Knucklehead & Other Stories (20 page)

A few minutes later, the paramedics and the firefighter appear, manoeuvring the stretcher through the front door. It is the only time Colm lays eyes on Ted's grandmother. The image that he keeps, that he will use to describe her to Beverly, is that of a pile of dry white leaves. She is awake, conscious, and as they struggle to lift her down the steps, a wafer-like hand floats up from the sheet draped over her to pull the oxygen mask down over her chin. Her lips are a pucker of thin blue lines, moving rapidly, without sound. The firefighter is holding an
IV
bag over her head, and as the response team sets the stretcher down on the sidewalk, he uses his other hand to try to put the mask back in place over her mouth. She tosses her head, and Colm can see the elastic snap down over her ear. The hand tethered to the
IV
brushes at the air.

Ted storms out of the house. “What the fuck are you doing! She doesn't want that on her face. Fuck, stupid.” Ted is shirtless, with a pair of dirty blue jeans hanging off his butt. He's got that dog in his fist like a ham sandwich, and the dog is barking. “She's trying to talk. She wants to tell me something.” Ted pushes his way to his grandmother's side. He drops the dog, and it scampers away.

Ted gathers the old woman's hands into his and leans close to her lips. Colm can see she stops trying to speak, and her eyes lock on to Ted's. She seems to relax. “It's okay, Gamma,” Ted says softly. “Momsy'll go with you.” He strokes the wisps of hair aside as the paramedic replaces the mask and the firefighter checks the
IV
. Ted stands aside as they load her into the ambulance. Lydia stops and says something to him, and he responds, “I can't Moms. You know I gotta stay here.” As they embrace Ted looks over his mother's shoulder and stares at Colm.

Colm diverts his gaze, embarrassed. He looks down the block, where the Animal Services officer grasps the end of a telescopic aluminum pole. At its other end, a small noose has been slipped over the terrier's head. Its bark is now strangled, plaintive, as it struggles to get free.

Ted whirls and watches in disbelief as the Animal Services officer lifts the dog, still trapped in its noose, and slips it into one of the containment cages in the back of the truck, as if he was loading a paddle of bagels into a brick oven. “You bastard!” Ted roars. “You bastard. Give me back my dog.” He lunges towards the truck, takes two steps, then stops short as if hitting an invisible wall.

“Ted. Teddy. Edward.” Lydia is talking as she tries to pull his elbow. The paramedics have frozen.

“You bastard,” Ted yells. “You slimy cocksucker!” The dog-catcher scrambles into the truck, cranks the ignition, and reverses away down the street. Ted swings around and points at Colm. “And you! You are dead. You don't exist. You—” Ted's voice rises to an inarticulate bellow. He turns and punches the side of the ambulance, then punches again, shattering the passenger window.

Zelle
@
9 weeks
Zelle cried. She cried at night. She cried in the morning. She cried in the crib in her nursery room. She cried when Colm hummed or Beverly sang. She cried when Colm rocked her in the rocking chair. She cried in the bed, thrashing her tiny body in the space that separated Colm and Beverly. She cried when the neighbour's little dog barked. Zelle cried and cried and cried.

Thanksgiving

—Next year, I'm going to bag a turkey, Len said.

The two couples took a break from the video game. Len sighted along the barrel of the plastic gun-controller that went with the game. He aimed at a small Japanese vase decorated with a painting of birds—bluebirds—on a shelf of knickknacks, beside two framed studio portraits of a young man and a young woman in graduation robes and caps. Elaine and Judy watched.

—Pow, Len said. The trigger spring squeaked against the plastic housing. He snuck a look at Elaine and smirked. Got 'em both. One shot, he said.

—Len's an excellent shot, Judy added. Len had just won ten games in a row of video Duck Hunt, on the Nintendo. Last game he went twenty-two screens without missing a target.

—That pheasant was
terrific,
Elaine said. What a terrific idea for Thanksgiving. Pheasant.

She sucked a long drag from her cigarette, then laid her hand down on the couch so it covered George's lightly. The two fingers holding the cigarette jutted out stiffly at an angle. Smoke curled away from her and George sneezed twice, without covering his face. Some of the ash from the cigarette dropped onto the sofa cover.

— Let me get that, Judy said. She jumped up and scooped the ash into her cupped palm. Very lightly she brushed the sofa, then George's trousers near the knee, where the flesh was bunched in a tight knot beneath the khaki fabric.

—Who's for pie? Judy asked, voice trailing after her as she moved to the kitchen. Pie with liqueurs. Would you like liqueurs? Elaine? George? Len worked the lever to lower the footrest of his La-Z-Boy and eased out of the chair, then ambled over to the dry-bar.

—Don't have to lock this up now that the kids are gone, Len said. He opened the glass doors and tidied the bottles on the shelves, clinking them together and turning the labels to face outwards.

—How about some Amaretto, Len said. Or Frangelica? Hazelnuts.

– Do you have any Grand Marnier, Elaine said. George likes Grand Marnier, don't you, honey. Elaine looked from Len to George and back to Len. She took another drag, leaned over and poked at the ashtray, rolling the cigarette in her fingers so the coal formed a cherry-red, glowing cone. Then she ground it out.

— I like Tia Maria, Elaine said. Do you have Tia Maria, Len?

George quit watching Len sort through the bottles. He picked up a publication from the magazine stand beside the sofa:
Provincial Guide to Game Bird Hunting 1991.

—How about Sambuca, Len said. Flaming Sambuca. With a coffee bean. You'll like that.

Judy brought a platter in from the kitchen. Four plates with sixth-size pieces of pumpkin pie, the crust over-brown only slightly at the edges. Topped with whipped cream and garnished with Smarties. She put a plate on the coffee table in front of George and another in front of Elaine. She passed out paper napkins.

—This pie is lovely, Elaine said. It looks good enough to eat.

—I hope you like Smarties, Judy said and laughed, covering her mouth. It's real whipped cream, she said. I did it myself.

—I mean it looks too good to eat, Elaine said. Did you get the pumpkin from the garden?

—I forgot the forks, Judy said. We can't eat without forks. She hustled to the sideboard in the dining room and came back with sterling silver pie forks. Grandma's good silver, she said. Len's grandma.

George took a fork and skimmed the whipped cream from his pie and put it in his mouth. The candies crunched as he chewed.

—George, wait for the liqueurs, Elaine said. He put his fork down on the plate, and stared at the pie.

—Honey, get some coffee beans, Len said. The chocolate covered ones.

—Len always makes such a production, Judy said to Elaine, then she looked over at George. George cleared his throat, flipped open the hunting regulations. Judy scurried to the kitchen while Len brought over four small aperitif glasses.

—Don't have proper shooter glasses, Len said, winking at a spot between George and Elaine. But these'll do. I just won't fill them. He set the glasses down, then poured the liqueur. Half-full for Judy and Elaine, to the brim for George and himself. Then he went to the fireplace and retrieved a long wooden match, the kind used to ignite the kindling. George looked up from the page he was reading, leaned over to fetch his drink, and drank it back with a toss of the head. He ran the edge of his thick forefinger across his mouth.

— Hey, hey, Len said, moving his head slightly from side to side. Judy, honey, hurry up with those coffee beans. We're getting antsy in here.

Still standing, Len picked up the bottle to pour George another drink, then hesitated. He put the bottle down. He waited until Judy returned from the kitchen.

— I forgot where I put these, Judy said as she undid a ribbon that held closed a little glassine bag of beans. Santa left these in my stocking last year and I forgot where I stored them, Judy said. I put them in with the Christmas cookie decorations, instead of with the coffee. She fumbled the bag and a bean dropped to the carpet. She dipped down to snatch it up. She polished it with her thumb, then opened the screen to the fireplace and tossed it into the cold hearth.

—We'll have a fire later, Len said, pouring George's drink. Three-quarters full this time. Judy held the top of her blouse closed as she leaned over the coffee table and dropped a bean into each glass.

—Another one, Len said. Two or three each. Let's go to town.

She stood back to watch as Len struck the match against the fieldstone chimney. Cupping his hand to protect the flame, he rolled the lighted match over each drink in turn, until they were all burning with a near-invisible cool-blue fire.

—The lights. The lights, Judy said. The room faded to darkness as she gave the dimmer switch a twist.

— Oooooo, said Elaine.

—The alcohol is burning off, George said. With that, he quickly capped his hand over the flame, then drank. He coughed as a coffee bean caught in his throat, then gulped it like a pill. The others watched their drinks flicker for a while, until the chocolate had melted into a slick on the surface of the liquid.

—Time's up, Len said. Like George he capped each drink with his hand. Ouch, he said, shaking it and rubbing his palm. Better let these cool down, ladies, he said.

Judy turned the lights up again. George was eating his pie. It disappeared in four bites. He picked up a whipped-cream-covered Smartie that had fallen in his lap, ran the candy over his bottom lip, then ate it. He closed the hunting regulations booklet and placed it beside his empty plate. On the cover, a mallard duck with an iridescent green head swam placidly in water as smooth as the glass top of the table.

—Pow, George said quietly. He grabbed the book of matches from beside Elaine's package of cigarettes and used a corner of the cover to pick his teeth. Len took a bite from his pie. He spit a Smartie into his hand and put it on his plate with a pile of others he had plucked out of the whipped cream.

—Honey, light the fire now, Len said with his mouth full. He picked up the hunting regulations and leafed through. Next year, I'm going to bag a turkey, Len said.

—The pheasant was terrific, Elaine said. Pheasant. What a good idea.

— Listen to this, Len said, reading from the regulations. “Merriam's Turkey Special Licences will be issued through a special draw.” Blah blah blah. “Application forms and draw envelopes are the same as those used for big game.” Big game. Turkey. Oh yeah, Len said. “Each Merriam's Turkey must be tagged immediately after the bird is killed. Tags must remain affixed until the carcass is delivered to the usual residence or to a premises of which there is a Food Establishment Permit issued under the Public Health Act”—All right, that must be a restaurant. I can just see me taking one of these mothers into Earls, and demanding them to cook my turkey, Len said. Ha. Or get this: “Or a Licence for the operation of an Abattoir.” That's good. An abattoir. Okay, here we go—“in any case is butchered, cut up and packaged for consumption.” What about eating this thing? Listen to this, how to tag it. “For turkey, place wire through nares, or through the patagium.” Where do they come up with this stuff, Len said. I'm glad there's pictures here—“between the tendon and bones in the wing.”

—It always seems so untidy to me, Judy said. She knelt before the hearth, crinkling newspaper into uniformly sized balls to put at the base of the chimney. I'm glad Len likes to clean the birds as much as he likes to kill them, Judy said.

— I caught a salmon once, in Campbell River, Elaine said. Remember that George? She tore the cover off the matchbook and folded it into quarters, then put it in the pocket of her blouse. She lit a cigarette.

—Sixteen pounds, Elaine said. It made me sad. You enjoyed it though, didn't you, she said to George.

—Oh-oh. There's a gun restriction on these things, Len said. Here it is: “It is unlawful to hunt Merriam's Turkey using a weapon other than a shotgun or a bow and arrow.” I'm going to have to try that some time. Bow and arrow. Quiet. Silent like the forest itself. “Or to use a shotgun with a bore diameter smaller than 20 gauge.” Rats. I wanted to use my four-ten. It's a real beauty, Len said. Judy, get my four-ten so I can show Elaine and George.

— I hope there's enough kindling here, Judy said.

She lit the paper in the bottom of the chimney to induce a draft. A small puff of smoke drifted into the room. She worked the damper lever back and forth and the paper caught with a whoosh. She lit another of the long matches and ignited a small pile of shavings and sticks stacked tipi-like in the bottom of the fireplace.