The Monkeyface Chronicles (30 page)

My mother kneels in the Chapel of St. Thaddeus, a small area in the west transept of the darkened, incense-scented church. Moonlight shines dimly through the stained glass depiction of St. Jude Thaddeus, who holds an axe and a quill pen, and wears a large medallion struck with the image of Jesus' face. Back when I still attended Sunday School, Mom told me that this was her favourite place in the whole church, that the calm, knowing expression of St. Thaddeus always brought her peace.

I kneel down beside my mother, and Caitlin slides in beside me. Mom continues whatever prayer she's quietly composing in her head, and Caitlin closes her eyes tightly, pushes her palms and fingers together in front of her nose, and quietly begins whispering to her God. I can't make out what she's saying, but the gentle hushing sounds are soothing somehow.

I can hardly believe that this is the same tittering, gossiping Little Colour Girl who sent Adeline running half naked into the ravine, who sat in the cafeteria and did nothing while Carrie and Lara needled Adeline about her mother.

I bow my head and close my eyes, and silently pray:
Hi,
God. How are you? I am fine.

When I was a little kid, this was the way I always began my prayers.

Sorry, God. It's been a long time since I did this, so forgive me
if I'm a bit out of practice. Please don't let my brother Michael
die.

I clench my hands together tightly against my chest, and a couple of the scabs on my knuckle crack open, stinging and throbbing. It's okay. At least I can feel it.

Boy, it's been a long time since I've done this. Maybe you
should just listen to my mom and Caitlin. They're asking you for
the same thing I'm about to.

I feel a burning rush between my eyes.

Please don't let Michael die. Please. He's the best person I've
ever known. I was an idiot to turn against him the way I did.
Please make him better. Make his neck and back heal. Please. Let
him be himself again. Please please please.

I swallow hard, grit my teeth, and soon the feeling passes. I never cry.

Thanks for listening, God. Amen.

That's how I always ended my prayers when I was a little kid, when I was still certain that someone was actually listening.

The silence is broken by a voice from behind us.

“You'd best come back to the hospital, now,” my grandfather says curtly.

I stand up with Mom and Caitlin to face him. He towers over them, but I'm close to the same height. He looks right through me.

“Michael has slipped into a coma. They've put him on a machine, but he doesn't have much time.”

“Can I s-see h-him?” Caitlin stammers, the tears flowing again.

“Only immediate family members are allowed in right now,” my grandfather says.

“Yes, you can see him,” I tell her.

My grandfather says nothing else, and turns and marches through the centre aisle of the church, his lips tight and his chin held high. My mother, Caitlin and I follow, hanging our heads like we're being led to the gallows.

The Emergency Room doors slide open, and Caitlin and my mother rush through. My grandfather grabs me by the shoulder. “Philip,” he says, “I want to have a few words with you before we go inside.”

A police cruiser pulls into the parking lot, and two familiar policemen climb out and rush across the tarmac.

“Vernon Skyler?” the older cop says to my grandfather.

“Yes?”

“We need you to come with us, sir. Right away.”

The younger officer looks at me. It's the cop named Pete. “Hey, buddy,” he says.

“Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait,” my grandfather says. “I really need to be in the hospital right now. Time is of the essence.”

“I'm afraid time is even
more
of the essence in this situation, sir,” the older officer says. “There is a, uh,
situation
in progress at the home of your son, Landon Skyler.”

“What
kind
of situation?” my grandfather asks.

“Well, sir,” the older cop says, “it's a bit of a hostage situation.”

“A hostage situation?” my grandfather yells. “Someone is holding Landon hostage?”

“Not exactly, sir,” the older cop says. “Your son is currently holed up in the basement of his home with one of the members of the Weirdo Ch . . . the Tabernacle of God's Will. There's been a break-in and attempted arson. It seems that your son has some kind of high-voltage device down there, and he's threatening to electrocute the guy with it if, well if . . . ”

“He's promised to release the hostage,” Officer Pete concludes, “if we bring you to him.”

“Break and enter?” my grandfather wonders, his mouth hanging open. “Electrical device?”

Officer Pete helps my grandfather into the back of the police cruiser, the same seat that Candace Brown had occupied earlier this evening. Doors slam, and the police car speeds away, lights flashing, siren wailing.

The Emergency Room door is still open, waiting for me to step inside, but it's far out of range, and some of my basic bodily functions are beginning to fail. My vision is blurred. My balance is off. I sway from side to side. Here is the nurse. Light Blue Uniform. Forget her name. She says something. It doesn't register. Michael. Where is Michael? Must ask her. My tongue won't work.

She takes my hand and says, “Follow me.”

I follow.

She leads me through a glaring white hallway, to a wide doorway. “In here,” she says.

His body is under a pale green sheet. I recognize his shape. Almost the same as mine. Tubes and wires. Machines all around him. Can't see his face. Catilin and Mom stand there. Their backs to me. Holding each other. Both shaking. Crying
God God God
and
no no no
and
why why why
.

I can't see him. Don't need to. I know.

My brother. My twin brother. Same birthday. Same womb. Together since birth. Can't see him. Can't look at his face. Can't live with that.

I turn away, and I'm running.

Once again our house and everything around it blinks with red light. All three Faireville Police cruisers surround my father's CBX leaning on its side stand in front of the garage.

“The goddamned electrical thingy is disrupting everything!” one of the Gasberg cops shouts. “The walkie-talkies are nothing but static.”

“Sniper's not an option, either!” another shouts back. “All the friggin' basement windows are bricked over.”

“Take me in,” says a faint voice. It's my grandfather. “There's no other way. Take me inside, and I'll put an end to all this.”

“Landon Skyler,”
a voice squawks through a megaphone,
“An officer is escorting your father into the building. Do not harm
the hostage. I repeat, do not harm the hostage.”

The other officers crouch behind the hoods of their cars and aim their guns at the smashed front door as Officer Pete walks my grandfather into the house.

Time passes. Lights flash. Guns are aimed.

Officer Pete finally emerges, grasping the arm of a lanky young man, whose Tabernacle pants are stained where he's pissed himself. It's Bradley Miller, Bradley Vangelis. After he's finished vomiting onto his and Officer Pete's shoes, his hands are cuffed behind his back and he's locked into a police car.

I wander through the small phalanx of police officers and into the house.

“Stop!”
the megaphone honks.
“This area has been secured
by police! Do not enter the building. I repeat, do not enter the
building.”

If they shot me, I didn't hear it or feel it. I'm still walking. Still alive as I enter the living room. The Jacob's Ladder hums and crackles in the basement. I don't even feel my feet on the steps. My father and my grandfather stand face-to-face, their features amplified and distorted by the buzzing arcs of electricity.

“Philip!” my grandfather hollers. “Get the hell out of here!”

“Hey, Philip,” my father says, in a strangely calm tone of voice. “How's it going, brother?”

“Shut up, Landon!” my grandfather barks. “This is between you and me. Philip, get out of here.”

“It's all of us now,” my father says calmly. “The lie has run its course, Dad. It's time for the truth.”

“Philip!” my grandfather shrieks, his eyes glowing as brightly as the crackling electrical arcs. “Get. Out. NOW!”

“Sorry, Philip,” Dad says. “You shouldn't have to find out this way.”

“Landon!” my grandfather orders, “Don't say another word.”

“I tried to fake it for a long time, but I was never really in the fathering business.” Dad gestures at the paintings of nude men that lie in the rubble of the fallen cinder-block wall. “As you can see, I was never really much into women. Not like Dad was. Or
is
, I should say.”

“Goddammit, Landon!” my grandfather screams. “Shut up! This can all be fixed! It can be fixed!”

I look at my father. “Dad?”

“Wrong guy,” he says to me, and glances coyly at my grandfather.

“Shut up, Landon! Shut up! Shut up!”

As he stretches his fingers toward the space between the Jacob's Ladder's two thick wires, Landon Skyler says to his father, “You had better step back.”

And a slender, tentative connection is stretched beyond the breaking point. It snaps. I don't know who I am, I don't know where I am, I don't know where I'm going.

Yellow Light

O
utside the house now. My legs straddle the huge motorcycle. Foot kicks up the side-stand. Right thumb presses the ignition button, and the scabs over my knuckles crack open again as I clench the handgrips.

Turn the throttle, release the clutch lever. My feet hit the foot pegs, knees tuck in behind the massive six-cylinder engine, and the rear tire sprays gravel as the bike blows past the police cars, away from the darkened house, straight through Faireville, and out onto Gasberg Road toward the highway.
You can't outrun this,
is the faint message. Ignore it. Crank the throttle all the way open. The powerful bike surges forward with a predatory roar, the glowing orange needles of the speedometer and tachometer trembling as they twist farther clockwise.

Maybe I'm catching up, because the thought signals are coming through more clearly now.

Your father is not your father. Your grandfather is not your
grandfather. Your mother deceived you. Dennis deceived you. The
only one you could ever trust was Michael. And now he's gone.

Wind rushes and everything blurs into a stream of horizontal lines, flowing from the pinpoint at the centre of the headlight beam.

Adeline. You still have Adeline. Go to Adeline. You know the
way.

Blast along Gasberg Road, toward Highway 401, toward Toronto, try not to think, just concentrate on the road, clench the handgrips, look ahead.

Mayor Brush says to the referee, “Now let's have a fair game here, eh!”

Blood forms on the ice around Michael's head. Blood drips from my knuckles, taste of blood in my mouth.

The battering ram smashes against the door. Flames in the windows, smoke in the air.

Toppled walls, the shattered 747 model, the painting of the centurion.

Candace Brown kicking at the police cruiser window.

Dropping the jackknife and watch into my grandfather's upturned hands.

The coloured light of St. Thaddeus on the praying faces of Caitlin and my mother. The sound of them crying beside Michael's body.

The crackling blue arcs of the Jacob's Ladder. Yellow flames rising, flickering then roaring behind the windows.

A blinking yellow light. Straight ahead.

Suicide Curve.

I clench front brake lever, stand on the rear brake pedal.

Rubber screams against pavement. A metallic cymbal-crash gunshot explosion as the motorcycle hits the safety railing, and my body snaps forward, hovers for a moment in space, then falls down,