Damage

by Shea, Stephen

Tanya glanced again, shook her head. "No, I went."

  "I just thought you were so smart you skipped a grade."

  He could see in the mirror that she was blushing. "I'm not that smart."

  "Oh, I forgot. All those awards are for dumb people." He pointed at the west wall, lined with plaques. Tanya looked as if she were going to say something then she looked down and continued to rummage through the box.

  Grade five. Tyler still couldn't believe it. He'd been living in Prince Albert for two years--fifty minutes and a lifetime away. It seemed like he had missed half his sister's life. Next time he turned around she'd be out dating. Blink once or twice and she'd be waving her university diploma in front of him and laughing. Any time he tried to picture his sister's future he saw her as a perfect success. Happy and fulfilled.

  But why not? he thought. She doesn't have Father breathing down her neck every time she moves.

  The thought made him angry at himself. He despised self pity.

  A moment later Tanya sat beside him, her hands full of bracelets. "I made this one out of green and black beads, I wanted to make it look like a snake," she said as she handed Tyler a bracelet. "See those are the eyes," she pointed. Tyler was, as always, impressed by her ability to make patterns with the beads. "And see this one," she said, holding up a green and red necklace. She explained carefully how she had woven it together and what kind of patterns she had used.

  A half hour passed quickly, just looking at her bracelets and asking her questions about what she had been doing. Sometimes he felt like an outsider that looked intermittently in on Tanya's life. And it was impossible for him to catch up. He had so little time.

  Tyler knew his time here was up. Father was waiting. Without saying anything he patted Tanya's hand, got off the bed, and walked towards the door.

  "Tyler," Tanya whispered. "Are you and Dad gonna fight?"

  He stopped and sighed. If only you knew what you did, Dad.

  Tyler turned, walked up to her, bent down, and held her hand. "Everything will be O.K.," he said. "It's going to work out."

  She nodded. "I made this for you." She turned her hand up to reveal a black, white, and red beaded bracelet. It looked like Indian jewelry. "It's for good luck."

  He held out his arm and she tied it to his left wrist. He held her hand again when she was finished.

  "There's a man watching us," Tanya whispered. "That's why you need this. A see-through man. He keeps walking out of the night to stare at us. It'll keep him away."

  "You mean someone's been here? At the house?" He wondered if someone had been lurking around the yard, perhaps looking in the windows. Once, when he was a kid, a drifter had wandered the five miles off the highway and slept in their barn. His father had chased him out with a pitchfork.

  Tanya shook her head. "No. Not here...just...staring at us."

  Does she mean Dad? he wondered. All her life Tanya had often spoken in riddle that didn't make sense, but somehow had meaning: verbal hieroglyphics that had to be studied at length to be understood.

  Something about trying to understand his sister's words reminded Tyler of the night his brother died. That night his sister had started crying and screaming "blue truck! blue truck!" long before anyone had heard about Darren's death. Tyler forced the memory from his mind. It didn't make sense. That whole night didn't make any sense.

  He hugged her. They were silent for a moment then he let out his breath. "I'd better visit Dad." He let Tanya go, patted her hands and left her room.

  Coming down the stairs he could hear his mother's voice and the angry retort of his father. A door slammed and Tyler's back muscles tightened.

  Tyler walked into the dining room. His father looked up, his eyes slitted, his face unreadable. He reached for his glass, bumped over the salt shaker. There was a half-empty bottle of rye on the table. He brought the glass up and drank.

  He's drunk, Tyler thought right away, but it was much more than that. Tyler could see that the familiar cold I hate you fury had come into his father's eyes. Alcohol couldn't do this to a man. What this special look needed was seven years of drought, bankers beating down your door, a dead son, and a live son who didn't want to stay on the farm. That was all you needed to make that stare.

  "Gonna go home now?" his father asked, his voice a raspy whisper. He was staring at his glass.

  "I dunno. I haven't been here that long."

  Charles nodded. "Seems long though, doesn't it?" Without waiting for an answer he went on. "Yeah, I bet it seems long. It's always good to have your son take some time out of his busy schedule and visit you. Makes you feel warm inside."

  Tyler kept silent.

  "Ah," his father continued, "but you wouldn't want to stay too long would you? Gotta go back and dress up in little white dresses and jump around. Besides if you stayed you might have to do some work. Real work."

  Tyler spoke calmly. "I have my own work now."

  His father's eyes narrowed. How many times had Tyler seen this? They always acted the same scene over and over again. Like robots. "My work isn't good enough for you? The farm isn't good enough for you?"

  "I just want to do something different."

  "Fix cars! What the hell kind of job is that? You're never gonna make anything of yourself. I don't know about you, I don't know anything at all. You're so useless. Why do you keep coming back?" His father glared at him.

  Tyler shrugged his shoulders. He was surprised how cool he was, as if all the emotions that had raged through his system for years were drained dry.

  "Then, Tyler, why don't you just stay the hell away!"

  There was a silence, as if the words had opened a void, then the kitchen door burst open and Tyler's mother whirled between them. More hair had slipped out of the bun at the back of her head. "Charles, stop it! Don't do this!"

  "Get out of here!" Charles pushed himself up from the table, his chair fell backward. He reeled for a second as if he were going to fall, then his eyes narrowed even more and his lips curled into a snarl. "Get out! It's between him and me!"

  "Don't do this to him!"

  "Just keep your nose out of it!" he screamed. "It's time he had a good lesson. He's so selfish." Charles's face was red now, veins snaked their way across his forehead. Tyler had never seen him like this, it seemed possible that he would actually strike his mother.

  Tyler stepped closer. "Dad!"

  Charles spun around and staggered towards Tyler. "Don't call me Dad! You're not my son. I don't know who you are! My son died five years ago on the highway! Darren would have stayed, but you. Not you. Too lazy! Too good for us!"

  Tyler stayed still, feeling strangely detached. His father stopped in front of him. They were face to face now.

  "You're too good for the farm." Charles raised his hand.

  They stared at each other, neither backing away, and it seemed the storm between them had suddenly frozen. Then Charles slapped Tyler hard across the face, knocking him backwards. His mother screamed.

  Tyler straightened and stood immobile, a bug trapped in amber, helpless against the fury of his father. The side of his face felt hot.

  His father slapped him again. On the other side.

  "Charles!" Tyler's mom screamed. "Charles, no!" She grabbed his arm. He shook her off and pointed at Tyler. "Get out you useless bastard! I don't need you."

  Tyler stared at him for a moment, nodded once, then turned away.

  When he walked by the stairs he saw Tanya halfway up the steps, hugging her own knees and crying. Though he wanted to comfort her, he couldn't stop, something like a giant hand was pushing him out of the house, a hand as forceful and unavoidable as fate.

  But he wasn't going to cry this time. No, not for that old man, not now not for that bastard. Never.

  Walking down the streets of Prince Albert towards his apartment, Tyler cried. He saw someone up ahead so he turned into an alley. He stood, crying, leaning against a rusted garbage disposal, shielding himself from the street. When the tears were fin
ished, he didn't feel any better—he felt only a dull shame for letting things bother him so much.

  13.

  Conn sat at the table in his room, a half-full bottle of rye in front of him, thin black leather gloves on his hands. For the price of 100 dollars a month Conn could live in a green walled, paint cracked, leaky tap of a place along with only one or two rats. Kinniwaw Hotel. The height of accommodation.

  He drank half a glass of whisky straight, but it felt like tangy water. I don't need this anymore, he thought. He pushed the bottle over and watched the golden liquid spill out over the table.

  "What the shit are you doing?" Cindy jumped from the couch and tipped the bottle up then held it to her chest like a baby. "That cost me thirty-five bucks."

  "Don't need it," he said turning to her slowly. He smiled, staring at his old friend's pug-like face, at the scar that made a line from the edge of her nose to her lip. He wondered how much it had hurt when her boyfriend made the scar. He wondered what it would have been like to hold the knife. "Don't need it."

  "Well that's great! Did you think that maybe I wanted the rest? Did you think about me before you poured it all over the table? I paid for it."

  Conn continued smiling. Cindy had a bitchy mouth sometimes, but right now he didn't mind. He felt elated, strangely high as if the alcohol had shot straight to his brain. But this was more than an alcohol high, excitement was roaring in his ears, in his blood. He was so close to a breakthrough: a revelation. He didn't need the alcohol. The thought buzzed through his mind. He didn't need the heroin anymore.

  He needed...

  That's where his mind shuddered to a halt and he drew a blank. He needed.

  "Are you O.K.?" Cindy asked. "You're shaking." Her voice floated into his ears at half speed. Was ignored.

  What was it he needed. What was it?

  He needed.

  He needed.

  A pause. No answer.

  "Are you alright?" she asked, setting her hand on his shoulder.

  Conn flinched and glared up into Cindy's face. He tensed all his arm muscles and felt like striking her, like unwinding and pounding every pain he had ever experienced out of himself and into her body. He blinked and the feeling disappeared. His muscles relaxd.

  "Yeah," he said finally and now he felt groggy. His thoughts had become weights. What the hell is happening? His head was aching. He had phoned someone just awhile ago hadn't he? He had phoned Tyler and told him a stupid joke that didn't make any sense, while Cindy was in the bathroom. Why had he done that?

  Cindy was still staring at him.

  "You better get out of here," he said, slowly.

  "Why? What's wrong?"

  He waved his hand at her. "Just go. Get out for awhile. I need to sleep. To be alone."

  "I don't think I should, Conn. You look—"

  Conn rose up from the chair, grabbed her shoulders, sinking his hands into her flesh. "Are you going to fuck me or what? Fuck me or leave!"

  She stepped back, her eyes wide. "Conn, I think...Tim's waiting for me...I better go." She turned, opened the door, and was gone.

  Conn sat back down in his chair. The room whirled around him. His head was pounding now.

  Why did I do that? he wondered. Cindy was one of his closest friends. The only person he trusted as much was Rand. And he had never thought of sleeping with her. Would never want to. She was a friend. Why did those words come out?

  And why did he feel so powerful as he said them? Why did he feel like at that moment he could have screamed and she would have turned to ashes and the hotel would have crumbled and he could have walked out of the rubble?

  What frightened Conn most was that it seemed something else had come into him and done those things and yet he had done them too and had enjoyed it. No, not enjoyed it, for that word was too weak. Loved it. The action of hurting her had filled him to capacity so that his every nerve jingled with the energy of it. The hairs of his arm were standing straight in the air.

  What the hell is going down?

  His life had become a fog, so strange for the last three days. He slept all hours and when he awoke he felt so full of energy that he could touch things and make them burn.

  But sometimes when he awoke he felt empty as if, while he slept, everything that made him what he was had been drained: his blood, his veins, his spirit. It was as if he had sleepwalked across a continent. And the dreams he'd had were vague foggy things that drifted over his waking thoughts and sometimes he could remember bits and pieces, something to do with lightning and being naked, and that was all.

  Even more frightening was the fact that often his runners were caked with dried mud. He could never remember how it had got there.

  And what was it he needed? He felt the question build up in him like a drug deficiency, like he had been using something all his life and for the last month it had been denied him.

  What did he need?

  Hate so sweet, pain so deep. Die!

  What was that? Conn grew tired again, so quickly it was like a curtain coming down.

  There was a soft noise of a board creaking. Conn stood and turned as fast as he could, sure that he was being watched, that someone was behind him, but no one was there. He blinked, his eyes blurred, and his head ached completely as if his brain were expanding. He glanced around for a moment, forgot what he was looking for, then staggered over to his bed and threw himself on his blankets.

  I need. I need.

  He needed to talk to Rand. Rand could listen, Rand could make things better. Maybe it was time to tell him about Winnipeg. Maybe it was time to open his mouth and let the story pour out. Conn reached for the phone, lifting it from the table was like lifting a huge rock from the ground. He dialed Rand's number. The phone rang and rang and no one answered. He listened to the buzzing of the phone and he knew that Rand was on the other end of that line, ignoring the phone.

  Rand didn't want to talk to him.

  Conn set down the phone. He stared at his gloved hands and watched them slowly curl into fists as if they had a mind of their own. It's time to take a trip, he thought.

  14.

  At the same time as Tyler was walking to the Dojo and Conn was staring at his rye, Rand walked into his kitchen and felt on top of the fridge for the keys to his car. He was in a good mood now and he wanted to wash his car before Kari came over. He couldn't find the keys at first so he moved the Kleenex tissue box aside and set it down.

  The movement of the box keyed a memory that had dwelt in his psyche for eighteen years. The memory played itself out.

  How did you know where the keys were? Annette, his mother, looked down at Rand. She was holding the keys to the Bronco that she had just found underneath a box of tissue. On the fridge. Even if he had climbed on a chair he would never have seen them.

  I just knew, Rand answered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He stared at his blue shoes, then dared to look up. I saw them.

  Annette smiled, at last understanding this paradox. You saw your dad put them there, right?

  Rand shook his head. I saw them, he said, in here. He pointed to his forehead.

  Annette's smile faded. You saw them where?

  In here, Rand said, pointing at his forehead again.

  The memory faded, sinking into his mind like a sea creature sinking into the depths. Rand blinked slowly and made his way to the darkened living room. He sat down on the couch, pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it, took a drag.

  The worst thing about being human is remembering.

  The memory of those few moments with his mother and the keys was always vivid. He wondered if it was one of his earliest memories. It brought with it guilt and a sense of betrayal as it always did. And it reminded him of his little gift, the thing that fate had whimsically tossed his way.

  Precognition.

  He had seen it in movies and read about it in books and he was constantly amused by how everyone got it wrong. They always saw things before they happened and someho
w were able to change the outcome. There was often glittering lights that appeared in their eyes. They were always comfortable with it. Powerful. It made them better, stronger.

  Which was all a lie. Because it really wasn't a gift at all, was it? Who wants to know the future. It was a curse.

  He was reminded of three characters in a book by Michael Moorcock. One knew nothing of the future, one remembered nothing of the past, but the third knew both the past, present and the future. He was the saddest of all, because the only thing worse than the past was the future.

  His cigarette was now one long ash. He ground it out in the ashtray, lit another one.

  He had seen the cat his father brought home for his seventh birthday, before his father had opened the door, Rand had seen, had known. Its size, its color, how it felt. Later he had seen his friend's mark on the test before it was handed back.

  What a gift that was, what a gift.

  Randall Craig had watched his parents die hours before it happened. But this time his gift was different. Stranger, stronger.

  Rand smiled. It was only natural that he would get to preview his parent's death, natural that he would get to see it over and over again. Life always had its little jokes.

  Eight months earlier, on a Friday afternoon, Rand threw his overnight bag into the front seat of his car, headed onto Circle Drive, then took highway eleven from Saskatoon to Prince Albert, coming back from University. Even though his parents were going away this weekend he was making his way back home to Kinniwaw to see Kari. And to rest.

  The trip, for the most part, was uneventful. Winter had settled over northern Saskatchewan two months before and it was peaceful, though at times modestly violent, in its reign. Thick white snow filled the ditches but it had been a few weeks since a heavy snowfall. The pavement stretched out before him, straight and long. The whole trip would take an hour and a half.

  After Rand had been driving for an hour, his mind relaxd into a state of dreamy awareness. He stayed this way for a time. He blinked after hitting a bump and realized, with a panicky feeling, that he couldn't remember the last five minutes of the drive. It was as if someone else had been driving the car. But only moments after panicking, he sank back into the same state. The music faded into the background.