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Whistler Writers’ Group short stories

The Good Son

In May 2002, Stella Harvey formed The Whistler Writers’ Group, affectionately known as The Vicious Circle, to support aspiring writers in the community. The group has been a raging success with over 40 members gathering each month to read, chat and critique each other’s work. The collective is also responsible for an on-going and incredibly successful series of public readings and workshops. This story is the fourth of eight short works of fiction that were presented at the Feb. 22-23 Literary Leanings event at Uli’s Flipside, part of Celebration 2010 Whistler Arts Showcase.

 

The Good Son

The boy trundled forward in cartwheel and landed, limbs akimbo, on the grass. Around him the green earth gave way to flower beds, bloomed and dotted, along the fence, against the side of the house. He tilted his head and watched a beetle, tiny and crawling, flicked at it with his finger. It was funny the way they couldn’t see things. The air was a white hot oven of heat and there was nothing better than to lay here on the grass. He’s a nomad, his father would laugh, in watch of his solitary son. Self contained, his mother would hasten to add, though never in front of him. Slender of thought and action.

The boy’s eyes slid up the side of the house, up to the kitchen window where his mother’s hand flailed now, almost shouting, like a bird trapped on the other side of the glass. His father’s shoulders walked past her, cut off by the curtains, and she followed him, walking quickly. "Go outside and play." His mother’s voice had been high and tight when she’d asked him, like the bow on a violin, and he looked up from his place on the floor, caught her eyes, red and puffed like the time at Aunties, and gathered his trucks, knew better than to argue.

His mother’s wrist shot past the window now, clean and slender, finger out and pointed, wedding ring glinted and flashed. His father was wearing the green tie, the one from the school bazaar, and it hung like a snake on his chest. The boy looked at the sky, waved his arms back and forth, like an angel, dug his toes into the plush cool of lawn. He wondered when they would be finished. He hated when they were like this, and always after there was too much silence in the house, and all the rooms felt empty.

The boy felt his stomach rumble and he looked back towards the kitchen window. It was lunchtime. He knew this because his father was home. His mother was crying openly now, he couldn’t hear her but he could see, her shoulders shaking softly, her chin tucked in against her chest. His father was staring out the window at something, and the boy rolled over on his stomach, waved from his place on the grass. "Papa?" he called cautiously, still waving. His father raised his head and the boy felt his eyes graze over him, refusing to catch.

The boy turned away now, back to the garden, hand fallen limply to his side. Tears, fat and squeezed, rolled out of him and slid down his cheeks. His father hated to see him cry. Only babies did that. He curled into a ball, wrapped his arms over his head, a warmth of sorts created in the folds. He didn’t know why he was crying and that was what made it scary. It was dark there and cool on the grass, the sun couldn’t get to him, and, though it felt hollow at first, like the arms of a barrel, he quieted after a time, even slept.

When he looked up again something had moved inside him, he was far away, and the day seemed brighter than before. He righted himself with hands numb and tingly, felt them pushed into the ground like a sponge. There were patterns from the grass crisscrossed on his arms, under his palms, and he studied these before raising his head. He felt something rise and tighten. He wasn’t supposed to leave the garden but now, head light filled and funny, he walked to the gate in the corner of the yard. He reached up and pulled at the twine that hung from the metal latching, felt the lock hook and give. The gate swung widely and he walked through it, without looking back.

The boy stood in the grooves of the wall, eyes on the beach front before him. It was past midday, yet the sun poured across everything, sparking on the boats swaying inward, over bodies that dotted the shoreline, arms flung across foreheads and towels, waves that rose in fold on the beach. The sky was wide and still, a cerulean blue that stretched and deepened past the breakers and, though the boy had seen many days like this, his skin long since tea colored under the relentless glare, he raised a hand to his forehead, in shade.

He was the captain of a schooner, like the men in stories, in watch of iceberg danger or of whales. Something was coming but he would save them, in the end. A fine crease surfaced between his eyes as he studied the waves. If you paid attention, you could see fish in the deeper waters. His father told him that. On this day, however, there was little to see and, after a moment, he let his hand fall as he clambered down from his perch, intent on newer diversions. He was the type of boy that rarely stood still long enough for anyone to get a good look at him and while still in the throes of early childhood, he had shed much of the girth that accompanies that stage and you could see already that he might make a fine athlete. The boy picked his way among the rocks and shells, ran his fingers along the stone wall, baked warm in the heat of the day and smooth under his palms. The sun was bright in his eyes as he pulled at weeds that sprouted along the beach cut and made his way across the sand.

Seagulls screed overhead, swooped and plunged for scraps long forgotten or discarded as he wandered down the shoreline, skipped back and forth with the tides, careful not to let the water touch him. He headed past the open space of the shoreline to where the beach fell away after a few feet, the water sharply darker. He lolled on the bridge of this earth, shuffled forward. The water skirted his fingers, waves rolled and bellied as he dangled, brought his face within inches of the surface. He watched his reflection lengthen and shorten, like the mirrors at the fair. It was different here than at the lake house, where you could see your face perfectly, like with glass.

The tips of his hair, wisped white now from his time in the sun, dipped in the water and darkened slightly, pale yellow, like ivory or like bone. A goldenrod darted past, a flash of movement, and he righted himself on the dune and stepped down. The water lapped and gathered, foamed past his ankles and slipped cool over his skin, like balm. A fish flecked behind his ankle, lithe and translucent, ducked back under his seat. He crouched over the water and waited.

The fish returned a moment later, swished back and forth, numb and amiable, and the boy made a grab, hand crashed. The taste of salt rose on his lips, in his mouth, as he brought his hand to the surface to inspect the catch. It was a minnow, not a goldenrod, brown and murky, slick with scales. The boy held the creature aloft, by the tail, watched it squirm and roil, eyes beady with disorientation. His father would be proud. He had never caught a fish before. He thought about putting the minnow in his pocket, to take home, then remembered where he was.

He stood quickly, seat soaked now from his perch in the water, and, without thinking, flung the minnow high into the air. It rose in an arc and dazzled brilliantly in the sunlight, before landing, with a slap, on the sand. Rivulets ran down his legs as the minnow flip flopped on the shore like a child in the midst of tantrum, and he watched frozen, as the creature labored and lessened, and the leaps came less often, over time. It almost looked like a twig now, or a piece of bark, muted and covered, and he turned away from it, toward the shoreline.

The sun had faded now behind seersucker clouds and he retreated from the beach, uncertain now in the death of the thing. A lone gull flew past the breakers as the boy trailed a stick in the sand, as bodies dispersed from the seashore, far behind him now, towels shaken and folded, lunch remnants gathered and packed. He walked up past the shallows, with the earth crusted and stiff, where the beach cut meandered into grass, up toward the hilly plateau where he kneed and pulled for leverage, pushed forward up the swell of land to where a roof protruded, stark and white against the heavy lidded sky.

The boy righted himself on the risen clearing, stood and took in the sight of the house. It was big and white, bigger than all of the neighbor’s houses, the biggest one on the entire block. His father said nothing but the best. "But I had to find the perfect wife before I could find the house that would keep her," he would boom, and his mother would quiet him and blush. His mother would tell the story of how they had met as though she were surprised, still, at how it had happened. She had been a flight attendant and he had flown into London, aide to an Arabic diplomat. He asked her out to dinner, boldly she’d thought at the time, but he was handsome and she was flattered. He flew in every weekend after that and, by the end of the year, they were married. She would always end the story with a girlish laugh and, in the way that all young boys love their mothers, it never failed to please him.

It was the thought of his father that hurried him now, in the last few steps toward the yard. He wanted to tell his father about the minnow. He would show it to him, he decided, but then he remembered about it and paused. The thought that he’d left the garden nibbled at him, unseen weight. His father would be mad. He felt sickness rise in him, thought of his father’s hands. They were huge maws, stemmed from wrists as thick as bark, palms like catchers’ mitts, fingers like branches, bristled hair. He had been spanked many times and although it hadn’t happened in a while, the sting long faded, he never forgot. It upset his father to have to do it but it was for his own good. So he would remember. Oftentimes, after a spanking, his father would return and hold the boy for hours. The boy disliked these moments after the spanking, the queer silence of them, uneasy now in the blanket of arms. He loved his father deeply, however, loved his smell of pipe tobacco and newspapers, the blue black of his beard and his hair.

He stepped into the yard, pulled the gate closed, took in the window empty of arms. It was over then. Maybe his father was still there. His father would arrive home each day, at noon, and after an hour return back to work. Often the boy would have already eaten and frequently he missed him all together, wandering the yard as he usually was. His pace quickened as he crossed the lawn. He reached the doorway and grabbed the brass handle, pulled downward. It surprised him with resistance and he stepped back at once, and puzzled. The door was never locked like this. It was the way he came and went. Always. He stood up on tiptoes and cupped his hands to the glass. The inside of the house seemed the same, the blue teapot, his toys on the floor. He stepped back on his heels and walked around the side of the house, trailing his hand against the smooth skin of the walls. The curtains his mother embroidered, pale green and yellow daisies, fluttered high above him as he passed.

The front door was ajar, and he slipped past, stepped into the hall. The house was silent around him, like in church when he wasn’t supposed to talk, and he moved to the kitchen to break the fast. The room was empty and he turned back towards the hall, passed the grandfather clock that chimed. One…two. His father would be back at work now. In the familiar cadence of the household, even the boy knew that. But where was Mommy? It was the slippers that he saw first, then the feet attached, sticking out from his father’s chair. He thought, in that moment that he had never seen feet like that before and he feared, for a second, that they may not be attached to anything at all.

He walked further into the room, around the side of the chair, moved thickly against the tides in his chest. His father came into view slowly, piece by piece, the long length of him unfolded, a glass of whisky on the armrest, hands like dead birds in his lap.

"Papa?" he said tremulously, afraid now. The boy knelt beside the chair as his father continued to stare, unblinking, fixated at a place on the wall. There was a letter on the floor, beside his chair. It was his mother’s creamy stationary and he wondered if it smelled like her. He felt nausea rise in his head. "Where’s Mama?" He looked up at his fathers face and waited, on the edge of a cliff. His father brought the glass of whisky to his lips and tilted back, amber fluid disappearing in bubbles down his throat. When he was finished, the glass back on the armrest, he looked down at the boy as if surprised to see someone else’s child on the floor of his home. "Your mother…" he began and trailed off weakly. "Your mother had to go away for a while." There was a high ringing in the boys head and he shut his eyes against the sting of sound.

His father called the neighbor, Mrs. Carmicheal and his voice sounded funny, like he had a cold. "Yes, she’s had to go to her sister’s. Yes everything’s fine, fine. Just a short visit, you know. Would you mind? I’ll probably be late. Thanks. Thanks." She came over to watch him, called him poor dear and made dinner for them both. He didn’t eat much, nothing tasted the same, or good, and she made the mushy peas all wrong. Mama was at Auntie’s. The boy pictured his mother there, her peach skirt and apron, her skirt’s swish as she walked between the rooms. Were they having roast beef tonight? His stomach hovered and tightened.

He had been there before, only once, although he didn’t remember much about that time, he had been very young, except that the apartment had smelled of ginger and tea and his mother had cried a lot. His Auntie had offered him an endless stream of cookies and let him play outside while she sat with his mother and they talked in voices that meant it was rude to listen in. Not much else had happened and, when he thought about the trip at all, he remembered, vaguely, of being bored.

His father had called one day and Auntie had answered the phone, "Oh. Hello." He’d heard the stillness in her voice and looked up from his trucks, mid collision, at his mother, took in the pressed lips and the teacup frozen halfway to her mouth. "No, she’s not here right now. I couldn’t say when she’d be back. Right then, I’ll tell her. Yes, I will. All right." He looked at his mother. Auntie was lying. Lying wasn’t allowed. She knelt beside him and smiled with her mouth, put her hand on his arm. "We’re not going to tell your father about this, okay honey? It’s alright, you’re Mama’s best boy. You know that, don’t you? You’re Mama’s best boy." He’d stared at her, impassive, hands pulling trucks across the floor. "Yes Mama." The red truck moved steadily across the parquet floor, ploughed through a firehouse and derailed a train as he swerved it around and came back for more.

They had not been back to his Auntie’s. His father had changed jobs after that, was home much more often. The boy noticed this because his father was always outside now, mowing and tending the garden. Oftentimes his mother would bring out lemonade in the tall glasses and they would stand together, quietly talk. They were like this for a time, his parents, and, in the evenings, the boy would watch keenly from his place on the floor. His father and mother would be in a world of their own, unaware of his absence, and it made him feel queasy, like falling backwards. One time he’d let fly one of his cars and it had crashed into his mother’s foot and cut her. She’d forgiven him, of course, though he could offer no explanation for his actions. The sight of her blood had terrified him and, in the end, it was he that had to be consoled.

The boy spent the next day at Mrs. Carmicheal’s house, still and quiet, empty of sun. His father dropped him off that morning, nodded silently to him. He had to be a big boy now. He had to be good. Mrs. Carmicheal had greeted him, full of cooing sounds, like a pigeon, tried to feed him, he was all bones, the poor thing. He spent the day on the floor with his trucks, though they didn’t hold him. He was full and hollow, like a balloon. Mrs. Camicheal trilled and fluttered, would he like to read a book, some Readers Digest? But of course he was too young yet for that, wasn’t he? Could she read to him? No, thank you. No thank you.

In the early part of the afternoon he crept silently from his place on the floor. Mrs. Carmicheal sat nearby in her armchair, head tipped back, mouth open and wheezing softly through a place in her nose. She had nodded off as soon as her show came on, and the telly mumbled mildly before her. Grown ups were funny. He made his way outside, through the yard and past the fences, down three houses, back to his own. He stood outside the house for a moment, trying to detect signs of her absence. There was nothing to tell him, though, because she was rarely outside and didn’t have a car. By the time he reached the front door he made promises about cleaning up his toys and being a good boy and, as he reached up for the door handle, his heart thudded clearly in his throat. He opened the door slowly, took in the vacuum of silence and tilted his head forward for sound. Maybe she was sleeping. Maybe she was upstairs. He walked into the hall, moved through the rooms of the house in a maze of fear, unable to call for her, able only to see that she was gone. A high note rang in his head and the tears came and he hated her in that moment, the feeling clean and sharp as a blade.

His father came home that evening, unusually early for him, and woke the boy from grief’s thick exhaustion. He was under their bed, where he used to build forts. It was safer there, cramped and dark. He heard his father’s footsteps coming up the stairs, his pace quickened, as he searched the rooms of the house. The boy pictured him unraveling like a sweater, until nothing was left of him but a heap of wool on the floor. He listened dully to his father’s voice rise and crack, although he still did not answer. The boy was far away now, didn’t know how to return.

His father found him after two more panicked rounds of the house, stuffed under the bed frame, eyes puffy and raw, nose chapped with snot, and pulled him out in a spasm of relief. "I thought you’d left me. Oh God, I thought you’d both left me." He held his son to him, weeping in earnest, as Gary kept his eyes on the wall. It was as if something inside of him had broken, and he couldn’t feel anything after all. He was numb and it was senseless. He was wide open.

Lara Bozabalian has worked as a forest fire fighter, kindergarten teacher, bartender and dishwasher and her work has appeared in The Pique, CRUMBS literary journal and the Literary Leaning anthologies. She lives and writes in Whistler, B.C.