He did not need to hear the rest. He felt as though he was being given an opportunity to repair things, and he must hurry down to the station. Obviously people’s grief had morphed into anger, and they were misplacing blame. Directing it toward Warren. Which made very little sense — she was his student, yes, and found in his backyard, but beyond that there was no reason anyone should be treating him any differently. After dressing quickly, he filled Stephen’s bowl and fed his fish. He would go and talk to Detective Reed. Straighten everything out.
When he stepped out into dull morning, he saw the paper. He crouched, turned it over. There was a small school photo of Amanda on the front page, an elastic band distorting her features, one eye lower than the other. Next to her photo was a picture of him. Plaid shirt, grey tie, solemn expression, taken from a pamphlet the university had produced for his department. He had no idea how anyone would have obtained that photo, but there he was. Side by side with Amanda.
He paused, wiped his hands on his jacket, then kicked the paper to the corner of his porch. It slid underneath a mound of dried leaves. Hidden from view.
“Sorry about the room.” Detective Reed leaned across the metal table, took a sip from an oversized mug. “Again. Very sterile, I know.”
“It’s okay.” He could smell coffee on her breath.
“There’s just so much commotion outside. Desks are full. Small town, we are, but no shortage of issues.”
“I understand. It’s okay.”
There was a donut on a blue napkin, and one of her fingers rested on top of it. She shook her head slightly, said, “It’s a terrible addiction. Me and anything sweet.” Two hefty bites, white powder tumbled onto her blouse. “Now, Mr. Botts, we just have a few more things we need some clarity on. Or should I call you Dr. Botts?”
“Please. I prefer Mr.” He shifted in his seat.
“Got it. I spoke with Ms. Fairley. Your principal? And she told us about your education. Impressive.”
Warren blinked. The room was full of right angles. There was nothing to count. He desperately wanted to tap out a rhythm with his foot.
“Not every day you meet a PhD around here. Can you tell me about it?”
“There’s not a whole lot to tell.” He had worked in a tiny lab at the university, with a group of developmental biologists. All of whom were better at the game of academia than he was. Massaging their results, minimizing their shortcomings, getting their names on papers, selling their research to those who held the purse. “Some biology stuff.”
“Not physics?”
“No.”
“I was confused. I thought. Your cat and all.”
“My cat?” Warren pressed his glasses against his face, once, twice.
“You know. Stephen Hawking. Your physicist friend in a fur suit?”
“Oh, yes. Stephen. I started out in physics, but I shifted. I became less interested in studying abstractions and models, and more interested in living things. How things grow, change, adapt. I met my first bichir as a graduate student.” He would not tell her that he had shifted focus as he needed to escape the constant barrage of numbers. He had no control over his counting then, and it was exhausting. His mind continually considering, calculating, identifying patterns.
“That a monkey?”
“No, no. It’s a fish, actually, a small fish.”
“You spent years of your life studying a fish?” She glanced down at her chest, brushed the powder from the fabric.
“Well, it’s a fish that has lungs. And gills, too. But the lungs are what make it interesting. They can live in water, but can also adapt to living on land. When they’re raised on land, the way their skeleton grows changes, their gait adjusts. They —” He noticed her eyes darting back and forth, and he stopped talking.
“I don’t understand the point. Why do they need both?”
She began clinking her nails against the metal table, and Warren realized his descriptions were boring. Perhaps he was not explaining it properly.
“Adaptation,” he said, slowly and quietly. “If the water’s oxygen-poor, they can breathe through the air. If they need, they can move from one pool to the next.” Touching the rim of his glasses. “Kind of scoot over.”
“Too bad people can’t do that.”
“I’m sorry?” He reached up, lifted his glasses.
“Scoot over. If your home is shit. Just scoot over to something better.” She grinned, slurped her coffee. “Seriously though, Mr. Botts, how did you go from studying land fish to teaching grade eight science in the middle of nowhere? Substitute teacher seems like a step back, don’t you think?”
“It just sort of happened. My adviser is Ms. Fairley’s brother. Dr. William Fairley.”
“Small world.”
“Not really. I met her at his house. She was up visiting for a weekend. She told him about her problems with the school, no teacher. He just up and walked out. And I offered to help.”
“That’s a mighty big offer. Why would someone do that?”
“I don’t know, Detective Reed. I can’t say.” But he did know. The departmental politics was sludge around his ankles, and he no longer felt as though he were doing something real. Exploring or learning. If only he could be left alone to study his small friends, examine the way they flapped across the sand, lifting their heads, he might have been happier. “I was bored?”
“You make that sound like a question.”
He could not tell her there was also something beyond that. The money. Teaching paid better than research assistant. He was saving every penny he could, refilling his envelope for Beth. To help her recover. If she ever wanted that.
“No, no. I just thought to do something different. A change. Thought it would be, well, interesting.”
“And is it?”
He pressed his knees together, until his bones ached. “Certainly not this part,” he said, volleying a joke toward her. Her face remained flat, not even a hint of a grin. Warren swallowed. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Detective Reed. Not that your company is, well, the chairs are —” Stammering. “I mean, it’s cold in here.”
“No, no. I understand. It’s an inconvenience, right?”
“Yes, well.” He wanted to tell her the metal rim of the chair was cutting into his thoracic vertebrae. That he had a sharp pain just behind his right temple. That the blandness of the room upset him, made his mind feel distorted, confused. There was nothing he could identify to count. “I mean. It’s fine.”
Head tilting backward, eyebrows lifting. “A girl is dead, Mr. Botts. We can’t forget that, right? And in your backyard. And with some whacked-out science set-up that must be very familiar to you. So while it’s inconvenient, I hope you understand it’s also necessary.”
Warren flushed again, the pink of embarrassment, not pride. He tried to ignore the pain in his spine.
“Did you ever notice the pulleys and things attached to the tree, prior to Sunday morning?”
“No.”
“Could they have been there for long?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I never saw them. Were they rusty? I never spent much time back there. I think I would have seen them.”
“We got an expert evaluating everything. Did I mention that? He’s going to assess the branch, the equipment, the photos.”
Warren leaned forward, brought his pale hands back to the table. “That sounds expensive.”
“You said it. But, well. When you’re dealing with a child. A young girl. No stone unturned, right?”
“I could. If you wanted me to, of course. You know. Offer my opinion. I can, and I don’t mind.”
Detective Reed glanced over her shoulder at the mirror on the wall behind her. Then she smiled, thin and practised. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Botts. But no — no thank you. I don’t think that’s, um. No thank you.” Audible slurps, close-mouthe
d belch, and she patted her mouth. “Besides. We won’t have to wait long. Someone who knows someone is calling in a favour. I got no idea, but it shouldn’t take long.”
“Oh.”
“But, Mr. Botts? There was something I wanted to talk to you about. With Amanda. We’ve received some preliminary information. She had something in her mouth. Placed there, we believe.”
Warren shook his head, but the image was locked in his mind. Zooming in. Her stretched jaw, frozen froth on her lips, a white crumple bunched and pressed into her face. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Well, it was a test. A science test. Recently completed.”
Shaking his head again. He saw the test in her hands as she sat on his front step, crying, then shoving it into her backpack. He felt her arms around his waist, squeezing him. “You’re better than him,” she had said. “Way better.” He had forgotten that. Forgotten that she had rushed toward him, hugged him.
“Odd, that’s all.” Another peek over her shoulder. “You know, girl hanging from science set-up in backyard of science teacher, I mean science substitute, with science test rammed in her mouth.” She bit her cuticle, plucked the piece from her teeth. “Seems odd, doesn’t it? I mean, like all of it should mean something, don’t you agree?”
He did not know how to respond, other than to nod, say it was odd. Horrible and odd. That he could not fathom what it all meant.
“Mr. Botts, has anyone been in touch with you?” She stared at the sliver of wet skin on her fingertip.
“No. No one.” Besides Sarie, and he had still not returned her call. “Who do you mean? Who would be in touch?”
“Channel Four has contacted us. Has done so several times. They haven’t contacted you?”
Warren thought of one of the vans outside his house, but shook his head, grimaced as Detective Reed flicked her cuticle.
“People are curious. If they do, you know, reach out to you, do us all a favour, and just don’t respond. Do you understand? That’s the best advice we can give you. Just don’t engage. They may be local, but that doesn’t mean they’re not hungry.”
“Hungry?”
“Wanting a story.”
“Oh.”
“This is not something that happens around here, Mr. Botts. Maybe you’re used to hearing about this sort of perversion in the big city and all, but our lives are more on the quiet spectrum of things.”
The quiet spectrum.
“I’ve never heard that term before.”
“Yeah, well. We live simple lives is what I meant. We go to church, Mr. Botts. We leave our doors unlocked. We eat a lot of pork. And ice cream, of course, though not often together.” She scraped her chair back, and stood up. “If you think of anything else, you got my number, right, Botts?”
“I do.” He was about to stand up when he thought about his student Adrian Byrd, the healing marks that tracked across his face, his unsettling comments about pain. “Detective Reed?” He considered Libby’s story, saw the oversized tricycle, toppled, a girl’s face in the water, puffing like a landed fish. Adrian bending, gripping the pedal, cranking his arm as strands of thin hair coiled around the metal. Pulling the girl closer and closer. Her muddy scalp tightening, then a fissure forming, a cracking sound, the peeling of adhesive tape. Adrian looking up at him and smiling.
“Yup.”
He lifted his left hand, and knocked his forehead with his knuckles. “No, nothing,” he said. It was a story. A story. Passed on from tongue to tongue. A boy was not capable of that cruelty. A child was not to blame for this. “I forget. I forget what I was going to say.”
[21]
The glass slipped from Button’s tiny grip, and the electric orange soda flew up and out, spattering the woman’s face, neck, dress, shoes. Alert, I sat up straight, my cheeks pressed to the wooden bars. The human stick was covered, head to toe, in abstract stains. Pretty stains, yes, unique organic blotches, but she screamed, “Who let this thing back here?” Her clothes were clearly ruined, and I wondered if her bleached hair would suck up the permanent colour. That would be a charm.
My loser aunt moaned and dropped her head back so far, I could see the ridges of her trachea on her throat. “Fuh-uh-uck, Button! Seriously? You are bee-yond fuh-ucking dumb.” Then she tried to pat Stick down with napkins, but Stick shoved her hand away, turned, and scuttled into the house. The crowd was silent, and my aunt addressed them, “I’m so, so sorry. Harvey? Harv? Jesus. I am so, so, so sorry for this. Did anyone else get messed? It was an accident. An accident. We’ll pay for dry cleaning, right, Harv? She’s got something wrong with her, you know. She’s not a normal kid. She’s been retarded since she was born. I just try to take her when I can. To help the girl’s mother. Me and Harv, helping her. Just a woman overwhelmed. I’m trying to help. Let me know who needs dry cleaning. Harvey? I’m so, so, so sorry.”
She reminded me of my mother then, over-talking, over-demonstrating, and as I listened, I ground my teeth. Irritated, yes, but also so, so, sooo pleased to see her squirm.
Larva never spoke. He popped the joints in his knuckles, a loud snap in his neck, and floated calmly toward Button. “Come with me,” he whispered with a familiar softness, took her wrist in a two-finger pinch. At that moment, I thought of my father. His unreadable expression, fury disguised by a breath of cordiality. As I was witnessing this, seeing both mother and father representations, my head felt somewhat woozy, severed from its core. I should have worn a ball cap. The sun was too strong on my skull.
With his beefy mitt under Button’s arm, he lifted her so her toes barely skittered over the cement as they marched toward the treat table. I considered that his bicep must be substantial, as Button was no wilting daisy. “Buddun sahwee,” she repeated, as she was trained to do. “Buddun sahwee sahwee.” And she smiled at everyone, mouth, lips, and gums practically glowing.
No reaction, as though her words dissolved in the air around him. Unopened bottle of soda in his fist, he directed my sister away from the crowd, brought her closer to the balcony where I was seated. I had an excellent view. Then he twisted the cap off with his teeth, spat it, handed the entire two litres to Button. She gripped it against her stomach, and then he bent toward her, whispered something into her ear. I could hear very clearly what he said. “You want it that bad? Do you? Do you? You fat fucking pest.” Button remained cheerful. “Oday, oday. Un-cah Lahvee. Need cup?” I could see she was trying to continue smiling. Still trying to see kindness everywhere. Stupid flowerchild style. Still clinging to her peace and summer love shit.
He whispered something else, “. . . kidding me . . . every last drop . . .” and as he retreated to the adult table, he wiped his hand on his white pants. The hand that had touched Button. My aunt circled around, rubbed the loser’s back, and he shrugged like he had taken care of things. It was just another day.
Button remained in that spot and began sipping straight from the bottle. She sipped and sipped, and only stopped to murmur, “Sahwee, sahwee, sahwee, sahwee,” at high speeds.
I did not intervene. I watched my sister trying to drink a full bottle of soda, and I deliberately did nothing. I thought the experience would turn her. Once we were home, we would dissect the incident at length, and I would explain that the spilled drink was an honest mistake. No one was actually injured, no animals were harmed in the making of said mess. Someone should have been monitoring her more closely. It was not her fault. Besides, Wafer-Lady surely had a matching dress hanging in her richy-rich closet. People like that do not deserve to live. Who do they think they are? I would say all of those things to Button. Treating her like that. The woman was a cunt, I would tell her, reminding her not to repeat that particular word in front of an adult. A foul yeasty cunt. I knew it when I laid eyes on her. Button would learn this decisive skill. Slits of darkness would penetrate the glitter inside her mind.
As I watched her struggle, I actually felt de
lighted. This just might be the kick-start we needed. Thank you, treat table.
Away from the crowd, Button began to whimper. But she was obedient, and continued drinking. Gulp after gulp, I could see her neck bobbing. She reminded me of a photograph I once saw in a library book. Culinary arts around the world. A foie gras duck, pipe shoved down its throat, except Button was being stuffed with dye and water, not grains and fat. I could see her pressing her starfish hand into her stomach.
Glancing around, she tipped the bottle on its side. Slightly, slightly, until a thin stream of soda began to dribble out onto the concrete. Larva was beside her in a flash, righting the bottle, telling her through clenched teeth, “Think I’m stupid? Spill another drop, and you’ll get a fucking full bottle.” My aunt had slithered over. “Seriously, Button. Show some respect to your Uncle Harv.”
I leaned my head against the railing. Yes, after this experience, I would have the material to alter Button. To twist her white-light insides, introduce shadows into her heart. I had been working on her for years, and the thought of progress excited me. What an intense rush that would be when it happened. If it happened. So far, no matter what words I slipped into her ear, no matter how I tainted a memory, she had remained purely good, incapable of anger or malice. Her innocence was confounding, and beginning to grow quite boring, to say the least. The game had gotten old, but here was our dear family handing me an overflowing dish of cruelty. If this did not make Button despise them, there was no hope for her.
I heard her mumbling in a low voice, “Un-cah. Un —” She belched loudly, rubbed her stomach. Button continued sipping, even though she was keening, “Un-cah Lahvee, pleadz. Id hurd hurd, hurd bad. Id hurd me.” Bent at the waist, she gripped her middle. Orange snot spilled from her nostrils. She glanced around, discovered me observing from the upper porch. I knew she wanted me to step in, but I did not meet her gaze. I knew she was looking for my permission to walk away, and I would not give it to her.
The Substitute Page 12