Barry Squires, Full Tilt

by Heather Smith

  I focused on her fantabulous slut shoes to keep my heart from aching.

  “When I think of him,” I said, “I think of that night. It ruins my memories.”

  “It won’t always be that way,” she said. “You just need to give it time.”

  She gave me a sheet of lined paper and a pen.

  “I want three memories,” she said. “The very best of all.”

  I wrote them quickly and with a smile on my face.

  Watching him sleep.

  Pretending to dump him in the harbor.

  That time Saibal and me let him roll down Signal Hill Road.

  “Interesting,” said Mrs. Muckle. “Why these?”

  “The first one was when I was the happiest, the second one was when Gord was happiest, and the third one includes Saibal.”

  Mrs. Muckle laughed. “Gord was happiest when he thought he was being dumped in the harbor?”

  I smiled to think of it. “He shrieked his friggin’ head off.”

  When I got home, Nan gave me a lassy bun and a cup of tea.

  I looked to the ceiling. “What was that?”

  “What was what?” she said.

  “That noise,” I said. “Sounds like someone’s moving furniture.”

  Nan’s voice went up an octave. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  She was a terrible liar.

  I pictured the layout of the house and ran upstairs.

  “Get your grubby hands off Gord’s stuff or by da Jesus, I’ll knock you into next week.”

  Shelagh took a step back. “We just thought if we rearranged it, it would—”

  “It would what?” I said. “Make us forget all about Gord so we can concentrate on your stupid kid?”

  Shelagh started to cry. “You think this is easy for me?”

  Nan appeared in the doorway. “Finbar, calm down.”

  “This is Gord’s room!” I yelled.

  Mom pulled the Humpty Dumpty blanket off the crib rail and moved to the chair by the window. Suddenly the wind, it was blowing a gale. The house was dark and our whole life changed. It was never going to go away, that feeling. That feeling of being robbed. We stood there, all four of us, wondering how we’d get through.

  Mom reached her hand out to me. I went to her and took it. I imagined myself outside. Hail pelted my face. I said, “Help me, God. It hurts.”

  Mom gave my hand a squeeze. I squeezed back.

  “Maybe,” I said, “the chair would be better by the door. And the crib, we could put that against the wall near the window.”

  A moment later we set about moving the furniture. I opened the window, let the bad memories out.

  Afterwards, Shelagh touched my arm. “Thanks, Barry.”

  I pulled away. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Mom.”

  I did it for Gord too.

  The wind had no business in his room.

  CHAPTER NINE

  One morning in mid-July, I sat on Uneven Steven’s cardboard and said, “If Shelagh’s baby doesn’t come out dead, I might kill it myself.”

  “Is that so?” he said.

  I passed him one of Nan’s partridgeberry muffins.

  “I hope it’s born with a port-wine stain all over its body.”

  He broke the muffin in two and offered me the top half.

  “Have you ever noticed how ugly Shelagh is?” I said. “I don’t know why anyone would want to have sex with her.”

  I smashed the muffin in my fist.

  “She thinks her baby is the second coming of Jesus. She rubs her big, fat belly like it’s something special. Mom and Dad do too. When they talk about the baby, they look happy, even though they’re supposed to be sad. Wait till they see the hideous little gremlin that claws its way out of Shelagh’s hoo-ha. That’ll wipe the smile off their faces, the bastards.”

  I killed a few ants with the heel of my sneaker.

  Steven licked a crumb off his bottom lip. “Anything else you’d like to get off your ol’ George Best?”

  I stood up. “No,” I said. “I think that’s it.”

  “Have a nice day, Squire.”

  “You too, Steven.”

  I walked toward the war memorial, wishing the sunshine was mist. I wanted to feel alive in a good way, not from the anger that pulsed through my veins.

  “Saibal,” I said. “I need your help.”

  He didn’t ask with what, he just followed me back to the house. When no one was looking, we took the high chair.

  “Deadman’s Pond,” I said.

  Saibal nodded. “Understood.”

  We lugged it up Signal Hill Road. When we got to the pond, we collapsed from exhaustion.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” said Saibal.

  “And all the saints in heaven,” I added.

  The high chair was on its side. On the underside of the tray there was some dried oatmeal. I scraped it with my fingernail. It didn’t budge.

  “I wish your parents were here,” I said. “I want to ask them a question.”

  “Ask me,” said Saibal. “I’m smart.”

  I pointed to the tray. “Is Gord’s DNA on this?”

  Saibal squinted at the crusty oatmeal. “I would say so.”

  I examined the bottom of the tray. There was Gord crud everywhere.

  “We don’t have to throw it in Deadman’s Pond,” said Saibal.

  “We don’t?”

  He shook his head. “Want to take it back home?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  Saibal stood up and swept some loose grass off his shorts. “Let’s go.”

  On the way back down the hill, I paused. “Wait. What if, before Shelagh’s little monster arrives, they clean the high chair from top to bottom? What if they wash Gord away?”

  Saibal had a look underneath. “From those crevices? Not even your nan could clean them out.”

  When we got home, Nan caught us with the high chair but turned a blind eye.

  “Now,” she said. “Who wants a nice cup of tea?”

  She put the kettle on and showed us an invitation she’d received in the mail.

  “I couldn’t believe my eyes,” she said. “The return address said Government House!”

  Saibal and I smiled at each other.

  “I’m impressed,” said Saibal. “You’ve really got to be someone to get an invitation to the garden party.”

  “And you’re something else,” I said.

  Nan smiled. “I suppose I am.”

  She topped up our tea from the pot.

  “Nan?” I said. “Do you think I can come too?”

  “I don’t see why not,” she said.

  “You’ll get to meet the lieutenant governor,” said Saibal.

  But I didn’t care about that. I wanted to see Big Gord again.

  Dad came home from work just before lunchtime.

  “I took the afternoon off,” he said. “Let’s head out to Topsail Beach.”

  “The beach?” said Mom.

  Dad pointed at his watch. “It’s eleven forty-five. If we leave in fifteen, we’ll be there by twelve thirty.”

  He turned to Nan. “Do you think you can throw a picnic together for us?”

  “I certainly can,” said Nan.

  “What do you mean for us?” I asked. “Isn’t Nan coming too?”

  “Of course not. Where would she sit?” said Pius. “On the roof?”

  “Maybe Shelagh can stay home,” I suggested. “And Nan can come instead.”

  “Now, Barry,” said Nan.

  Mom looked around the kitchen. “I was going to wash the floors today.”

  Pius pulled a cooler out of the cupboard on the back porch. “You can wash the floors tomorrow.”

 
; “Don’t worry,” said Nan. “I’ll take care of the floors.”

  “Can we stop for ice cream?” asked Shelagh.

  “Shut up, you fat pig,” I said.

  “Barry,” said Dad. “Enough.”

  He went to Mom, took her hand. “It’ll be a grand day, I promise.”

  Nan waved from the window as we piled into the car. I refused to sit near Shelagh. Dad pulled me aside and told me to give it a rest. Pius overheard and said he didn’t mind, he’d sit in the middle. He’d been pretty nice since Gord died, but I’d rather he was mean.

  We headed out on Portugal Cove Road. We drove for a long time. Every now and then we’d round a bend and see the ocean. Then it would disappear again.

  “I feel sick,” said Shelagh.

  We stopped at a convenience store with a big ice-cream cone outside. Shelagh ordered a double scoop.

  “I thought you were sick,” I said.

  “Shut up, Barry.”

  She looked like the side of a house. I hoped she stuffed her face till she blew up.

  I had a single scoop. Neapolitan. I wanted to give Gord a lick.

  We ate our ice cream at a picnic table outside the store.

  Pius had his hand on Shelagh’s stomach.

  “Holy shit,” he said between licks. “It’s kicking up a storm.”

  Well, whoop-dee-bloody-do.

  Mom didn’t have an ice cream but took licks off Dad’s orange-pineapple.

  “You should have got your own,” he said.

  She laughed. “I wasn’t in the mood but I am now.”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “This fresh air has done you good.”

  He went inside and got her a cone of her own.

  We drove a while longer and turned down Topsail Beach Road.

  “Isn’t it grand?” said Mom.

  The beach was dotted with people enjoying the sun. We unloaded the car and joined them. Dad told me to hold Shelagh’s hand as she navigated the uneven terrain but I pretended not to hear. Pius helped her instead.

  Mom and Dad spread two blankets out over the big beach rocks. I waited for Shelagh to settle her fat arse on one so I could choose the other. She sprawled across both. I sat blanket-less a few feet away.

  Pius went for a walk. I watched him get smaller in the distance. Beachgoers waded into the ocean, waist high. It was too rough to venture out farther. The waves had all the power of Gord, whooshing in a way that made me breathe slower. In, out, in, out. I imagined his little chest rising and falling. I imagined him in my arms. It would have been his first time at the beach. The breeze would have lifted up his little wisps of hair, like a gentle wind through a field of grass.

  My heart pained.

  It would always hurt to do something new without Gord.

  The problem was, it would always hurt to do something old too.

  Like hanging stockings at Christmas.

  Gord’s was red with a toy soldier on it.

  Grief was more than just complicated.

  It was a trap.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I said.

  “Be careful,” said Mom.

  She didn’t want me to get swept out to sea. That happens sometimes.

  On the shoreline I saw a condom. I’d tell Saibal about it later.

  I walked till Mom and Dad were dots. Shelagh would look like a beached whale no matter how far I roamed.

  Pius was up ahead skipping stones.

  There were tears streaming down his face. Trillions of them.

  I picked up a stone. It was flat and shiny and smooth.

  “I bet I can skip this six times,” I said.

  “Bet you can’t,” he said.

  I placed the stone along my pointer finger and secured it with my thumb. I pulled my arm back, cocked my wrist, and released. The stone landed in the water with a plunk.

  Pius passed me another one. “Try again, dumbass.”

  We sat around the cooler eating bologna sandwiches.

  “Nan must have caught one last night,” I said.

  “Fierce creatures,” said Pius. “They’d bite the hand right off ya.”

  Our laughter rang from Topsail Beach to Signal Hill. It went into the sky and under the waves. Seabirds celebrated and marine life rejoiced. It danced on the wind in a tumbling whirl. It bounced off the cliffs and zoomed through the universe and then it came back to us, an echo lined with a sweet baby belly laugh.

  The day came to an end. Ten to five by Dad’s watch.

  Pius sat in the middle on the way home. Shelagh was still a fat pig, boomerang laughter or not.

  That night, there was a ruckus.

  I sat up in bed. “What’s happening?”

  Pius was pulling a hoodie over his bare chest. “It’s Shelagh. They’re taking her to the hospital.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Is that all?”

  “Don’t be an arsehole, Barry. It’s too early. She’s only seven months pregnant.”

  I put my head down and nestled back under my covers. So the baby would be premature. So what? At least it’d be alive.

  The minute hand moved slowly on my alarm clock. The second hand mocked it with its tick-tick-tick. “Hang in there, buddy,” I said. Being patient was hard.

  Pius came back forty minutes later. “Dad just called. It was a false alarm. The baby’s not coming just yet.”

  I didn’t answer because I was pretending to be asleep.

  When I heard Pius snoring, I reached over and pulled the batteries out of my alarm clock. “It’s okay, buddy,” I whispered. “You can rest now.”

  The next morning I went to Gord’s room. His newborn clothes had been freshly laundered. I reached into his dresser and took the monkey sleepers sized 0–3 months. I hid them in the rafters in the basement.

  I told everyone at the nursing home about the false alarm. Edie said one of her labors lasted seventy-two hours. She called the kid Trouble. I wondered what Shelagh would name her kid. Probably Shitty McShithead or Ugly McUggface.

  Buster said I seemed tense, so we danced extra hard and extra long. Saibal taught us a style of Indian dance called bhangra. We bounced our shoulders a lot and raised our hands to the sky. He admitted he didn’t know what he was doing, so he sang “The Night Pat Murphy Died” in his Indian accent to add some authenticity.

  Afterwards Buster said, “Guess what?” and when I said, “What?” he took out his teeth.

  I laughed till I cried.

  Edie gave me a medal of Saint Elizabeth. She told me to give it to my mother. I wondered if Saint Elizabeth was the patron saint of dead babies. I looked at the embossed woman on the silver medal and whispered, “Fuck you, Liz.” I put it in my pocket and wondered if I’d go to hell.

  A week later it was the day of the garden party. Nan was all done up like a stick of gum. She had rouge on her cheeks and a hat on her head. Mom made me wear a shirt with buttons and slacks, not jeans. As we walked out the door, she said, “Behave yourself, Fin-bear.”

  We walked up Cochrane Street. When we reached the top, we could see it: Government House. Nan linked her arm through mine. “Look at all the people,” she said. The grounds were full and from where we stood, we could hear the murmur of conversation and the faint sound of the CLB Band.

  We crossed Military Road and made our way to the entrance. The gravel path crunched beneath our feet. Nan looked nervous as we joined the party of finely dressed guests.

  “Can I go explore?” I said.

  Nan nodded. “Be good.”

  “Good’s my middle name,” I said.

  “I thought it was Turlough,” said a voice.

  I turned around. Big Gord looked smart in a pinstriped suit. He introduced Nan to the lieutenant governor. Nan curtsied. We ate triangle sandwiches. The CLB Band was playing “Fight
the Good Fight.” Nan chatted with an army man in a wheelchair. It was hot and I was getting bored. Big Gord nodded to two plastic chairs under a tree. “Let’s take a load off.” A server came by and offered us lemonade. Big Gord clinked his glass against mine. “Here’s to looking up your kilt.”

  “Up yours too,” I said.

  He took a long sip. “Ahhh.”

  I could tell by his face the lemonade was sour.

  I took a sip. “Ahhh.”

  A newspaper man took our picture.

  “We might make it into the Telegram,” said Big Gord.

  “My name was in the paper once,” I said. “Right after ‘leaving to mourn.’ ”

  Big Gord nodded. “I saw that.”

  “I have a Gord-sized hole now,” I said.

  He took another sip of his drink.

  I did too.

  He pointed to a man with medals on his blazer.

  “Ralph Fardy,” he said. “One hundred and one.”

  “He’s lucky he got to get old,” I said.

  “Indeed,” said Big Gord.

  “I’ve got a medal too,” I said.

  I took Saint Elizabeth out of my pocket. “I was supposed to give this to my mother.”

  “Little things can bring great comfort,” said Big Gord.

  The band played “The St. John’s Waltz.” Big Gord tapped his foot.

  I tapped my foot too.

  “This is the kind of song that fills you up,” he said.

  I didn’t ask with what. I knew what it was and it didn’t have a name. It was a mixture of feelings that could make you laugh and cry.

  I saw Nan near the band. She was swaying to the music in her big hat. I hoped she lived to one hundred and one.

  I pictured Dad’s wristwatch marking time with its click-click-clicks. A steady rhythm no matter how time flies.

  The song was coming to an end. Big Gord sang about a world of romance and not missing a chance to be dancin’ the St. John’s Waltz. And his voice, it filled up a spot in my Gord-sized hole.

  Father O’Flaherty made an appearance before the end of the garden party. He stood in front of the CLB Band and said he had an announcement. There was to be a talent contest on the night of the St. John’s Regatta. He said the winner would be picked by audience vote and the prize was six hundred dollars.