Poster Boy (11 page)

When Davis, Hughie and I arrived back at my place later for some food, Mom was just pulling up in the car. The back seat was filled with groceries bulging in their crocheted bags.

“Can we help?” said Davis, who was a suck-up around other people's parents. Like he was hoping to get adopted or something.

“Thanks, Davis,” said Mom. She looked thinner and her hair was graying at the temples. Maybe she dyed her hair and I never knew it, but whatever, she looked way older to me suddenly.

As we stepped inside the house, a familiar lemony cocktail stirred the air.

I looked at Mom who looked at me. Her jaw tightened and she headed straight into the living room.

Don't mess with Sergei, I wanted to say. He was mopping the living-room floor, Dasha spraying the dining table with her old lemon-scented furniture polish.

“What are you doing?” Mom yelled, waving her arms.

Dasha turned her sad eyes on Mom. “The new spray did not work so well.”

“I have a sick daughter upstairs!” Mom grabbed the can right out of Dasha's hand and shook it in front of her face. Sergei had stopped mopping. “This stuff makes people sick. I will not have it used in my house.”

“Whoa,” said Hughie beside me, glancing sideways at Davis.

“Why don't you guys go downstairs?” I said, embarrassed they were witnessing my mom losing it. “I'll be there in a minute.”

Sergei had come up behind Mom and now he snatched back the spray can. Mom turned on him. I thought I was going to have to heave my crocheted net bags across the room, but he calmly announced, “We are leaving now. Come, Dasha.” They gathered up their mop, buckets, broom and toxic cleansers and left, Sergei's bucket knocking my bruised knee on their way out.

I shut the door behind them, relieved to see them go.

“Whoa, Mom. You didn't have to go ballistic on them.”

She whipped her face toward me. “Don't tell me how I'm supposed to feel and act. Okay?”

“Sorry, I just thought you could have — ”

“Don't ever tell me,” she repeated, her voice like a coiled spring, “how I'm supposed to feel and act.”

I backed off, went to put the groceries in the kitchen. I thought Mom and I were on the same team here, but maybe I was wrong.

“I have to walk,” Mom announced and left, leaving the front door open behind her, cold air streaming in.

I shut the door for the second time, then went upstairs to check on Maggie in case she'd heard Mom yelling.

She was asleep, a fat Harry Potter book face down on her chest. She looked even more pale than usual. Holding my breath, I went closer, stared at the book to make sure it was rising and falling with her breath. It was. I laughed at myself, but moved the book off her chest anyway, because it looked so heavy.

Downstairs, Davis asked in a quiet voice if my mom was all right.

I shrugged. “Yeah, she's okay. Went for a walk.”

“She needs to seriously chill,” said Hughie. “That was nuts.” He screwed up his face. “She's worried about furniture spray?”

I turned on him. “Yes, Hughie, she is. And so am I. And if you weren't so ignorant, you'd know that your stinky antiperspirant has at least three carcinogens in it not to mention aluminum which causes dementia which is probably why you're so feckin' stupid. And that the eighty different chemicals in your hair gel — ”

“You're even more psycho than your mother,” said Hughie, moving toward the door.

“Screw you, Hughie.”

“You screw you,” he shot back. He opened the door. “You know, you're boring as shit now,” he said and left, leaving the door open behind him.

“Close the door,” I yelled. And when he didn't, I slammed it shut.

* * *

That night I was supposed to work at the Cineplex. Instead, uniform in hand, I walked into the manager's office and told him, “I quit.”

“We need two weeks' notice, Gray. You know that.”

“So sue me.” Then I listed off the carcinogens in the food they sold. “I'm not selling cancer.” I dropped my uniform on his desk and walked out of there.

I, for one, was going to stop being a hypocrite.

13
Drop Out

At breakfast, I told Mom I'd quit my job and was also quitting school. She was making some macrobiotic casserole that smelled suspiciously like vomit.

“You quit your job? And what's this about school?” She stopped chopping onions, looked at me as if she hadn't heard right.

Dad came in to get his coffee.

“I can drive Mag this morning,” he said without looking at either me or Mom.

“Fine, but Gray here has decided he's quitting school?” said Mom. “Is that right?”

“You got it.”

Dad did look at me now, eyes flashing. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm not going back until they take the asbestos insulation out of the walls. And the benzene machines and the transfat machines. I mean, why am I going to a school that sets that sort of example? What am I supposed to be learning from that?” I'd had my little speech ready.

“First of all,” began Mr. Scientist, “it's safer to leave asbestos where it is than remove it — ”

“I don't believe that,” I said. “I don't believe anything you say anymore.”

Dad threw up his hands. “I think I liked it better when you spoke in single-word sentences.”

I gave him the finger only didn't raise my hand.

“I'm going to work,” he said, filling his travel mug. “And if you're quitting school, Gray, just know that you will not be living here rent free.”

“Ethan,” began Mom.

“You either go to school or you get a full-time job. That's my rule.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” I said smugly.

“Good,” said Dad. “I'll decide what to charge you for room and board.” He took his coffee out the door.

“Gray, let's you and me talk about this,” said Mom.

“There's nothing to talk about. I'm going to stop being part of the problem.”

* * *

I misjudged the distance to Happy Valley farm, and it took me over an hour to get there. The produce stand was empty and I pushed my bike up the path toward the house. There had been a shitload of hills on the way over and my legs were insanely tired.

I leaned my bike against a tree, scanned for that attack rooster and walked up the steps to the veranda. I knocked and inside, a dog went off like a truck horn.

The woman, Nacie, came to the door. She was shorter than I remembered, same mismatched eyes. I introduced myself, said that my mom shopped here twice a week.

“I know your mother and I remember you, Gray,” she said.

“And I remember seeing your Help Wanted sign. I'd like to work for you.”

“Oh?” She looked at me. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I lied.

“Who is it, Nace?” came a gruff voice from inside. This was followed by a huge woof that echoed in my chest.

“Why don't you come in and we'll talk. We're just having lunch.” She smiled. It was a smug kind of smile, as if she had a secret. I only hoped it wasn't something twisted.

The house was old. Wood floors. No carpets. I even think the walls were plaster, not drywall.

These people were doing it right, I thought as I followed her to the kitchen.

I stopped in the doorway.

“Whoa,” I said aloud. Ten feet away, the biggest dog in the world was baring his black gums and two-inch teeth at me.

“Not to worry. Litze's just smiling at you.”

“Oh?”

Up close, this dog looked seriously mixed up. It had long flap ears like a bloodhound, a pointy collie's nose and a huge fat skull like a St. Bernard's. Its long legs were covered in shaggy hair when nothing else was. And the tail was one long pointy curl.

“Come say hi, Litze,” said Nacie.

The creature instantly lowered its massive head and wagged its way over for a pat, ear flaps swaying. Correction: ear flap. One of his ears was missing, a stump of transparent pink cartilage in its place.

This was the ugliest dog I'd ever seen.

“This is Litze, Gray. Litze, this is Gray.” Its shoulders came up to my waist.

“Hi, boy,” I said, hoping I didn't sound afraid. I held my hand under his snout, then patted his ugly head.

“He's part Afghan and part Great Dane,” she explained. “Maybe something else thrown in.”

“What sort of name is Litze?” I asked.

“It's Norwegian. Means little one.” She smiled her sly smile again.

Norwegian humor, I guess.

Mr. Daskaloff hadn't gotten up from the kitchen table. He had a long, slightly horsey face, broad and gently rounded shoulders.

“Milan,” she said. “This is Gray Fallon. Gray, my husband, Milan.”

“Mr. Daskaloff,” he corrected her, extending a weathered but strong hand, the middle finger nothing but a one-inch stub.

Was everyone missing body parts on this farm?

“Nice to meet you,” I said. He nodded.

“Gray wants to work on the farm.” She invited me to sit down, then collected a napkin (a cloth one), spoon and knife and set them in front of me.

“You'll have some bean soup,” she said.

“Thanks.” I was starving, and it smelled great.

“Help yourself to a roll, butter's on the table. Pass him the rolls, Milan.”

Mr. Daskaloff passed me the rolls.

“Thanks.”

Nacie gave me a bowl of soup, then sat down. The soup tasted like health itself, the roll still warm and both obviously homemade.

“So, Gray,” she began. “You're interested in the job.”

“Yes, I've — ”

“He's thin,” said Mr. Daskaloff.

“He'll get stronger,” said Nacie as she buttered her roll.

“Pale.”

“The sun will take care of that.”

“Too young.”

Hello, right beside you, not deaf.

Nacie cleared her throat and turned to me. “So, Gray, maybe you could tell us what makes you want to work here.” She bit into her roll.

Since I was too thin, too pale and too young, I didn't have anything to lose so I went ahead and told them about Maggie and how I believed her cancer was environmentally caused.

“You seem to live clean,” I said.

“Well we live simply — ”

“I want to live a life that doesn't cause cancer. People think it can't be done. Even my dad. I want to prove they're wrong.”

“That's quite noble. Isn't it, Milan?” she announced as if this was great fun.

“It's very hard work,” he answered, frowning.

“I can start right away. Today, tomorrow?”

Nacie was smiling.

Then I had a brilliant thought. I sat up straighter in my chair. “I was wondering…”

“Yes, Gray?” asked Nacie.

“If you don't mind, I'd really like to live in your woods.”

13
Drop Out

At breakfast, I told Mom I'd quit my job and was also quitting school. She was making some macrobiotic casserole that smelled suspiciously like vomit.

“You quit your job? And what's this about school?” She stopped chopping onions, looked at me as if she hadn't heard right.

Dad came in to get his coffee.

“I can drive Mag this morning,” he said without looking at either me or Mom.

“Fine, but Gray here has decided he's quitting school?” said Mom. “Is that right?”

“You got it.”

Dad did look at me now, eyes flashing. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm not going back until they take the asbestos insulation out of the walls. And the benzene machines and the transfat machines. I mean, why am I going to a school that sets that sort of example? What am I supposed to be learning from that?” I'd had my little speech ready.

“First of all,” began Mr. Scientist, “it's safer to leave asbestos where it is than remove it — ”

“I don't believe that,” I said. “I don't believe anything you say anymore.”

Dad threw up his hands. “I think I liked it better when you spoke in single-word sentences.”

I gave him the finger only didn't raise my hand.

“I'm going to work,” he said, filling his travel mug. “And if you're quitting school, Gray, just know that you will not be living here rent free.”

“Ethan,” began Mom.

“You either go to school or you get a full-time job. That's my rule.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” I said smugly.

“Good,” said Dad. “I'll decide what to charge you for room and board.” He took his coffee out the door.

“Gray, let's you and me talk about this,” said Mom.

“There's nothing to talk about. I'm going to stop being part of the problem.”

* * *

I misjudged the distance to Happy Valley farm, and it took me over an hour to get there. The produce stand was empty and I pushed my bike up the path toward the house. There had been a shitload of hills on the way over and my legs were insanely tired.

I leaned my bike against a tree, scanned for that attack rooster and walked up the steps to the veranda. I knocked and inside, a dog went off like a truck horn.

The woman, Nacie, came to the door. She was shorter than I remembered, same mismatched eyes. I introduced myself, said that my mom shopped here twice a week.

“I know your mother and I remember you, Gray,” she said.

“And I remember seeing your Help Wanted sign. I'd like to work for you.”

“Oh?” She looked at me. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I lied.

“Who is it, Nace?” came a gruff voice from inside. This was followed by a huge woof that echoed in my chest.

“Why don't you come in and we'll talk. We're just having lunch.” She smiled. It was a smug kind of smile, as if she had a secret. I only hoped it wasn't something twisted.

The house was old. Wood floors. No carpets. I even think the walls were plaster, not drywall.

These people were doing it right, I thought as I followed her to the kitchen.

I stopped in the doorway.

“Whoa,” I said aloud. Ten feet away, the biggest dog in the world was baring his black gums and two-inch teeth at me.

“Not to worry. Litze's just smiling at you.”

“Oh?”

Up close, this dog looked seriously mixed up. It had long flap ears like a bloodhound, a pointy collie's nose and a huge fat skull like a St. Bernard's. Its long legs were covered in shaggy hair when nothing else was. And the tail was one long pointy curl.

“Come say hi, Litze,” said Nacie.

The creature instantly lowered its massive head and wagged its way over for a pat, ear flaps swaying. Correction: ear flap. One of his ears was missing, a stump of transparent pink cartilage in its place.

This was the ugliest dog I'd ever seen.

“This is Litze, Gray. Litze, this is Gray.” Its shoulders came up to my waist.

“Hi, boy,” I said, hoping I didn't sound afraid. I held my hand under his snout, then patted his ugly head.

“He's part Afghan and part Great Dane,” she explained. “Maybe something else thrown in.”

“What sort of name is Litze?” I asked.

“It's Norwegian. Means little one.” She smiled her sly smile again.

Norwegian humor, I guess.

Mr. Daskaloff hadn't gotten up from the kitchen table. He had a long, slightly horsey face, broad and gently rounded shoulders.

“Milan,” she said. “This is Gray Fallon. Gray, my husband, Milan.”

“Mr. Daskaloff,” he corrected her, extending a weathered but strong hand, the middle finger nothing but a one-inch stub.

Was everyone missing body parts on this farm?

“Nice to meet you,” I said. He nodded.

“Gray wants to work on the farm.” She invited me to sit down, then collected a napkin (a cloth one), spoon and knife and set them in front of me.

“You'll have some bean soup,” she said.

“Thanks.” I was starving, and it smelled great.

“Help yourself to a roll, butter's on the table. Pass him the rolls, Milan.”

Mr. Daskaloff passed me the rolls.

“Thanks.”

Nacie gave me a bowl of soup, then sat down. The soup tasted like health itself, the roll still warm and both obviously homemade.

“So, Gray,” she began. “You're interested in the job.”

“Yes, I've — ”

“He's thin,” said Mr. Daskaloff.

“He'll get stronger,” said Nacie as she buttered her roll.

“Pale.”

“The sun will take care of that.”

“Too young.”

Hello, right beside you, not deaf.

Nacie cleared her throat and turned to me. “So, Gray, maybe you could tell us what makes you want to work here.” She bit into her roll.

Since I was too thin, too pale and too young, I didn't have anything to lose so I went ahead and told them about Maggie and how I believed her cancer was environmentally caused.

“You seem to live clean,” I said.

“Well we live simply — ”

“I want to live a life that doesn't cause cancer. People think it can't be done. Even my dad. I want to prove they're wrong.”

“That's quite noble. Isn't it, Milan?” she announced as if this was great fun.

“It's very hard work,” he answered, frowning.

“I can start right away. Today, tomorrow?”

Nacie was smiling.

Then I had a brilliant thought. I sat up straighter in my chair. “I was wondering…”

“Yes, Gray?” asked Nacie.

“If you don't mind, I'd really like to live in your woods.”

14
Caveman

A week later, I was woken not by my clock radio playing tunes from my fave rock station but by Clarence, the demented rooster.

Clarence didn't crow. He pecked. When the sun rose in the east — luckily on the other side of the woods, which meant I got a half hour more sleep — he flew to the roof of the horse barn and tapped Morse code on the rusty weathervane (which happened to be a rooster).

Then, because a few pecks would make the weathervane move, he'd have to catch up to it. So the tapping was followed by a scrabble of his chicken feet. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Scratch, scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Scratch, scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch. Squeak. (The old weathervane squeaked at one sticking point in the revolution.)

It was an irritating way to wake up, but effective.

I sat up in my bed — a wooden platform I'd banged together from some (untreated) scrap wood in Mr. D.'s workshed, an organic cotton futon and an old army-issue sleeping bag (one hundred percent cotton with wool batting). The sleeping bag I got from Salvation Army. The futon I bought new so it took half my savings.

This morning the outer layer of my bag was damp with dew. Even my hair felt wet. I shivered in the cool morning air. Maybe I'd grab a toque next time I was home. Through my net walls (some old cotton fishing nets I found at a flea market) a pale blue sky dawned over the valley while a giant hotdog of mist rolled along its bottom.

I thought of my steaming morning showers back home, lay back down and closed my eyes. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Scratch, scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch. Squeak.

I was tired. The night sounds had been making me paranoid and keeping me awake. I didn't think there was anything really dangerous out here — Nacie said she hadn't seen a bear for five years, then corrected herself saying maybe it was two — but still, I was pretty damn exposed, my roof nothing but an old canvas tarp Mr. D. had dug up, my fishnet walls more holes than anything. I'd weighted the net walls down with rocks and trusted that was enough to keep out squirrels and raccoons and the bigger mice, meaning rats. My floor was earth. But that was okay. At least it could never get dirty.

I'd set myself up at the back of the property, at the top of the hill along the tree line. The tree canopy protected me from wind and rain, which was good because the canvas tarp wasn't waterproof. But I was determined to avoid plastics, nylons and polyesters, or anything else made from petroleum because of all the crap by-product.

A mosquito buzzed in my ear. I swatted it and ducked my head inside my bag.

Work started at seven so I forced myself out of bed and threw on my clothes.

This was my first real work week. Last week was devoted to setting up my place and being shown around the farm, told what would be expected of me and all. Like how I couldn't piss in the woods but had to use their old ramshackle outhouse where the toilet seat froze your ass off. How Nacie would provide lunch but I was responsible for my own breakfast and dinner. I was allowed all the chicken eggs I could eat and free access to their produce but any other food I'd have to buy. I was to get paid twenty-five a week, which would more or less cover my food and extra things like soap.

I also had free access to wild food. Dad, as a joke, had given me a book called
Living Wild
. It was actually proving handy. The mushroom section especially. I loved mushrooms and the book clearly showed how to tell the edible ones from the ones that would cause people's faces to melt before your eyes, or make your brain implode.

Mom was pretty freaked about me doing this and made me promise to come home every weekend. Which was kind of ruining the point but since I couldn't very well abandon Maggie, I agreed as long as I wasn't charged rent. Mom promised she'd work that out with Dad. Maggie thought what I was doing was cool and as soon as the weather got a bit warmer and I had my food thing down, I told her she could come visit. Be great to get her out of the polluted city, out of the offgassing house. A kind of detox.

I put my hiking boots on and went to collect mushrooms from the woods, some scallions from the garden and a few stray lamb's-quarters — weeds, but all right tasting and, so my book said, the highest source of calcium of any green thing you could eat.

Keeping one eye out for Clarence, I went to hunt eggs. Clarence, the watchcock, didn't like people touching his hens' eggs. Though the dozen chickens usually slept in the coop, they ran free during the day and therefore hid their eggs all over the farm. It was like a big Easter egg hunt.

I discovered a nest of three in the tall grass not far from my tent. Just as I bent to pick them up, Clarence came shooting out from behind my tent. I jumped, screeched like a girl, then ran at him, flapping my arms. Nacie had told me just to “show him who's the bigger chicken.” Clarence fled, glaring at me over his shoulder.

I had picked up a used hotplate and Nacie had lent me three extension cords which I plugged into an outlet in Mr. D.'s workshed. He was not too happy about my leaching off their electricity and neither was I, so over the weekend I'd written a solar power company asking for a donation of some solar panels and a generator. In the letter I'd tried to make myself sound like a noble cause. Played the sick sister card.

I fried up my veggies and eggs in some organic butter I kept in a metal (not plastic) cooler in a hole I'd dug into the ground. I dug up one of Nacie's buns saved from yesterday's lunch. Then, sitting on this stump that I'd hauled out of the woods, I ate while I watched that hotdog of mist slowly evaporate into the warming air.

* * *

My first job of the day was to turn and water the compost — three giant bins of it — using a pitchfork. Mr. D. showed me how he wanted it done. He stabbed a giant forkful of the stuff — leaves and grass mixed with dirt and food scraps — and flipped it in the air into an empty fourth bin. This third bin was to be flipped into the fourth, the second into the third, etc. Then next week the process would be reversed.

He did a few more forkfuls, then handed me the pitchfork.

When I tried to copy him, I was shocked at how heavy it was. I could lift maybe half the amount he had. I thought I heard him sigh. So I was left to the job, mixing in dirt and water between every dozen forkfuls.

After ten minutes my arm muscles burned. Every fifteen minutes I had to sit down and rest. After an hour I thought my back would break.

It made me realize that Mr. D., who had to be sixty-something, could probably beat me up. A sad and therefore motivating thought.

After I'd turned the last bin and watered it, I helped Nacie plant some peas and green beans. That I could handle.

Odd as she was, Nacie was good company, and she told me lots of stuff about gardening. How planting marigolds kept pests away and how slugs wouldn't cross a moat of ash or how weevils would take shelter from the morning sun in a rolled-up newspaper.

She left me to dig a slug moat around the garden while she made lunch. An hour later, when the sun hit the top of the sky, her brass bell rang out.

Today it was Bulgarian potato dumplings — Mr. D.'s mother's recipe — cold beet and fennel salad, and these excellent-looking sausage patties. I hadn't eaten meat for a month and I hadn't worked this physically hard ever. My body was screaming for those sausage patties but I said I wasn't eating meat and took a pass. Mr. D. gave me a weird look and Nacie asked if I was vegetarian. I said yes, kind of, and launched into my dioxin speech and mentioned hormones and antibiotics in animal feed.