This River Awakens (46 page)

Sten went down the steps. He took the wind on his face, feeling the stinging snow on his cheeks, willing the cold to seep in and numb the pain. His gut was on fire, churning like a maelstrom. Squinting, Sten stared at the sky. Pallid clouds, their western edges reflecting the city ten miles away – a lurid cast, coppery and sickly. Snow speeding down like stars tumbling from heaven, melting to nothing against his face. The wind shrieked in his head, and he could hear now – faintly, so faintly, the clang of bells.
Bells. Bottles. He’s coming. I hear him.

Kaja whined in the kennel. Ignoring her, Sten rushed for the work-shed. He pushed open the battered aluminium door, then paused at the entrance to drink another mouthful before plunging into the darkness.

The shovel slipped from its hook when he groped for it, falling in a loud clang. He hissed a curse, picked it up and headed back outside.
He’s coming, I hear him.
He hefted the shovel, scanned the far edge of his wife’s garden, now all snarled with snow-matted grasses.

Kaja let loose a howl.
She knows, the bitch knows. She’s calling, listen to her joy!
The other two dogs picked up the chorus. Grinning, Sten stumbled over the garden’s uneven ground.
I know you’re coming. With your beasts all fanning out through the clouds. Still burning from hell’s fires, you’re coming back. And you want my blood. Again. You want it again. But I’ll fight fire with fire. My hell against yours, Dad. It’s Hallowe’en. Both ways, Dad. Boy, won’t you be surprised.
He reached the uneven earthen mound, stabbed the shovel into the frozen dirt.
My favourite. Here to protect me again. One more time. You think your horns frighten me, don’t you? But listen to my dogs answer you. Listen to them! They’re going wild!
He flung away clumps of earth, his breath coming in gasps.
Dammit, what’s with this rye anyway? Oh yeah, it’s water. I’m clean. I’m dry. My stomach’s killing me, ’cause I’m dry. It’s been days. My God, days. Remember Christmas, Dad? All those festive occasions, when it all started going bad, when you fucked up and by the time dinner was served you were puking your guts out in the bathroom? Remember those times? My memories of Christmas, every Christmas, Dad. How my guts churn every Christmas, every year. But you’re dead now. I’ve been walking in your footsteps. How could you do that to me? How?

The tears froze on his cheeks, the blood from his nose hung thick and slimy, cold against his lips.

But Hallowe’en, now. Different. I’m all grown up. I can fight back. Watch me. Oh, I hear you, so close now. So close. You think you’ll win again.

His shovel snagged on the garbage bag. He fell to his knees and clawed at the wet, cold mud.
Kaja’s so happy. Listen to her. Yes, dear, I’m bringing him back. Your beloved son. Oh, Max, oh, Max, my friend. It’s all right. Listen to your mother, your brothers – they’re going mad with joy. Listen to them!
He pulled the bulky bag free. The smell caught him by surprise. He reeled back.
Max?
The body inside the garbage bag felt too soft in places, too hard in others. Max sounded wet, soaked, all curled up inside the bag, the tendons drawn tight around his rotting guts. Sten kneeled beside him. ‘Oh, God,’ he croaked. ‘I’m sorry.’ He pivoted and looked at the kennel. The dogs were in a frenzy, the chain-link wall shaking as they flung themselves against it.
Listen to them. Oh, what have I done? Kaja – I’m sorry. I should never have done this. I’m so sorry.

He pushed the bag back into the hole, his fingers raking dirt over it. He picked up the shovel and quickly filled the hole. When he had finished packing down the earth, he paused, racked by shivering, the spit in his mouth foul with the taste of Max, his entire body a mass of pain.

I need a drink. I’m dry. I’m hallucinating. I thought I’d dug him up. I thought I’d called his soul, ’cause it’s Hallowe’en. It’s this storm, that wind, those clanging, clunking bottles, the shuffling footfalls coming up behind me.

Sten spun around. He screamed as the fists flashed out at him.

Trick or treat.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I

Annulment. Mental incapacity. Reversion to the previous document, moneys to go to a charity for veterans, minus owing rent and interest, and funeral expenses. Reginald ‘Reggie’ Bell was deeply distressed by the decision. He’d hoped for the best – for the boy, of course. But that was for the judges to decide. The rent had been owing since ’63, plus interest, of course. The old man should’ve taken better care of his affairs, all things considered.

A pot of gold had been shown to my father and mother. Shown, only to be swept away again. I couldn’t make much sense of the details, but it seemed that Walter had tried to leave me some money, but there’d been legal hitches, and the money was going elsewhere.

It was hard to tell how my parents took the news. They’d seemed bewildered by the whole thing. It occurred to me that it would have been better if we’d never heard about any of it. Reggie had called his visit a courtesy, in case the boy – me – had been expecting different news in payment for befriending a rich old man. Reggie always fashioned himself a courteous man, but in the end he was responsible to the Yacht Club, and if he needed to challenge a will on the basis of debts incurred by Mr Gribbs while living on the grounds, well, then he was obliged to represent the club’s interests.
Of course, you can call the lawyers if you wish to, Mr Brand. Unfortunately it won’t change things. Besides, the charity’s very grateful, very excited. That portion will go to good use, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Nothing was done. Something seemed to break after that, break deep inside my parents. There were more arguments, and long conversations reaching hours into the night. Dad’s business wasn’t doing well – the news was a shock to me, though it became obvious that my mother knew, and so did Debbie. I’d been kept in the dark, and it made me feel young and stupid, and I spent the weeks approaching Christmas under a brooding cloud.

There was hardly any money available. There’d be few presents, and just for the kids. I wasn’t sure if I qualified as a kid in that equation. I didn’t much care. I’d made a list, of course – mostly books, but they were all ones I could get out of the library in the city, which I continued doing. I’d wanted, more than anything else, a copy of
Beowulf
for myself. Now I dismissed the wish. It didn’t matter.

Finding a spirit to match the season proved difficult. The days got shorter, the snows came and stayed, school dragged on – dull and dulling – and we all felt lost.

My only hope of reprieve came from Jennifer. Whatever was happening with her family had directed her closer to me and my mother. She visited regularly, sometimes just showing up at the door, looking frightened and embarrassed. But my mother insisted that there was an open-door policy in place for her. Any time, day or night. She could phone, she could visit. The evening when my mother told her all this, I thought Jennifer would cry. It was a close thing, but of course she held it back.

I didn’t know what to make of it all – I felt out of my depth, but I could see that Jennifer needed my mother as a friend, maybe more than she needed me.

It changed our going together. We still fooled around, but not with the same abandoned greed that had marked the summer. There was more caring in it, more quiet, slow times. I began to miss the old ways, but I could see that Jennifer wanted it the way it was now. Needed it, maybe.

*   *   *

The first term was nearly over. I’d set up my hockey net in front of the garage and practised shots and rushes, using a tennis ball. No one played hockey around here, except for the Riverview kids. There was a rink, set up behind the school, but no nets. I desperately wanted a real game. I couldn’t understand the lack of interest.

It was Sunday afternoon, and I was waiting for Jennifer. Sunday dinners at our house had become a regular routine for her, and so Mom had made it a special occasion for us as well. We’d never managed to maintain things like that before, with Dad often working, but even he’d made allowances. It seemed that the person pulling our family together wasn’t even family, but on Sundays, that was now the case. I wondered if, with the news about Walter, we didn’t need her as much as she needed us.

I practised wrist shots, picking the corners. It felt kind of ridiculous, since my usual position was as a goalie.

Jennifer came down the driveway. ‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘It’s Bobby Hull!’

‘Ha ha.’

She wrapped me in a bear hug. ‘Cheer up,’ she said, kissing my cheek. ‘Only three days left, then no school, no Rhide till January!’

I shrugged.

‘I’m going inside,’ she said, stepping back. ‘Coming?’

‘In a few minutes. Dad’s not home yet.’

She threw me a pout.

‘Tonight,’ I said, ‘I’ll show you a secret.’

‘Sorry, I’ve seen it,’ she replied, grinning.

‘Not that. Something else.’

‘Okay.’

She headed in, her bell-bottoms frozen stiff at the flares, her hips swaying beneath the down-filled parka.

I started on my backhand shots, the kind of shots even Bobby Hull had trouble doing.

*   *   *

She was wearing two of my sweaters, and I could see her breath as she looked around.

‘The candles will warm things up a bit,’ I said. ‘But it takes a while.’

Frost covered the stained-glass windows. I’d lit ten candles, each in its own saucer, and the yellow light glistened gold on the ice crystals. ‘I’m reading all these books,’ I said while Jennifer slowly walked around. ‘Copies of them, that is. These ones are all rotten.’

‘Rats,’ she said. ‘Seen any here?’

‘Yeah. But not lately. We set traps.’

‘Your parents know about this?’

‘No. The traps went downstairs. In the basement and stuff.’

‘You kept this a secret. From me.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, it’s okay, I guess. I’ve never told you things. Like about my dad. He’s a drunk, an alcoholic.’

‘Oh.’

‘Your mom knows, doesn’t she?’

I nodded. ‘I think so. Rhide called once. My mom was so mad. You wouldn’t believe it. Rhide said stuff she shouldn’t have said. Private stuff. Mom gave her shit.’

‘I figured she’d heard something.’ Jennifer perched herself on the desk and pulled out her cigarettes. ‘She probably thinks we’re necking right now.’

‘Yeah. She sat me down, a while ago, and told me all about sex.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Nope.’

‘That must’ve been a real scream.’

‘Yeah, we both started laughing. Finally she just told me to be careful, ’cause you might get pregnant.’

She took a drag, watched me. ‘You want to do it? Fuck? You want to fuck, Owen? I won’t get pregnant. Guaranteed.’

‘Here? It’s freezing.’

‘In your room.’

‘In my parents’ house?’

‘Why not? If your mom’s already talked about it—’

‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘Not here, I mean. Not with my parents downstairs. Let’s find somewhere else.’

‘Where? It’s the middle of the winter. We’d freeze our butts off at the farmhouse.’

‘I don’t know. Somewhere.’

‘Well, you think of somewhere and let me know. Only, we have to time it right, so I don’t get pregnant. You’re right, the candles are making it warmer.’

‘Let’s go back down,’ I said.

Jennifer grinned. ‘Got you going, eh?’

I went to the passageway. ‘Can you blow out the candles? You know, my mom puts an ashtray in my room, for when you come over.’

‘So?’

‘So. It’s weird, that’s all. It just feels weird.’

Jennifer moved from one candle to the next. The room slowly dimmed.

It was then that we noticed the reddish glow from outside, from the window facing the front yard. I walked over. Something was burning, beyond the trees, lighting the skyline. Jennifer leaned beside me.

‘That’s the candle factory,’ she said. ‘It’s going up.’

‘Is it ever.’

*   *   *

There would be no saving it this time. Fire trucks lined the side of the highway. Traffic was backed up as policemen in buffalo hats and mitts directed the vehicles, one lane either way. Every car or truck that rolled past was bathed in a red glow. The black-and-grey smoke towered over the factory, swelling and bulging, climbing ever higher. The air was acrid, reminding me of the garbage heap at the Yacht Club.

We stood on the other side of the highway – as close as they’d let us get – watching the firemen running this way and that, watching the water rip out from the hoses, rise up and disappear into the second-floor windows. Water poured down the building’s face, made a lake on the ground out in front. Smoke tumbled out of the main-floor windows and the open doorway. Things crashed down inside, sending out dazzling sparks that spun and whirled against the black sky.

Every now and then, the heat rolled up and swept over us, but for the most part the bitter cold air embraced us, making the scene in front of our eyes seem unreal, dislocated, as if we were watching a movie at a drive-in.

‘Look,’ said Jennifer. ‘They’re worried about the school. They’re concentrating on that side.’

‘There’s no wind,’ I said.

‘I think they’re just making sure. Too bad, eh?’

There was a flare beside me as Jennifer lit a cigarette. A sudden feeling struck me and I almost gasped – something about the flame from Jennifer’s match, so close beside me. It had been as if the two fires had reached out across the distance between them, then touched, and all at once we were all connected, woven together.

The wheel turned, alight with that furious red, and I imagined the wall giving way around it, the wheel rolling as it came down, a roar of sparks like a thousand voices, the flames sweeping and spinning. A concussion, hammering through the earth, radiating out in waves until the world went still and listened, filled with terror and awe, waiting for the next shifting beneath their feet, the next trembling wave of uncertainty.
It’s coming, it’s coming.

‘Holy shit,’ Jennifer said.