Living with the hawk (22 page)

Coach Conley paused, gazed out above the microphone in the chancel, gazed down at us. My parents stared back at him, their faces glowing, as if they could see my brother standing there beside him.

“Like I said, this was a kid who tried to do his best. He didn't always succeed, but you knew he'd always try. And it's true sometimes he made mistakes. He was human — just like the rest of us. But in all my years of coaching, I've seldom seen a boy with the sense of responsibility that he had.” Both my parents were crying now, but it was crazy — I was too damned rational to cry. Even then I was wondering if maybe Coach was getting kind of schmaltzy here, but the thing about it was, he pretty much had it right.

“When Blake made a mistake,” Coach continued, “he never forgot it. That was why we picked him for quarterback even though we knew he wasn't the best athlete on the team. He might make a mistake, throw a pass, say, when he should have grounded the ball, but he was never going to make that same mistake again. That's a good quality all right, but I'd have to say it's a heavy burden too. When Blake Russell did something wrong, I don't believe he ever forgave himself.”

There was a sudden noise, not much louder than a sigh, something like a gasp and moan combined, a stunted cry of pain. I didn't have to look at either of my parents to know they turned toward me.

Coach Conley was going on about the kind of student my brother was, but his words were running together now, his hands dissolving on the lectern, his face a blur, his shoulders melting down, collapsing, and mine were shaking; I was digging at my eyes, the tears streaming for my brother.

After the relatives had all left for home, driving back to Saskatoon and Estevan, I helped my parents gather up the dishes, collect uneaten food in plastic bags and take them downstairs to the freezer. We stuffed all the dishes we could into the dishwasher, then with my mother washing, my father and I drying and putting things away, we finished off the other dishes, hardly saying a word, the washer whirring mournfully beneath the counter. I thought that if anybody got started, we might have to talk about the way my brother died, and I knew it was too soon for that. I couldn't bear it yet. As soon as I'd set the last glass in the buffet, I went up to bed.

The room across the hall from mine was empty. It always would be now.

Lying in bed, I felt chilly, even with a comforter pulled over my blankets. The room was somewhat brighter than usual, the blind over my desk pulled just halfway down. I stared at the ceiling, the shadow above my bed dark and ominous, shivers rocking my spine. It was nothing but the shadow of the lighting fixture, but on the stippled ceiling of my bedroom it looked like a body lying on snow. If it had begun to move, crawling, staggering to its feet, I wouldn't have been surprised.

Anna, I thought, oh Anna, you never had a chance. Those rotten bastards never gave you a chance. You didn't know it, Anna, but I loved you, I would have done anything — no, that was craziness. I liked her because she always spoke to me, admired her for her nerve, felt sorry for the way she'd suffered, but that was not the same as love. I hardly knew her.

My brother was the one I loved.

My brother who was dead, dead and gone forever.

I hadn't found a way to forgive him. And he couldn't forgive himself.

Some time later I crawled out of bed and lowered the blind to the sill. Before I pulled it down, I stared a moment at the street outside. Though the traffic had worn the snow away, the whole street shimmered, pavement transformed to ice by the spare glow of moonlight. It was the street where we used to gather after school, a whole gang of kids, choosing sides for road hockey. My brother always picked me early so I wouldn't be the last one taken.

“We need to talk,” my father said, coming into my room on Tuesday night. I'd gone back to school that day, was at my desk now, trying to scratch out a long enough descriptive paragraph to satisfy my English teacher.

“I'm kind of busy writing,” I said. “Got a paragraph that's due tomorrow morning.”

“I've been standing at your door — must be nearly five minutes. Your pen hasn't moved.”

“I'm thinking.”

“Maybe you need a break.”

I heard his feet pad across the floor, heard springs squeak. Knew he was sitting on the bed beside my desk. I kept my eyes on the sheet of foolscap, half a dozen lines scrawled at the top of the page.

“Before your brother died,” he said, his voice not quite his own when he pronounced the word ‘died', “it was obvious something had gone wrong between the two of you. You were barely talking. You've been in a deep funk ever since.”

Get off my case, I thought, and suddenly I felt like hurting him. “Naturally,” I snapped. “My brother's dead.” I felt sorry at once, turned to look at him, shaking my head, hoping he would take it for apology.

Sitting there on my bed, the mattress sunk below the level of my chair, he looked withered, older than his years.

“I don't want to argue with you, Blair, but I think there's something there you need to talk about.”

He was studying my face, and I tried not to blink.

You really want to hear this, I thought. What your son did to Amber, I could tell you that. Really hurt you. Yeah, might as well shove a knife between your ribs.

“What about it, Blair?”

I shook my head. Why couldn't he just leave me alone?

“Blair?” He wasn't going to quit. Leaning toward me, his right hand out as if he expected me to drop an offering in it, looking so pathetic.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay! There was something between us. I was mad as hell at him. Because of something he'd done.”

My father didn't look surprised — just more tired than usual — and I knew I'd gone too far already. I didn't want this leading to the truth.

“Don't clam up now.”

“It wasn't all that serious, but . . . well, it really got to me.” He was still leaning toward me, wanting more. Not serious, hell, another bloody lie, I was through lying. I'd tell him as much as he could handle. “Blake did something that was really stupid. I promised him I'd never tell anybody.”

“You need to tell me, Blair. For your own sake.”

“No, I don't.”

“You do.” He stood up, stepped toward my chair. “Right now. I'm not leaving till you do.”

“You really want to know? You'll be sorry.” He nodded. I had to tell him, there was no other way to get him out of here. “That night Blake came home so drunk, he wasn't the only one like that. A bunch of them were drunk, a girl too, Amber Saunders. She passed out on Fosters' lawn, and those guys — ” My voice was shaking now. “ — it wasn't Blake's idea, it was Jordan Phelps' — they all stood there and . . . they peed on her.”

My father sat down, suddenly. He looked as if I'd hit him.

“Blake was sick about it. I said I wouldn't tell you.” I took a deep breath, tried not to sob. “When Anna died — where she was beat up, the snow was all yellow. They'd done the same thing. That's why I thought it was Blake. But I was wrong. He'd never do anything like that again.”

My father had tears in his eyes. “I see,” he said. “That's what was going on.” I could barely hear him.

“I wasn't supposed to tell. I promised.” And then I broke down, sobbing like a fool. I'd betrayed my bother.

“The two of you,” he said, his voice louder now, “you were both going through hell.”

“Yeah.”

He stood up again, bent toward me and gave me an awkward hug in my chair. “You were right to tell, Blair. Some things need saying, or they just eat away inside.”

I thought he was finished, but he sat back down, taking his weight on his hands, and pushed himself across the bed until he was leaning against the wall. “I know you loved your brother.”

“Of course, I did!” Was he going to stay here all night and make stupid comments?

“Yes.” He looked almost relaxed with his back resting on the wall. His eyelids slowly closed. “The thing is, I think you're still angry with him.”

“Maybe I am.” I was surprised at his statement, surprised at my response.

His eyes were still shut, but he had more to say. “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged; condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned.” His eyes flicked open, held me like spotlights on a deer. “Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.”

“I don't think I believe that stuff anymore.” I said it, angered by the way he was always going to the Bible now, but I might have been afraid that he was right. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

My father looked hurt. “It's been serving people well for centuries, advice on how to conduct our affairs, how to live. It's been good enough for more brilliant people than we can imagine, people a lot smarter than we'll ever be.”

There was something in what he said, I know, but his Bible-spouting inflamed me. I wanted to take him on. “How come every time you turn around they're changing what it says?”

“What do you mean?”

“There's the King James Version, the New Revised Version, the Jerusalem Bible, the Good News Bible. I don't know how many others.”

“The language might change a bit, they make the same point.”

“How do we know it isn't all a load of crap? Every version of it pure bullshit.”

“Blair! You're angry. You don't know what you're saying.” He was rigid against the wall, trying to hold his temper.

“I know exactly what I'm saying. If God had any power at all, he would've kept Blake alive.”

“Don't blame God!” he said, his voice rising as he heaved himself across the bed. “Don't you dare blame God!” He grabbed me by the hand, squeezed it tight. “And don't blame yourself. You mustn't do that.” His grip like pliers on my fingers.

I felt tears stinging my eyes again.

He noticed, dropped my hand at once. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

I could still feel the pressure of his fingers, but it wasn't that. He'd squeezed my hand exactly the way that Blake had squeezed it, the last time I'd seen him.

If I didn't say something, I knew I was going to cry again, but I'd done enough of that already, crying for Blake, crying for myself. “Whose fault is it then?”

My father shrugged. Hesitated, ducked his head. Then he said something that surprised me, something I'd often heard from mouthy kids spouting off at school, something I never thought I'd hear from him. “Shit happens. It gets smeared everywhere. It's just part of life. What matters is that we figure out a way to handle it.” He reached for me again, put his arms around me, held me, my head buried against his chest.

If he looked he would see that my cheek was wet, but he wasn't going to hear me crying any more. I let him hold me till I was certain my voice wouldn't waver when I spoke.

“I want to see where he died,” I said.

After my father talked to him — I have no idea what he said to convince him, or even if it was difficult — Mr. Hammond agreed to show us around. It's still the only time in my life I've ridden in a cop car. My father sat in the passenger seat, and I was in the back, a Plexiglas screen separating me from the front seat and the driver. My mother chose to stay at home. She said there was nothing there she needed to see. Or wanted to see.