The Substitute

by Nicole Lundrigan

  He tried to read, tried to listen to a discussion on the radio, but he could not focus. Kneeling down in front of his tanks, he saw a faint build-up of algae on the glass. A water change was overdue, and this would pass the time. Underneath the kitchen sink, he retrieved plastic tubing, a bucket, his bottle of water conditioner, the glass scraper. Lifting the lid on the first tank, he set to work, checking parameters, establishing a siphon. His breathing calmed with the monotony of the cleaning, calculating the ratios of tank size to conditioner, gently scouring the glass, counting the numbers of swipes it took to remove the stubborn growth. He spoke quietly to the fish, explaining each procedure, the chemicals he was using, his future plans for each tank, and he wondered if they could hear his voice. If they recognized his face as he peered in at them. He wondered what it was like to exist in a school, surrounded by six or eight identical fish. Never to be alone.

  Sleeves rolled up over his elbows, Warren moved slowly from tank to tank. He could hear the clean water moving over the plastic lip near the filter, tumbling onto the surface. A simple, natural, distracting sound. The tinkling was random, and he was grateful his mind could work endlessly trying to distinguish a pattern between the notes.

  Piercing screams came from the front of his house. Warren’s head jerked up, and he looked into the living room. His first thought was Beth, but he could still hear her snoring from the bedroom. He jumped up, blood rushing from his skull, and the bruise on his face throbbing. Gripping the edge of the counter, he waited for his spotty vision to return to normal. The screaming continued, and he stepped softly away from his tanks, moved toward the front curtains. Pulled back the corner and peeked out.

  A woman was standing in the middle of his lawn. Wearing a skirt and short-sleeved blouse. No coat, no hat, no scarf. She was jabbing her finger toward his house, belting out garbled words that Warren could not identify. People surrounded her, a man tried to place his coat across her shoulders, several others joined her in her shouting. Light flashed from a camera, illuminating her face. Warren saw her clearly now, and even though he had never met her, some part of his clanging heart knew who she was.

  Amanda Fuller’s mother.

  He froze, floral curtain still gripped in his fist. What if she came to the door? Wanted to yell at him? He could think of nothing to say to her, nothing that might bring comfort or understanding. Facing her, he would stutter and press his glasses into his face. He would repeat a string of numbers in his mind so that her voice would recede into the background.

  Another flash of light burst through the fabric of the curtains, this time a swirl of red and blue moving over his walls, over his hand. A loud whoop of a siren. The police had arrived. He did not dare look out, but he heard doors slamming, a voice that sounded very much like Detective Reed’s.

  Without thinking, he walked away from his front window, went into his kitchen. As soon as he turned the corner, he could smell garbage rising up from the plastic bin. His hands automatically reached for the black bag, gripped and rolled the edges, knotted them. The siren outside had stopped. Everything was quieter, and Warren took a deep breath, stepped out his back door, and walked toward the metal garbage bin near the side of his house. Through cracks in his fence, he could see Detective Reed talking to Mrs. Fuller. Their heads were close together, and Detective Reed placed her hand on Mrs. Fuller’s shoulder.

  Warren grabbed the cold metal handle and lifted the lid. He was about to push the plastic bag into the dark hole, when he noticed several crumpled papers sitting on top of the garbage. He had not placed those papers there. Every item he dropped in the can was double-bagged in order to prevent leaks. He never just tossed random junk inside. Behind him, he knew the tree was there, a circle of trash around its trunk. Had someone used his garbage can? Had Beth thrown something away?

  Even as he was picking them up, his mind told him to ignore them. Not to touch them. Not to pluck the sheets of loose leaf out of the can, smooth them on his leg, and angle them toward a window so that he could see more clearly.

  Pages illuminated, his hand stopped. In the dim light, he could see the drawings. Scratched in dark red ink on white paper. As though a person had answered the question on his science quiz, but the parameters had changed. The branch, the pulleys, a thin rope. The weight replaced by a stick figure, lines to indicate moving legs, head angled forward, two xs for the eyes. The only item of detail was a striped stocking hat drawn on the simple circular head.

  Warren peered through the fence again. Mrs. Fuller was gone, and Detective Reed was edging up the driveway toward his house. Her whistling slid through the air, filling Warren’s ears. Glow from a flashlight then, scanning the fence, flickering over Warren’s torso. His fingers locked around the drawings, pressed them to his chest.

  He rushed into his house. Standing inside his bright kitchen, his eyes watered, and for a moment he imagined Sarie there. Leaning against the countertop, arms folded, disappointed clicking coming from her throat. If she could see him now, shivering, a mob of angry people outside his house, strung-out sister sedated in his bedroom, police lights invading every window, she might have understood his avoidance. But there was no excuse. Warren could not think about it, danced around the edges of it, glancing at a cold image through slit fingers. His mother was — No, it is not real. If he allowed that information to snake into his mind, it might choke him with regret.

  Three loud thumps on the front door. So forceful, he heard the windowpanes rattle. Three more thumps. From the bedroom, Beth slurred, “Whooooo?” and then, “Wahhrsie. You got compaa —” A breeze curled over his face. His front door had been opened. He heard the shuffle of feet, a sharp crack of chewing gum, and Warren looked down at the drawings in his shaking fist. “You here, Botts?” Detective Reed was in his porch.

  [33]

  “We’re pregnant!”

  Seeing my mother’s reaction, so soon after losing Button, affected me in a willowy way. I felt long and asymmetrical and unable to stay still. As though I were an inflated ribbon on the sidewalk outside a car wash, and the generator was coughing. Swaying, my feet were not quite rooted to the carpet. For a moment, I closed my eyes, strained against my senses, but still, I could not identify what was happening inside my mind. And that murkiness irritated me. My aunt’s good news and my mother’s expression were making me itch. I wanted to leave, but instead I folded my arms, scratched until I developed two raw spots near my ribs.

  “What do you mean?” my mother asked, sounding stupid. She sat down. Her shoulders rolled inward over her heart.

  “We just don’t know how it happened, do we, Harvey? I mean we’ve been so careful and all. Taking precautions. But I guess it’s just meant to be!”

  A grunt erupted from his mouth. Is this thug incapable of conversing? He snapped open a beer, placed the can on his crotch.

  “Well,” my mother managed. “That is some big news. Unexpected. Congratulations?”

  “We are beyond excited. Bee-yond! So, so looking forward to raising our little one. Aren’t we, babes?”

  “Uh-huh.” Gulp.

  “I’ve always been the aunt,” she warbled, practically flapping her wings. “Now I get to be the mom.”

  “It’s a lot of work.”

  “Now, Harv and me don’t mind work. Raising kids is the most honest work around. You’d say that yourself, sure.

  And Harv’s family is all about the young ones. Babies. Cousins. Harvey’s sister’ll just love it. It’ll bring everyone closer together.”

  “Yes. Yes.” My mother twisted her head toward me. Her neck looked stiff, full of taut cords. “What do you say, Kiddle?”

  Under her strange watery glare, that willowy sensation evaporated. Oily contempt bubbled up through the carpet, and I was standing in a puddle of it. Did the silly housewife expect me to squeal and offer congratulations to my whore-aunt? They had barely cared for Button. Not much more than frying an egg
or swiping peanut butter across a slice of stale bread. I did everything important. I washed her hair and folded her clothes and took her to the doctor to get shot up with dead viruses. I read her entertaining material, and picked candy out of her teeth and snot out of her nose. I scrubbed her skin with baby oil after she stuck her hands in warm tar. I took it upon myself to teach her about the badness in the world. About shitty people. To open her eyes.

  Not that I was very successful.

  My aunt ignored my weighted silence, continued, “Oh my God. I’m so hoping it’s a girl.”

  These words pricked me. “You want a girl? A girl?” My voice was even, flat.

  “Oh, yeah. Not that there’s anything wrong with boys, of course. A boy would be just fine, too, right Harv? But you should see the cute stuff they got in the stores. Ahh-dorbable! You could look after her. Protector, and all.”

  Protector. And all. I took a deep breath. “Like I was with Button?”

  My aunt froze, then. Her lip mid-flap. I could have sworn she was about to say, Who?

  “Well, Kiddle,” she stammered. “I — we — you see . . .”

  I allowed the dead air to curdle for a count of one, two, three, before saying, “You clearly don’t realize I’m joking.” Then I turned, walked out of the house. Heard my mother’s habitual sigh, offering, “Upset, that’s all. It’s to be expected. After, well, you know.”

  My mother was so wretched, she could not even say Button’s name. Six weeks after my sister had dropped dead, my mother decided to clear out the room. Gave away all of Button’s possessions. Never invested any energy into Button when she was breathing, but here that woman was, garbage bags full of stuffed animals, pink sheets, unwashed clothes, tossed on the front step. Bed dismantled, dragged out the door. She scoured crayon artwork off the white night table, put it on the curb. I watched that night table, like an angry hawk, until a man drove by, stopped, tossed it into the back of his pickup. For some asinine reason, I had thought my mother might clean Button’s room, and keep it as it was. But instead she made Button disappear. Furniture dents in the carpet were the only evidence my sister had been there at all.

  I went to my tree, crawled up the trunk, sat in the crook. As the days were shortening, I sensed even my tree was growing distant. The energy inside the outer rings slipping inwards, the branches drifting, dozing. I never resented this winter sleep, but I wished it were otherwise. Wished I were lying on something fully alive. Can I admit my spirits markedly improved when my neighbour emerged from his home holding two mugs? The sight of his desiccated face was strangely welcome. I slithered down the cold bark, made my way toward his front porch.

  “Hello, Mister.”

  “Rough day, my friend?” He made eye contact which I could not sustain.

  Wiping my wet cheeks in my sleeves, I replied, “No. Nothing. Just the wind.”

  “Wind?”

  “There’s more wind up in the tree. At that altitude. More wind. Makes my eyes water.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” he said, holding up the steaming mugs. “Well, the key to wind resistance is hot chocolate. It’s instant. Not instant resistance, I mean, just instant hot chocolate.”

  “I get it, Mister.” I was cold. Even though those early December days were mild, it was hard to stay warm while remaining stationary in the crook of a sleeping tree.

  “I used water, but there’s still a bit of real milk in the powder. I think it’s real. Is that all right?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “I know you don’t drink milk.”

  I took the mug in my hands, smelled the sweet steam rising up from the thin liquid. “Only an ignorant person is rigid in their beliefs,” I replied.

  “Right. Of course.” A gentle chuckle. “But your intestinal tract might disagree with your apparent flexibility. I wouldn’t want you going home in any pain. Getting me in trouble with your mother.”

  Getting in trouble with your mother. The stupidity of that comment made me gulp the hot chocolate, burning my tongue and throat. I choked slightly.

  “Watch it, watch it,” he said, and when his fingers grazed my shoulder, patted me very gently, my eyes started leaking once again. My tear ducts were irritated by the steam, or the burn in my throat, or something.

  He brought his hand back to his chest. “You okay, friend?”

  “Don’t worry about my mother,” I said, blinking. “She’s preoccupied.”

  “I understand. It’s not natural to lose a child. It will take a long time.”

  “Button was mine. Not hers.” An unintentional blurt. Rare for me.

  “I’m sure she was. You loved her.”

  I peered into my mug. There was a layer floating on top of the hot chocolate, and when I blew, it crinkled like skin. I hated that word. Love. People tossed it around so easily, as though it was the epitome of existence. Common stupidity. I hated that my connection with Button was reduced to such a meaningless emotion.

  But I smiled at my neighbour, said, “Thank you for noticing.”

  “You must miss her.”

  I nodded, lowered my eyelids. I do. I could not deny it. I miss her. Every. Single. Day.

  “Do you want to come inside and warm up? Or are you needed at home?”

  Needed at home. Seriously! “No, Mister. I can come in.”

  “I’ve got new cookies. Something with nuts, I think.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I understand. I’m not hungry most days either. Once you’ve tasted everything as often as I have, the thrill is gone.”

  Nodding, “I know what you mean.”

  Once inside, we sat in silence. A comfortable silence, which I enjoyed. I ate one of his peanut butter cookies, and he was right, there was no thrill.

  “How’s your stomach?” he asked when I had taken several sips.

  “Not a problem. Yours?”

  “All good. Besides, I take something every day. Knocks what belongs out out, keeps what belongs in in.”

  I stopped mid-slurp, licked my lips. “An odd phrase.”

  My dear neighbour appeared a little sheepish. “Sorry. Too much information to share. That’s what happens when you’re alone most of the time. Your sense of sociability flies out the window.”

  “No, Mister. I was, I was just thinking it was a convoluted sentence. Definitely some type of grammatical error in there.”

  I repeated his words in my head.

  And then, click, I sensed something was growing in my mind. The seed of an idea.

  “Never did do good in grammar. The only term I remember is a dangling participle. And only reason I remember that is because I thought it was something inappropriate. Funny how a young man’s mind clamps on to that sort of thing!”

  “Sipping hot chocolate, the wind started to howl outside.”

  He cocked his head to the side, tugged his long lobe. “Hey, what’s that? The wind is coming up? I don’t hear it.”

  “I was dangling a participle, Mister. As an example. To demonstrate the error for you.”

  Again, with the easy laughter. “There you go. Put it right in front of me, and I still didn’t see it.”

  No different than most people.

  “The wind was not drinking hot chocolate.”

  “Yes, yes, I get it now.”

  Another slurp.

  Click, click. The idea had a shape. Hard and smooth like a worn stone.

  Opening my eyes, I angled my head into its innocent position. After a thoughtful sip from my mug, I asked, “Do you take a lot of medication, Mister?”

  “Not really, no. Mostly natural stuff. Though that doesn’t stop the doctors from trying to push tons of prescriptions on me. I can’t be bothered with most of it, but my daughter takes every one to the pharmacy and gets it filled.”

  “Hard to keep track, I would guess
. What you have and what you don’t.”

  “No doubt about that. These days, it’s hard to keep track of which foot is left, and which foot is right.”

  “I understand.” I finished the remainder of my drink, patted my stomach. “Might I use your washroom, Mister?”

  I am abashed to admit I actually grinned when I entered that cramped space. Grinned like some sort of asinine fairy-tale cat. As in the kitchen, his cabinets were empty and all his personal items were organized on a narrow shelf. I scanned the products, glue for his dentures, a bottle of shaving lotion, hair paste (irony, here?), and among it all, nearly two dozen orange bottles of pills with peeling labels.

  Yes, I had definitely developed a certain affection for my neighbour. Mi casa es su casa, right? Even though he was old and obviously decrepit, he was becoming a useful friend. The very best kind of all.

  [34]

  Warren dropped the sketches. With the toe of his slipper, he kicked the papers into the corner beside the stove. Everything felt surreal. Detective Reed’s voice was distorted, as though it was pulled through a watery membrane. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. He heard a stomach growling. Stephen was purring. Wind circled down the chimney, a thin stream of displeasure.

  “Botts?”

  “I’m here,” he said, as he hurried into the living room. “I’m here.”

  “Sorry to barge in on you. That a problem?” Detective Reed stood in the porch, a uniformed policeman hovering behind her.