Blue Vengeance (21 page)

 

Danny didn't go to sleep that night. He didn't even get out of his clothes. At 3:00 a.m. he slipped out the back door and pressed through the night air over to Janine's. It was warm for October. Her house was in total darkness. He thought about throwing stones at her bedroom window, but realized he didn't know which room in the tiny bungalow was hers. He went over to the school grounds, to the spot where they had put on their charade.

So, the word of two kids against the word of a mad woman. Maybe it wouldn't come to that. Birchdale Betty may not have seen them, and Janine was awful sure that she'd missed her shot. But in that case, what happened? It all seemed impossible. Nothing could line itself up inside his head.

He went home and lay down on his bed till after the sun came up.

Thoughts, mostly unwanted, came and went. If Miss Hartley was dead, Mrs. Flood had lost a sister: a twin. It staggered him that he hadn't thought about that before. They had laughed together; he had seen them.

When he went downstairs, his mother was in the kitchen stirring oatmeal porridge on top of the stove.

She smiled at him. The tiniest smile imaginable.

“Good morning, Danny.”

She must have said that to him before; it was a regular-type thing for people to say. But he couldn't remember it if she had. And she wasn't regular, hadn't been for years. He struggled one more time to remember who she had been before her illness led her so often to the couch, and Cookie's death glued her to it. He didn't want to prefer the couch person, but in many ways she was easier.

His mouth opened but no words came out. He forced himself to eat a bowl of porridge. He couldn't let her down on her first try. She stood and looked out the kitchen window while he ate. Neither of them spoke. And then she went back to the living room.

Danny rinsed his bowl. The oatmeal sat like gumbo in his gut. He walked out into the crisp fall morning. The brightness of the sun pained his eyes; it held little warmth. Leaves drifted down, and squirrels ran about preparing for winter. He wished it were one year ago, and that he could change the world he lived in.

He followed the familiar route to school. Nothing seemed different on the street. Kids passed him; he passed other kids. One or two of them said hi. No boys, just girls.

Maybe Miss Hartley would be there. Maybe it hadn't happened. What had happened? He thought about Janine and wondered how she felt this morning. Cool, calm, and collected, he guessed, but she was convinced that she had missed. He wondered how she would be feeling if she didn't think she'd missed, if she would be anxious the way he was. He suspected not.

Miss Hartley wasn't there. The girls in Danny's class were excited because they would have a substitute for phys ed. That was all that the excitement seemed to be about. He listened carefully all day to anything anyone had to say. Nothing caught his attention.

He didn't see Janine so he walked over to her house after school.

All the crabapple trees along the lane were empty of fruit; they had been picked clean weeks ago. The apples that hadn't been picked lay rotting on the ground. Danny regretted not having eaten more of them when they had been at their peak of deliciousness.

Janine was raking, out back where the willow tree was. He remembered his plan to fashion a new slingshot with its wood. It hadn't happened. That plan was from a lifetime ago.

“Why are you rakin'?” he said. “Most of the leaves are still on the tree.”

She looked up and smiled. “I like raking.”

“Would you like some help? I could help.”

“No, it's okay. We haven't exactly got the biggest yard in the universe. I'm about done for now.”

“Miss Hardass wasn't at school.”

“Yeah, I know. We had a sub for phys ed. Well, it isn't a surprise, is it? Something happened to her.”

“What? What happened to her?”

“I don't know.” Janine rested the rake against the side of the house.

“She couldn't be dead or there would have been a bigger to-do at the school,” Danny said. “There was just girls bein' happy because she was away.”

“It's too bad. It would've been great if she'd died without us having anything to do with it.”

She was so sure.

“No, it wouldn't have,” said Danny. “Not with us bein' there and runnin' away instead of helpin'.”

And leaving her with a twin sister who would miss her forever.

“You worry too much, Danny. Give yourself a break.” Janine squinted into the lowering sun. “What do you want to do?”

“I don't know.”

“Let's eat.”

They went in the house and Janine opened the fridge and every cupboard in the kitchen that had food in it. They ate bread and butter and peanut butter and jam, and cookies, and marshmallows, and what was left of a bought pumpkin pie.

“Aunt Dot made real pumpkin pies when she was here,” said Danny.

“Really? Why are we eating this one? We should be at your house.”

On his way home Danny realized that he hadn't thought about Miss Hartley for practically the whole space of his visit with Janine. She didn't seem to have any worries at all about the situation. She had tried to kill someone, hadn't succeeded, and now, to her, it was as though nothing had happened. Danny supposed she had bigger worries, according to her, anyway, about her dad and Children's Aid and all, but just the same. He wished he could be like her. Or maybe not.

She missed the shot, but did that make her not guilty? And what about him? Was he not guilty?

A trace of a good feeling came and went.

There would be no punishment; he had not done it. He was guilty for having set out to do it, but no one need know, except Janine.

He supposed the trace of good feeling was fleeting because it was only skin-deep — it had to do only with the outwardness of what hadn't happened. It didn't run deep like the guilt.

When Danny got home he heated up a can of cream of celery soup (with milk) for his mum and then went up to his room. He noticed the
Little Lulu
comics where he had left them on the floor. He had lost interest in reading them. Who cared what Janine used to read a thousand years ago? He took them to Cookie's room and put them back where he had found them in the closet beside a pile of old stuffed animals. The sight of her pink rabbit nudged the familiar hollow ache in his chest. When he picked it up he saw the corner of a Hilroy scribbler poking out from under the other animals. He pulled it out. There was nothing written on the cover — not Cookie's name, not a subject. He opened it. Written at the top of the first page in her awkward left-handed writing were the words:
Thursday, September 26, 1963

Danny realized he was looking at a diary. He turned a page, and then another. Most of the scribbler was empty. There were only three entries: one from last fall, one from April of this year — less than a month before she died, and one from…May 1 — the day before Frank found her in the river. The last day of her life.

 

Danny took the scribbler and the rabbit back to his own room and began to read.

 

Thursday, September 26, 1963

My mum says I have an unfortunate body type and that I take after my dad's side of the family. It would be better if I took after her, she says. I wonder if he loved her. Did she ever love him and his unfortunate body? He's barely a memory for me. I want to find him and make him come home. He could love me and look after me again like I believe he did once. If only I looked like Audrey Hepburn. Then he'd come home. That's a joke, but I mean it.

I want to go downtown, to the third floor at Eaton's, where I can choose something fantastic. Maybe chicken à la king and a jellyroll. I'll tell them I'm picking it up for my mother who's too sick to make supper. The last part is true. She's too sick to do anything but criticize me. The woman behind the counter will smile and think I'm a good daughter. I know I'm not. I steal money from the drawer. And I'm wasteful.

At the river I'll find a perfect place where I can do it all at once.

Someone caught me the other day in the washroom at school. Janine. She heard me and asked if I was all right, if I needed help. I like her. She's different from the other girls.

I said I was fine and no, I didn't need help. Something disagreed with me, I said.

She went away and left me alone.

If only I could go far away from school, from phys ed class, from my mum. And never, ever come back. I'd miss Danny — he's the only one I'd miss.

Sometimes I play hooky; I write my own notes with a different story every time: Cookie has the twenty-four-hour flu, she has food poisoning, she has a sore neck. I make up stuff that can clear itself up in one or two days and I sign my mum's name. Her signature is easy to copy. My marks are okay, but I have trouble concentrating because I have to think about all the stuff I want. And how I'm going to go about it. It takes up pretty much all my thoughts. It consumes me.

Yesterday I went into a house. I didn't decide to; I just did. It was as though it happened to me; I didn't make it happen. I cringe with thoughts of how it would have gone if I'd been caught. All the different scenarios. I'd have had to run and never stop. There's no way I could have faced it.

I don't want to do it again, but I don't know that I won't.

People in Norwood don't lock their doors. Some do, but most don't. Dads go to work; mums do too, but not very many; kids go to school, and they leave their doors open to the whole wide world.

I went to the other side of St. Mary's Road. Not that it would make any difference if I was caught over there, but somehow it felt safer to be far from home.

It was disappointing: fruits and vegetables, meat thawing on the counter. I did find leftover bubble and squeak in the fridge and made a considerable dent in that. And there was a cheese that was almost too good to be true: MacLaren's Imperial Cheese. It comes in a red cardboard container and is the best thing ever. Well…maybe not the best. There's always cake.

The only things I took with me were the Imperial cheese and a little paring knife from a wooden knife holder on the counter. Minimal damage. The risk was huge, but nothing bad happened.

At first it wasn't clear to me why I took the knife, but it is now.

Today I pressed its point into the smooth skin on the inside of my right forearm. I hesitated, and then with just a little more pressure, broke through, and a drop of blood appeared. No pain to speak of, nothing that even qualifies. I wondered why I'd never done it before. I poised the knife to cut again, but stopped. It would be difficult to explain such a wound.

 

Oh, Cookie
. It felt like a terrible violation, to read her innermost thoughts this way, but Danny couldn't stop. How could he stop?

 

Friday, April 17, 1964

I went into another house today. It was really something. But now I feel sicker than I've ever felt before. And lonesome too.

It was east of St. Mary's, like the other time. The high school kids were already in class.

Sweets were on my mind. Cake. My dream cake is chocolate with chocolate icing, and cherry pie filling between the layers. My knife was on my mind too. It takes up a lot of space lately.

I found myself on Hillcrest Street. Hillcrest has no curbs. I like that about it; it seems homey somehow. I watched the young kids from the house go off to school. They'd be heading to King George or Queen Elizabeth. The schools on that side of St. Mary's Road are named after kings and queens or else they have religious names, like Holy Cross or Precious Blood. There are lots of Catholics over there.

When I strolled into the back lane I saw both parents get into a turquoise Chevy and drive away. I think it was a '58. Danny would know. The mother wore spike heels, like the ones my mum wore before things got so bad for her, when she used to wear her taffeta dress. It's been forever since she wore that dress. I don't even know if she still has it. It was beautiful, and she looked beautiful in it. A long, long time ago. I figure this mum must have a sit-down job. Still, her feet must ache by the end of the day.

My mum's feet have a horrible look to them — kind of scaly and bumpy. Mine are okay — smooth, with no extra bumps.

When the car turned the corner onto Caton Street, I sauntered into the yard without looking around: that would be a dead giveaway. A Dairy Milk bar rested on a ledge by the back door. Someone had probably set it there as a reminder to take it with them. I left it; I didn't want anything to be too obvious. Whoever left the chocolate bar would notice for sure if it was gone. If nothing else presented itself, I could grab it on my way out. They could blame it on the mailman.

I entered through the back door. The aroma surrounded me, lifted me, carried me up the three steps to the kitchen. I shut my eyes for a second against the sting of sunlight streaming in through the windows. The room was all aglitter, everything aglitter.

The chocolate cake was on the counter, cooling in its pan. The mother must have gotten up early to bake it, maybe for a birthday party later in the day. A bowl of chocolate icing, covered with Saran Wrap, sat beside it. The cake was still too warm to ice. It would just be one layer, unless the mum had a fancy idea about slicing it up and somehow fitting it back together. Some mums did things like that. Not mine.

Bending my face to the cake, I inhaled. I began to tremble and had to sit down.

The whole family was probably thinking about it right now. Their day would be geared towards it and the surrounding festivities. I knew I couldn't mess with it.

I made myself get up from the chrome and plastic chair and looked inside the fridge. There was a plate of fancy sandwiches, also wrapped. Fancy sandwiches. If someone asked me to name the two food items that I love most in all the world, I would say chocolate cake with chocolate icing, followed closely by fancy sandwiches.

I took them out and set them down on the table. I unwrapped them, thinking perhaps I could wiggle one or two loose from the pile without disrupting it. They would be for the same party as the cake.

A stout black cat startled me with its presence in the doorway. It stared up at me and then leapt up onto the counter and gently poked its nose into the cake. It wasn't interested, but it didn't move away. There was a tiny crumb on the tip of its nose. It sat down and resumed staring at me. Maybe it was trying to guard the cake, keep it safe from me. The idea was in my head that it had a chance.

I ate two of the sandwiches. One of them had a cream cheese and maraschino cherry filling, and the other one was egg salad with green olives. I ate two more. What else could I do? It was bigger than me. One was grated sandwich meat, probably Klik, mixed up with green relish and mayonnaise. A lovely idea. The other was chicken salad, with chopped celery and a sweeter dressing, likely Miracle Whip.

On I went.

The cat watched, kept me company.

I left two of each kind of sandwich, bunched them together to make a meagre pile, and put the plate back in the fridge.

Then I rummaged through the kitchen drawers for a spatula. The cake was cool enough to ice. With the spatula and a knife I iced it in its pan. The cat joined in by batting at the utensils. I didn't mind. When I was done I covered it with the clear wrap from the icing. I washed the bowl, spatula, and knife and left them in the dish rack to dry. Then I said goodbye to the cat and went out the back door, the way I had come, with the cake hidden inside my book binder.

The Dairy Milk bar in its brown and purple wrapper floated on the ledge in a pool of white sunlight. I left it behind. It would give whoever had placed it there a few extra seconds of calm.

What I did is too big not to cause a major kerfuffle, within the house at least, maybe further afield. I ruined someone's party, probably that of the little girl who had skipped happily down the street with her brother.

As I left the yard I knew my only hope for a future was if I had entered and exited the house unseen. No one approached me. I pray I'm in the clear.

That, for sure, was my last time. I have been lucky.

I made my way carefully to one of my spots by the river, carrying my binder like a platter. Then, once I freed the cake (it was a mess), I used the binder as a cushion, as the ground was damp. I devoured my ill-gotten treasure in peace. The river didn't care. The cake didn't taste any different on the way up. It hadn't been inside me long enough.

My binder is totalled. I left it at the river.

I'm a criminal, a thief.

At first I figured I could mail the cake pan back to the people whose day I had ruined. I could wash it and wrap it in brown paper and take it to the post office on Taché. But then I couldn't remember if it was 85 Hillcrest or 82, or maybe it was neither of those.

So I didn't mail it. I hid it at the river, not with my binder, but further along, so it would be harder to connect the two items if anyone ever finds them.

Now I hate myself more than anything — more than Miss Hartley, more than my mum's feet. I want to sleep for a year and wake up as Audrey Hepburn.

When I got home I came up to my room and retrieved my knife from its spot under my mattress.

Then I took off my clothes.

It's important that I cut in places that no one but me can see, even when I'm in my underwear. Can you imagine if Miss Hartley noticed? I can't change in the bathroom anymore, not since she called me a cockroach. Some of the girls don't mind even if you see their bare chests. I'd die if anyone saw mine. It's horrible — I hate my nipples. They stick out and make me sick. My breasts are one of the places that I cut. And inside my panties above…you know.

That's where I pressed the point of the blade, where I left off last time. I'm making a
J
for
John
and right now I'm working on the arc of the
J
. John is John Lennon; he's my favourite Beatle. I don't need to make a word, but I do need to cut myself. Making a word gives it a form of sorts, a kind of… legitimacy.

I cut just deep enough so the blood appeared and sat, didn't run over. The particularness of my effort pleased me, the precise extent of it. I waited till it dried and then put on my housecoat. It will form a scab, and then I'll peel it off. If it fades I can do it again. I want it to last a lifetime.

There is something fantastic about cutting myself that goes all the way to the core of me. Something switches over in my head. Expands. As if I know something no one else does. I long for it to take me over and save me from the other thing — the thing that I hate.
Please God
.

Danny called me for supper: macaroni and cheese. I made it myself last night before I went to bed so I wouldn't have to do anything much about supper today. I didn't know then that I wasn't going to school. Danny helped me last night by grating the cheese and he helped me again today by warming it up in the oven.

When I put just a wee bit on my plate I saw my mum and Danny exchange a glance. Sometimes I think they know what I do. Danny anyway. For sure they know about my secret eating (
where does the food go?
) but maybe not the rest of it. I don't think my mum notices much of anything. She's always in a dopey state because of all her pills. I think she sometimes even takes sleeping pills during the day. She's never going to get better, I know it. She sighed as she ate (her portion was even smaller than mine), as though it was the most trying thing she'd ever done.

Danny concentrated on his own meal, as if everything he needed was right there in front of him, on his Melmac plate.

I don't remember what it's like to sit down for supper and eat what's in front of me while thinking normal thoughts. Taking regular helpings, knowing what a regular helping is, having a little more if it's something I like. Looking forward to dessert. Leaving the table satisfied, neither still hungry nor stuffed to the gills. And then getting on with whatever comes next: homework, going outside, watching
Donna Reed
. It seems like a million years ago. Maybe a glass of Jiffy at bedtime if Mum isn't around to drive us out of the kitchen.

What did that feel like? From here it looks like heaven. How could I have taken it for granted? Is there anyone else in the world like me? While I watched the Beatles on
Ed Sullivan
I wanted to concentrate on John (I love his voice the best), but all I could think about was going to the bathroom when it was over so I could get rid of the pork chop and mashed potatoes that I'd cooked for supper. When I hear “Please Please Me” it reminds me of pork chops and applesauce and how they taste coming up if they've been down there too long. It reminds the other girls at school that they want to kiss Paul McCartney more than they want anything, even chocolate cake. I hear them talk; I want to be them. I want to be anyone but me.