Fireball (9 page)

‘Maybe you ought to try it,' he suggested.

‘Uh, maybe.'

He leaned back, with this pleased expression on his face – as if we'd really established something. In a way, we had. We'd established that he was a pervert.

‘Do you want to talk about what happened with Mrs Reever?'

I shrugged. Anything was better than masturbation.

‘How do you feel about it?'

‘Well, it was pretty shitty I guess.'

‘Do you think about her often?'

In truth, I thought about her all the time. I dreamt about her, too. I dreamt about her wet, withered face and the cold feeling of her flesh beneath my hands, like putty. But I didn't want to tell all that to the counsellor, and he didn't really want to hear it. He was more interested in talking. He rambled on about life and death, and how Mrs Reever had lived longer than a lot of people. I zoned out for most of his little speech. I just sat there and did what I always do when I want to convince adults I agree with them: I smiled and nodded.

At one point, he asked me if I went to church.

‘No.'

‘Never?'

‘Not that I can remember.'

My dad's about the biggest atheist you've ever met. He's not quiet about it, either. When those guys come to the door – those religious guys wearing suits and carrying Bibles – he invites them in and tries to convince them they're wrong about everything. He's got this dinosaur vertebra he used as an ashtray back when he was a hippy. No joke. He stole it from some dinosaur park. Drumheller, I think. He loves to bust out that backbone and show it to the religious fanatics. You know – just to prove there was evolution and shit.

The counsellor asked, ‘So you don't believe in God?'

‘I guess not.'

‘You don't sound very sure.'

‘Well, it would be nice if there was a heaven or something.'

‘That would be nice, wouldn't it?' He picked up a pen and smiled – this totally patronising smile. I think somebody forgot to tell him that I wasn't six years old. ‘Of course, we can't be sure what happens when we die. That doesn't change the importance of what you did. I'm sure Mrs Reever, wherever she is, appreciates how bravely you acted.'

I smiled and nodded, wanting to scream.

The thing is, I actually did want to talk about it. That counsellor was useless. My dad wasn't much better. I mean, my dad's pretty rad as far as parents go. But he's not the type of guy who likes to talk about awkward shit – and that includes dead old ladies.

‘Hey pops.'

‘Hey big guy.'

Every day after work, my dad throws on this raggedy bathrobe, plants himself in front of the TV, and cracks open a few of his cheap German tall-boys. That's the best time to talk to him, when he's sucking back beer and watching wildlife shows on the nature channel.

‘Are those eggs?'

‘Larvae. Insect larvae.'

I sat and watched with him for about ten minutes, slowly working myself up to it. I figured he'd know more about death than anybody. I mean, I don't really remember my mom but he still thinks about her. I know he does. That doesn't mean he likes talking about it, though. I found that out pretty quick when I finally got around to asking him.

‘People die,' he told me. ‘That's life.'

‘Sure, but…'

‘But what?'

I kicked my legs up onto the footstool. What I really wanted was a can of beer, but I couldn't tell him that. My dad would have kicked my ass if he found out how much I drank.

‘But what the hell's the point?' I said finally.

My dad picked up the remote control. He turned off the television. We sat like that, with me waiting and him thinking. These were really tricky questions, even for him.

Eventually he said, ‘There is no point.'

That was it. Then he turned the TV back on. In the nature programme, the larvae were beginning to hatch. They must have been filming with some kind of microscopic camera, because the insects filled the entire screen. They looked like something out of those creature features we always watched: massive and slimy and hideous as they wriggled into existence.

I found the whole thing pretty traumatising, actually.

We don't keep photos of her around the house. My mom, I mean. It's not like my dad doesn't have any, either. He's got tons and tons of photos from this trip they took down to South America the year before I was born. They bought a Volkswagen camper and ran away without telling anybody, and when they came back she was pregnant and they were married. It was like an elopement and a honeymoon all rolled into one. On the way they took about nine hundred photos. I know because my dad showed me the ones he turned into slides. He would never have done it when he was sober, but he came home absolutely hammered one night and woke me up at one in the morning. He'd been out to dinner with a client or something. First he wanted to arm wrestle – he loves whipping me at arm wrestling when he's drunk – and afterwards he decided to show me those slides.

It was a super big ordeal. We had to haul the projector and slides out of the attic, then set up the projection screen on a rickety old tripod. Lastly my dad made me wipe down the slides while he changed the lamp on the machine. By the time we got started it was nearly two o'clock, but it was worth it. Up until then, I'd only seen my mom in tiny photos and portraits and crap like that. The slides were ten times better. She looked young and real and alive – this skinny, dark-haired woman in a straw hat and huge sunglasses. My dad looked pretty much like he does now, only thinner and with more hair. Also, he had a goatee – this hippy goatee. There were shots of them hanging out at beaches, and lounging by their van, and hiking around Mayan ruins, and partying in rundown villages with all these natives. Wherever they were, it always looked way too hot: trees dry as kindling, roads parched and cracked, ramshackle clay buildings sagging in the sun like melted plastic. The heat never seemed to faze them, though. They were just happy to be together, surviving on tortillas and pop. They only drank pop because you can't trust the water down there.

That's what my dad said, anyhow.

My favourite slides were all in one sequence. It started with the two of them standing on the beach beneath a palm tree. In the second shot, my mom had climbed onto my dad's shoulders, and by the third one she'd shinnied halfway up the tree. Then, in the last slide, they were holding this coconut between them, cracked in half and dripping milk. Something in their expressions really got to me. They'd completely forgotten about the camera and whoever was taking the photos. They were both gazing into the coconut like it was this rare treasure they'd found in the middle of the desert – a treasure that held all the secrets they needed to live happily ever after. It didn't, of course. It was just a coconut.

I mean, she died pretty soon after that.

15

‘You feel anything?'

‘No, nothing yet. You?'

‘No.'

We only tried it once. Once was enough. It was back when we were too young to get booze or weed or anything good. I think we were twelve. Or maybe eleven. I can't really remember. But we'd read on the internet that nutmeg could get you high, so we boiled half a cup and rented The Lion King. Chris loved that movie. He couldn't get enough of it. He was convinced it would be ten times better if we were stoned – especially the part where Simba's dad comes out of the sky in the shape of stars. As soon as our brew was ready, we each shotgunned a mug of nutmeg. It didn't taste like much – kind of like weak soap mixed with cinnamon.

It didn't do much, either.

‘How about now?'

‘No.'

Neither of us could sit still. Our rec room is filled with a bunch of crap my dad bought at garage sales: old reclining chairs, this water-stained coffee table, and a threadbare two-seater sofa. Chris was pacing back and forth in front of the TV, playing with my kung fu sash. First he tied it around his head. Then he draped it over his shoulders, like a scarf. I sat on the sofa and picked at the armrest. There was a hole in the cover and all this loose stuffing sprouted from it like a bizarre, spongy fungus.

‘This blows, man.'

‘Yeah.' Chris threw the sash on the floor. ‘Nutmeg blows goats.'

‘I'd rather be blowing a goat.'

We weren't high at all. We were just bored. After a while we got sick of waiting and put on the film. Our favourite part was the bit where Simba goes to live in the jungle with that pig and the little squirrel. Usually, those guys harsh cracked us up. That night, though, I don't remember laughing once. I was exhausted. I couldn't figure out why. Chris kept dozing off, too. When the movie ended he mumbled something about going home. I yawned and nodded and shuffled to my room and passed out.

Then I woke up.

Somebody was banging on my window – the little window above my bed. It freaked me out. I managed to sit up, but couldn't really stand. My head was reeling and my limbs felt as if they'd been dipped in cement. Also, I started gagging: these weird, dry gags. Somehow, I batted aside the curtains. Chris was out there, his face pressed to the glass.

I unlatched the window.

‘Get out here, Razor,' he said. ‘You can see the fucking Northern Lights.'

I had no idea what was happening. I staggered to my back door, then crawled over the fence and met him in the front yard. The nutmeg had smashed me into this pulpy, unthinking mass – I was a blob of human jello. Chris slapped me playfully across the head, pawing at me with his palms. The impact bounced around inside my skull – this super weird sound hallucination. His eyes were wild and his face had gone all sweaty and pale.

‘You feeling it?'

‘I'm feeling sick, all right.'

‘Sick as a dog, huh?'

‘Sicker than Snoop Dogg.'

I was trying to laugh about it, but only because I didn't want to look like a bed-wetter. Secretly, I thought I might be dying or something. No joke. If Chris hadn't been around, I probably would have called an ambulance to come get me. That's how screwed up I felt.

Chris threw himself down on the grass.

‘Look, man.'

I looked. I saw a black sky and these bright clusters of stars.

‘Yeah. Cool.'

‘No, asshole. Look!'

I looked again. After staring for a minute, I saw it. There were ribbons of colour – pink and red and purple – rippling against the blackness. I let out this little squeak and stumbled back, falling to the ground beside him. The grass felt wet and prickly against my bare skin. I hadn't even bothered to dress myself. I was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts.

‘What is it?' I whispered.

‘The Northern Lights, man.'

‘You can't see them this far South.'

Chris snorted. ‘Oh, yeah?'

We lay like that, spreadeagled on the grass like gingerbread men. I started feeling a little better. It was just me and him and those waves of light washing over the sky. The city was silent. The world was silent. Everybody had died and left us alone.

‘What makes them do that?' Chris asked.

‘I heard it's the earth's magnetic field or something.'

He thought for a while, then said, ‘You know what I think?'

‘What?'

‘It's dead people. Dead people are hanging out in the sky.'

‘Like ghosts?'

‘No – not the normal kind. They wouldn't be allowed.' He gestured towards the flickering colours. ‘It's more like the energy of dead warriors. Vikings and shit like that.'

I didn't say anything. If I'd tried to say anything, I would have cried. I'm serious. For some reason, ripped as I was, his version sounded better than any afterlife I'd ever heard of – better than heaven, and way better than reincarnation. Reincarnation is the worst of all, no matter what Karen said. I mean, who'd want to live all over again?

‘How do we get up there?' I whispered.

‘You just got to make sure you go out with a bang.'

‘That's all?'

‘That's all.'

I don't think he really believed that, but it sounded pretty sweet at the time.

16

We were driving back from the Avalon – that same bar where Chris almost fought the turtleneck – when we got pulled over. It was the four of us, like always. Julian had his dad's new car,
this super nice Mercedes with crazy rims and huge tyres. Karen
rode shotgun. Chris and I sat in the back. What I remember most is the smell of the perfume she always wore. I don't know the brand name or anything, but it smelled sort of like oranges and lemons and a bunch of citrus fruits rolled into one. It might not sound like much, but that perfume drove us completely insane. I would have jumped out the window just to get her attention – that's how great she smelled.