Creeps (3 page)

Mr. Rollie leans across the table. “It's just that I couldn't see your face.”

“But that's the scene: Charlie Brown notices the cute girl staring and then puts a bag over his head.”

“Yes, I'm well aware, Mr. Pumphrey, but it's important in auditions that the director sees what your mouth is doing. Your eyes.”

“Should I try it again?”

“No, no.”

Mr. Rollie twirls his pinky ring. His nails need trimming. “Didn't Mrs. Cooper let you try any of the other instruments?”

“Only interested in the drums.”

Quiet for a moment.

“How old are you now, Mr. Pumphrey?”

“Fifteen.”

“Right. You're small for your age, aren't you?”

“A little.”

Mr. Rollie's pinky ring catches the cafeteria light and sparkles. “Perhaps it was your monologue choice. Most your age try stuff with a little more edge. Les Faulkner did a piece from
Glengarry Glen Ross
.”

“What's Glengarry Glen Ross?”

“A David Mamet play.”

“Who's he?”

“A famous American playwright.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Mr. Rollie crosses his legs and Wayne notices little William Shakespeares on his drama teacher's socks. “Lots of good drummers, were there? That why?”

“Jim Butt.”

“Well, he's practically a prodigy. Other than Mr. Butt, I mean.”

“A few.”

“And they were all better than you?”

“Mm-hm.” Wayne looks past Mr. Rollie's shoulder towards the main doors and sees Julie's face squished against the window. He looks away.

“I won't lie, Mr. Pumphrey, this year's production is going to require some really strong actors. Be nice to finally make the provincials. They're in St. John's this year.”

“Really? Wow.”

“You think you're ready for the drama club after what happened in the pageant last year, Mr. Pumphrey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You upset the manger.”

“Costume was too big.”

“And dropped the frankincense.”

“Sweaty hands.”

“You were pretty upset.”

“I remember.”

“You slipped out through the back.” Mr. Rollie pauses. “There's more to acting than meets the eye, Mr. Pumphrey.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, sir: there're lines to memorize and pretty leading ladies to kiss or rescue or give mouth-to-mouth to—”

“Whoa, slow down, Mr. Pumphrey. Sounds like Hollywood's more your style.”

“No sir, I don't care much for Hollywood. Who wants to be chased by paparazzi and photographed on the beach when you're not in the best of shape? No, a small school play suits me fine.”

Mr. Rollie takes his glasses off again and puts one of the ears in his mouth. Chews. “You're a funny one, Mr. Pumphrey.”

“Born too late, Mom says.”

“Why does she say that?”

“On account I don't like the
Twilight
movies or Justin Bieber or iPhones or especially Facebook.”

“Why especially Facebook?”

“Um … no reason. Just some girl who pretended to like me and then posted how gross I was when I started to like her back.”

Mr. Rollie lays his glasses down and slides back in his chair and folds his arms. After a long time he says, “What do you write in those notebooks of yours?”

“Hmm?”

“I've seen you … in the cafeteria, the library, outside when the weather's nice, which isn't very often. Are they plays?”

“No.”

“Short stories?”

“Letters.”

“Letters?”

“Yeah, but they're mostly for me.”

“For you?”

“That's right. I don't send them or anything.”

“But aren't letters
meant
to be sent?”

“Not mine.”

Mr. Rollie goes to say more but is interrupted by the opening door and Julie's poking-in head. “Sorry for barging in,” she says.

“What is it, Miss Snow?”

“It's just that … well, are you almost ready for me? Mom's waiting to take me to the shopping centre to get a skirt and we'd like to get there before it closes.” Julie looks at Wayne and says, “There's others out here, you know.”

“Miss Snow.”

“Sorry, Mr. Rollie.”

“If your skirt is more important than this term's production then maybe you should just go.”

“No, sir, it isn't. I
really
want to be in the play (did I just hear you say the provincials were in St. John's this year?), it's just that I was planning on wearing the outfit to school tomorrow.”

“I don't appreciate you listening by the door, Miss Snow, and I'm with someone right now, so wait your turn.”

Julie shoots Wayne a glare. Squeezes her lips so tight they turn white. Slams the door.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Pumphrey.”

“It's okay.”

“Keeps the shopping centre in business, Miss Snow does.”

“She
is
a snappy dresser.”

Mr. Rollie glances up at the wall clock. “We should finish, Mr. Pumphrey. Anything else you'd like to add?”

“Not really, only that I'd like to be in the show because I think it might be nice to be a part of something.”

Mr. Rollie sits there for a moment, then he puts his glasses back on and uncrosses his legs and gets to his feet. Holds out his hand.

Wayne shakes it.

“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Pumphrey.”

“You're welcome.”

Wayne makes his way to the door.

“Mr. Pumphrey?”

Wayne stops. “Yes, sir.”

“You're far from gross.”

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”

Wayne leaves.

SIX

Supper's on the table when Wayne walks in: pea soup and dumplings, sliced homemade bread on a flower-patterned plate, cups of tea with swirling steam. A light above the stove illuminates the still-simmering pot, beside which rests the blackened wooden ladle that's always used for soups and sauces and macaroni and cheese and— for when his mother can't take much more of his father—throwing.

His mother is blowing on her loaded spoon, while his sister, Wanda, listens to her iPod. There's a place set for his father, but his father's not in it.

His mom slurps, then looks at Wayne and says, “Eat before it gets cold.”

He goes over and sits down. His mother pours him a glass of milk. Lays a slice of bread beside his bowl.

Nickelback's wafting from his sister's side of the table, some song about a photograph and red eyes and a guy named Joey with something on his head.

His mother reaches over and yanks Wanda's earphones out.

“Hey!”

“Not at the table.”

“Didn't have to tear my ears off—”

“How many times have I told you.”

Wanda sits back and crosses her arms and stares into the living room as if the key to her escape might be there.

“Eat,” his mother tells her, but Wanda won't, so his mother tells her again.

Wanda dips her spoon in, stirs, fills it, and then drops the contents back into the bowl. Repeats. Gives their mother a look as if to say,
I'm nearly eighteen and soon I'll be able to do whatever I fucking well want
.

Wayne blows on his own spoonful before putting it in his mouth. Hacks off a chunk of dumpling. Looks over at his dad's place, then at his mother. After a while he says, “Where is he?”

No one answers, so he says, “His soup'll get cold.”

“Pfft,” Wanda says.

Wayne looks across the table at her.

“Doubt he gives a shit about his soup right now.”

“Wanda,” his mother says.

“What?”

“You
know
what.”

“Well how long does it take to pick up butter?”

No one says anything.

Wayne's mother drops another dumpling into his bowl even though he's not done with the first one.

“Where were you?” Wanda says.

He looks up. “School. You should try it.”

“Funny. What were you doing at this thing called ‘school'?”

“Auditioning.”

“What?”

“For the play. Mr. Rollie says he needs really strong actors this year.”

“Mr. Rollie? He's queerer than Sunday.”

“Wanda,” his mother says.

“Loves the young ones too, I'm told.”

“Shut up,” Wayne says.

“Don't drop your script.”

“Mom!”

“Enough, Wanda!” his mother says.

Wanda laughs, bunched-together teeth in too small a mouth.

Then it goes quiet save for his mother's slurping. Afterwards she uses what's left of her doughboy to sop up the dregs in her bowl. Licks her fingers. Says
to Wayne, “Your father's brother was an actor. Was on TV and everything.”

“Uncle Philip?” Wayne says.

“Or he used to be anyway. Then he drove a truck, or was it a taxi? What odds, he's dead now.”

“What shows?” Wayne says.

“Oh, goodness … I think he might have been in one about a wolf or a dog or something.
The Littlest Hobo,
I believe it was.”

“Or, in Mr. Rollie's case,
The Littlest Homo,
” Wanda says.

Before Wayne can tell her to shut up, the sound of his father's car is in the driveway and everyone's suddenly adjusting themselves in their chairs: his mother pushing hers in, Wanda sitting a little more erect, and half of Wayne's bum off his own.

The engine dies and a car door opens, then closes.

“Don't say a word,” his mother tells them.

Wanda goes to put her earphones back in, but his mother glares at her. Then she gets up and goes over to the stove and refills Wayne's bowl even though he didn't ask for more. She puts it down in front of him.

Boots on the porch. A hand on the door handle and a puff of air as it's pushed open. Footsteps. A cough. Something falls on the floor. Keys? Another cough. More footsteps. Closer. Past the foyer. Into the kitchen.

His father stands there: work shirt untucked beneath that nicotine-stained coat, woollen socks and strands of hair in his slits for eyes and soot in his moustache and a sway so slight it might not be happening at all.

He comes over and takes off his coat and drapes it across the back of his chair and sits down. Smoke and cold and iron ore dust coming off him.

Wayne's mother squeezes her tea bag. Adds milk. Stirs and stirs until there's a tornado inside her cup.

His father reaches for a slice of bread, dunking its corner into his soup. He takes a bite and scrunches up his face. “Freezing, this is.”

Wayne's mother puts her cup down. “Been sitting there, hasn't it?”

“Could have left it in the pot.”

“Supper's at five.”

His father peers into his own teacup. “This isn't fit either, I suppose?”

Wayne's mother doesn't say anything.

Wayne's dad stands up and takes his soup over to the stove. Throws it in amongst the hot stuff, then refills his bowl. Comes back over. Nearly misses his chair upon sitting and sets everything shaking on the table. Wayne's milk spills over the sides of his tumbler and tea splashes onto the tablecloth. Wanda's able to cover her glass of Diet Coke just in time.

His father rights himself, then hovers over his food and starts eating.

Wayne's mother rubs her forehead.

The grandfather clock chimes.

Finally, his mother says, “Where's the butter?”

Wayne slowly turns to look at his father. Wanda does, too.

His father looks up from his bowl. Red eyes. Brows slanted downward. Bits of soup entangled in his moustache. On the verge of falling asleep it looks like. He breathes in. Exhales. Glances around the kitchen as if he's trying to remember where he put something.

Wayne's mother goes, “‘I'll pick some up,' that's what you said, Calvin.”

His father is still for a moment, then he drops his spoon into his soup. Pushes the bowl aside and glares across the table. “The minute I get in the door.”

No one says anything.

“Just once I'd like to walk in and not have you nag me.”

Wayne's mother leans forward but doesn't speak.

“You think Frank Hewitt up the street has to put up with this every time he comes home … What?”

“You're far from Frank Hewitt,” Wayne's mother says.

“Is that right?”

“I'm sure when Frank Hewitt tells his wife he's going to pick something up he bloody well comes back with it.”

“I forgot.”

“‘I forgot,' he says. Don't forget the bar though.”

Wanda pushes out her chair and leaves.

“Wouldn't forget the bar if you had Alzheimer's,” his mother says.

Wayne clutches his glass just as his father swipes his own bowl onto the floor, flecks of pea soup striking Wayne's face.

Wayne's mother stands. “You've thrown your last bowl!”

“Have I now?”

She walks around the table—needing an extralong stride to clear the broken bowl and spilled soup—into the hall. “That's the last bowl you'll ever throw!” A door slams. Then it goes quiet.

Wayne wipes his face and lets go of his glass and sees the imprint of his fingers.

His dad's staring in the direction of the hall. Then he turns and rests his face in his palms. After a while he lifts his head and looks at Wayne. “Do me a favour.”

“Okay.”

His father yawns and rubs his belly because his belly's always upset. Shifts closer. “Run to the store after you're finished and get some butter.”

Wayne nods. His dad reaches over and messes his hair, then goes to pick up the broken bowl but Wayne does it for him, sweeping the shards into a dustpan and sopping up the pea soup with paper towels and then dropping it all into the garbage beneath the sink. He goes back over and sits down. Finishes his milk.