by Beth Goobie
The very room seemed to go quiet then, catching its breath and waiting for what was coming next. Momentarily, Officer Tursi remained silent, letting his words sink in, and then he snapped his fingers. “You, girl,” he barked at Eunie. “She can’t drive with her arm like that. Take her home in the van, then return it to the store. And you,” he added, pointing to Shir. “Dog Face. You will show up at work on Tuesday, ready to do your job like any good dog. Dogs are obedient. They do what they’re told. They listen to their masters. Or they get shot.”
“Yes, sir,” stammered Shir.
Without comment, her face bored as ever, Eunie pushed out from the wall she had been leaning against and walked past Shir. Cradling her sore arm, Shir turned to follow, then froze as she caught sight of Manny standing inside the door. Something like a smile crossed his face and he continued to stand motionless, eyeing her; ducking her head, Shir forced herself forward, past the violence she could feel looming out of him and through the open doorway, where she followed Eunie’s dark silhouette toward the front door.
Eighteen
Pressed against Gareth’s backyard fence, Shir peered through the wood slats. From what she could see, the yard was empty, the house curtains drawn. Anyone unfamiliar with Gareth’s habits would think no one was home, the house even without a tenant, but Shir knew better. Gareth’s curtains were always drawn and his door closed, even on warm Sunday afternoons like this one. As far as he was concerned, sunny afternoons were the bane of his existence and twilight the point at which the day really began, when he no longer had to squint to get his bleary eyes into focus. No, Shir thought grimly, on a day like today, Gareth would be home, guaranteed—probably huddled at his kitchen table, planning various rip-off schemes.
Which was where she came in, obviously. It had been four days since she had shelled out money for his overtaxed beer; Gareth must have felt the financial effects of her absence and should be relieved to see her—so relieved he would be certain to toe the line. There wouldn’t be any trouble today, she told herself, she was sure of it. Sure as her name was Shir, like Finlay had said.
Besides, she had no choice. After Eunie had dropped her off yesterday, Shir had holed up in her bedroom all evening. With her sore arm practically dysfunctional, there had been no chance to take off on the Black as planned, and prowl the city’s various liquor stores until she located a scalper. Four days was too long to go without a beer; she had a headache tolling like the bell of doom, her skin felt clammy, and she was getting flat-out twitchy. In addition, something dark and moody kept shifting through her—an alien, a vampire, an oversized virus. She felt possessed. No question about it, she needed a beer and she needed it quick.
This isn’t crazy, she told herself as she locked the Black to the usual hydro-pole support-wire. He doesn’t know I’m coming; I’ll catch him by surprise. Nursing her still sore arm, she approached the gate, opened it, and started across the yard. Ten steps in, the sun slipped behind a cloud and the yard darkened noticeably, the air suddenly full of weird little ghosties coming at her from all angles. Hit by a surge of panic, Shir almost turned and ran, but forced herself to get a grip. It’s just the sun, she scolded herself angrily. You took him down last time. No way he’ll come after you today.
At the back stoop, she ducked quickly to the right, and checked to make certain no one was hiding around the side of the house. Then, swallowing hard, she shook the trembling out of her hand and knocked. Blood pounding in her ears, she stepped back and waited. Children’s shouts erupted from a nearby yard; the sound of a bike passing in the alley startled her so vividly that she whirled, heart thundering, to see if someone was coming through the gate.
The gate stood empty, only a sparrow perched atop a gatepost and cheeping calmly. Breath rasping in her throat, Shir scanned the yard but nothing moved—not a shadow, not a delicate young leaf in the trees. With a relieved hiss, she turned to the door, then stepped back in alarm as she caught sight of Gareth standing in the open doorway.
He hadn’t shaved, his T-shirt looked as if he had died in it, and his eyes were narrowed to dark-shadowed slits. Across one cheek stretched a freshly-inflamed scab, evidence of their last encounter. Briefly, Shir’s gaze flicked across it and away.
“Beer,” she said hoarsely. “Three cans. How much?”
Gareth studied her silently, then raised a hand and lazily scratched his chin. “Dunno,” he said, yawning. “Have to think about that.”
“Four-fifty,” said Shir, taking a step forward. “That’s what it was last time.”
“Two-fifty,” he corrected calmly, eyeing her. “If you came in and had a chat.”
Shir’s knees wobbled. “Four-fifty,” she repeated, fighting the tremble in her voice. “Four-fifty for three cans makes $13.50, total. I’ve got that much.”
Another yawn crept up Gareth’s body, rising through his chest and mouth—a snake ready to strike. “I dunno,” he mused. “Feel kind of like conversation today. You come in, I might just give them to you for free.”
Shir’s eyes bugged and she took a quick step back. “Five bucks,” she blurted. “I’ll buy two. That’s ten bucks even.”
“You come in,” Gareth said quietly, “and it’s nothing. Even.”
Speechless, Shir gaped. Beyond Gareth’s back, she could sense the kitchen’s layout—dirty dishes in the sink, garbage rotting and waiting to be taken out, and five steps in from the door, the forty-year-old fridge, containing a cold six-pack of Molsons or Labatts … maybe even some Mooseheads. In spite of her fear, Shir could hear the pop of the tab on her first can, feel the cool spray of beer it released onto her wrist. A minute of polite conversation, maybe two—if she cooperated, that was all that stood between her and a bit of the magic fluid, and today she needed it, needed it. If Gareth tried anything funny, she told herself uncertainly, she could handle him—even with her sore arm. She had done all right last time, hadn’t she?
Sick with dread, she took a step toward the door. A tiny smile crept onto Gareth’s mouth and he moved back into the kitchen, leaving the doorway empty. Hands raised, her fingers tensed and ready to scratch, Shir stepped up onto the stoop. From here she could see into the kitchen, its overloaded sink and garbage pail, and Gareth standing next to the table. There, beside him, only five steps to her left, was the fridge. One more step, that was all it would take, and she would be over the threshold and inside.
And then she saw it—a tiny movement in the venetian blind hanging in the open door’s window, as if someone had just brushed against it … probably one of Gareth’s loser buddies, hiding behind the door. In a rush of terror, Shir glanced at Gareth and saw his expression change, the eyes widening and the mouth opening as if someone completely different had abruptly taken over his body and was rising through it, ready to reveal itself.
To her right the venetian shifted again, and there was the sound of a muffled cough. With a cry, Shir turned and ran full-out across the yard, her arms reaching desperately for the gate as if to pull it nearer. From behind, she heard a shout and the sound of someone leaping off the stoop, but she had enough of a head start and was through the open gate, then slamming it shut behind her before her pursuer was halfway across the yard.
And then she ran. Leaving the Black locked to the support-wire, she took off along the alley, arms pumping, head back, sucking in air, the sun, the universe, and whatever lay beyond it.
Hours later, she didn’t know how many, she was out on the Black, careening down an alley toward home. Sometime earlier, she had retrieved her bike from the alley behind Gareth’s place, then spent the rest of the afternoon aimlessly cruising until she had spotted a familiar face coming out of a convenience store—one of the back-alley liquor scalpers with whom she regularly did business. A quick exchange had occurred and she had retired to a nearby alley, where she had settled down with her back to a logo-painted garbage bin and downed three Molsons in quick succession.
Not having eaten since lunch, the alcohol had gone straight
to her brain, and now she was weaving wildly on the Black, her stomach sloshing as she roared out the first verse to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Abruptly, two blocks from home, the sidewalk went vertigo and she swerved, smashing the Black’s front wheel into a hydro pole. As she crashed to the ground, her stomach upended and there was nothing to do but surrender, gagging and heaving until the urge had passed. Exhausted, Shir sat slumped in the middle of the sidewalk, gazing dully at the puddle of vomit before her. Pot of gold, she thought morosely. Magic fluid wasted, all wasted.
Wincing at the renewed pain in her arm, she got to her feet and reached for the Black. Then she walked the rest of the way home, concentrating on placing one foot carefully in front of the other. When she got to the apartment block, she put the bike into the shed and wearily climbed the back stairwell. Empty and silent, the third-floor hallway stretched ahead of her, each numbered off-white door bringing her closer to doom. Mom, Shir thought bleakly as she approached the Rutz apartment. How in the world was she going to get past her guard-dog mother with obvious vomit dribbled down the front of her shirt? For a moment, she considered trying to pass off a story about a street drunk who had thrown up on her, but realized her mother would have to be comatose to buy it. No, thought Shir, her hand on the Rutz apartment doorknob, whatever was coming was coming. She was just going to have to face the music, no matter what tune her mother was singing.
Cautiously, she unlocked the door and stepped into the front hall. But instead of the expected sound of the TV, what she heard was Celine Dion, caterwauling from the living room CD player. A surge of hope hit Shir—Celine Dion was not a Mom sound. Was it possible her mother wasn’t home? Or second best, had gone to bed early?
Creeping along the front hall, she poked her head into the living room. Immediately, Celine hit full force; squinting through the cacophony, Shir caught sight of Stella, eyes closed and arms raised, swaying dreamily to the music. Incredulously, Shir stared at her sister. How could anyone, she thought derisively, prance around tippy-toed to that kind of balderdash? Shit, her sister’s head was crammed with it—I’m-a-beautiful-princess-waiting-for-my-Prince-Charming shit.
And, Shir realized in a surge of anger, dear little sister Stella, pretty little sister Stella was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs sweatshirt—a sweatshirt that decidedly did not belong to her. Which meant she was wearing it without permission, had snuck on her beautiful-princess tippy-toes into Shir’s bedroom and stolen it while Shir was out cruising the streets, her life in hopeless, bleeding tatters.
“You’re wearing my shirt!” roared Shir, her voice so loud, it drowned out Celine and her entire back-up band. With a squeak, Stella whirled to face her, bug-eyed with fright as Shir launched herself. Then, unexpectedly, she darted forward, reaching for Shir with both hands. Suddenly, Shir found herself being pulled in against her sister’s jutting hip, and thrust up into the air in a confused arc of arms and legs. As she thudded resoundingly to the floor, even Celine went mercifully quiet—awed, no doubt, by what had taken place. A second later, she kicked back in, screeching exultantly as Shir lay winded and gasping for air.
“Oh, my god!” shrilled Stella, staring down at her. “I can’t believe I did that. Are you all right?”
Shir tried to focus through the pain in her arm. Above her, Stella’s face kept shifting, splitting into two and snapping back together. Unbelievable, she thought grimly as she realized what had happened. Darling little sister Stella had just chalked up another stellar accomplishment—Cinderella-pretty, straight-a student, and now a black-belt self-defense expert.
“Fuck off!” she roared in renewed fury, clambering painfully to her feet and eyeing her sister who had retreated to the far side of the room. “Celine Dion!” she screamed, bending forward with the effort of her words. “Celine Dumb is over the rainbow! She’s no better than a fucking beer!”
For a moment, the two sisters remained frozen and staring at one another, Stella’s hands raised defensively, Shir’s anger a monster, snarling out of the deep. Then, without thinking, without the slightest idea as to what she was going to do next, Shir turned from her sister. As she did, a door opened at the far end of the hall and Janice Rutz emerged; face enraged, she started full steam toward the living room. One second of her mother’s expression told Shir all she needed to know, and bolting to the apartment entrance, she yanked it open and tore through it, slamming the door behind her.
Out in the corridor, she took off, fear like a wrecking ball inside her head, aiming for anything that moved. Blundering down the back stairwell, she tripped and fell the last few stairs, then dragged herself outside and stood leaning against the wall, holding her sore arm and breathing, just breathing. Over, it was over, she knew it without question—home, family, whatever that had been. No one, not even someone drunk as a stone, could have mistaken the message on Janice Rutz’s face as she had erupted from her bedroom doorway: Get out of my life, you SHIT!
Making her way to the shed, Shir unlocked the door, flicked on the light, and glanced around. There, where she had left it, leaning against a wall, was the Black, and on the floor nearby, a can of paint left over from the caretaker’s door-painting spree. As she stood in the shed entrance, staring blankly at the can, an image surfaced inside Shir’s mind—a gang of teenage boys with spray-cans moving along a row of back-alley garbage bins. Quickly, she scanned the shed, but seeing no sign of a paintbrush, hissed in disgust. It was just like the old man to leave out the paint and put the brush under lock and key, afraid someone might steal it.
Again, her eyes returned to the can of paint, and she replayed the image of the gang spray-painting their logo. Abruptly, she stepped forward, picked up the can, and slid its handle onto the Black’s right handlebar. Then, wheeling the bike into the alley, she closed the shed door and stood shivering in the cold night air, the mess of her fucked-up life like a sinkhole closing in around her. Over, she thought again, blinking back tears. It’s all over—home, job, school … me.
Desolately, she climbed onto the Black and started off down the alley. Guided by the odd garage security light, she could see well enough to negotiate bumps and potholes; what creeped her out as she pedaled along was the vastness of the Sunday-evening hush—no dogs barking, back yards deserted, and virtually no traffic … as if the end of the world had snuck up on her when she wasn’t looking, leaving her alone on the planet, everyone dead and gone except her. Putting on a burst of speed, she watched 12th Street come into view, Bill’s Grocer looming on the corner, its alley parking spots deserted. Nearby businesses were equally deserted, the houses in the area locked-up for the night. Along 12th Street, the odd car was still traveling past, but the avenue at the store’s side wall remained quiet. Hesitantly, Shir dismounted and leaned the Black against the usual stop sign, then set down the can of paint and levered off the lid with her apartment key. A sigh escaped her as she saw it was one-third full. Too bad she didn’t have a paintbrush, she thought, grimacing, but what the hell.
Cautiously, she inserted her right hand into the paint and mushed it around. When she pulled it out, her hand looked black, but holding it up to the streetlight, she saw it morph into the expected red—thick and dense as blood. Without warning, she was hit by the shakes and had to kneel, slumped inward until they had passed. Everywhere inside she could feel it—blood racing, running, pounding.
Getting to her feet, she approached the wall that faced the avenue. Her right arm was throbbing heavily, but she could manage, she thought grimly. She had to. Tentatively, her hand visibly trembling, she reached above her head and slid her paint-covered palm carefully down the concrete. Not too big, she thought. You don’t have much paint. Gently, she hand-painted another downstroke, then linked the two lines with a crossbar, lifted her hand free, and started the next letter. ANDERSON, she spelled out in trembling red-black letters, the breath jagged in her throat. With a half-sob, she again dipped her hand into the paint and wrote furiously, the words leaping from her palm—IS A DRUG DEALER. Fi
nished, she stood exhausted, swaying on her feet and staring at the five-word sentence, its massive, gut-grinding truth exposed for all to see.
Not enough, was all she could think. It isn’t enough. As she continued to stand, wide-eyed and staring, Mr. Anderson’s face surfaced in her mind, smiling its familiar jovial smile as he told her once again that she was the best delivery person he had ever hired. Super Boss, she thought, the sobs heaving out of her, I loved you. Alone on the darkened street, she bent double, the silent scream like an inner knife. I loved you like a daddy, came her thoughts, but you were never my daddy. No one was ever my daddy.
With a groan, she leaned down and dipped her hand into the remaining paint. Then, feverishly, she wrote liar, and again, Liar, and one last time, LIAR, wild and sprawling across the concrete. When she had finished, a wave of dizziness descended onto her, and she pressed, gasping, against the wall to wait it out. Then, clutching her sore arm, she backed up to the curb and stood, reading and rereading her dimly-lit message. Tilted and haphazard though it was, the words were legible, their meaning clear. In the morning light, they would be impossible to miss. The world would see and it would know.
But her work wasn’t complete, she thought, turning to her bike. One more person had to be warned. Slinging the near-empty can of paint onto the Black’s right handlebar, Shir set off for 34th Avenue and the familiar yellow house. By bike, it was a five-minute trip, the house windows dark upon her arrival, the doors locked tight. On her knees, she levered off the paint-can lid and assessed the small puddle at the bottom. There wasn’t much, she was going to have to be concise. Carefully, she smeared her palm in the sticky fluid and crouched, studying the sidewalk that ran the front of Mrs. Duran’s house.