Living with the hawk

by Robert Currie

  He hit me before I could move, a slap across the mouth, sudden pain, teeth jammed into my lip, the raw taste of blood. He grabbed me by the collar, twisting my shirt, yanking me toward him. “Don’t! Don’t ever say that.”

  I was choking, yeah, choking with shame. I’d just been repeating what they’d said, sure, but what a hell of a thing to say.

  He held me inches from his face. I could almost feel the fire in his eyes.

  “S-sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  I felt my collar loosening. He gave me a little push on the chest and released his grip.

  I heaved a quick breath. Found myself straining for another. “Look, I apologize. Honest to God, I didn’t mean that.”

  “Bloody well ought to apologize,” he said, and I thought he sounded just like our father.

  “I did. You heard me.”

  Except for a few leaves above us rattling in the breeze, the only sound was his breathing, gasps like those of a swimmer bursting into the air after he’d been underwater longer than he ought to be. I waited until his breathing calmed.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “What do you mean — what happened?”

  “When you took her out.”

  “Nothing happened.” His voice was loud again. “We went for cokes — that’s all.”

  He looked away, as if he had a secret he didn’t want to share.

  “Wait a minute. You’re supposed to be grounded.”

  “I said I was working on my history project — at the library. And I was too — for a while. Had to be in by nine-thirty.”

  “Bet that impressed her.” I made my voice as sarcastic as I could, but I couldn’t leave it there. “You ask her out again?”

  A crab apple fell on the table between us, misshapen, the colour of rust. He picked it up and tossed it to the ground.

  “She said she didn’t think it was such a great idea.”

  I was so filled with relief that I hardly noticed his voice sounding old and beaten, but then his expression darkened, his voice rising in volume: “She’s interested though. You can always tell when they like you. I’m gonna try again.”

  Bullshit, I thought, you tried to cop a feel or something, and for the second time that day I said more than I should have. “You really figure she’d go out with a guy who pisses on girls?”

  For just a second it was as if I’d hit him with a two-by-four. He shrank away from me, sinking lower into the bench. You’d swear he was smaller now, a blow-up toy that some kid had punctured, the air seeping out, and I thought I had him. His face at first was crimson, but the colour was already fading.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I was there. I saw the whole thing.” He deserved to suffer. I’d make him suffer. “That poor girl, lying there unconscious. Could’ve choked on her own vomit — and died — for all you cared. And there you were, the bunch of you, lined up like you’re standing over a bloody latrine.”

  He got his hands on the table, pushed himself up, hovered there above me, his face suddenly red again. “You got it wrong,” he said, and he was yelling now. “I’m the guy who tried to stop them. They were all drunk out of their skulls — didn’t know what they were doing — yeah, and I was drunk too, couldn’t make them quit. But I wasn’t pissing on her. That’s the truth.” He was staring down at me, as if by the sheer power of his gaze he could compel me to believe him.

  “Like hell it is.”

  “Well, piss on you then,” he said, and turned to go inside.

  FIVE

  We played the Weyburn Eagles that Saturday, a game we were expected to win. It had snowed on Friday night, five centimeters of snow followed by a few minutes of freezing rain. The field was coated with an icy crust. If we’d been playing in Regina at Mosaic Stadium there would have been a grounds crew to scrape it away, but we weren’t the Roughriders so we played on snow and ice.

  By the end of the first quarter, we were down fourteen to nothing. They had a running game that was hard to stop, their fullback a monster who seemed to enjoy running over people. Since he ran straight ahead and seldom made a cut, the snow didn’t bother him. We knew he was going to get the ball a lot, but we couldn’t seem to stop him, not without three or four guys on him, and by then he’d picked up six or seven yards. Our worst problem, though, was my brother. Twice he dropped the ball on the snap. His timing was off; he collided once with Vaughn Foster, our running back — almost knocked him over on the hand-off. He threw an early interception, and after that, he was overthrowing his receivers nearly all the time. When the offence came off, I watched him on the sidelines, receivers and backs around him, while Coach Ramsey drew a play on his chalkboard. Blake looked shell-shocked. He probably heard everything that Ramsey said, but I doubt that he understood a single word.

  When the quarter ended and we switched ends, Coach Conley took him aside, the two of them walking down the field, far from where we stood. They had lots of time to talk because the Eagles were on the march again. I don’t know what Coach said to him, but it must have been something special because by the time Blake came back to the rest of us, he looked different somehow, and I heard him yell, “Come on, defence. You can do it.” The first encouragement I’d heard him give all afternoon.

  Our guys were up against it now, on our three-yard line. The Eagles had one more down to score. In a situation like that most coaches would kick a field goal, but the Eagle coach had a fullback who could run through a brick wall. He wouldn’t even consider it a gamble.

  I could see our whole line crouched in the snow, could almost feel them vibrate with the tension, Ivan Buchko hunched low, waiting to hurl himself forward, Vaughn Foster poised behind him, Vaughn who only played defence when we were desperate. The ball was up, both lines surging forward. The handoff to the fullback, bodies straining, legs churning, Ivan breaking through, falling, an arm around the fullback’s leg, Vaughn hitting the runner in the chest, two more of our guys on him, and he was going down. Stopped. A yard short of the goal. And on the sideline I was cheering, leaping up and down with everybody else.

  My brother started onto the field, but Coach Conley stopped him, held him with a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing fancy,” he said. “Up the gut till we’re away from the goal line.”

  On the first play, Blake faded back to pass, faked it, saw the centre open up, and ran straight ahead a dozen yards, sliding safely to the snow before they had a chance to hit him. He hopped up, his arm raised for the huddle. He’s back, I thought, we’ve got ourselves a football game. Blake stuck with the running game until we were nearing mid-field, then began working in short passes. Took us down to the twenty before running out of steam, Todd Branton dropping a pass he might’ve caught if he’d been a better player, and we had to settle for a field goal.

  Okay, I thought, Blake’s showed us how to do it. We can still win this game.

  We did too, twenty-four to twenty-one, that one field goal making all the difference. Jordan Phelps scored twice on passes from my brother; Vaughn Foster got the other touchdown on a run, almost slipping on the ice as he cut over the goal line, but he stayed upright, the ball secure against his chest. I never got to play, but then I didn’t expect to.

  “How come he gets to go out?” I asked.

  Blake had floated through supper, talking whenever his mouth wasn’t full, laughing sometimes when there was nothing funny, eating way more than usual, still high from leading the come-back on that icy field. Then he’d said that Ivan was picking him up in half an hour, and I’d asked the question.

  “His curfew’s over,” said my father. He noticed his fork in his hand, pointed it at me. “Yours isn’t. Not till Monday.”

  “That isn’t fair.” I’d been grounded for nearly two weeks, and it seemed like forever. “He’s the one who got drunk.”

  My father set his fork on his plate, sharply. It made a sound like a china bell that a grand lady might ring for dinner. Yeah, and we were into proper etiquette, weren’t we tho
ugh?

  “Listen now. There’s something here you need to understand. We don’t condone drunkenness in this family; we just happen to think that fighting’s worse. A lot worse. Is that understood?” My father was wearing his stern face, his eyes grim, unblinking, holding steady on me. I glanced away. Once again I cursed myself for lying about what had happened that night.

  Blake was squirming in his chair, looking uncomfortable. The bugger, I thought, he knows how I got the shiner — Ivan must’ve told him.

  “Blair!”

  “Okay, okay! I understand.”

  My mother was leaning across the table, nodding her head.

  Yeah, sure, fighting was serious business. I should tell them what went down before her father hit me, let them think about that for a while. Sure, Blake had said he didn’t do it, but I figured the truth was he just couldn’t admit it — especially to his little brother.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ve got to get ready before Ivan’s pounding on the door.” He shoved his chair away from the table and hurried for the stairs. Yeah, and he’d probably be going to another party, getting sloppy drunk all over again.

  I started to get up, changed my mind and settled back into my chair.

  “I suppose the next thing we know,” I said, “you’ll want to be out looking for a fatted calf to kill.”

  My father laughed, but I was certain I detected a note of bitterness in the sound. “Different circumstances,” he said. “‘This son of mine was dead and is alive again’ — somehow I don’t think the case of the Prodigal Son applies in this instance. Uh-uh, no property squandered here in dissolute living.”

  You want dissolute living, I thought, well then, I could tell you a story would shake you to the core.

  “If you’re going to start spouting Biblical allusions,” continued my father, “you ought to consider reading the Bible once in a while. I’d recommend chapter fifteen of Luke. Beginning at the eleventh verse. A little reading might open up your mind, maybe even knock it out of that rut you’ve got it stuck in.”

  By the time he finished speaking, his voice was sharp as the carving knife he always honed before he cut the turkey on Thanksgiving Sunday.

  I couldn’t tell him what I wanted to tell him. All I said was, “I’m going downstairs and watch the hockey game.”

  As I left the table, my father, who seldom quoted scripture outside the church, did what struck me as a remarkable thing. “Blair,” he said, his voice assuming the exact tone he used when sharing the peace, “there’s no need to be fighting everything. ‘The Lord, your God, is in your midst, a warrior who gives victory; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will renew you in His love.’”

  I took the stairs two at a time.

  Every Sunday after the service, my brother and I were expected to go down to the church hall for coffee with the congregation. It didn’t matter that neither of us drank coffee. We were always stuck drinking watered-down Tang like the little kids from Sunday school. Usually, we sat together at a table off to the side, talking football and hoping that Mr. Hammond would join us with his take on the latest Rider game. He and his wife had season tickets. Today we’d barely sat down before Agnes Bettany headed for our table. She was slight and red-headed, bird-like in her manner, an older woman who hadn’t aged a day since I’d been in kindergarten. My mother thought she didn’t even dye her hair.

  “Blair,” said Mrs. Bettany, “you read so very well.” It had been my turn to read the second lesson that morning, and I’d practiced at home as I always did, saying the whole thing out loud. “You put so much feeling into it, it really comes alive.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bettany. I work at it.”

  “Your father should have you read more often,” she added before moving on to another table.

  Blake watched her go, a sour look on his face. Uh-huh, I thought, he’s remembering two years ago, when he was one of the readers for the Christmas Lessons and Carols and he screwed it up good, telling us about the wise men opening their treasure chests, offering gifts of gold, and myrrh and Frankenstein.

  I thought I’d rub it in. “Nice of her to say so.”

  He turned blank eyes toward me. “Who?”

  “Mrs. Bettany.”

  “What about her?”

  “Oh, never mind. You might as well go back to sleep.” He was hung-over again, that must be it.

  I saw Mr. Hammond coming our way, coffee cup in one big hand, napkin and cookies in the other. Such a lean body, his hands so large, his voice so deep they always surprised me. He pulled a metal chair out from our table and sat down.

  “Morning, boys,” he said, and chuckled. “No, I guess it’s after twelve. My brain is always running late. You make it into Regina for the game last night?”

  I shook my head. “No, I had something else I had to do.” Yeah, right, that would be staying at home by myself.

  Blake was staring off again, in the direction of Mrs. Bettany.

  “Too bad,” said Mr. Hammond. “It was a good game even though they lost. Thirty-one to twenty-eight, lots of action up and down the field. Our guys gave it their best shot, but it’s the same old problem. We need a quarterback you can count on — like Austin in his prime. Somebody like that throwing the ball, we’d really go places.” He took a sip of coffee, seemed to be studying my brother. “Sorry I didn’t make it to your game yesterday. Three hours in the cold is about as much as these old bones can handle in one day. I heard you won though.”

  When my brother didn’t respond, I said, “Uh-huh, it was a close one too. Twenty-four to twenty-one.”

  “How’d you like playing in the snow, Blake?”

  My brother moved his head as if a wasp had buzzed his cheek. “Pardon?”

  “Here, have a cookie,” said Mr. Hammond. “Maybe that’ll snap you out of the coma.”

  I laughed. My brother just looked puzzled.

  Mr. Hammond tried again. “How was it — in the snow?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t as tough as I thought it would be. Cold on the hands at first, but not bad once we got going.” Blake’s voice was dull, as if discussing a game that didn’t much interest him. He had the words right, but the feeling wasn’t there, his mood so different from his excitement last night at supper. “Defence won it for us. A big stand on the three-yard line.”

  Something’s wrong, I thought, but what is it?

  He didn’t look hung-over, and as far as I knew he hadn’t been throwing up last night. At least not at home where I would have heard him.

  “You score any touchdowns?”

  “Not me, no.” The same dull voice, but then it changed. “Jordan Phelps, Vaughn Foster, they did the scoring.” When he pronounced their names, his tone was sharper, the pitch of his voice higher. I’d never known him to be jealous of other people scoring. I wondered what this meant.

  All at once Blake seemed to realize Mr. Hammond was staring at him. “The Riders,” my brother asked, “ how did they make out last night?”

  Mr.Hammond turned to me. “I don’t know, Blair,” he said, “but I think you better keep an eye on your brother. He’s slipping back into the coma. Either that, or he’s got himself lost pondering the intricacies of your dad’s sermon.”

  He was thinking about something all right, but it sure wasn’t a sermon. I wondered what he’d been up to last night. What kind of trouble was he in now? There must have been something weird going on to make him act this way.

  When our father drove the family home from church, Blake sat with me in the back seat, shoulder pressed against the far door, his face turned to the window. Outside, it had begun to snow, large flakes drifting down, hardly a breeze to disturb them as they floated in leisurely spirals like wisps of tissue, settling at last to cover the crust of snow from the day before. Only the middle of October and already our second fall of snow.

  “Look at it,” said my mother. “Around here, you seldom see it snow without a wind. Usually a howling wind. It’s beautiful.” She glanced back
at Blake, but I don’t think my brother was looking at the snow.

  Before I went to bed that night I stood for a long time at my bedroom window. The snow had stopped falling hours ago, but the world outside was white and still, shining under the streetlights. When I switched off the light, the ceiling of my room seemed almost luminescent. I lay down and stared at the dim glow that had to be reflections from the snow outside.

  For some reason, I thought of the time my brother took me Christmas shopping at Zellers. I was in grade three and he in grade six. He’d helped me pick out coffee mugs for our parents, nice ones with a Canadian flag on the side; then he left me in the line to pay for them. It was a long line, but I didn’t care. I remember being pleased because the mugs weren’t going to cost as much as I thought they would. I’d have money left over for a chocolate bar.

  The next time I saw my brother, a man wearing a tie and vest had him by the arm, was almost dragging him along. They seemed to be arguing. When they got close to me, I heard Blake say, “That’s him — in the green tuque. Just wait till he’s paid. I don’t want him getting lost.”

  What’s he talking about, I thought, I’m way too big for getting lost.

  The two of them stood there, watching me while the clerk rang up my purchases and counted out my change. They weren’t arguing now. The clerk wrapped tissues around the mugs and slipped them into a bag. I handed her the looney she’d just given me and said, “I’d like a Crispy Crunch too.”

  “Come on, kid. We haven’t got all day.” The man sounded angry.

  I shoved the bar into my pocket and grabbed my change. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Blake shook his head at me. The man gave his arm a yank and headed toward the other end of the store.

  I had to trot along beside them to keep up. “What is it?” I asked.

  The man stopped so suddenly, his face so angry when he spun towards me that I ducked my head. I thought he was going to hit me. “Your brother,” he said, “is a lousy thief.”

  When he got us to the office he phoned my father, told him his son had been caught shop-lifting a CD, he wasn’t phoning the police this time, but if the boy ever tried it again, there’d be no second chance, the police would be handling the case for sure.