Rooster (17 page)

“That's very sad, isn't it,” she said. “You shouldn't have had to go so long without hearing that.”

“Sad is good though, for writing. Mr. Taylor told us that in English. ‘All great writers have to suffer before they can become great.' I remember we had this big boring debate about it. But now I'm thinking, ‘Hey, I've suffered. I've passed a test.'”

“You don't have to sound happy about it.”

“You know what I'm saying.”

“I think I do.”

“I might be onto something here. This could be a pretty cool thing. And I even have something to write about. Elma said I have to write a final report for this bowling project.”

“You never mentioned that before.”

“I didn't know about it before. She just told me about it the other night. She said her mom was going to surprise me with it.”

“That doesn't sound very good.”

“Well, it doesn't matter now that I know about it. Now I just have to do it. The good thing is, I can be as creative as I want, and I already have an idea.” He picked up his plate and glass and took them over to the kitchen sink. Then he went into his bedroom and reappeared with his jacket and a notebook and a pen. “I'm going up to Common House,” he said. “I have some holes to fill in.”

“Some what?”

“I don't know anything about the people I'm working with. Where they're from. How old they are. A while ago, Mrs. Nixon said I should get to know them, but I never bothered to.”

“I don't think I've ever seen you take a notebook out of this house without me telling you to.”

He shrugged and slipped his shoes on at the back door. With a notebook and pen in his hand, he felt like the reporter Jolene had suggested he become. “Hey, it's a new leaf. Maybe.”

He said goodbye and left.

Eunice watched him through the front window. She thought about the game he used to play with his father down by the river and wondered why she hadn't thought of it again until now.

13

A
t Common House, Rooster sat down with the three remaining members of the Strikers and interviewed them. “I just want to get to know you a bit better,” he said, by way of an explanation. “I have to write about you later, after you become great bowlers. So I've decided to do it the way a real reporter would, by talking to you and taking notes.”

“You should have done this sooner,” said Roseann. They were all still very sad. Roseann's eyes were red from crying. Percival sat as if in a trance. His face was tired and worn. Tim sat hunched in his chair, his head hanging low.

“I know,” said Rooster, wishing he had. “And if I had listened to a few people, I would have.” He was referring mainly to Jolene, but he was also recalling comments Mr. Taylor had made in English at the start of the year. The topic had been creating realistic characters in fiction. “In real life, all of us come from somewhere,” Mr. Taylor had said. “We were all born in a specific place. We all grew up with certain people around us. These are aspects of our lives that make us who we are. They make us
real
. When you create characters, you have to provide the same information in order to do the same thing.” Rooster cut off his memories of the lecture at that point. He was not interested in creating fictitious characters at the moment. But he was realizing, with great clarity, that he knew nothing at all about what made the Strikers real.

“You should have done this sooner,” repeated Roseann, in typical fashion. “You could have talked to Dorothy-Jane-Anne before she died.”

“That's right.”

“You should have done this sooner.”

He remembered something. “You know what? I did talk to her before she died. Right before she died, as a matter of fact. I was the last person she talked to, unless she said something to the cab driver.”

“You were?”

“Yes, I was. I didn't have a notepad with me, but we talked about the hand signals you two used when you were supposed to be asleep. She told me about her mom and dad and how she never liked it when her mom said, ‘No more potato chips.'”

Roseann smiled. “I knew that about her.”

“I bet you did.”

“I knew that before you did.”

“She told me you two were roommates.”

“I knew that before you did.”

“They were right down the hall from me,” said Tim, a slight flicker of life returning to his eyes.

“They were? She never told me that.” Rooster began jotting in his pad.

“They were right down the hall on the right-hand side. When I get up in the morning, I open the door of my room and I look down the hall toward their room because there's a big window at the end of the hall there. That's how I can see what the weather's like outside. That's how I can see that.”

“Isn't there a window in your room?”

“My roommate's still sleeping. I get up early. I get up earlier than anybody here. I go to bed early and I get up early.”

“You're an early bird,” said Rooster, still writing.

“That's right. That's right. That's what I am. I'm an early bird. That's what they call me.”

“You're a rooster,” said Percival quietly, looking at Tim.

“Hey, that's right,” said Rooster. “You're a rooster and I'm a rooster. I never thought of that. That's pretty quick, Percival.”

Percival shrugged his shoulders. “I try my best.”

“So we have two roosters here now,” said Rooster.

“Rooster One and Rooster Two. Or do you prefer Tim still?”

“I prefer Tim, actually,” said Tim. “I prefer Tim. My dad's name was Tom and he had a brother named Tim who died in the war. He was killed in the war and that's who I was named after, my Uncle Tim.”

“Did I ever tell you how I got my name?” said Rooster.

“No,” said Roseann. “You didn't. You never told us that.”

He put his pen down. “Well, when I was little, I used to run into my mom and dad's bedroom every morning and make a whole bunch of noise until they woke up. I'd sing or I'd jump around. So one day, my dad said, ‘Roy.' That's my real name, Roy. He said, ‘Roy, you're like a goddamn —' uh-oh.” He stopped short of completing his story. “I shouldn't say that word again, should I?”

“It's okay,” said Roseann. “You can say it. I won't tell her you said it. She knows you said it the first time, but I won't tell her you said it this time.”

“Good. Thank you, Roseann. I'm sorry I've said it either time.”

“It's okay,” said Roseann. “Goddamit.” She immediately began to lick her fingers. “I won't say it again.”

Rooster started to plead with her. “Please don't get started on that again, Roseann. I won't say it again if you don't say it again.”

“That's okay,” said Roseann. “I won't tell her you said it the second time. She already knows about the first time. Goddamn hill. Heh, heh.”

“Roseann.”

“I won't say it again.”

“Please?”

“I won't say it again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Goddamit.”

Rooster's shoulders sagged. He had actually thought he was on a roll until he told his little story. He shook his head and decided to change the subject. “You're licking your fingers, I see.”

“I know that.”

“That's a very interesting habit. Why do you do that, anyway?”

“I told you.”

“No you didn't.”

“Yes I did. I told you. I told you before.”

“I don't remember hearing anything.”

“I do it when I'm nervous.”

“You lick your fingers when you're nervous?”

“That's what I just said.”

“But why are you nervous all of a sudden?”

“I don't know.”

“You weren't licking your fingers two seconds ago.”

“I don't know, I said.”

“What about at the bowling alley? You licked your fingers at the bowling alley, but you weren't nervous there. At least, I don't think you were.”

“I don't know,” said Roseann.

“She doesn't like men,” said Percival. He was speaking in such a hushed tone that Rooster could barely hear him.

“She what?” Rooster said.

“She knows she's in trouble for swearing, that's one reason. The other one is she doesn't like men.”

“You don't like men?” said Rooster.

“I don't know,” said Roseann. She started to rock back and forth in her chair. Rooster sensed a change in her, that she was about to share something with him that she had never said before. “I don't know. My dad used to touch me all the time. He wasn't supposed to, but he used to touch me all the time. My mom said, ‘Don't you do that. Don't you know that's not right?' But he used to touch me all the time.”

Rooster stared at her in silence.

“My mom got really mad at him. He used to touch me all the time, and she got really mad at him. ‘Don't you touch her again. Don't you know that's not right?' She got really mad at him. He did it anyways. He'd tell me to be quiet. He did it anyways. She got really mad.”

“How come you know all this?” Rooster turned to Percival.

“I've heard the story before.”

“She told you this?”

“Her sister was here one time. They were visiting. Roseann started to lick her fingers when her sister's husband showed up.”

Rooster looked back at Roseann. “I'm sorry to hear that, Roseann.”

“He shouldn't have done that, you know. He could have gone to jail.”

“When did he stop?”

“He was killed. They were both killed in a car accident. My mom and my dad were both killed in a car accident. A long time ago. They were both killed a long time ago.”

“And that's when you moved here?”

“I don't remember.”

Rooster hesitated as a new thought came to him. A thought that made his face turn red with emotion. “So I make you nervous, Roseann? That's why you suck on your fingers?”

“I don't remember. They both died a long time ago.”

“Yes, I know that. But do I make you nervous?”

“I don't remember,” she said again, licking her fingers. “She told him not to do that. But he did it anyways.”

“Yes, you do,” said Percival, who had become somewhat of an interpreter for her. “But not as much as you used to. She's starting to get used to you now.”

“Because she's telling me this?”

Percival nodded. “Uh-huh.”

Rooster concluded his interviews a short time later. Percival was not in the mood for talking, and Tim had returned to his subdued state.

When he was back home in his bedroom, he read through his notes and began formulating his final report.

He phoned Mrs. Yuler the next morning from school to confirm what Roseann had told him.

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Yuler said. “It's true. To the best of my knowledge, anyway. I've heard similar versions from her sister and an aunt who used to come by to visit her.”

“Was he ever charged with anything?”

“I don't believe so. No one has ever said anything about that.”

Since he had her on the phone, he asked about Percival and Tim.

She shared stories about both of them. “Percival is an interesting one. At one time in his life, he was a very promising graduate student at the University of Alberta. Then apparently he suffered a nervous breakdown, and shortly after that he had a terrible fall down some stairs that left him permanently brain damaged. He went from being very bright and articulate to living in a home for adults with special needs. It all happened in about six months.”

“Does he remember any of it?”

“You mean when he was a grad student? I don't know if he does or not. Certainly he can sound very astute at times, but that's in comparison to the people around him.”

“Does anyone ever come to visit him?”

“No. Never. Not in a long, long time. From what I understand, the cause of his nervous breakdown had something to do with the death of a family member. But I don't know for sure.”

Tim's story was just the opposite of Percival's. Tim had a brother and a sister who visited him regularly. His elderly parents were still alive and came when they could. On holidays and for special events, Tim was allowed to go out and spend as much time with his family as he wanted.

“He's one of the rare ones with such solid connections,” said Mrs. Yuler. “For the most part, everyone else in here is forgotten after their first year or so. They'll get visitors for a while, then nothing.”

On his way home from school, Rooster went over in his mind all that he had learned about the Strikers. He didn't smoke. He didn't think once about Jolene or Puffs or Jayson or even Elma, for that matter. He thought only about Roseann, Percival and Tim and how much this dumb little bowling thing that he had given so little of his time to must mean to them. He thought of Roseann being touched by her father. He could imagine her struggling and fighting with him, but in reality he knew that the old man probably did whatever he wanted to her. He saw Percival striding across a campus with books under his arm, then shuddering or screaming at the bottom of a stairwell. He saw Tim—happy, rocking in his chair, eyes wide and alive, eating a fresh, piping hot pizza. Tim's entire life could be summarized as happy, rocking in his chair, eyes wide and alive, eating a fresh, piping hot pizza because that was all there was to his life. Plus the visits with his family.