“See? The button isn’t in his hands anymore. It’s hidden now, inside someone else’s. Do you understand?”
“Buddon,” she squeaked. She was so excited I had to keep my hands pressed on her shoulders to keep her from spinning.
An imbecile guessed my sister was the special holder, pointed at her, and said, “You!”
Clenching my jaw, I had to respond to such asperity.
“Her name is —” But before I could actually say it, my sister screamed, “Buddon!”
Everyone jeered.
“Buddon! Buddon!”
The kid’s face flushed with anticipation, thinking the cheap prize was his. “Well, Button-head,” he said, “Show it.” But then my sister opened her hands, and wriggled her fingers, revealing nothing.
Two rounds, and I reached my limit. She had no idea what was happening, even when I found the discarded button, brought it to her, and held it right in front of her shiny face. Placed the thing between her fatty palms, closed my hands over them. “Where’s the button?” I said. She grinned, glanced at the empty sky. “Id gond.” I pried open her hands, “No, it’s not gone. It’s here, see? Hiding away.” My sister stared at that plastic purple thing as though it had just appeared in thin air. Then she placed it on her tongue and tried to swallow it.
I could not coax this basic concept into her brain. If something was not in front of her, it did not exist. Nothing in her world was hidden from sight; everything was obvious, open, innocent. Some might say that is the way it should be for children. I would say it is a dangerous mindset with an unpredictable outcome.
I took Button-head by the wrist and led her home, even before the birthday cretin had hacked into his fancy supermarket cake.
[8]
With police milling around his backyard, Warren remained seated in a brown armchair with a towel pressed to his head. White cotton with one, no, two shots of fabric softener in the rinse cycle. It was like a lavender cloud, and he wanted to drape it over his face, disappear. He wished Stephen would jump onto his lap, or Nora was there to make him tea, fix him another slice of toast, tell him he was safe. Pathetic, he knew, but when he squeezed his eyes closed, he could not wipe the image of the girl from behind his lids. And then his mind sputtered, and shot up that final image of his father. He wanted both to go away.
He heard a knock, the front door opening.
“Hello?”
“Nora?” Relief washed through him.
“No, sorry, sir.” Two people appeared in his porch, a man in uniform, and a woman, small and slight, her frame overwhelmed by a dark overcoat. “I’m Detective Reed,” she said. “Is it okay, Mr. Botts, if I just step on in?” As she spoke, she pushed the last of a sugar-coated donut into her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, holding up powdery fingers. “I’m such a stereotype. Skipped breakfast.”
“Oh.”
“I know this is all a little overwhelming. I understand.” She licked the white from the corners of her lips. “The officer will just stand in the porch here. His boots are in a terrible mess.”
“Please. Please don’t let Stephen out,” he managed, though his voice was shaking. “He doesn’t go outdoors.”
“Stephen?”
“My cat.”
“Mittens wouldn’t do?” She took several steps toward him, and sat down on the very edge of the couch.
“I’m sorry?”
“The name. Usually people choose something a little less, um, bipedal?”
Warren cleared his throat. “I named him after Stephen Hawking. He’s a physicist.”
“A physicist? The man, you mean, and not the cat? Otherwise that’s one very smart kitty.”
Warren blinked, he did not understand what she was saying. His throat was dry, and his muscles ached. He had not removed his sneakers after his run, and his feet strained behind the laces.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Botts. I was just joking. I get it.” She stretched, and a bone popped. “Physics, hey? That’s your thing?”
With the towel bunched in his hands, he dried sweat from his palms. “I teach. Science. At the school.”
“That’s something. I thought about teaching, but I don’t have the patience. Not big on kids. Especially that age.”
Unsure how he was supposed to respond, Warren said, “I’m not a teacher. I’m a substitute.”
“A sub. We used to always give you guys such a tough time. You don’t want the position?”
He clicked his nails. “I don’t have a teaching certificate. I’m just taking a break. From university.”
“Oh. Well, what sort of things do you teach — do you sub?”
“A lot of general science. A bit of everything.”
“Like, say, um, pulleys and stuff?” She took out a notepad and pen, flipped open the paper. Smiling, she said, “Can’t live without paper. I have a terrible memory.”
“Yes. We completed a unit on forces. Earlier in the year. It’s part of the curriculum.”
“Forces. Wow. Can you tell me a little about that? Science was never my strong point. I was much better in gym.”
Warren glanced at her, thought for a moment to tell her about the three types of muscle in the human body. Six hundred and forty different ones. Three hundred and twenty pairs. Plus millions that just lift the hair on a person’s skin.
“Mr. Botts? The unit on forces?”
“Um, oh.” He blinked, stared at the hairs on his arm. All flat. Disconnected to the feeling inside his stomach. “I’m sorry. I meant, simple machines. Levers, inclined planes. Wedges, screws. Wheels.” He took a deep breath, spine sliding back onto a cushion. “Just an introduction, really. Lots of hands-on. It’s good to touch on everything before high school. You can look at my lesson plans if you like.”
“Mm-hmm.” She wiped the back of her hand against her forehead. “Did you know a girl named,” flipping through that notebook, “Amanda Fuller?”
The detective stared at him, and the skin tightened on the back of his neck. Hair at attention. Arrector pili working now. His spine came off the cushion.
Did he know Amanda Fuller? He closed his eyes for a moment, imagined her. Average height, thin, long brown hair. Her nose was narrow, sharp, and her skin was whiter than he thought was normal. When he looked at her, seated at a desk near the back of the room, he wondered if she had low hematocrit. Wondered about her blood count.
“Yes. She is, was my — a student. In my class.”
“Beyond that?”
He looked up, the detective’s eyes never wavered.
“Beyond?”
“Yes. I mean, did you see her outside of school? Did she come to your home? Before this morning, I mean.”
Turning his head, Warren glanced at the couch. Remembered her sitting there and complaining. “I like your house better, Mr. Botts,” she had said. “Even though we’re living in the same crappy style. Weird, hey?”
Warren looked away. Had the investigator noticed?
“No.” He reached up, touched his glasses. “Nothing outside of the classroom.” In the back of his mind, he heard the quiet thump, thump of his counting. A rabbit’s foot, drumming the earth. He had not even realized it, but he was tracking the seconds since Detective Reed had walked through the door.
“Are you certain?”
Silent for a moment, then Warren added, “Well, she did come and watch the soccer games occasionally. She sat on the bench. Didn’t play, though.” She would sit there and stare at another girl. Evie, he thought, though he could not be certain. Often Amanda appeared angry, miserable, her mouth twisted into a bitter scowl.
“Was she a good student?”
“For the most part.” Twisting the towel in his fingers. “I think she found it difficult. Challenging. The course material.”
“I suspect I would as well.” Light laughter.
“But she tried. Some of them didn’t. Some couldn’t care less. Maybe a bit lazy.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I want to sound unkind.”
“No, Mr. Botts. Don’t worry. We’re just chatting.”
Chatting. “Would you like a drink, then? Water? I might have some apple juice in the fridge.”
“Water would be fantastic.”
When he stood, his legs felt like rubber, and he wobbled slightly, caught himself. Perhaps he should tell her he had been jogging, and had not eaten since he came home. At the sink, he let the water run, saw the toast still peeking out of his toaster, the butter still smeared on the linoleum where he had dropped the knife. That would be slippery. Dangerous if someone stepped on it.
Turning his head ever so slightly, he could see the backyard in his peripheral vision. Cameras were flashing. Amanda had been freed, and now a man in a yellow helmet was yanking a cord on a chainsaw. Warren quickly poured a glass of water, twisted the tap, and returned to the living room, thrust the drink toward Detective Reed. Some spilled over the lip, wetting his hand.
“They’re cutting the tree?”
“Just the branch, Mr. Botts.”
He sat down again. “That’s too bad.”
“Does that bother you?”
Pushing his hands underneath his thighs. “Yes. A little. Of course it does. Would bother anyone. But better than the whole tree.”
“The branch has things attached to it. I’m certain you saw.”
“Yes.”
“We saw footsteps in the snow.”
“Those would be mine.”
“But you did not try to bring her down?” She took a sip, stared at him over the rim of the glass. “Help her?”
“No. No. I didn’t think.” His words popped out in a sputter. “I didn’t know what to do. I came inside, right away, and made the call.”
“Can you tell me exactly what you did?”
“I — I saw her through my window. When I came back from, um, jogging. I went out, Detective Reed, but I couldn’t get close. I’m sorry.”
“Why not? Why couldn’t you get close?”
“I just couldn’t.” Lowering his head. “My legs. I don’t know how to explain it. They — they wouldn’t move.” Warren scratched the insides of his elbows. The same location where he had once had eczema. Inside his head, his mother yelled, “Stop picking at yourself, Warren. How do you think it’ll ever heal?” And he stopped moving his fingers.
Part of him wanted to ask if Amanda was okay, but that would have sounded absurd. He knew she was dead. Just as he had known, that sunny afternoon, his father was dead. Even without looking. There was a spoiled smell that radiated out from his father. Even from a distance, in the cold November air, that same smell had clung to Amanda.
“Okay.” She gulped the remainder of the water, unbuttoned her coat jacket. “Phew, it sure is warm in here.”
“My fish.” His face flushed, and he touched his glasses again.
“Quite the collection.”
“My friend, you see. He owns a store. Gordie Smit? Andy’s Pets?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know it.”
“They were going to get rid of them. Dispose, I mean. Their stock. Too much trouble with their tanks.” He was rambling, and he clenched his jaw. “I wanted to care for them.”
She made a note in her book. “Did you, say, want to care for Amanda Fuller?”
“I — I. Yes, of course. I liked her.” He pulled his upper lip into his mouth, pressed with his bottom teeth. Did he like her? Or did he find her spoiled, bossy, entitled? Rude? “Like I like all of my students.”
He noticed her staring at his lap, and when he looked down he realized his hands were twisting the towel. He focused on his counting for a moment. Took another breath. She looked him straight in the eyes, and he squirmed, fixed instead on the curious print framed over the fireplace. All furnishings had been part of the rental, and while he did not care for most, he liked that image. A close-up of a woman’s head, pale green skin, bright lips, but instead of eyes, there were two ears. Just the outer portion, the pinna, attached to the front of her face. It was much easier to gaze at her when she could not look back.
“Did you close your curtains last night, Mr. Botts? Specifically, in your kitchen?”
“I think I — I think I forgot.”
“So you got up, curtains open, you had a coffee, read the paper, or whatever you do, and didn’t look outside that entire time?”
Untangling his hands, he placed them on the armrests. Fabric hitched from Stephen’s hooked claws. He suddenly realized, I will lose my deposit, then tried to push the callous thought away. A thread came loose, and he wrapped it around his finger, snapped it. “I don’t know. I don’t. Um. I was distracted.” He swallowed. Saliva moved through his throat like a thick slug.
“So you noticed nothing?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could you miss that coat? It practically glows.”
“It was dark when I got up. I’m an early riser.” Pain behind the bridge of his nose, and his eyes began to water. “And I do not believe her jacket is phosphorescent.”
Detective Reed frowned then, just the slightest dip at the corners of her mouth.
“I’m really sorry. I am.” His voice cracked.
“Why do you feel sorry, Mr. Botts? You can tell me.”
“I — I. I don’t know. Would that have made a difference? If I had seen her before I went jogging?”
The officer in the porch cleared his throat. “A word, Detective Reed?” Warren had forgotten he was standing there.
“Yep.” She went to him, their heads close together.
They were whispering, and when she returned to her seat, her expression had changed. The pleasantness was gone.
“Mr. Botts, can I share something with you?”
He nodded.
“We’re having a bit of an issue. You see, we suspect Amanda Fuller did not put herself in that position on her own. We’re fairly confident the rope was tied around the tree after part of it was placed around her neck. Someone lifted her off the ground.”
“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh. I don’t believe. No.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I don’t think something like that can happen. It’s — it’s. Just. Not. Well. No.” He tapped the arm of his glasses. “I don’t think it happened like that.”
“While we’re not ruling out any possibilities, someone else could have been involved here. Currently, we do not know who that someone was.”
Warren swallowed again. It would take seven seconds for the saliva to glide down his esophagus and reach his stomach. Why was she looking at him?
“We are treating your backyard as a crime scene. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“And Mr. Botts?”
“Yes, Detective?”
“You may remain in the house, but stay away from the yellow tape perimeter out there. It’s supposed to warm up tomorrow, and we’re going to need a look at what’s under that snow.”
Both officers exited the front door, but left it ajar. Warren got up to close it, pushed his face through the crack, and said, “I’m just going to lock it up, okay? I don’t want Stephen to get out.”
“Mr. Botts.” Surprised. “I thought we closed it. Yes, I know, the cat.”
“Mm.” He tried to smile, ease the door closed.
“Oh, and Mr. Botts? I will take a look at your lesson plans. As you offered. Just the physics unit, please. If you could bring them to me?”
When both the front and back yards were silent, the ambulance and police cars had retreated, Warren began to search for his friend. He checked under both beds, behind the box of magazines, on every chair at the kitchen table. He even opened the cupboards, as Stephen had a habit of sneaking in ther
e and falling asleep inside a ceramic bowl. “Stephen,” he called, shaking the food bag. “Treat?” But he was nowhere to be found.
The fear was choking him. What if Stephen was gone? What if Stephen never came back? Then he heard someone crying. A wavering meow, so uncertain and lost, coming from outside. Warren did not hesitate this time. He opened the back door, rushed out into the diminishing light, lifted the yellow tape, and stumbled toward the sound.
[9]
For a passing present, my aunt gave me a sixth insect to add to my collection. A spider. Legs splayed, abdomen round and perfect, barbed bristles like a fine coating of hair. Even though the spider was visually boring, a dull brown, it was my favourite. We had something in common. Spiders are born with instinct, the inner instructions on how to build. Filaments of awareness, sensations, that eventually spin into cords of knowledge. Though different styles, we both construct webs.
I introduced it to the others, and placed it on the painted shelf in my bedroom. Besides that shelf, the blue walls were empty, no pictures or posters or other distractions. I sat down on my bed, a single mattress without a proper frame, and stared up at the shelf. My family was expanding.
“Hurry,” I yelled at Button.
“Huhdy,” she repeated.
She plodded behind me, huffing and puffing. We paused at a stream and I cupped water in my hand, swiped it across her mouth. Rubbed. A stain of orange had formed around her lips from lunch, and my mother had not cleaned her. She had been too busy staring at a fuzzy screen outlining the drama of other people’s lives. “Happier people,” my mother said. “It’s moronic,” I told her. “To be more interested in those lives. They’re not even real.” She frowned, but never altered her gaze. And so I opened a can of tomato soup, warmed it, and scooped it into Button’s mouth. I clanked the pot, bowl, and spoon into the chipped sink. My mother did not flinch. “To thrive, a child needs fresh air and vigorous exercise,” I told the mindless lump that had birthed us. “There’s the door,” she muttered.
The Substitute Page 4