The Sky Is Falling (39 page)

Joe Jr. yawned. “That's the signal,” I told her and he went ahead to the door while Sonia and I embraced again. She nudged Brenda, who hugged me too and almost knocked my wind out.

“See?” Sonia told her. “She's nice.”

As soon as we got in the car, Joe Jr. put on the iPod. I was glad for it now. The visit had been boring for him, but shocking for me and I wanted to be alone.

One of the conditions of my parole was that I wasn't allowed to communicate with anyone from NAG! for two years. Not that I wanted to. I'd been angry, especially with Sonia. Angry that she'd picked Pascal over me. That she'd martyred herself. This was why I never wrote her even after my probation was up. But now it turned out that I'd been wrong. She hadn't been ruined at all. Far from throwing her life away, she'd probably redeemed a dozen Brendas. Without a doubt she'd done more in prison than I'd done with all my freedom. But I'd always been half-hearted. All I do is mope around and read. That's what my son said. That's what he thinks of me.

He tugged the wires so the earbuds popped out. “Who was that person you were talking about?”

“What person?”

“You talked about someone named Pascal.”

I pointed to the little white box. “I thought you were listening to that.”

“I can listen and listen at the same time. You were crying.”

So I told him. I told him everything except how Sonia had slept with Pascal. “I don't get it,” said Joe Jr. when I finished. “Who wouldn't want to live?”

“That's the right answer. Thank you. I'm relieved. But to that sixteen-year-old, losing a leg was worse than dying. At the time it was the only treatment.”

“And you never found out what happened to him?”

“No. He was the only one who wasn't charged. They whisked him back home, I presume. He wasn't called as a witness at Pete's trial. He wasn't even mentioned. Because he was a minor. Or because he was sick.”

“So he made the bomb?”

The bomb. The only part of the story really interesting to a fifteen-year-old. But as soon as he said it, it seemed so obvious. Pete and Pascal, they were just fooling around. God knows what they planned to do with it. Probably set it off on Wreck Beach when no one was around. But why wouldn't Pete just say that? Would he actually take the rap for a dumb prank rather than put aside his principles and speak in court? Maybe. He always was too noble for his own good.

Or he was a fool.

Joe Jr. said, “I saw these plans on the Internet? How to make a cruise missile for five thousand dollars.”

I gave him my severest frown.

“It would be cool. You know, just to say you did it.” Then he hunkered down again with his private soundtrack.

We spoke only once more during the drive home, when I asked, “Who are you listening to now?”

He passed the earbud over to me. Sadness poured into my head and filled it. Old Kirsanov and his cello. Joe Jr. sat smiling, waiting for me to guess, but I couldn't speak.

“Come on, Mom,” he said. “It's Bach.”

1984

The lawyer came out to Oakalla prison to explain how lucky I was. That was not how I felt, still in shock and crying all the time, without any idea how many days had passed. It was a nightmare, I kept thinking. Some small detail wasn't right and if I could only figure it out, it would cue me to wake up.

Things had changed overnight, the lawyer said. The only charge against me that was going to stand was the least of them. He didn't tell me why and I didn't ask. All I wanted to know was if Timo was okay. “Oh, he's fine. But the guard's not in such great shape, which doesn't bode too well for some of your friends.”

My aunt posted bail, which was what she had been saving up for all those years, I supposed. By the time all the paperwork was done it was evening. I signed for my belongings—
The Party
and Other Stories
, my empty cosmetics bag (its contents exiled to a separate plastic one), wallet, a clean pair of panties—all of it packed in anticipation of an overnight stay in Seattle. I wasn't sure what relationship I had to these personal items any more. Only the book felt like mine, filled with my annotations:
p.
36
galoshes, p.
141
slippers, p.
117
felt boots
.

A police van drove me back to Vancouver and dropped me off at the Main Street courthouse where it had brought me for my bail hearing the day before. Dark by then, almost ten o'clock, the air, saturated with damp, held its odours close. Across the street a few ragged people had formed a privacy wall with shopping carts. I was supposed to go to my aunt's, but felt ashamed after how I'd treated her. Yet with the Trutch house behind police tape and the lawyer's stern warning not to fraternize, there was nowhere else to go.

I was still standing on the street working up the nerve to find a phone and call her, when a second van pulled up and Dieter got out. As soon as I recognized him, I started walking away fast, but he saw me too and caught up.

“Where do you think you're going?”

I tried to pull out of his grip. “I'm not supposed to talk to you.”

“No? Well, we're getting the story straight. Because we're in deep shit here. We are fucked.” He dragged me along. No one we passed looked at us twice. They thought we were drunk.

Dieter didn't like the Irish pub we came to first. He bullied me farther along the block, then down a stairwell wallpapered with photocopied posters, into a pit where everyone was dressed like ghouls. Faces were stuck through with pins, as though their features might drop off. A leper bar. He shoved me through the crowd. “What do you want?” he shouted over the noise of the band.

“Nothing!”

“Wrong!”

“Vodka then,” I said.

Dieter shouted to the bartender, who was wearing a dog collar and black lipstick. When he let go of me to pay, I didn't try to escape. I didn't think I could. He stuck the glass in my hand and, on the first sip, my eyes watered and the room diffused even more, as though there were two disco balls. The band was shrieking, goading the people on the dance floor who were leaping around, smashing into each other, pogoing. “Were you in on it?”

“No!”

“I should believe you? You're such a liar!”

“I'm not,” I said.

“What?”

“I'm not!”

“Right! I found out something about you! I found out you're not even Russian! You told everyone you were Russian just to get into the group!”

“I never said I was!”

“Drink your milk, Kitty!”

I took another sip, choked.

“And Pete! Pete is such a hypocrite! But you all love him! He can do no wrong! He can make bombs and that's just swell with all of you! You'll still sleep with him. Drink that! I am so fucking tense here!”

I drank down the rest.

“Or T-t-t-timo! T-t-t-t-imo's everybody's darling! Or that stupid fucking kid! I hate you all! Know why?” Saliva sprayed my face and I thought that, quite possibly, he was the ugliest person in the room. “Because you hate me!” he said.

Something that might have been a waitress brought a tray of beer to a nearby table. Dieter went to speak to her. Again, I could have left, but I actually felt sorry for him then with his headband of an eyebrow and his goggly glasses and his rage. I didn't care what happened to me anyway. My life was ruined. At any moment the bomb would fall and put me out of my misery. Good, I thought. Dieter came back, demanding money. I handed over my backpack and he dug through it, found my wallet full of dull American bills, took a few, then let the backpack drop. I picked it up and hugged it to my chest. My book was in it. That was all I cared about.

“And poor little Sonia! She's probably a lesbo too!”

“She's not!”

“Well, you're one for sure!”

I started to cry.

“You're all a bunch of man-hating dykes and I hate your guts!”

He kept on like this until the drinks came. I drank mine willingly this time. Dieter kept calling me “Kitty” in a derisive tone every time I sipped my “milk.” It was so weird. He couldn't have known about
Anna Karenina
. Soon the things he was saying became inseparable from the ugly things the band was screaming. They merged into one song to thrash around to. Abruptly, half of it ended on a discordant strum and I heard someone say, “We're going to take a break.” Dieter carried on. “I'm getting out of this mess! There's no fucking way I'm taking the rap for Pete and a bunch of dykes! We're going to get the story straight! Right?”

I said, “I'm going to throw up.”

Somehow I made it to the bathroom, where it was twice as bright as in the bar. All the scarecrows were lined up at the sinks pinning their faces back on. When I finished vomiting, they made room for me to splash myself with water. One of them asked, “Are you okay?”

Dieter was waiting outside so he must have escorted me there. I squinted around. We were in a short dark corridor at the end of which a sign glowed. Exit.
Vykhod
. I made my way toward it, dragging one shoulder along the wall, falling against the handle—air! Taking great draughts of it, I stumbled out. In the alley, people stood around in clusters. Someone was playing with a lighter, making the flame climb higher, while someone else sliced a hand through it.

Pozhar
. Fire.

A bottle went flying. There seemed a very long delay before it smashed on the cobblestoned street.

“Where do you think you're going, Kitty?”

I clutched my backpack to my chest. Book.
Kniga
. “Nowhere.”

“That's right. You're staying with me until we figure out what we're going to say.”

“I told you. I don't know what happened.”

“You've fucked me around before. Remember? Remember the recruitment centre? You were going to back me on that. Look what happened.”

Dieter's next shove prompted a few white faces with bruised eyes to turn curiously in our direction. “Did you ever talk to Sonia? You didn't, did you? Or maybe you did. Maybe you said nasty things about me.”

It wasn't that I began to be afraid—I hadn't stopped being afraid—but now I realized I was going to get hurt. He pushed me again, hard enough for my head to flop back and smack the bricks. A silver ball of pain released, rattling all through my skull, binging off my synapses. I sank down and began to conjugate. “
Ya zabyvayu, ty zabyvayesh
. . .” I forget. You forget.

“Get up!”

“
On zabyvayet
. . .” I opened my eyes. Some of the ghouls were closing in behind Dieter, drawn by the scent of violence. I curled tighter, teeth chattering. Dieter slapped the back of my head again. “
My zabyvayem
.” Again. “
Vy zabyvayetye
. . .” I was conjugating for my life.

“What do you think you're doing?” someone asked me.

“
Oni zabyvayut
,” I answered.

“Fuck off, man!”

“You fuck off!”

“Leave her alone!”

I heard scuffling and grunts. Dieter: “Fuck you!” Steps running off.

Someone touched my arm. “Are you okay? Hey? Hello?”

I lifted my face. How had he spoken? His lips were pinned together. “Can I call you a cab?” He was dressed in pins too, a kind of silver armour of them. “Where do you live?” he asked. “Do you want to go home?”

His blue spikes formed a halo.

“
Nyet
,” I said.

Dawn oozed through a curtain of pins. I had no idea where I was, how I'd gotten there, but I knew my headache had something to do with it. There was a guitar case propped up in a corner, but barely any furniture. The bed itself was a Murphy bed that folded into a rectangular recess in the wall. One small room I was alone in with a tiny alcove kitchen. I assumed there would be a bathroom, and there was. That was where I found him, curled up asleep in the tub.

Snippets came back as I stood in the bathroom door. A different room he'd asked me to wait in. Bottles on a table. The reek of brimming ashtrays. I could have anything I wanted except a clean glass. When the noise started up again, it was like the end of the world. Even the walls had shuddered.

The next time the pins were sparkling. Now I saw that they looked pretty with the sunlight on them, fixed together in long chains. “Oh,” he said, peering down at me. “You're awake.”

He looked different in daylight, less fierce by half, spikes crooked after a night spent in the tub. His nose hooked slightly, almost meeting the pin in his lip. There were pins in his ears too, but the most predominant feature was his skin, which looked purplish and sore to the touch. The pins, my headache, his acne. I winced.

“Good morning! Do you understand anything I'm saying to you? No?” He sighed in his Sex Pistols T-shirt. “Coffee?”

I sat up. It was the same word in Russian. “
Kofye
.”