Knucklehead & Other Stories (21 page)

— I guess it'll go, Judy said.

Len hopped out of his chair, leaving the footrest up, and disappeared down the corridor. Judy placed a store-bought log made from compressed sawdust atop the small crackling fire.

— Is that one of those that has all the colours? Elaine asked.

Elaine dragged on her cigarette, then made a gesture to remove a piece of tobacco from her lips, even though the cigarette was filter-tipped. As she exhaled a mouthful of smoke, she drew it back in through her nostrils. George's eyes were closed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Len came back into the room, carrying a gun cradled in the crook of his arm. He climbed back into the chair and sat down with his legs dangling between the cushion and the still-raised footrest.

—I can't believe I can't use this baby for my turkey, Len said.

—It's, it's, Elaine said. She was staring at the blue metal shotgun barrel. She held her cigarette poised halfway between her knee and her mouth.

—Savage four-ten gauge Over-and-Under, Len said. Art, almost. Balance. Range. A nice tight pattern. He held his left hand in front of him and described a circle the size of an apple. It's a real piece of work, Len said. He hoisted the shotgun so the shoulder piece nestled against his cheek. He slid his hand along the stock and laid his finger beside the trigger. It's a high-technology hunting machine, Len said. His voice was muffled in the butt of the weapon. He swept the gun around the room, sighting objects along the walls.

—Don't point that thing at me, George said. He ducked and covered his head with his hands.

—Your hands wouldn't provide much protection at this range. Blow 'em clean off. Len didn't look at George when he said this. He was aiming at the china cabinet across the room.

—You shit-for-brains, George said. He ducked lower, sliding off the couch onto his knees.

— George, Elaine said. It's not pointing at you. You're not, are you, Len.

—A little gun-shy, are we, Len said. He aimed above the couch, where George's head had been, and squinted down the barrel. Len relaxed and brought the gun in across his chest, at the military at-arms position.

—Fuck, George said.

—You think I'm such a shit-for-brains, Len said. A firearm is perfectly safe if handled responsibly. You think I'd keep it loaded in the house? You're such a stupid jerk, George. Len held the gun at arm's length and pumped the gun once to show it wasn't loaded. A shell popped free of the breech. It bounced once with a clatter on the glass of the table, then rolled in a semi-circle until it dropped off the edge onto the deep pile of the carpet.

Len looked at the shell, then pumped the gun twice more, but it was empty now. His hands were trembling as he laid the gun on the floor. He leaned back in the chair and hiked his legs onto the footrest. He hugged his knees. George climbed back onto the sofa beside Elaine. He looked at the Elaine's glass of Sambuca but didn't reach for it. He swallowed hard a few times. George wiped his mouth and looked at his hand. Elaine dropped her cigarette, and scrambled to find it among the cushions. After closing the spark screen, Judy unfolded herself from her kneeling position, and brushed and straightened her pantyhose and skirt. She picked up the shotgun shell and looked around for a place to put it.

My father was shot twice, Judy said, rolling the four-ten cartridge in her palm. By accident. I remember as a girl, hunting with my father and brothers by the ponds back of the house. All my cousins and uncles would come for opening day. We'd wait for the twilight, and all the birds—ducks, geese, even swans in those days—would come swooping in low, honking and quacking in big flocks, in threes and fours, alone. Everyone would open up at once, firing at the birds, black silhouettes falling against the dark sky. The ponds were lit in a circle of fire, muzzles flashing. The dogs barking. The smell of burnt gunpowder lifted on the breeze. The spent pellets shot from the other side of the water would rain down on your head, warm and heavy. Once in the side and once in the leg, Judy said. My father. Once by his brother and once by his best friend. You never get shot by accident, by a stranger. It's always someone you know.

She put the shotgun shell onto the plate of pie she had hardly touched, so that it stuck in the whipped cream. She cleared the table, four plates held in one hand, glasses in the other, and went towards the kitchen.

—Who's for coffee? Judy asked.

Tears of the
Waiter Soup

The soup is simmered in a broth of tears, shed in a room he forgets. The waiter carries an opaque-green Depression glass mixing bowl. No matter where he goes, even in his sleep, he keeps the bowl in a leather pouch slung over his shoulder. The bowl is with him always. Riding the bus to and from the restaurant, the waiter draws the bowl from its pouch and turns it upside down in his lap to contemplate the inscrutability of the mark etched in its bottom. The waiter runs his gnarled finger, the cracked and misshapen nail gnawed to a nub, over the fluted edges that swirl from base to lip. He wonders, Will I ever fill you again, green bowl?

The waiter cannot know when he will next visit the room. He never remembers that the room exists until he finds himself in it. The first time, he is in the basement of his apartment building, an old tenement constructed in an era when they built in Murphy beds that folded out from the living room walls. He is groping his way through the dim basement corridor to change his laundry over from the washer to the dryer, but he turns left instead of right. Another time, fetching a carton of stemware, he limps up the stairs to the attic storage of the restaurant. He hesitates at the landing and stoops to peer out the small window set too low in the wall. Across the street, in front of an office tower, grows an elm tree that he used to climb when his grandmother lived in a house where the parking garage is now. Instead of continuing up the stairs, he sees a hatch leading under the gable, and enters. Once, searching for a public restroom in a department store, up on the sixth floor behind draperies and floor coverings, next to the credit office where the clicking of knitting needles stopped briefly while the lone woman in the teller's booth watched him, he passed through an unmarked door.

When he walks into the room he forgets, the waiter catches his breath sharply, and squares his shoulders. Light spills into the room, a clean yellow light like the colour of daffodils. A wooden chest in the centre of the room glitters with bright objects. He reaches to withdraw a single shiny key, and he begins to weep. He weeps for the red motorcycle he has never ridden. He catches the tears in the swirling green Depression glass bowl.

Later in the kitchen of the restaurant, the waiter hands the bowl of tears to the chef. The manager scurries to the sidewalk to change the list of daily specials on the blackboard sign. She writes:

Tears of the Waiter Soup!

And anticipates the line-up of the lunchtime crowd. Each sip a red motorcycle when you taste.

Fugue for Solo
Cello and Barking
Dogs

He trades the boy a hamburger for information. WorldBurger with cheese, no tomatoes, extra pickles. Jumbo fries. Root beer. An ice cream Snowflake for dessert. Robbie eats slowly. Takes a bite, puts the burger down on the styrofoam dish, chews, sips the soda. When the burger's done, the boy picks up stray sesame seeds, licking his finger and pressing down. He opens four packets of salt, builds a hill of NaCl. Rolls each fry in salt before popping it into his mouth. Hamish waits.

Robbie's not supposed to be eating between planned meals and snacks, it throws his blood sugar out of whack. He comes in on a Thursday afternoon, asking for food. Hamish is behind the counter, training a new hire at the soda dispenser. The boy walks up, says, “I know something you don't.”

He calls Balvinder, his shift manager, off the prep line to watch the front. While she washes her hands he pours a root beer then steers the boy to the side. He thinks that Robbie's having a reaction. “Hey son, what's up. You all right? Look at me.” He checks the eyes for signs of diabetic shock.

“I know something,” the boy says.

“What's that?”

“Give me three Double WorldBurgers with cheese, super-jumbo fries and a Snowflake, and I'll tell you.”

“What's wrong? Why aren't you in school?” He grabs the pack slung over Robbie's shoulder and roots through it, looking for uneaten food, his tester and insulin kit. The boy's only a couple of months into junior high school, he doesn't go home for lunch any more. He's supposed to watch his own levels.

“Dad, I'm fine. I got out of school 'cause I told them I had a doctor's appointment. That's another thing. You'll have to write me a note.”

“What's going on?”

“I know something. I'll tell you what I know, but I want my food first.” He thrusts his hands into the pockets of his ball jacket. It's old, got his brother's name on the sleeve, he's tried to blot it out with a laundry marker. Old jeans too, rolled up over sneakers. Hips hung low. He looks at his father through thick lenses.

They move to a booth, away from the order area. A bunch of customers come in. “I want hamburgers and fries and a pop and ice cream.”

“I'm calling your mom at home.” He stands up.

“She's not there.”

“Okay. I'll take you back to school. This is nonsense and you know it.” Hamish doesn't know how he'll manage. He rides a bicycle to work, it's a half-hour walk each way there and back. He'll miss the start of the after-school rush.

The boy blurts out: “Kimmy's having sex.” The boy's older sister, the man's daughter. She wants to go to Juilliard next year, or Cincinnati. Hamish slumps back down.

“Good grief, Robbie. That's stupid.” The palms of his hands start to burn. Hives. He breaks out when he gets nervous. Palms, the backs of the hands, feet, face, scalp. He sweats a lot. It starts like this, with a faint burning. “Who ever told you about sex? When?”

The boy shrugs. Hamish has been through this with two other sons and his daughter. He knows you can't always choose when you have to deliver the birds and the bees, but hopes it's not today, not seated in a plastic booth. Not wearing a uniform, a nametag, a hat with a BurgerWorld logo. Not with a purple plastic dinosaur stuck to his chest. Cross-promotion with
TV
.

“I want my burgers. And fries. Then I'll tell you more. I've got proof.”

“One burger,” Hamish says.

“And fries and a Snowflake. Or I won't tell. You won't be able to make me.”

When he finishes eating, Robbie pushes his tray aside. Hamish says, “Okay, you've got what you wanted, now finish your game and go home.” Throughout the snack he wonders. Kimmy spends all her time studying, practising, rehearsing, playing. A boy from the youth orchestra? A teacher? If it's a teacher, he will go to the police. “Who's Kimmy's boyfriend?” Robbie shrugs. “Who? Is this some trick to get off your diet—” He stops, slaps the table. “Who put you up to this?”

“I wasn't born yesterday, Dad. I know what sex is.”

The skin on the backs of Hamish's hands is starting to turn red. Spots appear as if he's been marked with a bingo dauber. Soon welts will erupt. “For god's sake, Robbie.” Balvinder and the new hire, Hamish can't remember his name, look over from the cash. Honh the fry cook wanders near the front, wiping his hands on his apron. Hamish has told him a hundred times not to do that. He lowers his voice. “Who told you this? Is this something your brothers put you up to? Did Mike get you to say this? Alan?” He grips Robbie's arm. “Who's telling you these lies?”

“Nobody. Let go of me.” The boy squirms away, slouches against the window. He pulls something from an inside pocket of his jacket and puts it on the table.

“What's that?” Hamish says.

“Pills.” Birth control pills in a neat little dispenser. A neon-green plastic cover. It's full, a complete cycle.

“Pills?” Voice loud again. Balvinder, the new kid, Honh, even Jason who's supposed to be dedicated to the drive-thru, they're all at the front pretending to do something. A customer glances over, then looks up at the menu board. Others eating at tables are staring. They see the BurgerWorld manager squeezed into a booth with an eleven-year-old boy talking about pills. “He's my son,” Hamish says. “Where'd you get these?” His flesh is rising and hardening like biscuit dough.

“Kimmy's room,” the boy mumbles.

“When?” His feet are swelling in his shoes, they will soon be itching.

“Sunday.”

The Pill. Kimberly.

“Can I have your Barney pin, Dad?”

Dogs follow him home. He pedals through the back lanes and side streets after midnight, and neighbourhood dogs wake from sleep. They stop gnawing rawhide toys. They give up chasing their tails. Ears prick up as the rush of yelps and howls pushes ahead of him like the bow wave of a ship. They raise their snouts to catch the first scent as he rides his bicycle homeward. Terriers squirm through holes in gates. Basset hounds dig under fences. Barkless basenjis leap tall hedges. German shepherds chew through leads, rottweilers snap chains. The man smells like a hamburger. The stink of work covers him, and it drives dogs crazy. A twelve- or fourteen-hour day, noon or earlier till midnight or later, standing behind the grill, slicing onions, frying potatoes, kicking half-eaten KidBurgers from under the tables. His greasy pants, the cuffs of his shirt, the leather of his shoes exude the odours of animal fats and nervous sweat.