Lost Between Houses (24 page)

“Don’t even
say
that. I’m supposed to be on extra good behaviour. That was the condition for taking me. I had to swear on a dozen bibles I wouldn’t corrupt anybody. Jesus! You’re freezing.”

“I’ll warm up. God, this bed smells nice. Do all girls’ beds smell this nice?”

“Don’t talk so loud.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You know what that is.”

“I mean what’s it made of.”

“Flannel. Very cosy. It was a Christmas present.”

“Does it go all the way down?”

There was the sound of a flushing toilet and the naked feet came back along the hall. A door opened and closed.

“Do you ever see Daphne Gunn?” she asked.

“No.”

“I saw her in the sport’s shop yesterday. She was buying deodorant.”

“I don’t want to talk about Daphne.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Don’t know.”

She was quiet again. I could tell she was thinking about something.

“You won’t be pissed off at me any more?” she said.

“No.”

“Promise?”

She sat up, and in the moonlight I could see her lift it over her shoulders. I heard it land on the floor.

“Is that better?”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy now?”

“Completely.”

“This is pretty weird.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just getting comfortable”

“With your hand
there?”

“Just for a second. I’m resting.”

“Just resting.”

“Yes.”

“All right. But be careful. I don’t want to end up in the hospital.”

“I will be.”

“No. Just there. And softer.”

“Like that?”

“Yes. Just a little lower. Yes, that’s it.”

“Is that right?”

“Just keep doing that. Softly though.
Really
softly.”

“How’s that?”

“Perfect. Just don’t talk for a second. Just keep doing it.”

“Like that?”

“Shhh.”

Then, after a bit, she sort of shuddered and put her hands over her face.

“God,” she said, “I mean it, one night the police really
are
going to take me away.”

The board in the middle of the hall creaked. Scarlet froze. We both listened. The board creaked again. But there was no sound, no footstep. She leaned over and putting her mouth very close to my ear, whispered, “Get in the cupboard.”

I got out of bed, grabbed up my shoes and my pants, opened the cupboard and got in. A few moments later, I heard the door open and through a crack I saw the room fill with light.

“Scarlet?”

“Yes, Miss Jenkins?”

“Who are you talking to?”

“No one, Miss Jenkins.”

There was a pause.

“Why is your nightdress on the floor?”

“I was hot, Miss Jenkins.”

“Put it back on.”

There was a flutter of material and then the sigh of a bed. Footsteps crossed in front of the cupboard. I looked at the floor. The window creaked as she unwound it.

“If you’re hot, open the window.”

“Yes, Miss Jenkins.”

“Now go to sleep.”

“Yes, Miss Jenkins.”

I stayed in the cupboard for some time. Then very carefully I stepped back into the room. I went to the door and opened it and peeked out. The hallway was empty.

“All right,” I whispered.

“Listen. Bring some string next time,” she said. “The kind they use for wrapping parcels.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”

It was algebra class, all those fucking brackets and little x’s; I was sitting near the back, watching an icicle hanging from the outside roof. It was a big cone-shaped thing, gleaming in the morning sunshine, water dropping off the end of it, and I knew that in a few seconds or a few minutes it was going to lose its grip on the roof and come crashing down with a roar. And that’s what I was waiting for.

There was a knock at the door and Harold, the messenger, came in. He was a nice old guy, always very polite to you in a way that made you polite back to him. He had this scanty white hair, a pink face, and he wore a blue uniform like a valet or something. All morning long he went from classroom to classroom delivering announcements from the headmaster’s office, you know, like no ball hockey permitted in the parking lot, the southern soccer fields out of bounds until spring, that kind of thing.

“Good morning, Harold,” the teacher said.

“Morning, sir,” said Harold, always jaunty. “Albright to the headmaster’s office.”

There was a groan and some of the pricks in the class turned around, their eyes all bright with bloodlust. You could feel their creepy little peepers moving over your face, trying to see if you were scared.

I went out in the hall.

“What’s up, Harold?”

“No idea, sir,” he said and made his way down the hall, consulting his list. I took the stairs two at a time and hurried along the main hall. The principal’s office was right at the end. The secretary, looking very fucking glum I might add, waved me through. When I saw Psycho Schiller there, I knew my goose was cooked.

The principal, a red-haired guy in his forties, took a few quick steps toward me. He was super pissed off, like about two seconds from hitting me.

“You have exactly one minute to tell me what you were doing in the girls’ residence at Bishop Strachan last night and by God, Albright, if you lie to me, I’ll cane your ass off right here on the spot.”

You know the expression, pooping in your pants. That was the closest I ever came. I looked at his face, then at Psycho. No way out.

“I was visiting a friend,” I said.

“We know that, stupid,” he said, spitting out the words. “How many times have you been there?”

“It was my first time.”

“Did you take anyone with you?”

“No.”

“No,
sir,
you mannerless oaf!”

“Yes, sir. No, sir.”

He stared at me hard for a second. I looked at the floor.

“The headmistress saw you, you fool. You left your bloody footprints all the way to the girl’s room.”

He turned to Schiller.

“Mr Schiller, do you have anything to add?”

“Not for the moment,” he said. “I certainly shall after.”

“Right. Now listen, you halfwit, you’re going to march over to Bishop Strachan right now. You will go to Miss Jenkin’s office, you will be on your best behaviour, you will apologize, you will take her step by step through everything you did, from getting in to getting out of that school, and then you will come back here immediately and we will decide what we’re going to do with you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get out.”

I ran over to the dormitory and got my coat, but on the way back I saw the strangest thing. You know these two guys, the principal and Psycho, like when I left the office, they were looking at me like they were measuring my neck for the noose, but on the way back across the quad I happened to glance up and I saw the two of them standing by the window. They were laughing. And I had a feeling they were laughing about this stunt, me getting caught in the girls’ dormitory. It was like they had to act as if I’d done something really bad, you know, for my benefit, but between themselves, they must have figured it was just a fucking prank. I mean there’s shit to get caught for and shit to get caught for. And stealing stuff or punching some kid in the mouth, that’s another league. Even an asshole like Psycho must have known the difference.

Anyway I didn’t spend a lot of time philosophizing on the relativity of crime, if you know what I mean. I sped over to Bishop Strachan, went in the side door and hurried along the corridor looking this way and that for the office. Scarlet was sitting in the hallway on a bench, white as a ghost. Before I had a chance to speak, she whispered, “Don’t you
dare
tell them I left the window open.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell them you screwed me. I mean it.”

I stared at her like she was a fucking stranger.

I went into Miss Jenkins’ office. She was this stout, grey-haired woman with a big bosom. She called Scarlet into the room. Scarlet came in, looking very dark under the eyes.

“I am going to ask you some questions, Simon. And how you respond is very important to the safety of the girls in this school. Do you understand? There’s a great deal more at stake here than just you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How did you get in?”

“Through a window.”

“Which window?”

“The Grade Nine window.”

“How did you know it was the Grade Nine window?”

“I used to have a girlfriend in Grade Nine.”

“Who was that?”

“Daphne Gunn.”

She paused for a minute.

“How did you know the window would be open?”

Scarlet was looking at the floor, listening.

“I just took a chance.”

“Did Scarlet leave it open for you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Scarlet, is he telling the truth?”

“Yes, Miss Jenkins.”

“Do you understand the significance of the question?”

“Not really, Miss Jenkins.”

“If you didn’t leave the window open, Scarlet, then what
your friend committed is a crime. Breaking and entering. I want you to appreciate this, Scarlet.”

“I do.”

“Well, did you at least
know
he was coming?”

“No, Miss Jenkins.”

“I have to say to the both of you that I find this all rather unconvincing.”

I didn’t say anything. Scarlet was biting the inside of her lip and squeezing the tip of her index finger into her thumb.

“How did you know which room was Scarlet’s?”

“She told me the number one time. I just remembered.”

“There was a red card on your door, Scarlet. Was that for Simon’s benefit?”

“No, Miss Jenkins. That was a reminder to do my history homework.”

“Well, if you weren’t expecting him and you didn’t leave the window open, why did you let him hide in your cupboard?”

“I don’t know.”

Miss Jenkins nodded.

“Is there anything you’d like to add, Simon? Now’s your chance.”

“I’d like to say that I’m sorry for frightening you, Miss Jenkins. And I’m extremely sorry for all this fuss.”

“Fuss is a peculiar choice of words, I must say.”

She looked at Scarlet. “Well, I think I know everything I need to know. You can go back to your school now, Simon.”

Just as I was leaving, she stopped me.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen, Miss Jenkins.”

She thought about that for a moment.

“All right. You can go.”

I headed back over to Upper Canada. It was raining now, puddles everywhere, one of those death days in the city. I couldn’t get that picture of Scarlet out of my head, those dark rings under her eyes, that little runt’s face. It was like she’d turned into somebody else, like a completely unrecognizable stranger. Well, not entirely unrecognizable. I’d seen that look before. The night in front of her condominium when she gave me the axe. Whenever Scarlet wanted something that was going to cost somebody else their skin, she got this look on her face. First time I saw it, I thought it was an accident. But not the second time. No, that’s what she’s really like. And once you see what somebody’s really like, you don’t forget it.

I crossed over Dunvegan Road. I looked way up the hill. The trees were dying up there; somebody told me that. They had some disease and come springtime they were going to have to cut them all down.

Don’t you dare!

Wow.

I got suspended that afternoon. Psycho called for a complete expulsion, I would have lost my year, the whole works, but the principal had a cooler head. I mean that’s why he was the principal and Psycho wasn’t. So I was out for three days.

I took the bus that afternoon. It was the milk run and we stopped in every little shitburg between here and Huntsville.

It was late, after eleven-thirty when I got there. Father was asleep in his chair in the living room. I stood there, looking at him for awhile. There was only a desk lamp on; the fire was out, the whole house very dark. Outside you could hear the melting snow dripping from the eavestroughs. And suddenly I remembered him driving me to the hospital once when I was little. It
was the middle of the night and I fell asleep leaning against him. He rested his hand on my shoulder and I remember his shirt smelled of pipe tobacco and I found the smell comforting, like I was safe and being looked after.

“Dad?” I said. “Dad?”

His eyes opened and he got up, a strand of hair sticking straight up. He looked worn out.

“You’re here.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m here.”

“Did you take a taxi?”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised he came down the driveway.”

“I asked him to let me off up top.”

“Very sensible.”

I could see he was a little blurry-eyed and it occurred to me he was nervous; he’d been drinking because he was all freaked out about me coming. There’d be just the two of us in this big empty house in the dead of winter.

“The school called,” he said. “Damn stupid business.”

“I know.”

“For Christ’s sake, if you’re going to do that kind of thing, don’t get caught.”

“I didn’t. I got snitched on.”

“Then don’t do it with somebody who’s going to snitch on you.”

I followed him into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little. Yes. Always after a trip.”

He made me a sandwich, badly cut and badly buttered, he was careless in the kitchen, rushed and impatient, but I was hungry so I gobbled it down.

“Have you seen your brother?”

“No,” I said. “He’s pretty busy these days, I hardly get to see him at all. Have you heard from Mother?”

He shook his head.

“Me neither,” I said, which was also a lie.

“I hope you brought a good book,” he said. “There’s not much else here in the winter. Do you want a glass of milk with that?”

“It’s all right. I’ll get it.”

“I made up the bed for you in your mother’s room. We don’t have to heat the upstairs.”

“Yes. Good idea.”

“Okay then. Goodnight, Simon.”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

He gave me a crisp little wave.