If Only (8 page)

Danny

Hugh phones Danny on Saturday morning. “You gotta get over here. Quick.”

Danny is still half asleep, chewing on a piece of toast. “Why?”

“Martin came home last night.” Hugh lowers his voice, almost to a whisper. “I can't talk right now, but you gotta come. You gotta see this.”

Danny takes his time. He washes his knife and wipes the crumbs off the counter. He only slept a few hours last night, and his eyes feel like they have sand in them. Pam hasn't gotten up yet—Danny heard her bedroom door shut at quarter to twelve. He was still up then, painstakingly gluing
the last couple of pieces of the model. He just has the decals left to put on, and then he'll be finished.

Dad is in the living room, watching
TV
. Danny stops in the doorway and says, “I'm going to Hugh's.” Dad grunts a reply. It's too early for beer; Dad is drinking coffee. He looks as tired as Danny, his face gray and unshaven.

Danny grabs his jacket and steps outside. It's cold and a drizzly rain is falling. He walks hunched over, stepping around puddles. There's no one else on the street except a woman with a huge blue umbrella who says a bright “Good morning” as they pass each other. Lights are on in most of the houses. Danny catches glimpses of what he calls normal family life—a man holding a baby and looking out his front window, a television flickering, a teenage boy hauling a bag of garbage out a side door to a row of metal cans.

Hugh's house is a lot like Danny's. It's small, with one big window in the living room and little square windows for the bedrooms. There's a cement path up to the front door. A driveway, the pavement cracked, disappears around the side of the house.

Hugh opens the door as soon as Danny knocks. “What took you so long?” he grumbles, but he's not really mad. His eyes sparkle behind his round glasses.

Danny hears a bang and a man's voice, raised: “I can't believe you would do this to your mother!” There is a muffled reply from someone, and then Hugh steps outside and closes the door. He's wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and he shivers.

“Martin and Dad,” he whispers. “Martin's in big trouble.”
Hugh doesn't sound worried; he sounds excited. He adds, “Come on, I've got something to show you.”

Hugh leads Danny down the driveway and behind the house. Parked in front of the garage is a bus. Danny stares at it, amazed. It's red and all kinds of crazy things have been painted on its side: orange and yellow flowers and a rainbow and wiggling fish and a whale and stars. On the front is a symbol, and Danny knows what it is right away: it's a peace sign.

“It's a hippie bus!” Hugh says. He almost chokes on his excitement. “Dad is freaking out, I mean
freaking
out. Martin parked it on the street when they got here, but Dad made him bring it around here so the neighbors won't see it.”

“Who's
they
?” Danny asks. For a moment, his troubles are forgotten. He's never seen a real hippie bus before, just once on
TV
.

“Martin's friends.” Hugh's voice squeaks. “They're hippies, real hippies! Harmony and Meadow and Coyote. That's their names. And we're not supposed to call Martin
Martin
anymore. He's River!”

Danny laughs. He can't help it. He remembers Martin at Christmastime, so serious, talking about one of his professors. “
River
?” he says.

“Yeah, but Dad refuses. He says it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. And Mom won't get out of bed this morning. She says she's getting one of her migraines.”

The bus door opens and a bearded man with a mane of shaggy blond hair sticks his head out. “Hey, Hugh, man, what are you doing out there getting all wet? Come on in.”

“Okay,” Hugh squeaks. “Sure.”

Danny holds back, but Hugh says, “Come
on
,” and Danny climbs up the step behind him and into the bus. A sweet smell wafts around him; it's pot. Danny has smelled pot before, near the school and a couple of times when he and Pam were walking home on the trail.

It's dim inside the bus. Flowered curtains hang over the windows. The light comes mostly from two burning candles, stuck in saucers and sitting on a counter that runs down one side. Only two rows of seats remain, at the front. At the back are two built-in bunks.

There are three people in the bus: two girls and the shaggy-haired man, who's wearing sandals, a leather vest and baggy green pants held up by a woven belt. He says to Danny, “Hey, man, a friend of Hugh's is a friend of ours. I'm Coyote.”

“This is Danny,” Hugh says.

Coyote flashes the peace sign. Then he sits down on an overturned crate and picks up a radio with its back open and wires hanging out.

One of the girls is stirring something in a pot on a campstove on the counter. She's skinny with a pale, sharp face and stringy blond hair hanging past her waist like Pam's used to. She's wearing jeans with flowers embroidered up and down the legs, a pink T-shirt and beads. She grins at Danny and says, “Hi, I'm Meadow,” in a whispery voice.

The other girl smiles but doesn't speak. She's sitting on a mattress on the floor. She has a smooth, tanned face and braids with colored wool woven into them. She's wearing a loose top with tiny mirrors sewn on it and a skirt that looks like it's made out of patches. The soles of her bare feet are grimy with dirt.

“That's Harmony,” Coyote says. “She's pretty stoned right now.”

Danny sees a kind of cigarette sitting in a saucer beside the girl, and he's pretty sure it's pot. He looks away, embarrassed.

“Sit down, sit down,” Coyote says, waving at a brown rug in the middle of the floor. Hugh plunks down and Danny,
feeling awkward, sits beside him. He tries not to stare at Harmony, who is swaying now and humming. The smell of the pot, mingled with a spicy cooking smell, is making him feel a little bit sick.

Something moves in the middle of a pile of blankets beside Harmony's feet, and a small face with round brown eyes peeps out. A baby. The baby wails, and Meadow
puts down her spoon and reaches over and scoops it up. The baby, a little boy, is naked and as brown as a nut. Meadow gives him a cracker from a box, and the baby stops crying and sticks it in his mouth, staring over it at Danny and Hugh.

“What's his name?” Hugh says. He looks fascinated.

“Windsong,” Meadow says. She rocks the baby for a moment and then drops him in Harmony's lap.

The bus door is flung open and Martin scrambles in. Wispy beard, headband, hair hanging just below his ears, red pants, a peace-sign medallion—he doesn't look anything like Hugh's brother, and at first Danny isn't even sure it's him.

He brings a kind of nervous energy into the bus; Danny can feel it crackling off him.

“Hey, River, what's happening?” says Meadow.

Martin's cheeks are flushed and he talks in short bursts.
“He's impossible…totally out of it…just doesn't get it!”

Coyote doesn't look up from the radio he is tinkering with, but a frown flits across his face. He says, “Don't let your old man bum you out.”

“I can't help it,” Martin says. His eyes flick over Hugh and Danny, and he gives Danny a slight nod. Then he turns back to Coyote. “Look, we gotta get out of here.”

“You're leaving already?” Hugh screeches.

“Not
leaving
. Just for a few hours. Come on. Let's go cruise around. Anything.”

“We need to pick up some groceries,” Meadow says.

“Groovy,” Coyote says. “Let's split.”

Hugh jumps up. “Can we come too?”

“No,” Martin says. And then he adds in a kinder voice, “I'll see you later.”

Hugh and Danny climb out of the bus, and Martin calls after them, “Stay outside for a while. You need to get the weed smell off you.”

“It's raining,” Hugh protests, but Martin has shut the bus door.

Hugh sighs. “I don't think Martin's going to make a very good hippie.”

Hugh and Danny read comic books in Hugh's bedroom. The rain lets up in an hour, and they head outside again to shoot baskets on a hoop that Hugh's dad has attached to the side of the garage.

Hugh is hopeless at basketball. He's the most unathletic kid Danny has ever known, but he's a fast runner. Hugh keeps stopping, cradling the ball in his arms, and asking Danny questions about the hippies. “D'you think Coyote is that baby's father? D'you think Martin, I mean
River
, smokes pot too?”

“How should I know?” Danny says. “Probably. Just
play
, will you?”

Danny likes sports, and he's usually pretty good at sinking baskets, but today he's missing a lot too. Finally he sighs in disgust, “Let's quit.”

“Okay,” Hugh says. His cheeks are pink and his round glasses are steamed up. He takes them off and wipes them on his shirt. “What do you want to do?”

Danny's fingers slip inside his jean pocket and touch the folded scrap of paper with Raymond's address. Five forty-one Basken Street. He's memorized it. All morning it's been eating away at him. He's been flipping back and forth in his mind about whether to ask Hugh to go with him.

He pulls out the paper.

“What's that?” Hugh says.

“An address,” Danny says. “Some place I gotta go.”

He makes up his mind. “Can you keep a secret?” he says.

Pam

When Billie says it happened to her sister Nancy, I can't handle it. I don't want to know.

I mumble goodbye and then lie awake most of the night, worrying and wondering.

I don't get up until almost lunchtime the next day. Danny has gone out again. I heard the phone ring ages ago. Maybe it was Hugh.

I check to see where Dad is (in the living room in front of the
TV
) and close the kitchen door. I dial Billie's number.

A woman answers the phone and says she'll get Billie.

Billie says, “Hello.”

“It's me again. Pam.”

“Just a sec.”

A door closes. Billie is back. “Hi,” she says.

“I'm sorry I…I…” I take a big breath. “I didn't know what to say last night. What happened?”

There's a long silence. I'm pretty sure Billie is crying. I've really screwed this up. I don't know what to do.

Billie says, “Sorry.
That was weird. I didn't think I was going to do that. I thought I was over it.”

Then Billie talks and I listen.

“It was my cousin. Paul. He's my stepcousin, actually. He's way older than me. Twenty-one, I think. His mom and dad are my aunt Susan and uncle Ted. He's not Aunt Susan's real son, he's her stepson. Uncle Ted was married to someone else before, and Paul came to live with them when he was a teenager because he was having a lot of problems. I really like my aunt and uncle. I
hate
Paul.”

A shiver runs up my back. “What did he do?” And then I add, “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

“I do want to. It's just hard.” Billie hesitates. “It was last July. A month after my sister's high school prom. Mary was only about two months old. Mom kind of fell apart when Mary was born. She got really depressed and she acted like she didn't even
want
Mary. I think she was kind of shocked she'd even had another baby so long after me and Nancy. Anyway, my dad finally talked her into going for a drive, and me and Nancy stayed home with Mary.”

My chest tightens. This is scary. I'm not even sure I want to hear the rest.

“We were watching
TV
and then we put Mary to bed and I went into my room to read. I heard the doorbell and I yelled, ‘Who is it?' and Nancy yelled back, ‘It's just Paul.' I could hear them in the kitchen, kind of laughing and joking around. Paul had brought a bunch of food. Aunt Susan was always sending over stuff like casseroles and cakes because Mom didn't feel like cooking. I went down the hall to join them, and then I heard Paul ask if it was okay if he had one of Dad's beers and Nancy said that, yeah, it was okay and she was going to have one too. I hated it when Nancy tried to act all cool like that. She didn't even like drinking. So I went back to my room and shut my door. I don't think Paul even knew I was there.”

A long pause. I think I can hear Billie's heart beating right over the phone.

“The next thing I knew, Nancy was screaming.”

Another pause.

“I ran to the living room. Paul had grabbed Nancy and he was hitting her in the face, and then she yelled, ‘Get away from me, you bastard!' and pushed him really hard. He fell back and then he saw me.”

I feel as cold as ice. “God. What did you do?”

“I screamed too,” Billie says. “I was so scared. He said, ‘Don't be a baby, I didn't hurt her.' And then he said, ‘I'll do something worse to you if you tell,' and he left.” She pauses. “The next morning Nancy had a bruise on her cheek. She told Mom she walked into a cupboard door in the kitchen.”

“Oh, Billie.”

“I know. I almost told then. But Nancy had made me swear not to tell. She said it would make Mom even worse and that if we told Dad, he'd tell Mom right away. And then Aunty Susan and Uncle Ted would have to find out, and they'd be so upset. I've never told anyone except you.”

“Nancy was wrong,” I say. “Making you swear that.”

“I don't know,” Billie says.

“Someone could have done something,” I insist. “Maybe Paul would have gone to jail.”

“You wouldn't go to jail for that. It's not like he tried to rape her or anything.”

“What if you hadn't been home? You don't know what he would have done.”

“It's not like I haven't thought of that.” Billie sighs. “Anyway, he went away. He got a job in Alberta. Nancy said I would be okay, now that Paul was gone, and she went away too. She went to Prince George, and she's still there, working in a restaurant.”

“And is Paul still in Alberta?”

“He came back a few weeks ago.”

“Oh my god,” I say.

“I know.” Billie's voice is shaky. “I freaked when I found out. But he doesn't live with Aunt Susan and Uncle Ted anymore and he never comes here, so I don't have to see him. I don't even know where he lives.”

“Have you told Nancy?”

“Not yet. But there's nothing she can do. It's not like she's going to come back from Prince George.”

“You've got to tell your mom.”

“I can't. She's finally feeling better,” Billie says. “Besides, Paul is a creep but he's part of the family. If I tell now, who will believe me?”

Billie is coming over. We're going to do homework together.

A horn honks. I swallow my last spoonful of cornflakes and hurry outside. A red station wagon is parked in front of our house, and Billie is getting out of the back seat. She's carrying a bag of books. She calls, “I got a ride! Come and meet my baby sister!”

Billie's dad is driving and her mom is in the front seat,
holding Mary on her lap. She opens the window and says hi.
She has this really bright smile and doesn't seem at all like someone who would get depressed. Mary is the cutest baby ever, with dark wispy hair and eyes like blue buttons.

Billie's dad looks nice too. He's partly bald. He says, “We gotta run. You'll have to walk home, honey,” and then they are gone.

I feel awkward with Billie. Talking on the phone was easy, but I'm not sure about this. I had warned her about my hair, and she studies me now, chewing her lip, and then says, “I see what you mean.”

We both grin at the same time and burst out laughing, and the awkward moment passes.

We decide that we're not in the mood for homework yet. We go to my room and take turns listening to the shell. We're positive we can hear waves.

I'm suddenly afraid that Billie is going to ask me hard questions. I'm not ready to talk to her about it yet. But instead she says, “We're going to Long Beach this summer. For our vacation. Usually we go camping somewhere, but we're going to stay in a motel this time because of Mary. Last summer we didn't go anywhere because Mary was too little.”

“Where's Long Beach?” I ask.

“Vancouver Island. It's not
tropical
, but Dad says there's miles of sand and I'll be able to find all kinds of shells and that I'll love it.”

I've never been on a vacation before, unless you count driving to BC from Ontario. Dad has always worked all through the summer. “Sounds fun,” I say.

“I bet you could come with us,” Billie says. “Mom and Dad wouldn't mind.”

“Maybe,” I say.

Billie doesn't know everything. She doesn't know that I'm basically scared stiff just leaving this house.

We sit side by side, cross-legged, on my bed and look through all my old copies of
Seventeen
. We pick out the best clothes and the ugliest clothes. Billie mostly likes pants and tops, and she likes everything in bright colors.

“I never wear skirts unless my parents make me,” Billie says.

But she likes makeup. She's wearing green eye shadow right now. She says she's allowed to borrow any of her mom's makeup that she wants.

We both get hungry at the same time. We go down to the kitchen and make peanut butter sandwiches, and I pour us big glasses of chocolate milk. We sit at the table and eat and drink and talk. Billie wants to know about my family, and I tell her about Nana and Pop and their dog Jack and living on the farm and even a little bit about living in Ontario, although that seems like a lifetime ago.

“I've always lived in the same house,” Billie says. “It's boring. Your life has been much more interesting.”

Dad comes in then, his jacket slung over his good shoulder, and I introduce him to Billie. He's going to a doctor's appointment, and he's in a good mood. “I'll be back by four,” he promises.

After he leaves, Billie tilts her head sideways and studies me and says, “I want to try and fix your hair. Just kind of even it out a bit.”

“No,” I say.

“Please,” Billie says. “I'm thinking of being a hairdresser when I finish school.”

“It's
my
hair,” I protest.

“I need some experience,” she says.

So I finally get the kitchen scissors out of the drawer and put a towel around my neck and sit on a chair. “Have you ever cut hair before?” I say.

“Never,” Billie says cheerfully. “Have faith, sister!”

She leaps around the chair, waving the scissors like they're a weapon.

“Don't get near me!” I shriek. “You're dangerous!”

“Sorry,” Billie says. “I'll calm down.”

She sucks in her cheeks and frowns and makes her eyes go buggy, all at the same time. I giggle. “That's no improvement.”

She hums while she snips. Feathery wisps drift onto my lap. “Not so much,” I say, panicking. I've gotten used to my hair the way it is. Sort of.

“I'm just making the two sides the same,” Billie says. She stands back and studies my head. “Oops.”

“
What
?”

“I can fix it.” She snips a little more.

“Ta-da! Finished!” she finally announces.

I spring off the chair and run to the mirror in the bathroom. To be honest, I can't see much difference. My hair
still looks like it's been attacked by aliens.

“I could do some more,” Billie offers.

“No thanks,” I say hastily.

We spend the rest of the afternoon doing homework at the kitchen table. Billie helps me with decimals, and I do all her grammar exercises for her because it's stuff I did last year.

Billie stays until Dad gets back. The black brace is gone, and he's holding his arm awkwardly. He disappears into the living room with a beer. Billie says she has to leave. She has to practice her violin because she's playing it at her church tomorrow.

“I'll ride my bike over on Monday morning,” Billie says, “and then we can walk the rest of the way to school together.”

My stomach tightens. “
If
I go.”