The Second Son (27 page)

No, it’s you I’m pissed off at, I thought. And I do so want to use it — to hurt you, to kill you, to blow you away, all those things and more, you goddamn bastard bully. But I knew already — I couldn’t. Not now. He was too close, too near, too much my father again, instead of that dirty mean drunk who had shoved half a pack of cigarettes down my throat. He was in his underwear, for Christ’s sake. I turned and laid the gun down gently on the workbench. I worked the bolt open and retrieved the bullet.

“Now you’re using your head,” he murmured from behind me. I put the gun and the ammunition away, but stayed by the workbench, refusing to look at him.

“Okay now, son,” he finally said, “let’s go back to bed. We’ve had a hard night. We’ll talk in the morning.” He turned then and started back upstairs, like he trusted me to follow him.

I’m the one that’s had a hard night, I was thinking when I finally went upstairs. Not you, you bastard. You’re just the one who handed it out. And like shit we’ll talk about it in the morning. I was back in bed and cursing my lack of resolve when I heard him trying to sneak back downstairs a few minutes later. I knew what he was doing. I checked the next morning and the guns were gone.

He did try to talk to me that next day and several days after. I clammed up tight. Every time he tried to get me to talk I just stared at the floor, at the table, at the wall, whatever was handy. I knew I could win that battle — I was more like my mother that way. He must have been pretty worried about it because the last time he talked to me he went so far as to apologize for losing his temper that night, and said he didn’t mean it about the haircut. As though that would make it right. He even worked in something about not being himself, ever since the fire. Said we all had to get past the bad things that happened to us and give ourselves a chance to enjoy life again. He even promised we’d borrow a boat and go fishing that summer. Maybe he was hoping for a trade-off, one fire for one attempted murder. Or suicide — we never did talk about that part. Or maybe he was trying to cover all his bases, talking me out of shooting him, or myself, whichever one I was set on.

I don’t think he ever considered that there might have been other targets that night. I suppose he would have had me locked up somewhere if that possibility had ever entered his head. After a week or so of his attempts to “talk it out,” I was pretty tired of listening to him, so I managed a couple of tired nods which he took to mean I gave a shit. At any rate, he let up on me after that. I didn’t see any sign that he told my mother. It wasn’t long before I had other things on my mind.

Some weeks later, I got into my famous fight with Sister Anthony. I say famous because all of Alexandria heard about it, eventually. It happened one day in May, during a heat wave. It had to be eighty-five degrees in that classroom and we all figured we’d get out early. We should have known better. Sister was getting us ready for our June exams and she was bound we were going to finish reviewing our history chapters. I was sitting in the back row beside an open window, bored to death — is there anything more boring than hearing about a bunch of dead people on a warm day in May?

Being jammed into that little desk wasn’t helping. Like I said, I grew a lot that year and was probably the tallest kid in the class, almost a foot taller than Sister Anthony. That’s what I was thinking about that afternoon, the fact that I was only a few weeks away from getting out of this little kids’ school, forever. I didn’t think she’d flunk me. Why would she want me around for another whole year? The trouble started when she caught me looking out the window.

“Mike Landry,” she called out, “you need this review more than anybody. Pay attention.”

“I am, ’ster,” I grumbled back at her.

“You are not! You’re staring out the window. Now pay attention.”

I’d like to think it was just the heat that made me say, “I listen with my ears, not my eyes.”

Somebody told me afterwards she had chronic headaches, and might have been in pain or something. Whatever it was, she jumped up from her desk and marched down the row to confront me. “What did you say, young man?”

I guess I was kind of slouched and careless when I drawled up at her, “I said I listen with my ears, not my eyes.”

“Oh you do, do you?” She grabbed one of those ears and yanked me to my feet, almost taking the desk with me. “Stand up when you talk to me, young man. This is my classroom and you’ll treat me with respect. Do you understand?”

It was that
do you understand
bit that got to me, my old man’s favourite refrain. I snapped back at her, “Why don’t you respect me, then?”

“What? What did you say?” Boy, was she ripping.

“You heard me!” I yelled back.

That was it. She reached up, grabbed a fistful of hair, and pulled me down to my knees. My resistance was fading fast. In those days the nuns owned your soul and your body, especially when they had you on your knees. “What did you say, young man?”

I don’t know what the hell she expected me to answer to a question like that. I tried the truth. “I said you heard me, Sister.”

Whap, whap! She slapped me hard across the face with an open hand, hanging on to my hair with the other. I clenched my fists and tensed my legs with intentions of standing up. She must have felt it because she jerked down harder on my hair and went for the jugular. “And what would your poor mother think? If she could see you now, Michel Landry?”

Maybe it was a good thing she fought dirty. I had to submit sooner or later. We both knew that. Eight years of brainwashing couldn’t be wiped away with two slaps across the face. This way I could cave in for my mother’s sake. When I couldn’t muster the courage to answer, she helped me out. “Your poor mother would be very disappointed in you, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes, ’ster,” I muttered, just loud enough for her to acknowledge.

“And you don’t want me to call her about this, do you? She has enough worries, don’t you think?”

“Yes, ’ster,” I muttered again, wondering if that was the right answer.

It must have been. She let loose her grip on my hair and backed up half a step. I shook my head, waiting for what I knew was coming. “Now, young man, I think you owe me an apology.”

It took me a long moment, feeling the hot stares of twenty-seven classmates, before I finally got it out. “Sorry, Sister.”

“For what?” she demanded.

“For answering back. Sister.”

“That’s better,” she said as she backed up toward the front of the class. “You can stand up, now. And stay standing for the rest of the lesson. Maybe it will help you to pay attention.”

I did sneak a little grin as I watched her dig a handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe my Brylcream from her hand. Maybe that was why she made me stand there for another half-hour, like a goddamn fool with my hair messed up, swearing to myself that this was the last time I’d ever get pushed around. And I didn’t listen to her damn lesson, either.

Who would have guessed that an hour later I would be back on top of the world? And that Gail MacDonald would put me there? She caught up to me on the way home from school and was almost running beside the bike. I thought she must want to rub it in so I pedalled faster. “Slow down,” she finally yelled, “I need to talk to you.”

“What about?” I yelled back.

“The party.”

I put the brake on and slowed down, letting her catch up to me. “What party?” I knew pretty well what she was talking about. The Grade 8 girls had been pestering Sister Anthony for a couple of months.

“You know, the graduation party.” She was still trying to catch her breath, so I got off the bike and started walking with her. I can still see her, binder cradled up against her chest, ponytail bouncing behind her, and that big smile on her face when she started talking about all her big plans. I didn’t hear much of it. I was too busy taking her in. She had on a white blouse, with a plaid skirt and those droopy white ankle socks she was always pulling up. And those shoes the girls were all wearing that year — those brown loafers with the pennies stuck in them. I remember thinking that was so dumb, that if you were going to carry money around in your shoes it should at least be a couple of quarters, so you’d have fifty cents in case of an emergency or something. Of course, then it would have sounded stupid — quarter loafers, like some kind of lazy horse. Like I said, that girl always made me crazy.

“So,” she persisted, breaking through my daydreaming with that big smile, “will you be coming? To the party?”

Frightened by the sudden pounding of my heart I took refuge in my usual cynicism. “Aw, the old bat will never let you.”

“She will so. She already asked Father McDonnell and he said we could have the church hall, on a Friday night, so long as there’s chaperones.”

“Huh?”

“You know, adults. To make sure we behave.”

“So? What does that have to do with me? The old bat probably won’t pass me now, not after this afternoon.”

“She really went off her rocker, eh?”

“She’s nuts.”

“No guff. We were all surprised, you being her pet and everything.”

“Waddaya mean?” I growled.

She laughed. “Everybody knows it, Mike. You’ve been her pet ever since you hid my Elvis record.”

“Ah, bull. She’s just as mean to me as everybody. You saw what she did.”

She looked at me kind of funny and shrugged. “I know. You didn’t deserve that. Everybody says.”

“Oh yeah,” I sneered. “So how come you were all laughing at me?”

“Not me. I thought you were very brave.”

“Brave? Are you nuts?”

“No, it’s true. You were courageous.”

“Sure,” I snorted, “courageous.”

“Well, you answered her back. And you never cried.”

Hope was beginning to work its way up my chest. “I guess not. I woulda taken off, though, if she hit me one more time.” It wouldn’t hurt to lie a little, I figured.

“I bet you would of.”

“Yeah, you bet.” I could swear she was looking at me differently, the way she used to look at Andrew, that first summer. Maybe, I thought, she’s noticed how much I look like Elvis with my hair cut this way, and my shirt sleeves folded up like this. And these Half-Wellingtons I saved up for. And maybe my snaggle-tooth smile isn’t as bad as I thought. That’s the kind of stuff that was going through my head that afternoon. I thought my life was finally changing, especially after her next question.

“So, I was wondering.” She looked down at her binder like she had crib notes written there, before she finally lifted her head and looked me in the eye. “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to be my date. You know, for the party?”

“Me? What about Andrew? Isn’t he allowed?”

“Oh, Mike, you know that’s all over.”

“Over?” She had me so mixed up I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know which was the dream — the present moment or all that had gone before. “You mean, you want me to be your date, your actual date?”

She grinned at my confusion. “No guff, my actual date.”

“I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I always liked you. You know that.” I wasn’t so sure about that
that
. “What does it mean? Are we just going out for one night? Or what?” I knew what I wanted it to mean. I was just afraid this might be some dirty trick she was playing on me, that she would pull the rug out from under me, any time now.

She gave me that coy smile she was so good at. “Well, maybe we’ll go out again, if we have fun at the party. Or maybe you won’t want to take me out anymore. After.”

After what, I wondered, as I stared at my handlebars, afraid to look at her. God, didn’t she know how much I wanted to be with her? There must have been fifteen girls in our class, even a couple in Grade 7 who had a crush on me, yet she was the only one I ever saw. How could she not know that? Maybe because I hadn’t really been able to talk to her, ever since she chose Andrew over me. I still couldn’t talk to her.

“Well,” she insisted, “what do you say? Do you want to take me, or not?”

“I guess,” I finally muttered, “if you want.”

She must have realized that was all she was going to get out of me, because she filled the space between us with chatter all the rest of the way home, talking about all the plans the girls had for the big party. Just before she turned up her walk, she said, “Don’t worry about buying me a corsage. My dad wants to buy me one. You know, for my first graduation dance.”

“Shit,” I said to myself as I watched her disappear into the house, “she’ll want me to dance.”

By the time we sat down for supper I had it all worked out. My mom could teach me to dance, the same as Andrew. We weren’t long at the table when I found a way to tell them my big news. “I need a suit,” I announced.

That set them back in their chairs. I probably hadn’t initiated a real conversation since Easter. “A suit?” my father finally reacted. “Did you say, suit?”

“We’re having a graduation party.”

“Hah,” Andrew snorted, “a little party in the music room. You don’t need a suit for that.”

“Shaddap,” I snarled. “It’s none of your business.”

“Now, Mike,” my mother said, “you know I don’t like that kind of talk at the table. What kind of party is it?”

“It’s going to be in the church hall on a Friday night with music and food and I need a suit.” I tried to sound firm.

“I don’t know,” she responded, “you kids are awfully young for that kind of thing. You’re only thirteen, you know.”

I answered her with sullen silence, staring down at my untouched supper. I knew she had a point. I wouldn’t have been interested in going to a party if it hadn’t been for Gail asking me. Of course, they didn’t know that. I was wondering if I should leave that part out. Before I could decide, my mother turned to my father for help. “What do you think, Ed?”

“Sounds pretty foolish to me, kids that age having graduation parties. They should save that for high school.”

“But Andrew had one,” I protested.

“That wasn’t a real party,” Andrew chimed in. “Besides, I was fourteen.”

That was dirty pool and I reacted loudly, “You just turned fourteen. I’ll be fourteen in September, same as you were.”