple stopping to pick him up in the rain. He opened his left eye and nodded slowly. He looked over at her. The woman was in her late sixties, her face wrinkled pleasantly. She was smiling at him. "This road's pretty rough. You sleep soundly."
"It's a gift," he said then he yawned suddenly. He covered his mouth. "Sorry," he apologized. "That surprised me."
The woman laughed softly. "It's only natural. We're almost there, by the way."
Wayne nodded. There had no meaning to him, since he had no idea where he was as far as maps and names went. He looked out at the highway, glorious in the lights of the truck. He felt suddenly awake.
He looked over at the woman. He couldn't remember her name, or her husband's. He remembered his dream vaguely and his hands clenched into fists. "You remind me of my mother," he said.
"Why, thank you. I'm sure she's a wonderful woman."
"Yes, she was. I loved her very much." His knuckles were white now, he looked down at his fists.
"I'm sorry to hear she's gone."
He breathed in. "It happened a long time ago. But I miss her."
"It's only natural," she said and she patted his arm.
He watched his fists slowly uncurl. He was silent for a moment. "Yes, it is," he said. "Only natural." He stared at his hands for a long time, but they remained calmly on his knees.
They gave him money for a hotel and left him in a small town somewhere near the Canadian border.
12.
Tyler sat in his apartment in Prince Albert, watching t.v. It was Thursday and normally he would've been down at the garage, but as a favor he had traded today's shift with Paul, another mechanic, who had to go away on the weekend.
On the t.v. Eddie Murphy was tossed through a glass window of a Beverly Hills building. Tyler watched, partly amused, partly bored. To Tyler t.v. was never very relaxing. He always felt he could be doing better things with his mind than watching some predictable show. Especially one he had seen before. A few minutes later he got up, crossed the room, and switched off the tiny set. Eddie Murphy's face wavered then was squished into a blue line of light.
Tyler went over to the shelves on the north wall of his apartment. About twenty books sat between two marble book holders. H
e passed over a number of karate books and picked a well worn volume of Louis L'amour's To Tame A Land. He flicked open the cover and stared at the entry inside. It read:
TO DARREN, ON YOUR SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY.
WITH LOVE, MOM AND DAD
Darren, Tyler's younger brother, had never read the book. He never even got it. He died only three short days before his seventeenth birthday. Driving south down highway 11, on his way to a hockey game with his friend, Darren had lightly touched the brakes on his Ranchero when surprised by the sight of a deer. The deer didn't move from the side of the road, but the damage had been done. The Ranchero hit a patch of black ice, immediately went into a spin, crossed the line, and was hit by an old man in a big blue farm truck on his way to a Lions meeting. Darren was killed instantly, his friend lived with only a few bruises. And highway 11, famous for its tricky curves, had taken another life.
Tyler never dwelled on his brother's death. Because to think of it was to think of that big question: why? Why was the deer there that night, directly over the top of a hill? Why was there a patch of ice on the highway? Why didn't the oncoming truck strike the back of the spinning Ranchero, or the front, or the other side? Anywhere but directly where his brother was sitting.
The questions circled each other endlessly. There was no answer. God giveth and God taketh away, maybe, but that just led to more questions. Besides Tyler didn't believe in God. Prayer was a waste of good breath.
No, the actual accident didn't cross Tyler's mind very often. Instead, when he thought of Darren, he saw his smile and remembered his happy-go-lucky attitude. Darren shrugged off whatever life threw at him with a soft laugh. Tyler remembered silly things, like the way Darren walked around with the laces undone on his shoes. Or the blue work shirt he wore because it was so comfortable. The little things.
Tyler had found the book on top of the piano, a few weeks after his brother's death. Without telling his mom he had taken it home. Picking it up, opening it to any page and reading was a way of paying his respect, of saying I remember.
Tyler returned to the couch, switched on the lamp and began to read. After a time he sat cross-legged on the floor, feeling more comfortable. He disappeared into the book.
Tyler's concentration was broken a few moments later by the sound of his phone. He rose, went over to the table, his knees stiff and tight. He picked up the phone. "Hello."
"Hey, Cowboy!" a male voice exclaimed noisily. "How's it hanging? Short as always, I suppose."
"Who's this?"
His question was met with laughter. "What, you don't even recognize you're ol' buddy? Nice pal you are."
"Is that you, Conn?"
"Sure as shit ain't the pope."
"Have you been drinking?"
More laughter. "I might have imbibed a little. Don't really need it anymore, anyway. Not at all."
"What're you doing?"
"Just phoned to tell you a joke. Ready for some yucks?" He paused. "Are you ready for some yucks?"
Tyler breathed in. "I guess so."
"Oooh! You sound pretty excited. Anyway, here's the joke. I just thought of it now. You see there's this thin guy he goes into this bar and it's one of those bars with mirrors in it, see? The thin guy sits down and he gets a drink and he looks in the mirror and sees his own face. So he breaks the mirror and he cuts his face up with the pieces, cuts it really deep and hard so he bleeds all over the place, and the bartender comes over and ask him why he's doing it and the thin man answers, 'because it feels so fucking good.' There's the punchline: Cause it feels so fucking good. Isn't that funny, Cowboy?"
"You're being stupid, Conn."
"You just don't know a good joke when you hear one. I'll tell it to Rand, he'll crack up. Catch ya later, pal."
The earpiece clicked. Tyler pulled the phone away, stared at it for a moment, and set it down. What an idiot. He's got to be completely wasted.
Tyler got up and paced around his apartment. Conn's phone call circled around his thoughts. He saw the book open where he had left it. He sat and tried to read the book, but the words wouldn't stick in his head. Finally, he set the book down, rose and packed up his gi in a gym bag. At least at the dojo he wouldn't have to think about Conn's stupid joke. As he walked to Karate, the memories of Tyler's confrontation with his father came back to him. Out under the sky, walking back to his apartment, in jeans, a white shirt and jean jacket, he was not free. He felt the memories encroaching on him. His mind, machine that it was, began to trace the events of the previous evening at his family's farm outside Kinniwaw. Tyler, wishing for blindness, was forced to stare at his past.
Charles, Tyler's father, was sitting at the opposite end of the table, a rye and coke clutched in his hand. His square face, lined by time, the skin parched and toughened by years in the sun, was unreadable. To Tyler's right was his mother, Helen, to his left, his ten-year-old sister Tanya, her hair in a pony tail. Between them was a half-carved roast, the traditional Sunday supper. The sliced meat was dark around the edges and red near the center. On either side of the roast, like offerings to some domestic god, was a bowl of corn and a bowl of potatoes.
The Oak family was halfway through supper.
"You know," his mother said, "I saw Rand the other day, down at the store." Store, of course mean the Co-op since there was only one store at Kinniwaw. "He really doesn't seem that well. He's pale and thin, probably from staying inside all the time. What's he doing now?"
Tyler shrugged. "Last time we talked he was thinking of looking for some sort of work, but he wasn't sure what." Tyler cut at a piece of roast beef and wondered briefly why mentioning Rand's name irritated him.
"He should find something," his mother said, "anything to take his mind off what happened to his parents."
How could anything keep your mind off that? Tyler thought, but he said, "Yeah, a change would be good for him." He placed the beef in his mouth, began to chew. It was cooked exactly how he liked it and yet it tasted bland. His father had sliced the roast (another Sunday supper tradition) and Tyler wondered if his touch had somehow robbed the beef of its taste.
"He's a good kid," his mother said, interrupting Tyler's thoughts, "which reminds me I saw..." and she was talking about someone else. Tyler watched as his mother spoke, unconsciously filtering out her words. Her face looked happy, but there was a pinched quality to it as if someone were holding a knife to her ribs and telling her to smile. She had pinned back her dark hair but strands were hanging out. Tyler noticed that most of them were grey.
"...and Megan Ryly said Carla's off to University in Calgary taking Business Administration. She always was a smart kid..." His mother's words faded in and out of Tyler's awareness. She was normally talkative but Tyler realized she was trying to fill the void, to stop the silence from pouring over them. Because if there was a silent space his father could speak, and what would happen then?
Tyler knew every word she uttered was getting under his father's skin, filling him, fueling that strain of anger that ran so deep behind his eyes.
Catch 22, Mom. Classic catch 22.
Tyler cut another piece of roast and dipped it in gravy. Why did I come out? he wondered. But he knew why. Sunday supper had been his mother's idea and the moment she had told him over the phone he had recognized it as yet another ploy to pave the path for better relations between him and his father. He recognized it as such and accepted it. There was always the chance that something good might happen. Slight, but there.
That was the way he was thinking when she asked him to come, explaining that his father had somehow, miraculously changed, but now Tyler felt much different. The stone that sat at the other end of the table and only moved to swallow another piece of food, emitted nothing near good will. Tyler knew this evening was going to end badly. And he sat at the other end of the table, ready to go through the whole scene like an actor trapped in his role.
But at least, he argued to himself, Dad's not adding his usual barbs to the conversation. At least he's n
ot doing his usual "put down everything about your son routine." At least he's not doing that.
But somehow his father's silence was worse.
Helen had reached the end of her soliloquy. And it seemed for an awful moment that the presence that was his father had swallowed the conversation. His father stirred for a moment and Tyler, even though he had steeled himself to any emotion, felt the cold, mindless fear of childhood, that making-Daddy-mad fear. Was he going to speak? Was he?
His father said nothing.
"Time for desert," his mother piped up suddenly and the moment was gone. She disappeared into the kitchen, came back with a pie plate in her hands. She cut the pie and gave a piece to each person, starting with Charles. They ate in silence.
Just as Tyler placed the last crust of partly burned pie in his mouth, his sister spoke up, shyly, "Come and see my stuff. I have more, lots more."
Tyler smiled and finished chewing. Tanya pushed away from the table and he followed her upstairs. He could feel his father's eyes boring into his back until he disappeared up the staircase.
They went into Tanya's room. Red, yellow, and orange teddy bears gazed warmly down at them from shelves along the wall. On another shelf below them was Tanya's book collection. The cover of King Arthur and his Knights faced outwards. Tanya went to her dresser, opened a brown jewelry box and began pulling bracelets and necklaces from it. Tyler sat down beside the huge, stuffed tiger sprawled across her blue bedspread. He had won it for her two years before at the Saskatoon Exhibition. To look at the tiger reminded Tyler of a hot, dusty day, vendors yelling their "come here and give me your money" pitches, and him throwing a ball as hard as he could at four stacked metal jars. Tyler patted the tiger's head. "How's grade four?" he asked.
Tanya gave Tyler an exasperated glance. "I'm in grade five, now."
"Grade five!" Tyler felt shocked. Was she really ten? "Grade five! Already? What happened to grade four? Did you skip it?"
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