“Oh, don't encourage him, Debbie,” Father said. “Richard, you will not light fires anymore and you definitely won't attempt suicide.” Father struck up his disciplinarian tone, the one that ended conversations before they began.
“We can come back to this,” Dr. Sloane said. “When the heat of the moment dies and rational minds preside. We need one minute to realign. Everyone, connect and reflect.”
We held hands. A “Connect and Reflect” was like a time out for bad children. It was a metaphorical being sent to the corner to “think about what you have done.”
What did I think about for one whole minute, there, alone in my brain, with no distractions? Dr. Sloane's and Mother's hands in mine became sweatier by the second.
A minute can be a long time. Is it possible to stop thinking? Even for one minute? I don't think the brain relinquishes that much control. Mine never did. It was the one in charge.
What do you think about for an entire minute?
At thirteen, I was beginning to realize that my parents didn't have all the answers. In fact, they had very little clue about a lot of things. That's unfair though, unfair because they couldn't defend themselves there in my brain. Honestly, I couldn't blame my parents for whom I grew up to be. They couldn't blame Grandma and Grandpa, so why should I get the privilege? They were easy targets, they were right here and becoming painfully more human in my eyes every day.
Nothing was their fault. Blaming them was an easy out, actually, it was worse than that. It was selfish. It was irresponsible. People who say their parents are to blame don't take responsibility for their own situation. Parents, including those currently connecting and reflecting there in the arena, try their best. They want the best for their sons and daughters. They become boundless martyrs because, sooner or later, the subject of their affection rebels and bites back. It takes a hero's heart to carry on day after day. They were selfless in the pursuit of that at which they would ultimately fail. They were stoic. They work with monomaniacal fervour.
Â
I couldn't blame my parents for anything. That would be low and cowardly on my part.
The air conditioner came on with a low-level hum that seemed louder than before.
“Hey, Richard,” Father broke the silence. “You can relax now. The universe came back on.”
ICD F91.0:
Conduct disorder confined to the family context.
ICD Z61.3:
Events resulting in loss of self-esteem in childhood.
I could go on.
“Jack. We haven't reached one minute yet,” Dr. Sloane said.
“Please don't disrespect this time in the circle,” Mother said.
“We will start again. Now,” Dr. Sloane let out a deep sigh, “connect and reflect.”
No, I can't blame my parents, but I can look to them for answers on how I turned out. Not blame, just an explanation of sorts. It is kind of like adopted kids wanting to meet their biological parents to learn about their medical history. Clinically, it is a good idea to examine the mother-father-offspring relationship. You can find out if there is a family history of, say, obesity or cancer. Perhaps diabetes, alcoholism or heart disease runs in the genes. Sometimes you can even catch a glimpse for the genetic predisposition to inappropriateness, chronic social retardation or even one of these comorbidly enhanced by monomaniacal ABBAness.
ICD F28.0:
Other non-organic psychotic disorder.
The brilliant thing about all of these: they were all diseases. As Mother once said, “Sickness can be cured.”
CHAPTER 7
Alien Sex Light from Ten Thousand Years Ago
I swatted a mosquito on my neck and smiled. The sky was a deep, after-sunset blue and a jagged line of black spruce trees marked where the land started. The lake we looked across was as smooth as glass and was slowly fading into the warm darkness.
Leonard poked at the fire with a long stick, sending hundreds of glowing embers weaving into the shimmering air above it. At a height, one by one, they winked into nothingness.
“Someone will see the fire if you make it too big,” Paige Green said. Paige was fifteen, like me. She was slightly on the husky side, unlike me.
“It's okay,” Leonard said, looking across the fire at Paige's companion, seventeen-year-old Mary Koshushner, one of the “Max girls.” Back at camp, Paige and I were known as Saplings, which the Juvenile Growth and Climax Forest campers shortened to Saps. They were Juvies and Maxes respectively.
Leonard smiled and stared at Mary, his eyes half-lidded and his teeth showing.
The fire popped, sending a few more sparks upward.
Â
Leonard continued, “The bush is too thick here and camp is at the other end of the lake. Anyway, I really need to see you,” he said specifically to Mary.
Mary smiled and her gaze dropped to the flames.
Leonard told me they had sex last year at camp, when they had both been Juvies. He told me Mary squealed and wriggled a lot, which woke up the rest of the Juvies in the dorm. She had been so embarrassed, Leonard told me proudly.
“A year is too long not to see you,” Leonard continued, poking rhythmically at the fire with the stick but with his eyes locked on Mary.
I glanced at Paige awkwardly. She grinned at me. I fidgeted with my hands in my lap, wondering if she got a report from Mary like I had from Leonard.
“Someone tell a scary story,” Paige commanded in an effort to break the awkward privacy that Leonard and Mary felt they had in the presence of a couple of Saps.
I had had that uneasy feeling before. I was watching a nature documentary with Mother and Father in the living room, that one where a lion mounts a lioness and they show all the thrusting, growling and biting for a couple of minutes. I couldn't switch the channel because I wanted to feel adult enough not to seem like I cared. I wanted to switch the channel because watching another species have sex, no, secretly wanting to watch another species have sex was awkward while my parents were in the room. The kind of awkward that happened around that fire.
“I have a scary story,” I said.
Leonard glanced at Mary and directed a slight jerk of his head into the darkness.
Mary smiled and said, “Okay Richard, let's have it.” She turned a patient gaze toward me, like a babysitter entertaining a child.
Paige shifted the log she was sitting on closer to mine, sliding it jerkily across the ground, pushing up a small mound of pine needles and dirt in its path.
“The title of this tale is Razor and His Blades of Doom,” I said slowly, trying to add a sense of foreboding to the words.
Leonard's gaze snapped from Mary to me. His face seemed to blanch in the flickering orange glow. His smile disappeared.
“I don't think that story needs to be told,” he said.
The fire crackled.
I looked down at the ground.
There was a pause before Mary asked, “Why?”
“It's just not right,” Leonard said. “Let's go.”
He stood and held out a hand to Mary. She hesitated before standing and taking it. They faded from the firelight, bushes rustling and twigs snapping with their passing. Paige and I sat in silence as their noise faded from our ears. We watched the fire for a few minutes before we heard a splash and some giggling from the direction of the lake. A few more minutes and there was some distant squealing.
“What's wrong with Leonard?” Paige asked. She punctured a marshmallow with a stick and held it over the fire.
“It's a true story. I guess he doesn't want to hear it.”
“I still want to hear it,” Paige said, reaching over and touching my arm.
I felt as though she delivered an electric shock with her bare skin on mine. I shifted a little and looked at her. She was smiling, her chubby cheeks bunched up and her eyes were the same as Leonard's were when he looked at Mary. My body tingled and my pulse wavered like the firelight.
Wanting. That was a good word for Paige's look and my feeling.
Horny was another.
“Razor and His Blades of Doom,” I said again, slowly.
Paige smiled, peeled a gooey marshmallow from a stick and popped it in her mouth.
The heat from the fire seemed to grow hotter against the side of my face as I watched Paige lick her plump fingers.
“It was not a day the boys thought would end in death. It was not the type of day that anything terrifying should have happened. It was sunny on the fairgrounds, hot. People screamed on the rides outside but, inside the tent, the boys stood in a crowd, bodies pressed together in the dark. The air was damp. People were crowded like cattle,” I said.
Paige watched me speak.
Â
The fire popped.
“The lights came up onstage, blinding because it was so dark before. For the first few minutes, the boys had purple spots in front of their eyes, like after you glance at the sun. When their vision finally cleared, the boys saw a beautiful woman wearing a skin-tight suit. She was tied to a wooden wheel that stood upright and spun around slowly at one end of the stage. Her hair flowed like water as she spun. The wheel was as big as she was, with thick spokes. Her arms and legs and waist were bound by leather straps; her body made an
X
on the wheel. A man was on the stage too, standing at the opposite end next to a table. He was big and tall and dressed in flowing red material. There was some shuffling and murmuring in the crowd. It was so crowded. The boys were shoved around.
“The man smiled and lifted big knives from the table, one by one. His smile was horrible, his teeth glinted like the ugly, serrated knives in the stage light. Horrible.”
The fire snapped; a shower of sparks corkscrewed into the night. I felt its heat and the blackness closed in around me like it had in that tent. I remembered the adult bodies pressing against me, jostling me one way and then the next. I'd looked for Leonard but we had been separated.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Razor boomed from the stage. His voice drowned out all other noise, adding to the claustrophobia. “Each of these blades is solid steel.” He tapped two blades together. The clang made me start. “Each of these blades has been sharpened to a razor's edge.” Razor stabbed the table with one knife. The blade penetrated the wood effortlessly, poking through the underside of the table. With his free hand, he drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and threw it into the air. As it twisted back to the ground, he sliced it, mid-air, with two quick motions. The handkerchief landed in three pieces on the stage.
“Each of these blades is real. The danger here is real. My lovely assistant, immobilized on that spinning wheel, will face Razor's Blades of Doom.”
With a flourish he gestured to the woman. A knife flew from his hand with the motion. The blade spun through the air and sank into a wooden spoke in the crook of space beneath the woman's armpit.
Someone in the audience gasped.
Someone in the audience screamed.
Razor responded with a wicked smile.
The crowd shifted and I pushed back at the bodies between me and the stage.
“My lovely assistant does not fear death,” Razor said, picking up a second knife from the table. Addressing the crowd, he continued, “She has faced this fear beforeâshe is prepared to face this.” He held up the knife. “The blade is only as thick as a fingernail and the edge is thinner than a hair.”
The woman spun slowly upside down. I noticed how her body responded to the altered gravity. Her hair spilled toward the floor. The flesh of her face shifted slightly. Her breasts and stomach shifted slightly.
“My lovely assistant knows that with every throw, her life could end. With every throw, she is prepared. This is my lovely assistant,” Razor raised an arm toward the spinning woman, “my lovely assistant and my wife, Anastasia. A round of applause, please.”
Clapping erupted from the crowd. A few cheers and whistles pierced the air.
Razor threw the blade. It spun end over end, glinting in the light with each rotation, a strobe light of doom.
The applause continued.
Hungry eyes watched the blade fly. Hands pounded together. A cheer went up at the sound of the knife driving into wood, near the woman's inner thigh.
Â
Anastasia's face went taut. Her brow furrowed. Her eyes popped wide open. Her beautiful red lips puckered in surprise.
The applause continued.
The inside of Anastasia's thigh turned liquid red as she spun sideways, flowing across the wood, making it black, cascading onto the stage.
Razor ran, yelling across the stage. The noise he made was not a word. It wasn't fear. It wasn't human. It was the sound of grief from deep within his body.
The femoral artery runs on the inside of the thigh, at the crook where the hip ends and the leg begins. It is under two and a half pounds of pressure per square inch and can bleed a body of its blood in less than four minutes. Under the right circumstances it can spray blood several metres.