One morning Johnny calls and tells Loraine that Chris punched a hole into his tongue. Johnny does not mean to say this, it is not the purpose of the call, but it slips out.
“A hole? What do you mean?” Loraine asks.
“Pierced. He pierced his tongue. You know, kids are into noses, navels, and so on. Well, Chris did his tongue.”
“Like a hole right through?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“He was showing some other kid at the centre. And there it was, a stud, right through the middle.”
Loraine laughs. She doesn’t want to, but she does. “Unbelievable.”
“Don’t tell him I told you,” Johnny says.
“Sure, no problem, you’ll just stay out of my life. Why’d you tell me? Do you think I want to know these things?”
“Yes. In the end, you do.”
Loraine has to sit down.
“Actually, I’m calling about his trial,” Johnny says. “Are you going?”
“I guess.”
“I’ll take him if you like.”
“He’d let you?”
“He said so.”
Loraine can’t believe this, how her son has latched on to Johnny, a man he doesn’t really care for. All his hatred is aimed at her. “Well,” she says, “if he’d rather go with you, fine.”
“Hey, it was his idea. I’m not stealing him from you.”
“No?” It’s quiet, and then Loraine says, “Haven’t seen you, Johnny.”
Johnny is slow to respond. He coughs softly and says that Charlene needs him. He’s torn, but he’s got to make some decisions. “It’s a moral thing,” he says.
“A what?”
“Moral. You know, duty.”
“Oh, I see. I get it.”
That evening, at supper, Loraine watches Chris eat. She looks for flashes from his mouth but there’s no sign of gold. He eats quietly. Loraine attempts to engage him. “You going into town tonight?”
“Uh huh,” he says.
“How?”
“With Walker.”
“Seeing someone?”
“Some kids.”
“You still see Melody?”
“Yup.”
“Does she hang out at the centre?”
“Some.”
“Johnny called. He asked about your court appearance. The thing is, do you want me to go or Johnny?”
“Johnny.”
Loraine’s poking at some cauliflower on her plate. It crumbles and falls away. She can see that Chris is embarrassed. He doesn’t want his mother to see him in court. She accepts this and says, “Is Melody going the same day?”
“Yeah.”
“And Roger?”
“A different time.”
“Do you still see Roger?”
“Not much. He’s a jerk. What is this?” Chris pushes back from the table.
Loraine watches the tendons move on his hands. She remembers when he was two, she’d circle his wrist with her fingers and feel his narrow bone there and marvel at how frail he was. She hates the sound of her voice now, whiny, wheedling, as she says, “Before you leave you’ve got eggs to gather.”
Chris turns and looks at his mother, distaste for this life forcing his mouth open and revealing his tongue, almost oversized, Loraine thinks, and she sees for an instant the tiny red spot at the centre of that fleshy organ, and then the mouth shuts and Chris is gone.
The day of the court appearance, Johnny picks up Chris at nine in the morning and Loraine manages to kiss her son on the cheek before he leaves. Johnny stands in the doorway, his head bent a little, hands sticking into the pockets of his jacket. Chris is already in the car. Loraine keeps her distance and lays her hands across her belly. “Thanks,” she says.
“For what?” Johnny says.
“For doing this.”
“Achhh.” He waves his hand and dismisses her.
“He’s so angry,” Loraine says. Her body’s twitching being so close to Johnny. This happens when he’s around, excitement rises from her stomach up to her throat and then trickles around in her back. She lifts her nose. When he’s gone, raising a hand, obviously wanting to kiss her but knowing she won’t let him, Loraine folds laundry and thinks that she’s lonely. She has no one she could call a friend. Except maybe Helen but Helen hangs out with the book club group and it’s a collection of women Loraine doesn’t feel comfortable with. They’re sassy, she thinks. They all live in town; they either work at good jobs or don’t have to work. Charlene wouldn’t have to work at her job. Johnny’s got lots of money. All those women read too and Loraine doesn’t have time to read. She takes care of chickens. That’s what she does. Sometimes she dreams she’s at the bottom of a large tube and chicken feathers are floating down the tube and landing on her. At first it’s soft and cozy but the tube is high and the feathers keep coming and finally the load becomes unbearable and Loraine wakes up gasping for air.
She’d like to move. Sell the farm and go to Winnipeg, get a job there, but she doesn’t know what she’d do. She never finished university; Jim plucked her out of school and moved her onto this farm and then died and she was left with an eight-year-old and twenty thousand birds.
Loraine finds herself in Chris’s room, on his bed. She clutches his folded socks and thinks about how good it would be to take her son by his cheeks and hold him, face him, and talk, talk, talk. She wants to crack open his head, lick the ugliness out of the cracks and crevices of his
brain. She wants him to be excited for this baby, to come with her and select a crib, to help name the baby.
Smother, smother.
Then she lies back on his bed and does something dark; opens his drawing book and pages through it. Inside are sketches and caricatures and little bits of writing. There’s a note to someone, Melody maybe, that never got finished, but it begins:
Dear M, Huh-Huh Cool, was hoping to do some with you, ruby lips that kicked ass. It ruled. It ruled.
Beneath this is the word
Nirvana
in scrolled handwriting. Loraine sits up and puts a tape in Chris’s player. She listens and dawdles. She tries to dance to one song but can’t feel the beat.
She turns off the music and picks up the book again. She feels nervous and excited, like having Johnny on a Sunday afternoon, expecting Chris to bang through the door at any moment. Chris has drawn a picture of her. She recognizes her own arms and legs. She’s standing in the garden, leaning on a hoe, and she’s looking off somewhere as if something important were taking place far far away. For some reason Loraine is pleased looking at this drawing. It is flattering, even though it was done last summer, before Chris became angry and ridiculous.
On the last page there is a letter to Melody.
Dear Melody, Hey was thinking be nice to unzip you, or you me, and we could put our fingers where we shouldn’t. Maybe fuck, too. Sure, fuck. I like the way your tongue feels, cool little bumps that match my bumps. You can do what you want. You want?
There is more and Loraine reads the whole thing and wishes she hadn’t. Then she reads it again. Loraine finds herself turning red because the language is both childish and daring. The only thing that relieves Loraine is the sense she has that the letter was never meant to be sent. Or read. She is amused at one point, though. It’s a quote from a TV show. She reads it.
Come to Butt-head,
Come a little closer.
I just want to feel every part
of me, touching every part of
you. Especially the thingys.
She laughs.
Loraine cooks pasta and salad for supper and she makes fresh bread, planning to invite Johnny to stay. When Johnny and Chris return, around four-thirty, Loraine is walking from the house to the barn. Chris looks so small beyond the windshield; the glass warps him, he’s out of proportion, not her son at all. The car stops and Chris flies towards the house, not acknowledging his mother. Loraine leans into the car, rests her arms on the door and says, “So?”
Johnny lights a cigarette and lifts his shoulders. “Okay. Forty hours of community service. Here in Lesser.”
“That’s all?”
“What did you want, prison?”
“In a way, yes. I’m happy, really. But he’ll never learn.”
“I asked the judge if I could use him at the centre. No problem.”
“Ah, Johnny. He’ll never do it. He’ll shirk.”
“He’ll do it. We have to report back. It’s good, I’ve got this bathroom I want redone. He can do the bull work.” Johnny reaches up and touches Loraine’s face. “Your skin is perfect, tighter.”
Loraine doesn’t move, just lets him touch. “Do you want some supper? It’s made.”
“No. Chris is sick of me. I shouldn’t.” He kisses her then, on the cheek, as if she were his daughter and not the mother of his baby. Loraine is toying with this vision of domestic bliss, of Johnny joining the family and them all sitting down to an evening meal and Johnny reaching out to cup Loraine’s belly. She wants him, reaches down and puts a hand at his crotch. She’s wearing gloves so the effect is comically surgical. Johnny doesn’t seem to notice.
His voice low, he asks, “How’s the baby?”
“Good,” Loraine says. She stoops and lays her mouth on Johnny’s neck. “I’ve stopped puking and she’s moving.”
“I think about you,” Johnny says.
“Good.” And then Loraine, imagining Chris watching from the house, pulls out of the car. Her waist is cold where her parka lifted. “How ’bout Melody?”
“Ten hours.”
“And Roger?”
“His was moved back. Next month. That boy’s clearly bad. Chris should stay away from him.”
“He will.”
After, when Johnny is driving away, Loraine watches his car and thinks how considerate he is these days, unusually kind and fair, as if his life were brimming with hope and happiness and he was doling out the excess to people surrounding him. When Johnny’s like this Loraine doesn’t mind as much him going back to Charlene. She just has to wait. It’s a nasty fact, but Loraine knows that when it comes to Johnny choosing, he’ll pick her over Charlene. He will.
On Friday night Loraine drives Chris and Melody to Winnipeg and drops them off at DJ’S Roller City. Melody sits in front with Loraine and Chris is in back. Melody wears braces and when she talks her
s
’s slide around. It’s dark in the car and Loraine can smell the girl beside her, it’s as if she’s sprinkled baby powder on her shoulders. Loraine carries the conversation, asking about the Christmas concert, the school teams, the teachers. Melody likes to talk, Chris is silent. At one point he leans into the front, his head close to Loraine’s shoulder, and he runs a hand along the back of Melody’s hair. Loraine pretends not to notice and turns on the radio. She only has AM so must do with country or classic rock.
“That’s lousy,” Chris says.
Loraine turns the radio off. She says, turning to Melody, “Did Chris tell you I’m pregnant?”
“Aw, Mom, give it a break,” Chris’s voice complains out of the darkness.
Loraine continues, ignoring her son, “I don’t know about you but I think it’s better to talk than to pretend or go ’round with your eyes closed. I’m pregnant. It’s a fact. Maybe it’s not a great situation, but there it is.”
“Hey, I think it’s neat, Mrs. Wallace. When are you due?” Melody’s voice cajoles, slippery, full of saliva. An undertow there. Things are deeper than they seem.
“In five months,” Loraine answers. “The baby’s about this big.” And she holds up a thumb and forefinger showing the size of the fetus. “Like a good-sized frog.”
Melody laughs. Chris groans.
“Tell her what your mom said, Melody,” Chris says.
“Chris. Don’t.” Melody turns in her seat and glares.
“Oh, it’s okay,” Loraine says. “People talk. But I don’t worry. It’s my baby.” She pats her stomach instinctively and looks across at Melody who has her boots off and is resting her feet on the dash. Melody smiles; a flash of metal. Loraine feels affection for her.
She leaves Chris and Melody at the door to DJ’S and drives to The Bay and shops till nine o’clock. Then she eats something at a nearby restaurant. She risks a glass of wine. It’s been so long since she’s pampered herself. The dining room is almost empty but Loraine doesn’t mind. She sits and looks out the window onto Portage Avenue. It’s a busy intersection so there’s lots of foot and vehicle traffic. After the farm it’s like a movie. People are just so fine here, everything in place, slick. Loraine feels frumpy.
Back at DJ’S it’s fairly dark inside, only a big glass ball turning in the middle of the rink, so her frumpiness doesn’t really matter. She stands at the edge of the rink and stares out into the centre looking for Chris and Melody. They’re at the far end, coming around slowly, holding hands. Chris is talking. Melody smiles and punches at him, her thin arms flashing out and then back. Loraine sees that the girl is both exciting
and dangerous; she’s not that innocent. Her body is a piano wire being stretched. Loraine knows the feeling. She doesn’t know though if her son can handle all this. She thinks that Chris is about to get hurt.
There are a lot of native girls skating. They all seem to be wearing red pants and white T-shirts and their hair is black and wavy as if they’d all gotten perms at the same place. Most are thin but there’s a chubby one who can’t quite keep up. Chris and Melody drift by again, this time Chris is skating backwards and his tongue hangs out. Loraine can see a flash of gold, then his mouth claps shut. Finally, Melody spots Loraine and pulls Chris over. Melody jabbers while Chris lingers behind her.
“Wanna skate, Mrs. Wallace? It’s easy.”
“No, thanks.”
Up close like this, leaning into Melody, Loraine is aware that the girl is stoned. Her eyes, even in this dim light, are swimming. She’s too happy; holds on to Loraine’s hands. Chris, Loraine supposes, is in the same state. Not knowing if she wants to deal with this, she lets them keep skating and seats herself at a small table and drinks coffee. She thinks about a girl like Melody, her father the pastor of a Mennonite church, and how likely she is, how necessary her actions seem. Johnny, more familiar with the underbelly of a stringent religion, has told Loraine that pastors’ kids inevitably go wild. They are programmed to either kill themselves or do heavy damage. Johnny speaks from personal experience; though his father wasn’t a pastor, he was a strict, fanatical man, eventually driving Johnny to his own extremes.