Blood Sports (13 page)

A shadow blocked the light from the window. Tom raised his head.

Glock Man changed drill bits on the cordless screwdriver and put the
TV
back together. Muscle Shirt righted the coffee table. He threw a blanket over the couch. They sat, arguing over what to watch,
Wheel of Fortune
or
Wild Weather Week
on the Discovery Channel. Glock Man won by slapping Muscle Shirt upside the head.

“As the tropical storm unleashes torrents of rain, the weakening dam bursts,” the deep-voiced host said, thumping danger music accompanying the scene of a family eating supper in their
dining room. “The villagers are unaware of the wall of water rushing through the deforested hills above them.”

“Do you want to order a pizza?” Muscle Shirt said.

“Don’t be any dumber than you have to be,” Glock Man said.

“Phone him then. There’s nothing here. I’m not fucking spending the night in this heat trap for nothing. I need air conditioning.”

“Go fucking stick your useless head in the crapper. That’ll cool you down.”

“At least open a window. One window.”

“I’m not warning you again, idiot.”

“Maria Santos is trapped on the highest branch, her frantic family unable to reach her as the water rises.”

“I’m taking a shower,” Muscle Shirt said.

“Good. Go do that.”

Glock Man put his feet up on the coffee table as Muscle Shirt disappeared down the hallway. He turned the
TV
’
S
volume up.

Tom’s tongue felt too big for his mouth, felt dry and strange like a piece of rubber. He didn’t feel hot any more. Cold thoughts had worked. Mind over matter. Mel is okay. Mel is fine. Mel is somewhere else.

He remembered a news story where a woman with five children left her baby in the car seat. She thought the babysitter had taken her baby girl out with the other kids. The baby girl was asleep. The mother was tired and late for work. The mother came back six hours later. In the Arizona sun, with the family van’s windows closed –

Think cold. Think Arctic. Polar bears. Midnight sun. A documentary he’d seen with Paulie: two scientists studying polar bears had lived in Churchill, a town directly in the path of migrating bears.

The first scientist grew a patch of sunflowers indoors. Sunflowers turn their heads to follow the sun, and he was wondering what would happen if the sun never set. As the midnight sun began, he planted the flowers outside, and they followed it around and around, followed it until they twisted their own stalks so tight they strangled themselves and died.

“At the top of the hour,” the news anchor said, “Good news about the softwood lumber dispute.”

Bedtime for Mel: bath, brush teeth, change into a nightshirt, change into fresh diaper, read two books, and kiss good night. One stopperful of Tempra if she was teething.

The phone rang. Glock Man and Muscle Shirt exchanged glances. They let the answering machine pick up, Paulie’s voice saying, “We’re busy. Leave short messages, people.”

“Pau-lina,” Jazz sang out. “Where are you? Missed you this morning. I’ll bring the book tomorrow. Again. Phone me back or I’ll kick your butt. Buh-bye.”

Tom’s neck had a crick from the angle he’d been sleeping. His hands and feet and ass felt numb. He kept drifting, jerking awake when the commercials came on. Muscle Shirt sipped a Pepsi – the snap of the tab, the sigh of pressure being released, cold pop can in a hand, throat-aching Pepsi going down. Glock Man leaned forward to watch a tornado smash through a military base.

“Sarge?” a guy’s tentative voice, off-camera. “Maybe we should go down to the basement now?”

“In a minute, in a minute. Whoa! Do you see the power of that thing?”

A baby’s shriek woke him. Then he heard tiny, quick footsteps. Under the doorway, fast-moving shadows dimmed the light coming from the hallway and then passed. He knew he was back in the old apartment he’d shared with his mother, the old Woodcourt Apartments.

“Hello?” Tom said. “Is anyone there?”

The footsteps stopped. He heard a high giggle, like a naughty little kid chuckling over something. Another giggle joined it, and another. The baby cried.

He sat up, disoriented. Across from him was the cot where Jeremy had slept those first few months he’d lived with them when he moved to Vancouver. Tom pushed aside the blankets and swung his legs over the bed. The linoleum was chilly against his bare feet.

“Hello?” Tom said.

He couldn’t tell which room the baby was in. He started looking in his mother’s room. It was overturned, as if she’d been hunting frantically for something, probably clothes or keys, before she left. He heard the shower running, so checked the bathroom. When he slid the shower curtain aside, the tub was filled. Something crashed, and the footsteps ran.

“Damn it,” Tom said.

He poked his head out of the door, saw nothing. The baby’s squall became staccato as it started hyperventilating.

In the kitchen, he opened all the cupboards but there were only sluggishly moving cockroaches inside. The fridge was empty. The oven held a shrivelled piece of burnt meat that had white things growing on it. A man was passed out under the table, but it wasn’t anyone he recognized. He knew he was going to have to wake him up and kick him out, but he wanted to find the kids first before they wrecked anything else or hurt the baby.

The phone rang. As he walked down the hallway, the phone kept ringing and the answering machine didn’t pick up. He ignored it. The storage room had a sliding door. When he pushed it open, cold air ran out. A tiny man, barely coming up to his knees, skittered past him.

Paulina shakily reached out and grabbed his forearm. She was wearing the skin-tight jeans and the white leather jacket with fringe she used to wear in high school. Her hair was strawberry blond again, the way he used to love it, fluffed high in sharp crimps, except for a fist-sized spot above her right ear where it was matted with blood. She pulled him in the storage room and slid the door shut behind them. Her mascara was clumped under her eyes and tracked along her nose as if she’d been crying. She put her index finger to her cotton-candy pink lips and said, “Shh.”

As suddenly as the baby had started screaming, it stopped. The footsteps made their way down the hall to the storage room. The door rattled. Paulina let go of him so that she could hold it shut.

“Shh,” she said.

“Okay, listen up, kiddies. Once upon a time, this cunt had a magic goose that shit golden eggs. She was rich and happy until her daddy ripped the bird a new ass to see if he could get all the gold. Goose died, gold died, cunt and daddy died poor in the fucking gutter. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Muscle Shirt said.

“Loud and clear,” Glock Man said.

A hand grabbed Tom’s chin, turned his head. He blinked slowly, trying to focus. Blurry man in front of him, buzz cut, khaki shirt, large, square face. The man was someone he knew.
He had a name that slipped and slithered around his brain as Tom struggled to keep his head up.

“Anything?”

“Nada,” Muscle Shirt said.

“Clean as a whistle,” Glock Man said.

“Tom.” Someone slapped his face. “Did you give him anything?”

“Firebug, man, relax,” Muscle Shirt said. “We wouldn’t start the party without you.”

“Fuck,” Firebug said. A slap, nothing hard. “Tommy-boy. Wakey, wakey. You morons. Get me some water. Now, kiddies, before our goose bites it.”

Firebug’s arm held him up, helping him through the parking lot to the Ramada Inn near the highway.

“I don’t think Mel has enough diapers,” Tom told the clerk. “She’s eating lots and she needs lots of diapers. And wipes. Does she have any snacks? Did you pack her any snacks?”

“My friend’s had a bit too much,” Firebug said.

The clerk handed back Firebug’s credit card, not amused. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thanks.”

The elevator was mirrored, and Tom watched himself sway. He did look like he’d pulled an all-nighter, a real humdinger of a binge.

“Is Paulie here?” Tom said, starting to slide down. “Paulie? Paulie?”

Firebug hefted Tom up. “For fuck’s sake, shut up.”

Tom tried to stand by himself and fell into a mirror, the glass cool against his cheek. “Does Mel have enough diapers?”

“I’m giving you some slack now, Tom, because you’re out of it. But I’m going to come down on you hard if you keep bugging me about Mel. Clear?”

“Mel’s teething.”

“Yeah? That’s great. That’s just fucking peachy.”