Blue Vengeance (3 page)

 

When Danny thought about killing someone, the first person who came to mind was his mother, but he pushed that thought aside. You couldn't kill your mother. Somebody somewhere must have done it, but all the same. It seemed beyond his purpose of evening things out. He didn't want to go overboard.

He even thought of killing himself. When he went over in his head the last words Cookie had ever heard him speak he wanted to gouge out his own eyes and grind them into the dirt.

The idea of killing Paul wasn't unappealing, but that was for reasons totally unconnected to Cookie. And he didn't want to hate him — he missed the day-to-day fooling around — but he didn't know if it could ever go back to the way it was.

Really, there was only one person. He let his mind circle her for a while, circle and then land.

And he knew how he would do it.

He rose from his chair.

When he went downstairs, his mother was slouching against a counter in the kitchen, holding a mug of coffee. When she saw him, she dropped it on the floor. The mug didn't break, but the dark liquid splashed up onto the white cupboards and onto her greying robe and it spread like river water over the faded green linoleum.

Dot came running, and Danny kept walking.

“Where are you going?” she said, throwing a dishrag and a tea towel at the spill.

He stopped on the landing. “To visit Cookie's grave.”

“Would you like something to eat first?”

She rummaged under the sink and found more rags.

“No, thanks.”

“You're sure?”

He'd never been surer of anything in his life.

“For goodness' sakes, Barbara, get out of the way,” said Dot.

Coffee surrounded his mother's bare feet, seeped under her long ugly toes.

“I can drive you.” Dot had been using their old DeSoto for errands.

“No, thanks.”

His bike was dusty, and one of the tires needed air, but other than that it was fine. He filled the tire and headed out. If it didn't hold the air he could stop at a gas station and top it up.

He weaved in and out of the cars on St. Mary's Road. Drivers honked at him and shouted comments:
stick to the sidewalk, buddy; hey, Mr. Magoo, watch where you're going.

In his mind he saw himself being cut down, but not lucky enough to die. His injuries would worsen his life further. He would lie in a hospital bed with tubes and casts, and disgusting fluids would leak out all over him. People would hover, expecting him to try to get better.

He moved to the sidewalk, and things quietened down.

Cookie was lucky in a way. Death had been fairly fast, though Danny could imagine few worse ways to go. He changed his mind; she wasn't lucky, and it wasn't fast. It was a drawn-out affair, just like the sickness of cancer victims who waste away to nothing in their hospital beds. It took her years to die.

She was dying when she asked not to be cremated, but he hadn't known. They were playing Chinese checkers at the dining room table, and she was trouncing him as usual.

“Don't let them burn me,” she whispered.

It surprised him, coming out of nowhere like that, with no preamble, but he knew right away what she meant because they had talked about it before: what they wanted to happen to them after they died. They had heard about cremation, it was becoming common in Canada, and it scared Cookie, made her think of Joan of Arc. What if she woke up from the dead during the fire? She also feared being buried alive, so made Danny promise that he would see to it that she was embalmed, that all the blood was drained out of her so she wouldn't wake up under the ground. She had read up on embalming.

Cremation wasn't even mentioned after her death, but neither was embalming, so Danny took it upon himself, with Edwin at his side, to speak to the undertaker and convey Cookie's wishes.

The undertaker was kind and unsurprised by these words from a young boy.

“Please promise me,” Danny said, “that there is no chance in the world that my sister will wake up after her coffin has been closed.”

“I promise,” said the undertaker, and put his hand on Danny's shoulder as he looked into his eyes.

Danny believed him.

 

His tire was losing air. He stopped at a Texaco station to fill it up and then he gave the road another try. The cars had thinned. The streets had a wee-hours-of-the-morning look to them. What if one day all the adults decided not to go to work? And all the kids pretended they were sick and stayed home from school, and the old folks cancelled their doctors' appointments and bowling dates? What if everybody stayed home one day, all in the same city? For that one day the streets would be empty. He supposed the odds of it happening were very low.

The cemetery parking lot was empty. Danny imagined that he was the only person left alive in the world, living amongst the dead. He didn't know if he liked the feeling or not.

He found the grave. It had a small granite headstone that read:
Cordelia Ruby Blue 1948 – 1964. Beloved daughter and sister.

Rage tore through him, like when he left the chocolate bar too long in the sun. But not muted this time and not soon gone.

Cordelia was Cookie's actual name, but no one had called her that in her entire life, as far as Danny knew. Except maybe teachers, at first, till they knew her.

He looked around at nearby graves. Some of them had flowers in various stages of death. He couldn't bear the thought of flowers wilting and dying on top of Cookie.

She was inside the coffin in the ground, right beneath his feet. He wondered if it was possible that some of her flesh was already gone.

As he stared at her patch of lawn he remembered a conversation he had overheard between his mum and Aunt Dot. It wasn't very long ago. They were talking about Cookie and how she had fainted in maths class and been sent home.

His mum had said, “It might just be the hole in her heart. I haven't heard of fainting as a symptom, but I suppose it's possible.”

“Just the hole in her heart?” Danny had burst into the kitchen. It sounded disastrous to him — life-threatening. “What are you talking about — a hole in her heart? Who's going to fix it?”

Even when his mother explained it to him, he was certain that it would kill Cookie sooner or later, probably sooner.

“But can her heart handle having a hole in it? I mean with...” He looked over his shoulder to make sure Cookie wasn't listening. “You know…with the way she is, with what she does to herself.”

“What does she do to herself?” said Dot.

“Nothing,” said his mum. “It's gradually closing on its own, Danny. Dr. Briggs said there's no need for reparative surgery, at least not at present. He's keeping an eye on it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we get it checked regularly.”

“How regularly?”

“I don't know. Once every while.”

“How often is that?”

“Danny, for goodness' sake. Twice a year. How's that?”

“Is that often enough?”

“Yes.”

“Does Cookie know?”

“Of course she knows.”

“Why didn't I know?”

“I guess no one thought to tell you. I'll be sure to tell you every little thing from here on in.”

The hole in Cookie's heart seemed far from being a little thing to Danny, but he was sick of his mother's way and her words so he stomped off. He heard Dot ask again what Cookie did to herself, and his mother say, more loudly this time, “Nothing, Dot.”

And sure enough, it wasn't her heart that killed her.

He walked his bike out of the cemetery and began the long ride home. His tire held up.

When he approached the screen door Russell flung herself against it from the inside. She greeted him as if he'd been gone for her whole life. His mother and Aunt Dot were in the front room. Dot was flipping through a
Family Circle
magazine; his mum lay on the couch with droopy eyelids. They were neither open nor closed. A forgotten cigarette smouldered in an ashtray on the coffee table beside her along with four bottles of pills, two standing and two on their sides.

Dot smiled at him; his mother didn't.

“Why does the stone say Cordelia?” Danny said.

“What?” said his mum.

“Why does Cookie's gravestone say Cordelia?”

“That was her name.”

“No one called her that.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn't.”

“Yes, I did.”

“It's a stupid name.” Danny tried to summon up a conversation between his mother and his sister. He couldn't remember her calling her Cookie, let alone Cordelia. Maybe she tried it out for a while before he was born, but not since he entered the picture. He was sure of it.

“The stone should say Cookie.”

His mum sighed and looked at her sister. Dot had stopped flipping, but she held her tongue.

Danny stared at his mother. There was nothing about her face that he liked. He wanted to press it into the carpet till her nose broke. He could like that about it: a broken nose.

“We need to change it,” he said.

“No.”

“I'm going to save up and buy a new headstone.”

“We're not changing it. Anyway, what are you going to save up?”

She had a point. He didn't have a penny of his own. He was at her mercy.

“I'll get a job,” he said. “I'll steal.”

There was money in the kitchen drawer. Perhaps he'd rob it.

“Oh, Danny.” Dot stood up, but he was gone — up the stairs, where he slammed his door behind him.

He heard his mum's voice.

“Dot. Leave him.”

 

The next afternoon Danny walked over to Paul's house. It was time to forgive him. He had been fine as a friend till the Sydney I. Robinson business, and Danny didn't want to think about that anymore.

It had been strange not having a sidekick. Paul had been around off and on since grade one. They even lay on top of each other once. It had stirred them both but they never did it again.

Danny knew that he was actually the sidekick. Paul was the main guy — the Lone Ranger to his Tonto — but he could never let him know that, not even if someone threatened to pull out his teeth with pliers.

Paul was in his backyard messing around with liquids and powders and beakers. Mrs. Carter was turning the earth over in a flowerbed. She was on her knees.

“Hi,” said Danny.

They both looked up from what they were doing.

“Danny, hello,” said Mrs. Carter.

Her first name was Jean. Danny wished that his mum's first name was Jean or maybe Donna — something other than Barbara. Barbara reminded him of fences that hurt you when you tried to climb them.

“What's up?” he said.

“I'm tryin' to manufacture an explosive device,” said Paul.

“He could probably use some help,” his mother said.

Danny cringed at her effort to bring them together. This was hard enough without a grownup all over them.

“Wanna go down to the river?” he said.

“Sure.” Paul looked at his mum.

She stood up, and Danny noticed that she had very smooth legs, way nicer than his mum's. Hers had veins that stuck out.

“Paul's still not entirely out of the doghouse, Danny. If I let him go, this will be the first time for him to leave the yard since that dreadful day at Sydney I. Robinson, except to call in on you a few times. Under strict supervision, I might add.”

“Will you let me?” said Paul.

“I wish you had checked with me before you agreed to go,” said Mrs. Carter. “I'm inclined to think you haven't learned your lesson.”

“Please, Mum. We won't be long, will we, Danny?”

“No.”

It annoyed him to be hauled into it. What if they were long? Then what, would it be his fault?

“Well, all right then,” she said. “But don't swim in the river. And don't do anything bad.”

They started out the back gate.

“For goodness' sake, Paul, clean up your explosive materials before you go.”

Paul rolled his eyes but started back.

“And that's enough of that attitude, young man. You're awfully quick to forget the trouble you're in.”

Paul gathered up his stuff and put it in the garage.

“'Bye,” said Danny.

“'Bye, Danny. Come back for supper if you like.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Carter.”

“Check with your mum first.”

“I will.”

They walked the short distance to the river.

“My mum is drivin' me nuts,” said Paul.

“Your mum's great,” said Danny. “You should try havin' mine.”

They came to a clearing off the monkey speedway and sat down on a log.

“I hate my mum,” said Danny.

“You can't hate her.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“She's gone really weird since Cookie…you know…”

“Died?”

“Yeah. I mean, she's always been sick and stuff, but it's gotten worse. She's not like other mums. Yours, for instance.”

“She never yells at you,” said Paul.

“I wish she would. Silence is way worse than yelling.”

“No, it isn't.”

“Yes, it is. And so is quiet talk. You don't know.”

He suddenly remembered her saying
my dear lost boy
and tears stung his eyes. He forced them back.

“She doesn't hit us or anything,” he said, trying to bring back the hate — he couldn't have Paul witness his tears. “But she's still mean.”

He realized he'd have to get used to saying
me
instead of
us
, and all the variations on those words. There were a lot of extras added on to the matter of your sister dying.

“Plus, she never teaches us…me anything. Aren't parents supposed to teach you stuff?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know…how to be. How not to die.”

Paul was whittling a Y-shaped stick with his pocketknife.

“Maybe if you had a dad, he'd teach you stuff.”

Danny turned to look at his friend. “That's a tremendously stupid thing to say.”

“Sorry.”

“Where the hell am I gonna get a dad?”

“Nowhere, I guess.”

“What are you makin'?”

“A new slingshot. My old one broke.”

Danny longed to tell Paul about his plan. He was bursting with it, but he resisted the impulse. He didn't want to put it in the wrong hands.

“Maybe if my dad is teaching me something, I could phone you, and you could come over and learn it along with me,” Paul said.

“That's not a bad idea. What types of things do you think he'll be teachin' you?”

“I don't know. How to change a tire?”

“That's a good one. It'd be worth knowin' for later, when we have cars.”

“A red '58 Thunderbird convertible,” said Paul. “That's what I'm gonna have.”

“I'm gonna have a '57 Cadillac,” said Danny. “Powder blue.” He pictured the car he had seen through the rain at Cookie's funeral.

“Powder blue's a suckhole colour,” said Paul.

“No, it's not.”

“Yes, it is.”

They walked back to Paul's house for supper. Danny didn't let his mum or aunt know what he was doing, and when Mrs. Carter asked him if he had, he said yes.

Supper was meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans.

Mr. Carter was a slow eater. Danny knew this from having eaten there before. He decided to take a bite only when Mr. Carter took a bite and to choose the same thing as he did each time. Meat loaf, beans, potatoes. Beans, beans, potatoes, meat loaf. He hoped no one was paying attention to what he was doing. It was the most fun he'd had since before Cookie died. He might tell Paul about it later, but he might not. It was more the type of thing he told Cookie.