Black Rabbit and Other Stories (7 page)

They walked to the mall, a thirty-minute hike from the clinic. It felt like hours to Wendy, but she savored every moment—beside herself to see the girls so well behaved and pretty, what angels—and didn't want it to end. The girls sang and skipped along. They were off to get clothes, something to make any girl happy.

The foul and humid air washed over Wendy like warm water; and the hard, rough facades of Silver City yielded to a smudged blue-grey tranquility, an exquisite ballooning that even swooping seagulls could not burst.

She outfitted the girls on the cheap, by stealing, risky given modern security measures. But Ronnie had given her pointers. He excelled at ripping off shops. The trick was finding one with a faulty security system—flawed, or in disrepair. Of course, stores never alerted the public to breakdowns—please don't rob us while our security system is kaput!—but they happened.

So Wendy sniffed around the mall and tested several systems until she hit the jackpot at a tony children's boutique. The silly young salesgirl, flattered by Wendy's compliments about her fucked up blue hair, noticed nothing untoward, and Wendy managed to lift three outfits, in three pretty colours, right from under her pierced nose. She also purchased a few inexpensive accessories to further dodge suspicion; and the girls, hiding smirks, played along.

When they emerged from the boutique, they looked like cats after a canary feast and hurried down the street, unable to contain themselves. Even Wendy got caught up in the excitement, losing some of her buzz, but still feeling good. That it took an episode of shoplifting to make their hearts beat faster and their blood race saddened her, but for now she put that aside.

They found Connor at the flat—petting a reluctant Max—with some other boys dressed in black clothes. They looked far too serious for teens. They occupied the living room like pirates, dark and sardonic, their smiles masking malice. Wendy smelled it on them and felt her stomach muscles tighten. She recognized the boy on the chesterfield with the red bandanna tied around his head, Ryan Clair.

“What are you boys up to?” she asked.

“Just chilling,” Connor said with an unfamiliar drawl.

She stared at him and he reddened, dropping the cat with a thud. Auntie Wen was embarrassing him.

“How long do you plan to just
chill?
” she asked. “I've got things to do around here.”

“Nice little girls you got there, miss,” said a boy in a wicker chair by the window.

“You're too heavy for that chair,” she said. “Go sit somewhere else.” When he didn't move she said it louder. “Go sit somewhere else, or get the fuck out of my house.”

“Auntie Wen,” Connor said. “The chair is fine.”

Wendy stared at her nephew.

“I mean, it ain't breaking or anything.”

“Get out of my house,” she said in a quiet but firm tone. The girls got up on their tiptoes and cupped their mouths. They recognized that tone, understood its seriousness.

Connor fumed, rubbed his hands together. His posse, five strong, adjusted themselves. The boy in the wicker chair found a stool by a small bookshelf with an empty fish bowl on top of it. Tatters the cat had dined on Barney the escaped goldfish a few evenings back. The girls mourned the passing with feeling. It bothered Wendy to see that moron near the fish bowl.

A stocky fellow with a shaved head and tattoos on his neck stepped over to Connor and said something in his ear. The others exchanged glances.

Wendy sent the girls to their bedroom. When they hesitated she said, “Go to your bedroom now or I'll put you to sleep forever.”

This drew smirks and sniffs of laughter from the boys.

“Hey, Auntie Wen,” Ryan said, handling a rag doll robed in red gingham. “That sounds like abuse to me, see what I'm saying? I mean threatening the children and all, not nice.”

“Mind your own business,” Wendy snapped.

Ryan flung the rag doll against the wall. He grinned at her through clenched teeth. She could sense his willingness to smash her face, put the boots to her. Chris used to work himself up like that when he couldn't get his own way. Like Chris, Ryan was all about beating up a woman. You could tell with some males. You could see it in their eyes, that bottomless gaze looking right through things. And it wasn't Ryan's friendship with Connor that held him back. Something else explained that.

“Connor,” Wendy said. “Do your girlfriends mind if we talk in private for a sec?”

“Bitch has some mouth on her bro,” said the short stocky guy.

“Connor, I'm talking to you,” she said, her voice cracking.

He rolled his eyes. Then his expression darkened and he stood up. “Auntie Wen,” he said. He glanced at his crew and fought a grin as he continued, keeping his chin tucked down and averting her gaze. “My dad said he gave you a bunch of money before you took custody of me, in case of emergency. I know he did because he said it.”

“What are you talking about, Connor? Your father's a deadbeat. He never gave me a dime, not even for emergencies, if that's what you're wondering. Nothing. Not one penny.”

“She's lying,” Ryan said, “I can tell. My dad taught me how to tell when someone's lying. Their eyes—it's all in the eyes, bro. I can tell the bitch is lying by the way she keeps looking down the hall.”

Wendy almost burst out laughing. She kept looking to see if the girls had come out. She fought the urge to slap her nephew's face—they'd
kill her. The living room reeked of their pomade, cologne and sweat. And they still might, she thought.

“Auntie Wen,” Connor said. “Listen. If you don't tell me where the money is, someone's gonna get hurt. See what I'm saying?”

“Yeah, Auntie Wen,” Ryan chimed. “You're in
danger
.”

Wendy noticed one of the boys standing at the living room entrance, arms folded across his chest, just daring her to make a move. The buzz from the methadone and Percodans had all but worn off; her head ached and nausea fingered her tonsils. She also felt the bugs coming on, wriggling over her arms, neck, and shoulders. The boys gaped as her head and arms shook.

“What the fuck!” cried one.

“Bitch is psycho,” remarked another.

Connor had seen his aunt suffer the bugs before and felt a pang of sympathy as she writhed and contorted. Horrible to watch. He turned his face. The others found it hilarious, laughing and hacking. Connor did nothing to silence them. He must have known that his aunt had no money, but he did nothing to help her.

The fellows stirred, scraping boots across the hardwood floor, flexing muscles. Ryan removed something from a pocket of his combat pants. A knife with a serrated blade. Wendy held her breath as he flashed it and affected a manic Joker's grin. As he twirled the knife, the stocky guy stepped on Max's tail and the cat somersaulted across the room, thudding down on a Persian rug by the closet.

“What a fucking athlete,” someone said. “Let's see it again.”

“Yeah, encore,” chirped someone else.

Ryan neared Wendy and held the knife so close to her throat she could feel the cold of the steel. “What do you say, junky mama? How about I hook you up right here, right now. I've got some killer China smack just off the boat, and I mean killer. Not recommended for amateurs. But you and Mr. Brownstone go back a long way. My old man used to sell to you. Jacky Clair, remember? That's right. Jacky Clair, my papa, the King of Horse they used to call him in the old days. The King of Horse—you know, like the King of Beer. Like the King of Beer, only heroin—horse. That's what they used to call it in
the old days. These bozos don't know what I'm talking about. But you do, don't you Miss Junky? Yes, you do. Jacky's doing a dime in Kingston now because of cunts like you.” Ryan stopped talking and withdrew the knife.

Wendy heard the girls scream in the bedroom. Panic filled her chest like a cold white liquid and for a moment she couldn't breathe. She stepped backwards as Ryan came again, waving the knife, the blade glinting. She raised her hands and waited.

“Stop it!” Connor cried, jumping up and rushing Ryan. But before he got very far the small stocky guy decked him with a sucker punch. Two others joined in and started giving Connor the boots.

Ryan grinned at Wendy, swivelling his head to watch the beating. “Looks like your boy there forgot who his friends are.”

“You're nothing but a scumbag,” she said quietly.

“Maybe I am,” Ryan said.

When the blade slid across her cheek Wendy felt nothing unusual, just a cold edge glancing the skin. Then she touched her cheek and looked at her fingers: wet with blood. The other boys stopped beating Connor. He lay on the floor moaning. A moment passed where no one moved, no one breathed. Then the doorbell rang, and it resounded through the flat with the clear, pure tone of a gong. All eyes looked to the door.

Ryan pocketed his knife. The others shuffled around, unsure of themselves.

“The fire exit's blocked!” someone cried from the back. Then someone blurted that a cop was at the door, and the panic set in.

“I'll fucking smoke him,” Ryan said.

“Yeah,” said the small stocky guy, “with that penknife you're going to smoke a cop. Get serious. We're fucked.”

“Hold it!” someone cried. “I don't think it's a cop. Never seen him before.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Answer the fucking door,” the small guy said. “Tell Connor to answer the door. When the guy comes in we'll jump him.”

“Connor's fucked up, bro,” Ryan said, twitching.

“Then I'll answer it, tell him I'm a cousin or something. Keep the bitch quiet.”

Ryan and another of the boys dragged Wendy to the bathroom. She went without a fight.

They threw her against the tub and left her there, bloodied and stunned. She wondered if Ronnie had come. Or cops. She who hated cops prayed it was cops this time.

Something crashed against the door and she cringed, drawing up and hugging her knees. The glare of the bright ceiling lights pierced her eyes and she recoiled, blinking, wiping away tears and blood. The commotion continued and she wondered about the girls, but they seemed far away, safe and sound somewhere else—not here, they could not be here. She draped herself over the bathtub and saw the green alligator jammed in the drain.

She heard hitting sounds and sounds of people falling. She shut her eyes and prayed it would stop. But she knew that when it stopped worse would follow. She had seen things escalate before, in her father's house growing up, in her own house, mayhem fueled by booze and drugs but often something in itself—violence as its own thing. She rocked back and forth as the fighting continued, eyes shut, fists clenched. Then she made her mind black, black as a pool of ink, blacker, and leaning closer, closer, let herself fall.

And then quiet. It took a moment to focus. She tried to stand but her legs felt flimsy. Blood streaked the floor and the side of the tub, and dried blood crusted her face like a mud mask. She waited and listened, hoping to hear something, anything.

Then she heard the doorknob jiggle, and the door opened. Felix, the counsellor, stood there with a grim expression, white shirt bloodied and torn, one of his hands wrapped in a dishtowel bright with blood. He shut the door.

“Wendy,” he said.

She couldn't believe it was him, this big man, bigger than life,
filling up the bathroom like an apparition. He didn't seem real. And then he smiled that smile and her entire being felt relief. She wanted to get up and hug the man, kiss him on the lips. His dark eyes studied her with empathy and tenderness. She wanted to ask about the girls but her mouth wouldn't open; yet she knew they were safe—now that Felix had arrived they were all safe.

“You're hurt,” he said.

Wendy pointed to her cheek.

Felix touched the wound. She winced.

“Not too bad,” he said. “You'll live.” His smile returned, bright and white and perfect. “The ambulance is here. They're attending to the others first.” He stopped smiling and grasped Wendy's wrist. “Hey, if you're wondering about the girls—they're okay. They're in good hands now.”

Wendy tried to ask where they were but her words came out garbled. Felix looked at her strangely and shook his head. Then his smile returned.

“Maybe you want to know what happened out there,” he said, lifting the toweled hand. “I'll give you the short version. When the punk who opened the door refused to look me in the eye, I knew something was up. I used to work in detention. I'm a martial arts expert.”

Felix paused. People shuffled around the flat, moving things. A vacuum cleaner screeched on. Wendy wondered what was happening. She tried to get up but couldn't.

“Anyway,” he said. “After I took care of him, I dealt with the others. Then the biggest, oldest looking one—pulled a knife. Imagine. So I disarmed him, and turned the tables, so to speak.” Felix roared with laughter, nodding and wiping his eyes.

Again Wendy tried to get up but Felix barred her with his arm.

“You don't want to hear the rest of my story?” he asked.

Wendy shook her head. She noticed how hard he was breathing, his chest heaving in and out. Sweat streamed from his temples, bending round his nostrils and blood-smudged lips. She could smell his body, its heat. She tried again to get up but his arm pressed down.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “You're good right there. Trust me. Don't move.”

Wendy remained still.

Felix smiled. He wiped the sweat off his brow with annoyance and shook his hand. “You have beautiful daughters, Wendy—mind if I call you Wendy? I hate formalities. As I was saying, the girls are beautiful, and three of them identical to the eye, my goodness, what a gift, what a gift from God. I envy and admire you, Wendy. I do. I think it's great how you've maintained a household for them despite all your barriers. You are my hero. Yes, well. I have news about your daughters, and I hope you don't take it the wrong way.”