Hemingway Tradition

Kristin Butcher

Orca Soundings

Copyright © 2002 Kristin Butcher

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Butcher, Kristin
The Hemingway tradition
(Orca soundings)

Electronic Monograph
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
9781551434148
(pdf)
--
ISBN
9781554697380
(epub)

I. Title. II. Series.

PS8553. U6972H45 2002 jC813'.54 C2002-910696-6

PZ7.B9691He 2002

First published in the United States, 2002

Library of Congress Control Number:
2002107488

Summary
: After his father commits suicide, Shaw struggles to come to terms with the death and move on.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

Cover design: Christine Toller
Cover photography: Eyewire
Printed and bound in Canada

In Canada:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4

In the United States:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468

www.orcabook.com
04 03 02 • 5 4 3 2 1

For Sara, Dan, and Christine — Go Lancers!
KB

This novel is a work of fiction, with two notable exceptions. Firstly, Dakota Collegiate Institute is an actual high school in Winnipeg, Manitoba, though — to my knowledge — it doesn't publish a school newspaper. And secondly, Phil Hudson really is a teacher and the volleyball coach there. His wizardry with his teams is admired throughout the province and will undoubtedly make him a school legend forever.

We had the top down on our old LeBaron and the sun was beating on us from a sky that was nothing but blue. It was my mom's turn to drive. I was stretched out in the passenger seat, watching Saskatchewan slide by and thinking there must be a couple dozen different ways for a guy to kill himself.

Hanging was the first thing that popped into my head. It's so convenient. You can do
it almost anywhere with almost anything. A telephone cord, belt, bed sheet. Whatever's handy. And depending on how much effort you want to put into it, you can break your neck and die instantly or dangle for a while until you suffocate. The cowboys in the Old West had the best idea, though. They just threw a rope over the branch of a tall tree, slipped the noose around the neck of the
hangee
— usually a cattle rustler — and then whacked the rump of his horse so it took off without him.
Slam, bam, rest in peace, Sam
.

Very effective, but not for everybody. Another popular suicide method is wrist slitting. But that's way too much blood for me. Of course, walking in front of a bus or diving off a bridge would work too. But I'd want something a little less traumatic. Something like poison maybe, or carbon monoxide, or sleeping pills. Something where you just slip away without realizing you're going. I know that makes me seem like a chicken, but I think that's because I don't want to die. If I did I
might have a whole different take on things. I might even do what my dad did.

He ate a bullet and blew half his head away. Messy, but it did the job. I ought to know. I'm the one who found him.

The memory of that afternoon flared inside my head like a match struck in the dark. I flinched. I couldn't help it. Though it had been months already, my nerves were still raw.

My dad would've been proud.

“Explore your feelings! Sharpen your senses! Harness your emotions to breathe life into your writing!” That's what he was always telling me. Sometimes he'd get right into my face as he was saying it. I could see the sparks fly from his eyes. I was certain that if they landed on me, I would start to burn with the same fire that was in him.

I turned to look at the memory that was chasing me. Okay. So how would Dad have described it in one of his books?

Dylan Sebring, so considerate of others during life, was less so in death. Oh, he'd written
a farewell note. And he'd even covered the bed with heavy plastic before lying on it. But the plastic was no defense against the force of a .45-caliber bullet. His brains were part of the wallpaper before Dylan finished squeezing the trigger. The flies found him first. Then his son. By that time the day had warmed up — after all, it was June. Afterwards, Shaw couldn't remember whether it was the stench of death or the sight of his father in a million sticky pieces that made his stomach heave
.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” Mom's voice cut through the wind rumbling around my ears. “Wake up. It's your turn to drive.”

She slowed down and eased the car over to the side of the highway. I pushed myself up in the seat and stretched.

“We'll drive as far as Regina and then call it a day,” she said, slipping the car into park. “I'd say another forty minutes and we should be there.”

I stepped onto the pavement, yawned and looked around. I decided Saskatchewan
had to be the most boring province in all of Canada. Traveling across it was like running on a treadmill. You never seemed to get anywhere. It was just mile after flat mile of blue flax, yellow sunflowers and waist-high wheat. There weren't even any curves in the road to jazz things up. You could practically drive all the way from Alberta to Manitoba without ever touching the steering wheel.

I adjusted the seat and mirror, fastened my seatbelt, stepped on the gas and headed back onto #1 East. Then I grabbed a CD, slipped it into the player and cranked it up. I'd burned it especially for the trip. Stuff I liked, but tame enough that my mom wouldn't nag me about my taste in music.

So there we were, cruising along the highway, listening to tunes. Mom's arm was stretched out along the back of the seat. I could feel her fingers tapping out the beat on the upholstery. I glanced over at her. She looked back and grinned, then squeezed my neck.

From behind us a horn blared. A silver SUV pulled up alongside. Its radio was so
loud I could feel the bass inside my clothes. There was a gang of university-age guys leaning out the windows, hooting and hollering and grinning like idiots. The SUV was staying even with us, and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. For a second, I thought they wanted to drag. Then they gave me a big thumbs up, leaned on the horn again and took off.

I slapped the steering wheel and started to split a gut.

Mom turned the music down. “What was all that about?” And then as she realized I was laughing, she said, “And what's so funny?”

Still smirking, I nodded toward the SUV pulling away. “Those guys. They thought you were hitting on me.” Then I started to laugh again.

“Hitting on you? Get out!” she said, but she was smiling now too. “Why would I hit on you? I'm old enough to be your mother.”

I sent her a sideways glance. “You
are
my mother.”

Her grin got bigger. “There you go. What did I tell you!”

“But I can see how those guys might have gotten the wrong idea,” I teased. “As far as moms go, you're okay.”

She made a face. “Well, thank you very much. I think.” Then she ran her hand through her windblown hair and sighed. “Maybe there's hope for me yet. I'll get myself a slinky little dress and start prowling the bars for a boy toy. I can be one of those cheetahs you told me about.”

That set me howling again.

“You mean cougar,” I corrected her.

“Cheetah, cougar, whatever.” She smiled good-naturedly. “I knew it was some kind of cat.” Then she started to giggle. For a second she almost looked like a teenager. “Can't you just see me? God, I haven't been into a bar in years! I wouldn't know what to do. Those places are for single people, not old married ladies like me.”

I wanted to tell her “
You're not married anymore,”
but there was no point. Dad had already squeezed into the front seat between us.

And here I was, hoping we'd left him behind in Vancouver. I should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

My dad had been one of Canada's better-known writers. Even without the dramatic exit, his death would've made the six o'clock news. And because I was his son, as well as the one who discovered his body, I was news too. Neighbors, teachers, kids at school, suddenly it
seemed like everybody was staring at me. From a distance, of course, as if suicide was contagious. Like maybe if they got too close, they'd suddenly feel the need to throw themselves under a truck. I hate to think how they would've acted if they'd known about the note.

But they didn't.

Mom and I kept that to ourselves. The police would call it withholding evidence. We saw it as protecting a trust. We never talked about keeping it a secret. We both just knew that's what we had to do.

The worst was the house, though. Even after it had been cleaned up and not so much as a molecule of my dad was left, he was still there. I could feel him everywhere.

I think it must've been the same for Mom. She never slept in their bedroom again. And then at the end of July, she said we were moving.

My mom's an actuary for a big insurance company, and she told me she'd been transferred to Winnipeg. She made it sound like it was the company's idea, but I wasn't fooled.
The timing was a little too convenient. Besides, my grandparents live in Winnipeg, and that's where my mom grew up. I never told her I didn't believe her, though. Pretending was easier for both of us.

The next thing I knew, it was time to head back to school. I couldn't believe it. It was only August 29! In Vancouver, school never started until after Labor Day, so I was getting gypped out of almost a week's vacation. But when I stopped to think about it, I was sort of glad. Since my mom had started her new job, I'd spent so much time alone I was starting to talk to myself. I was ready to meet some new people.

That first day was pretty much like it had been at my old school. But because everything was new and strange and I didn't know anybody, it felt totally different. Normally I would've tracked down my friends and hung out with them until the bell rang. But because I didn't have any friends, I just leaned against the school, trying not to look out of place.

Dakota Collegiate Institute — DCI for short — was smaller than my old school, but not by much. It sat on a corner close to a busy intersection, so kids were coming at it from every direction. There were transit stops on both sides of the street, and every few minutes a bus would dump a fresh batch of bodies onto the sidewalk. Other kids arrived on foot, skateboard and bicycle, and the rest came by car, rumbling into the gravel parking lot with their radios blasting. By the time the bell rang, the place was so jammed it looked and sounded like a massive outdoor concert. The way everyone pushed into the building, you would've thought they were giving money away inside. Not that I'm criticizing — I was part of the herd too.

“Ow!” a girl beside me grumbled. “Walk much?”

“Sorry,” I apologized, quickly picking up my size thirteen foot. But when I put it back down, I could tell by the lump under it that I was standing on something other than pavement again.

“For crying out loud!” the girl complained and gave me a shove. “Could you try walking on your own feet instead of mine?”

“Sorry,” I apologized for the second time in less than a minute. Then I tried a joke. “There seems to be a sidewalk shortage.” I grinned down at her hopefully. She was pretty short, and next to me, she looked even shorter. Even though I wouldn't be seventeen until January, I was already six-foot-two.