Chapter 10
During the week, I must confess, Rube and I were up to old tricks. Again. We couldn’t help ourselves. Robberies were out. One Punch. Out.
So what the hell else was there for us to do? The d
ecision I came to was backyard soccer, or football, or whatever you please to call it. For starters, we had to.
We did.
I promise.
Maybe I asked Rube if he wanted to get into it because he was still so miserable about the whole street-sign debacle. Admittedly, it was demoralizing, to actually succeed and then find a way to make yourself fail again. It hurt more than Rube could relate. He just sat there every afternoon and rubbed his gruff jawline with an ominous, melancholic hand. His hair was dirty as ever, strewn over his ears and biting at his back.
“C’mon,” I tried to get him in.
“Nuh.”
It was often like this. Me, being the younger brother, I had always wanted Rube to do things, whether it was a game of Monopoly or a ball game in the backy Rube, the older brother, well he was the judge and jury. If he didn’t feel like doing it, we didn’t do it. Maybe that’s why I was always so willing to go on his robbery missions — simply because he actually wanted me to come along. We’d given up on doing things with Steve years ago.
“C’mon,” I kept trying. “I’ve got the ball pumped up, and the goals are ready. Come have a look. They’re chalked onto the fence at both ends.”
“The same size?”
“Two meters wide, nearly one and a half high.”
“Good, good.”
He looked up and gave a slight smile, for the first time in days.
“We on?” I asked again, with far too much eagerness. “Okay.”
We went outside then and it was lovely. Absolutely lovely.
Rube fell to the cement and got up. Twice. He swore his head off at me when I scored, and it was getting serious. An out-of-control shot at goal went flying to the top of the fence, we held our breath, then let it out when it hit the edge and came back. We even smiled at each other.
It was brilliant mainly because Rube had been down and out with his own form of identity crisis while I was in my typical agony over the whole Rebecca Conlon affair. This was much better. Yes. It was, because all of a sudden we were back to doing the things we did best — throwing ourselves and each other around the backyard and getting dirty and making sure to swear and carry on and, if possible, offend the neighbors. This was better all right. This was a welcome return to the good old days.
The ball thumped into the fence, making next-door’s dog bark and the caged parrots over there go wild. I copped a whack in the shins. Rube fell on the concrete again, taking some skin off his hand when he braced himself for the landing. All the while that dog next door kept barking and those parrots were in some kind of frenzy. It was old times all right, and typically, Rube won, 7–6. I didn’t care, though, because both of us ended up laughing and not taking things so seriously.
What greeted us on the back step was, however, something very different. It was Sarah, alone.
First to notice her was Rube. He backhanded me lightly on the arm and motioned over to her with his head.
I looked.
I said very quietly, “Oh, no.”
Sarah looked up then because she must have heard me, and I promise you, the way she looked was bad. She was sitting there, all crumpled up, with her knees up to her shoulders and her arms folded, holding them up as if to keep all air inside her. Tears cut down her face.
Awkward.
That’s exactly how it was when we walked over to our sister and stood on each side of her, looking at her and feeling things and not knowing
Eventually, I sat down next to her but I had no idea what to say.
In the end, it was Sarah who broke the silence. The dog next door had settled down, and the neighborhood seemed stunned by this event occurring in our backyard. It was like it could sense it. It could sense some form of tragedy and helplessness being played out, and to tell you the truth, it all surprised me. I was so used to things just going on, oblivious and ignorant to all feeling.
Sarah spoke.
She spoke. “He got someone else.”
“Bruce?” I asked, to which Rube looked down at me with an incredulous face on him.
“No,” he barked, “the king of bloody Sweden. Who do y’ think?”
“Okay, all right!”
Then Sarah leaned away and said, “I think you’d better leave me alone for a while.”
“Okay.”
As I stood up and left with Rube, the city around us seemed colder than ever again, and I realized that even if it really had sensed something going on, it certainly didn’t care. It moved forward again. I could feel it. I could almost hear it laugh and taste it. Close. Watching.
Mocking. And it was cold, so cold, as it watched my sister bleeding at the back of our house.
Inside, Rube was angry.
He said, “Now, you see? This spoils things.”
“It was always gonna happen.” As I said it, I saw Steve’s figure out on the front porch. Away from us.
“Yeah, but why today?”
“Why not?”
From the couch, I looked at an old photo of Steve, Sarah, Rube, and me as very young children, standing in staggered formation for some photographer man. Steve smiled. Sarah smiled. We all did. It was strange to see it, because it was there every day and only now was I really noticing it. Steve’s smile. It cared — for us. Sarah’s smile. It was beautiful. Rube and I looked clean. All four of us were young and undaunted and our smiles were so strong that it made me smile even then on the couch, with a kind of loss.
Where did that go? I asked inside me. I couldn’t even remember the photo being taken. Was it actually real?
At that moment, Sarah was on our back step, crying, and Rube and I were slumped on the couch, powerless to help her. Steve didn’t seem to care, for any of us.
Where did it go? I thought again. How could that picture turn into this one?
Had years defeated us?
Had they worn us down?
Had they passed like big white clouds, disintegrating very slowly so that we couldn’t notice?
In any case, this was pretty awful, and it was to worsen.
It worsened during the night when Sarah went out and didn’t come back for hours.
She left with the words “I’m goin’ out for a walk,” and a lot of time passed while she was gone. The rest of us acted indifferent to it at first, but by just after eleven, we were all worried. Even Steve seemed a bit affected.
“C’mon,” our father told us. “We’re goin’ out lookin’.”
No one argued.
Rube and I went out in the panel van with Dad while Mum and Steve stayed home in case Sarah showed up while we were gone. We checked the pubs and all her friends’ places. Even Bruce’s place. Empty. She was nowhere.
By midnight, when we got home, she still wasn’t back, and all we could do now was wait.
We each did it differently.
Mum sat, silent, not looking at anyone.
Dad made coffee after coffee and drank them down like there was no tomorrow.
Steve put a heat pack on and off his ankle and kept it elevated, determined.
Rube mumbled something very quietly, at least five hundred times: “I’m gonna kill that bastard. I’m gonna kill that bastard. I’m gonna get that Bruce Patterson. I’m gonna kill that … I’m gonna. I’m gonna …”
As for me, I ground my teeth together a bit and leaned forward with my chin resting on the table.
Only Rube went to bed. The rest of us stayed.
“No sign?” Mum asked when she woke up at one o’clock.
“No.” Dad shook his head, and quite soon, we were all falling asleep, under a white, aching kitchen light globe.
Later on, a dream was arriving.
Interruption.
“Cam?”
“Cam?”
I was shaken awake. I jumped. “Sarah?” “Nah, me.” It was Rube. “Ah, bloody you!”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “She’s still not here?” “No. Unless she walked straight past us to bed.” “Nah, she’s not in there.”
That was when we noticed something else — now Steve was gone as well. I checked the basement
“Nup.” I looked back up at Rube. So now just the two of us went out on the porch, then out on the street. Where the hell was he?
“Wait.” Rube turned around, looking down the road. “There he is.”
We saw our brother sitting, propped up against a telegraph pole. We ran down to him. We stopped. Rube asked, “What’s goin’ on?”
Steve looked up, and I had never seen him afraid like that, or as knotted up. He looked so lanky, and still like a man; he had always seemed to be a man. Always … but never like this. Not a vulnerable one.
His crutches were two dead arms, lying there, wooden, next to him.
Slowly, meltingly, our brother said, “I guess.” He stopped. Started again. “I just wanted to find her.”
We said nothing, but I think when we helped Steve up and helped him walk home, he must have seen what the lives of Rube, Sarah, and me were like. He’d seen what it was to fall down and not know if you could get back up, and it scared him. It scared him because we did get up. We always did. We always.
We took him home.
We —
From there, we all waited in the kitchen again, but only Rube and I were awake. At one point, he whispered something to me. The same thing as before.
He went, “Ay, Cam. We’re gonna get that Patterson bloke.” He sounded so sure of it. “We’ll get him.”
I was too tired to say anything but “We will.”
Pretty soon, Rube was asleep, like Mum, Dad, and Steve. It didn’t take long for my own eyes to feel like cement and I went as well.
All of us, asleep in the kitchen. I dreamed. It’s coming up. Not a bad one.
When I woke up again, there was an extra person now, sleeping like the rest of us, at the crowded kitchen table.
I’m standing in an empty goal. The stadium is packed. Perhaps 120,000 people have their eyes glued to me. They chant.
“Wolf Man! Wolf Man!”
I look around the entire stadium, at all the people willing me on, and I love them, even though they are complete strangers to me. I think they’re South Americans or something. Brazilians or something. Maybe Argentinians.
“I won’t let you down,” I whisper to them, knowing they couldn’t hear me even if I screamed to them.
In front of me, there is a line of people, all in the opposition’s colors.
They are the people from my story:
Dad, Rube, Mum, Steve, Sarah, Bruce, Bruce’s faceless new girlfriend, Greg, the dental nurse, the dentist, Dennison the principal, Welfare Woman, Rube’s mates, and Rebecca Conlon.
I’m wearing all the stuff the goalkeeper has to wear: boots, socks pulled up, a green jersey with a diamond pattern on the front, and gloves. It’s night and the black air is busted through by huge lights standing like watchtowers, over all of us.
I’m ready.
I slap my hands together and crouch, ready to dive either way for the ball. The goal behind me feels kilometers wide and kilometers deep. The net is a loose cage, swaying and whispering in the breeze.
Dad steps up, places the ball, calls out that this is some kind of cup final penalty shootout, and that everything depends on me. He walks back, props, and runs and drills the ball to my right. I dive but the ball is way out of reach. He looks at me after the ball flies into the corner of the net, and he smiles, as if to say, “Sorry, boy. I had to.”
Mum steps up. Then Rube. They both score, Rube with a callous smile. He says, “You’ve got no hope, sunshine.”
The crowd through all of this is always buzzing, like static in my ear. When I am beaten and the ball scores, they roar and then sigh, because they are on my side. They want me to save one because they know how hard I’m fighting. They see my small arms and the will on my lips, and they cannot hear, but feel the smacking of my hands when I ready myself for each penalty kick. They still chant.
My name.
My name.
Yet, no matter how hard I try, I can’t save a single goal.
A miserable Sarah even gets through me. Before her shot, she says, “Don’t try to help me. It’s pointless. All is out of your control.”
Steve goes, and Bruce. Rube’s mates. Everyone.
Then Rebecca Conlon steps up.
She walks toward me.
Slowly.
Smiling.
She says: “If you save it, I’ll love you.”
I nod, solemnly, ready.
She goes back, comes in, kicks the ball.
It’s up high and I lose it in the lights. I find it and dive, high to the right, and somehow, when the ball hits my wrist, it comes back and hits me hard in the face.
I come down with it.
It pops out when I land and it ro, so slowly, over the line and into the back of the net.
Oh, I dive for it, but it’s no use. I fall short — and quickly, I’m alone, not in the stadium but in our sun-drenched backyard, sitting against the fence with a bloodied nose.