Going Down Swinging (6 page)

“I’d rather stand on it.”

He gave me his fake-shocked face. “You better watch it, little girl,” and he shook his stick and stabbed the air then gave it a yank like he just stuck it through me and wanted it back. I watched and wondered what it would take to make Dale think I was crazy. My dad said that once—make ’em think you’re crazy and they’ll leave you alone. I wrapped my fingers in the fence and rested my cheeks and looked past him.

“Wanna do something?” he asked me. “Wanna climb the tree in the back.” I shrugged. He looked like he was getting pissed off. “Why not, you’re always out there sitting in it. You look like a skinny ugly squirrel up there.” He threw his stick over the fence into our backyard. The knife was still beside his feet. He looked at it too. “I’m not gonna hurtcha,” and he kicked it across the pavement. “Come on.”

I came through the opening in the fence onto the gas station part. He picked up a rock and threw it at one of the old pumps. “I betcha ten bucks you can’t hit the hose part on the pump with …” he leaned and snatched it off the pavement, “this rock.”

“I don’t bet suckers, I eat ’em.”

“Yeah, yeah, just cuz you can’t.”

I went close enough to get the rock from him and eyeballed the hose. It was around twenty feet away. He watched me aim and miss the pump by a mile, then he laughed his over-loud cackle again. “Ahha, ten bucks, y’feeb. You throw like a girl.”

“So. I am one,” and I wandered off to look inside what used to be the garage. He followed and stood beside me trying to spy through the dirty window. There was nothing in there but part of an old car’s insides.

Dale leaned his forehead against the glass. “I could take a car apart and put it back together, you know.”

I moved along the garage to a side room where the cashier’s desk was. “Could not.”

“I fuckin’ could so, eh. I’m a really good driver. I’d have my licence if it wasn’t for the stupid cops—my brother even told me. And he should know, man, he’s a race-car driver.”

“Really? Where is he?” There were posters on the wall of the Michelin Man and red cars that looked like sharks, and one of a red-haired lady in tight shorts holding a wrench to her lips. I had to move before Dale saw her.

“He’s with my dad. In the States. In New York. They’re both race-car drivers.” Dale followed after me. “Where you goin’? We should break in and get some stuff.”

“There is no stuff. What do you mean, break in?” He was crazier than I could even fake.

“Just bust in, man, it’s all glass, just bust in.” I walked away, not wanting to be there if he did it, scared he was going to follow me and scared he wasn’t. He came along to the side of the building. “Come on, there’s a cash register in there, maybe there’d still be money in it or else they hid money under it or something, or maybe there’s stuff in the back like a secret compartment or a safe.” We walked up to a sheet of glass leaning against the garage with a chunk the shape of a telephone broken out of the top. I could hear Dale starting to breathe all weird when we came to it, and he barked “This is mine” at me as if I was going to steal it.

“Why do you have a piece of broken glass?”

“I mean it’s mine, like I’m saving it.” I asked him why. “Cuz. Cuz there’s days like today, man.” He was getting more fidgety. “Back up,” and he shoved me off to the side. Then he faced it, took a couple steps back and did a sideways jump, busting through the sheet to the wall. Glass flew everywhere and I screamed and turned my back. Pieces whacked against my T-shirt and fell. One hit low on my calf and slashed so that blood dripped down to my heel. It wasn’t that deep, but seeing it made me scream even more.

Dale was on the ground from losing his balance. His voice was shaky a little. “Shit.”

I had bare feet and there was glass all over the place around him, so I moved back trying to find a place where it wasn’t. “Are you OK?” I asked him.

He got up off his arms and rested on his knees to see what he did to himself. His jeans saved his skin but the tank top didn’t There was skinny pins of glass stuck in his skin up to the elbow and blood crawled out where they were shining. The piece that did the worst of it fell on the ground and left a big gash on the underpart of his elbow. I got butterflies watching the red streams come down his arm.

Dale had mouth-twitches while he concentrated on picking all the pieces out. I started to cry. He looked up at me with his eyes all watery and smiled.

“I’ll get your mum,” I told him.

“No.” It came out of him like a bark again. He kind of looked like his mum for a second, the way her eyes scrunched when she left a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. “She’s not home.”

“Yes she is, you might have to go to the hospital.” I was sure I heard her up there earlier.

“She’s not home, just forget it. I’m fine.” He held his arm to the sun trying to make sure he found all the glass.

“Well, I’ll tell my mum then.” I didn’t know what mine would even do, the way she was.

“Don’t tell your mum nothing—she’s a whore.” My mouth dropped and he said, “She is, my mum told me; your mum’s a hooker.”

“No! She
is not.”
I squinted back at him. “No she’s
not.”

Dale stood up. “Yeah she is, my mum told me, she knows your mum is and quit walkin’ away from me, y’ little baby; if you tell her I told you that, you’re dead.”

I glanced at Dale’s arm; I didn’t care any more. “I’m not, I just don’t want to stay outside any more. What if someone comes and sees what you did? I don’t wanna be there when you
get it.”

“I mean it, you tell your mum and I’ll kill you—and don’t think I won’t know.”

“I’m not, I’m just going in. Cuz anyway, she’s sick today.” I backed up some more, watching the ground.

“You mean she’s hungover.” He took a couple steps toward me with his wrist in the air and blood coming off his elbow like drool.

“No, she has the flu.” I went back toward the house.

Dale hollered after me, “I mean it, kid: tell her and you’re dead.” Glass skidded on the ground behind me.

It was hot when I came in, but I locked the door and closed the window. I pulled the blind by our bed. Mum was the same: on her back with her mouth open and her head tilted back in her pillow as if she was trying to get as much air as she could without working that hard. I sat down beside her, watching the door and crouched in near to her ear.

“Mum? Mummy.” She whimpered. “Mummy, Dale said you’re a hooker.” She mumbled. “Mum?”

“I can’t hear you.” Her tongue smacked the roof of her mouth trying to get wet again.

“Shh! Dale said you’re a hooker.”

“I can’t hear what you’re saying, honey, get me some water.”

I hissed at her, “I can’t talk loud, I’m not supposed to tell you because he said he’d kill me—he said you’re a hooker.” The phone rang. I pushed her arm. She asked for water again. I flicked hard, where I pushed her. And she went, “What! Get the phone.”

It was Charlie. In Vancouver. Mostly we wrote letters, but I loved it the best when we got to be on the phone together. She said, “I miss you, Grace-face,” and asked how I was. I felt all babyish like I was going to cry from her voice and I wanted to just be normal and tell her how much I loved her. All I said was I was OK. Charlie said I didn’t sound so OK. I was OK, just that Mum was sick, I said. That way maybe she’d feel sorry for Mum just in case she was still mad at her. I looked down at the back of my ankle. The blood was pretty much dried. “And I cut myself.”

“Oh no. Are you OK?”

“Yeah, it’s OK.”

“What’s wrong with Mum? Sick with a fever or sick lying-on-her-back-throwing-up?”

“Lying on her back.”

“Oh,” and she got quiet a second. “I’m calling because I wanted to tell you that I saved up some money and I’m going to come back to Toronto for a little while. Day after tomorrow. Maybe we could go to the zoo or something, like you said in your letter. Or maybe we could go to the museum and look at the dinosaurs. And no, I’m not mad at Mum. Your letter sounded all worried.”

I looked at Mum heaped in the sheets. The two of them together. If I could just have them separate. “Um, where will you stay when you come?” I felt guilty or more like mad, I guess, at my dad for making us move so we didn’t have Charlie’s room any more.

“Well, I don’t know. Your place is pretty small now, eh? I think I might stay at a friend’s place.”

“OK. But you’re going to phone right as soon as you come, though, right?”

“Of course, baby. I miss you so much.” Her voice went funny and she took a breath for a second. “Well … um … can Mum come to the phone?”

“Mmm, she’s sleeping.”

“OK, well, you can tell her, I guess. So, uh, so then I’ll see you. Wednesday, OK?”

“OK.” Mum looked practically dead. I whispered “I love you” to Charlie.

“Oh.” Her voice went warbly. “I love you too, baby. So much. OK? I have to go now.”

On Wednesday afternoon, Charlie showed up full of piss and vinegar. She was excited since we talked on the phone because of her plan to come help Mum and help me clean up the house a bit. Mum was still in bed, but she was talking more now and eating. They seemed OK so far, no fighting: hugs and kisses, and kind of mushy. Except for when Mum said that Charlie’s jeans were so tight they were crawling up her arse. Charlie looked like she wanted to leave almost. She changed the subject to how messy the house was and said we’d have to scour it from head to toe. I nodded. Mum reminded Charlie that she was sick, so she couldn’t help it being messy.

Charlie was all weird like a super-peppy maid or something, and she wasn’t there an hour before she had the kitchen floor all swept and me filling buckets, hunting for a mop and cloths, going to the store for Dutch Cleanser and Mr. Muscle. When the floor was done she started on the dishes, then changed her mind and opened the fridge. “Maybe we should take a break and have a sandwich or something.” She leaned in and her fingers went squeamy from everything they touched. “Grace, there’s nothing in the fridge but mouldy old crap! God. What’ve—The milk is sour, it’s two weeks out of date.” She handed me the bottle and I dumped the lumps down the sink. “What have you been eating?”

“I don’t know, hot dogs or fried egg sandwich sometimes, or there’s cinnamon, I make cinnamon toast and I know how to make french toast now, you know, and—there was other milk, it’s just that I finished it, and there was other stuff, there’s Dad’s oatmeal cookies, and maybe some Dr Pepper left from last night and apples. And bread, I think.”

She took the bread off the top of the refrigerator. “Grace! It’s mouldy, look at the crust, it’s blue!”

“Well, some of it’s still good. At the front slices and the back ones you can cut that stuff off—and there’s wieners in the freezer. And relish and ketchup. And canned something—Mum was trying to get me to eat those Bing cherries in the can, but I don’t like them. Anyway, sometimes we just order pizza.”

Shadow skidded into the kitchen, playing with a cork, slapped it into Charlie’s foot and crashed into the brown paper bag she’d set up for garbage beside the fridge. Charlie grabbed the cork off the floor, looked at the tip, all pink from wine, and threw it in the bag. She hucked the bread in after it and wiped her hand hard off her forehead. I picked Shadow up off the floor and held him a second; the room was sticky-hot. “It’s OK, I can go to the store. I just forgot. Plus it’s almost time to get cat food.”

Charlie swooped past me into the middle room. She stood over Mum with her hands on her hips and said in a nicey-nice voice, “Are you ever going to get out of this bed and try looking after Grace or are you just going to lie there until she starves to death?”

Mum’s eyes flicked open. “What are you talking about?”

Charlie grabbed an empty bag off the floor and crumpled it up. “Nothing.”

“No—what did you just say?” Mum’s voice was coiling up like a mad snake.

Charlie chucked the bag on the dresser. “You! You should be charged with neglect, that’s what—goddamn house is a pigsty, place smells like cat piss, there’s no food in the fridge—not even milk. What the fuck is she living on?—wieners and chocolate bars? Do you give a shit about anything in this world but men and booze!”

Mum struggled her head off the pillows. “Look who’s talking! Grace is fine, no thanks to you. Coming and going whenever you damn well please—why don’t you just stay the hell away so she doesn’t end up crying for a month because you fucked off again. She’s healthy and fine now and I don’t need you barging in here trying to run the show. Person can’t even be sick in their own home. Nobody asked you to come here, so why don’t you just get the hell out of my house.”

“Christ you’re a bitch—kid’s seven years old and she’s looking after herself while you—”

“Get out! I want you out of my house before I damn well kill you. I swear to Jesus, I’ll kill you!”

Charlie’s face went white. “Grace! Grace, go get the knives.”

I was in the doorway between them and the kitchen. “What? What do you mean?”

“Grace, do what I say.” Charlie looked crazy-scared.

Mum hollered over her, telling her not to order me around and to get out of the house before she had to get carried out. Charlie screamed louder, “I hate your guts—you should be locked up! Grace! get the knives, get all the knives and scissors out of the drawers and hide them in the backyard.”

I didn’t move. Charlie backed away from the bed. I couldn’t believe either of them. I mostly couldn’t believe anyone believed Mum’s killer threats. She could hardly make it to the bathroom, never mind stab someone. I tried to explain. “But Charlie—”

Mum dragged her back up off the bed, her chest crumpled forward on her thighs, until she got up the strength to dump her feet over onto the floor. Charlie screeched, “Grace, get the knives!” and she chased me back to the kitchen. Mum’s voice came after us. “Get out of my house. I mean it and if you touch one hair on that kid, I’ll kill you.”

My sister yanked open the silverware drawer and started pulling dirty knives out of the sink, shaking and stuttering, “Where’s the scissors?” I shrugged. “Well, where’s a dishtowel?”

I grabbed one off the counter and she wrapped all the sharp stuff she could find in it, handed them over and said, “Here! Go. Take them out back and bury them.”