Warren reached out and touched one closest to him. He picked it up. A small black molly. The upper side of its body was dry, its short fins were curling inwards, gills pressed down. Others were scattered across the linoleum. A pair of tetras was underneath the table. Someone had entered his home. Smashed each one of his tanks.
Mouth open, a shallow cough emerged. Another. And another. He bent his knees underneath his body, took his glasses off, bent the arms toward the lenses, and held them. Then he lowered his head. Sobbed. Loud choking sounds. Like an eleven-year-old boy who had lost everything. Like a fully grown man who had nothing.
Then he remembered Stephen. The back door was wide open, and Warren stood, tiptoed through the glass and debris, stepped out onto the deck. His cat was there, hunched into a corner, tail wrapped around his body, fur puffed. When he picked it up, Stephen’s body was cold and stiff. Warren tucked the old cat inside his jacket, and felt instant relief as a raspy purr made his ribs vibrate. Stephen stretched inside the fabric, pushed a six-toed paw upwards, placed the frozen pink pads against Warren’s neck.
“It’s okay, my friend,” he said. “It’s okay, now. It’s okay.”
With Stephen cradled in his arms, he walked back into his kitchen. Then he noticed dust on his kitchen table. A powdery ring of white. As though a person had dropped something there for a moment, and had picked it up again. Warren ran his finger through the fine powder, smelled it, brought it to his lips. He knew it would taste sugary sweet even before it touched his tongue.
[55]
Livid is a word I appreciate. It can mean both full of anger or fury, but also mean grey, bluish, a purple hue. A man could be livid, wrapping his hands around his wife’s skinny neck, leaving distinctive marks that might also be described as livid. With the slightest wordplay, one form of livid is funnelled neatly into the second form. Both categories fascinating and enticing. Unique.
Is it unusual to find something pleasing about that? How a single word demonstrates the cycling, but consistent, nature of rage. It moves outward, is transferred and visible, witnessed by others, and also moves inward, is steady and silent, concealed behind a charming grin.
Livid.
My muscles were cold and beginning to ache. Crouched in that tree for far too long, I was beginning to accept I would have to descend from my hiding spot, return another evening. I decided to give it a few more minutes, and in that time, I thought about Button. How I had tucked myself behind those geraniums, monstrous terracotta pots, and watched her agony. I had my reasons, but they were feeble reasons. Then again, how could I have predicted how things would unfold? As well read as I am, when Button died, I was unfamiliar with water intoxication.
Then I thought about my only friend. Though fanciful, I liked to imagine that somehow Button had orchestrated our introduction. It was her way of letting me know she had forgiven me. That I deserved to experience some element of joy in my existence. A shred of jubilance. But there was caution tape around the edges of our relationship. I recognized the level of responsibility, and would never again hesitate. As I had hesitated before.
A light flickered on inside the bungalow. With curtains wide open, I could see my teacher wandering around his kitchen, lifting his enormous cat off the stove, placing it on the floor. I watched him get a drink of water, and then he came to the window, stared out into his backyard. I checked my watch, pushed the button on the side, and the screen glowed bright yellow, read 1:46. I looked up again, and if I did not know better, I would have guessed he was staring straight at me, straight at the light from my watch. But I knew he was staring at nothing, nothing that anyone else could see. I was invisible, and I liked it that way.
I saw his back next, and he was leaving the room. Lights out.
I edged closer to the trunk, was ready to abandon my effort, but then I heard footsteps. Girly footsteps, tiptoeing through the woods. The sound of her voice, humming an idiotic pop song. She was coming from the loser’s slum house, and I knew she had plans to sneak across the backyards, creep into her home undetected. She had announced as much in school on Friday, thought she could do whatever she liked. Never have to face a consequence. Why do lame teenagers have such a struggle with forethought?
I got into position, and when she was directly beneath me, I leaned forward and slipped from the branch. I liked the concept, swooping down through the trees, arms outstretched, air whirring past my cheeks. But that sort of description would be embellishment. It was more of a slight drop. A heavy plunk. Eight feet, not much more, before I landed on her soft body.
Parts of me were entirely visible when I was seated on the branch. If only she had of taken her head out of her ass, for just a moment, she would have seen my legs, seen my white sneakers in the moonlight. But almost everyone is stupid. Oblivious to their environments. People rarely see what is right in front of their faces. Until it is too late.
Perhaps it was fear in her eyes, or perhaps she was impressed with my skill. When her head knocked backward, I was certain she was smiling. Or grimacing. Sometimes human expressions are so difficult to pin down. To be honest, it did not matter if she was scared or excited. Either one made me feel that saccharine warmth of satisfaction.
Her eyes were wide, mouth open, and she breathed, “Seriously?” just before I rammed the rope over her head. Yes, seriously. She thought it was a shitty joke. I scrambled to my feet then, took a deep step backward. Grabbed the end around my stomach, slipknot released. She was wearing a thick turtleneck, and for a moment I thought that might protect her. But no, the rope tightened, and crawled upwards, neatly gripping her just under her jaw, pressing around the flesh of her neck. My sturdy pulleys played their part, the rope moved, wheels turned, the branch held, and my system cut the force. Though I never completed the bonus question, I instantly knew the answer. Amanda Fuller, complete bitch, was the load, and I would have to lift a fraction of her mass. I pulled her to her feet. Watched her kick and struggle.
With the rope braced around my back, I edged backward. She was on her toes now, and then, and then, and then, aloft. I lifted her as high as I could, and let her drop. Did it again. Legs thrashing in the darkness, the seams of her black jeans rubbed against one another. I could hear it, and contemplated the force of friction, opposite motions of the fabric. While it certainly generated heat on that icy night, it did not affect my calculations in any way.
I was sweating slightly, and was grateful for her skinny frame, for the winter gloves protecting my palms. One of the pulleys, I understood, offered no mechanical advantage. I had planned to toy with her for longer, letting her toes touch down, then hauling her up over and over again, but I had clearly overestimated my own musculature. Or how heavy she would feel. (Sometimes a physics question does not reflect the reality of a situation.) Instead of following my plan, I held her in place for several minutes, twitching in the air, and then eased myself twice around the tree trunk, letting out small increments of rope. Using a cow hitch knot, I secured her position. It was a basic knot, yes, uncreative, but effective.
Once everything was quiet, I looked around. The scene was not quite as jarring as I had expected. A bit clichéd, to state the obvious. Dead-girl-hanging-near-edge-of-woods sort of thing. And now, the rope had slipped, branch sagging, and her frame had lowered several inches. In fact her toes were grazing the ground. Annoying, the entire thing, but considering I had no opportunity to test my system, it was a respectable effort. I noticed she had kicked up dirt and dead leaves, but she was still now. The rope making the faintest creak. The friction forces were gone, tension and gravitational remaining.
Overall, it was an interesting study. Real-life application of the concepts. A-. Maybe. Or B+.
Walking around her, I noted her limp head, grey face, tongue jutting between parted lips. That tongue appeared foreign, out of place. It just did not look right, and I found the sight of it troubling. Her knapsack was on the ground, and I bent,
unzipped it. Retrieved the first paper I found. Her physics test. Covered in ink circles, red, I guessed, from the teacher. The exact quiz on forces where I had gleaned my inspiration. The moron had failed with 38 percent. Oh, the irony. Inside my head, I laughed and laughed, and crumbled the test into a ball, rammed it into her mouth. A paper apple for the paper pig.
I heard clicks then, high up in the sky. The radio had predicted another heavy rainfall, and it had commenced. Striking the dead leaves, pulling the last of them from the trees. I turned and began walking home, knowing the sheets of icy water would obliterate my footsteps. The expected change to snow in the middle of the night would blanket the scene, but not diminish the intensity of it. The beauty of it. The magic.
In the nights after, as questions and accusations swirled, I frequently dreamed about death. The same dream over and over again. Amanda Fuller was not walking through the woods, or hanging from the tree, instead, I was on top of her, straddling her in a dirty field. Remains of a harvest dried and bent toward the depleted soil. Nighttime sky, though I could see everything with help from an orange harvest moon.
There was no rope. I gripped a flat stone in my hands. Amanda’s sneering head shook from side to side, but her face soon morphed into my father’s, then my aunt’s, then to Larva’s, and sometimes even his Stick Bitch sister’s. Inevitably, though, the transformation stopped when the face became my mother’s. Her waxy skin, droopy eyes, I knew my negligent mother was drugged and sleepy. I could see dust from her pink pills clumping in the corners of her wrinkled lips. On her face, there was a smear of blood coming from somewhere. Her mouth? Her nose? Her ear? “Don’t touch me,” she mumbled. “Don’t touch me.”
I lifted the stone, and at the same moment, I heard a soft crinkling behind me. Thin layers of chitin moving over one another. Button was standing there, her moth wings folded down, feathered antennae curled. I did not think she should witness this, and I whispered to her, “Close your eyes, Button. All of them. And keep them closed.” Then the stone came down.
The stone came down.
[56]
As he was doing a final pass through the rental home, he paused for a moment in front of the framed print above the fireplace. The stylized face of an unknown woman, her eyes replaced by two oversized ears. It was ugly, but for some reason, Warren liked it. A reminder to him to listen more. Not only to trust what he saw. He went toward it, gripped it with both hands. It was hanging on a single nail, and Warren lifted it, brought it out to his car. He had never stolen anything in his life, but he slid the print into his open trunk, and slammed the lid.
“Hey, buddy. You clearing out?”
Warren turned, saw Gordie standing in the driveway, hands stuffed into the pockets of his puffy jacket.
“I was going to stop in to the store. On my way. To say goodbye.”
“Saved you the trip, then.” Gordie was chewing on a toothpick, and the wood flicked up and down between his lips. “You all set?”
“It’s just best. You know? Better to leave. I have to check in with the police when I get there. My lawyer said I needed to confirm my address. But there’s nothing stopping me.”
“I get you.”
“You’ve been a good friend. I don’t know what to say.”
“Ah. Kindness don’t cost a person nothing, do it?”
Warren shook his head, dipped his hands into his pockets.
“Wanted to tell you something before you left.”
“Tell me something?”
“I wasn’t sure what to do, buddy. Just trying to do everything right, and bound to piss someone off.”
Shaking his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your sister.”
Warren glanced at the road, the place where Gordie had parked. For an instant he expected to see Beth there, her healthy face behind the passenger’s-side window. Smiling.
“She stopped by the store. Morning after she left here. I — I thought I could help her, you know? Let her stay above the shop for a few days. Cool off. Get her head in order.”
Warren opened his mouth, waiting.
“I tried, buddy. But she split. Lasted two days.”
“Oh.” Warren blinked, pressed his glasses into his face. “Did she take anything?”
“Nah. Just a shitload of my frozen pizzas. But she didn’t take nothing.”
“I can pay you back. For the pizza. And the mess.”
“C’mon, buddy. That’s not why I’m here.” Gordie rubbed a thick hand over his face. “I just wanted to help. Couldn’t have you leave without knowing. I messed up.”
Warren shuffled his feet; the brown grass was frozen, and crunched underneath his boots. “No. You didn’t mess up.” How can you mess up when you’re trying to fix things? It was the first time Warren had had such a thought, and it made him pause. He was aware of a lump in his throat. But it was not rolling and growing. It was dissolving.
“Ah. Shit.”
“You’re a good friend, Gord.”
Gordie rushed toward him, wrapped his arms around Warren, and squeezed. Clapped him on the back three times. Hard. Warren coughed. “I should get going.”
Gordie leaned back, wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Going to miss you, buddy.”
“Me, too,” Warren whispered. “Me, too.”
Nora slammed a door well inside the house, but Libby remained on the porch. “I knew you’d leave,” she said to Warren. “I just knew.”
“I’m hoping to come back and visit, Libby. I just need to talk to my mother. Check my lab. Think a bit. And see what I’m going to do.”
“Okay, Mr. Botts. Go.” She looked down at her hands, then shook her head. “But don’t turn. It’s better not to turn.”
Warren glanced at the stairs that led up to Nora’s bedroom. He had never seen it. “Do you mean, don’t turn back?”
“She’ll be fine, Mr. Botts.” Smiling. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Yes.” He handed her a plastic bag. Something clinked inside. “These are yours. I wrapped them in paper towel, so they wouldn’t chip.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Thanks for lending them to me. They really added to the classroom. When I was there.”
“No problem, Mr. Botts. It wasn’t a big deal.”
He began to count the repeating bouquets in the wallpaper border, but stopped himself. “You know, Libby. I think you and me are a lot alike. I know that sounds weird.”
She laughed at him, shrugged. “Not really.”
“You’re going to do something important someday. I just have that feeling.”
She shrugged again. “I’ll try my best, Mr. Botts. I’ll try.”
Warren sunk into his seat, pressed gently on the gas, felt the car roll forward over the smooth road. Small streets soon gave way to an openness, both sides of the road lined with barren fields stripped from the harvest. Stephen was in a crate on the passenger seat, his wide paw sticking out through the crisscross of metal, hitching the fabric of the seat.
He drove past the ice cream factory, and the pig farm. Someone had strings of tiny white lights trimming the roof of a mint green shed. He drove past the field where he had used a stranger’s tire swing. And past the place where he had imagined his father leaning against a signpost in the rain. His foot hovered over the brake, but he never slowed down. Though he had expected it, he did not feel anxious. His stomach was settled. The hitch in his throat was gone.
Warren thought of Beth. Next time he saw her, he would once again try to help her. But no matter how hard he willed her to get better, nothing would change unless she wanted it to change. He understood that now. While he could stand beside her, she had to take those steps by herself. He thought of his mother next. She and Beth had the same lilt in their voices, the same curve in their backs. He wondered what he would say to his mother. What she migh
t say to him. “Most good things start slow,” his father had told him when he saw Warren watching newly planted soil. “You can’t force it, my darling. They’ll push through in their own time.”
Snow began to fall. A scattered flake, an eyelash against his windshield. There was calmness in the landscape. A curious and welcome calmness inside the car. He moved past telephone pole after telephone pole, but Warren had no desire to count them. He focused on the road. There was no rush. No one was chasing him. The ground was colder now, and the snow would stay.
[57]
My mother peeled off her fake pink nails, tossed them in the garbage beside her night table. Then she yanked the sneakers from her feet, dropped them onto the carpet. Kicked them.
“We were supposed to go for a walk. And,” she snapped her fingers, “he just ups and leaves. Can you believe that?”
I could. Of course I could.
“Not even a warning.” She shook her head. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“All I wanted was someone to care about me. Just a bloody little bit. God. I know how to pick ’em, don’t I?”
At that moment, my mother’s curdled face looked too much like my aunt’s. Desperate and overdone, and acting as though she had been wronged. The sight of her annoyed me, and I closed my eyes to obliterate her from my vision.
“There was nothing wrong with Mr. Botts,” I said. “Maybe you should take a look at yourself.”
I stood up, walked away. In my room, I unwrapped the insects I had lent him in September. I thought having such a display on his desk would make him appear more like a science teacher. Instead of a lost little boy. I knew from the first day in class, with his flushed cheeks and jittery hands, he was a person who needed all the help he could get.
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