Black Rabbit and Other Stories (23 page)

“Cruel, eh? Yeah, they can be. Boys, too. Make no mistake. Boys too. Josh, just one thing, I noticed that you like drawing stick figures in your sketchbook.”

“I'm not very good. So?”

Marty leaned closer. “No, but you
are
good, Josh. That's the thing.
There's a very expressive quality about them. Look, I brought one with me.” He pulled out the sketch and held it up. “This was the coolest one. I want you to explain what it means. Is it a dream or something?”

The sketch consisted of a stick figure and a larger, rounder shape joined by a thin line.

Josh stared straight ahead with his arms folded over his gut.

“See, Josh. It's not just a stickman like the others, there's also that big balloon thing, eh, with the string. But my, that balloon is big. And it's not really floating, is it? Like it was too heavy or something.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The balloon man, silly. I was looking at it and boom, it came to me. Swear to God. Check this out: the stickman is Daniel, and the balloon man is you.”

“You're crazy.”

“Not so crazy, Josh. Come on, it's me. Marty. I've been good to you. I want to help you. That's my job. So tell me about Daniel.”

“Daniel's my friend.”

“No, Josh. He's out of it. He's fucked. He lacks affect. He's not capable of true friendship. He's like a doll. Or a puppet. But you know that.” Arching his eyebrows, Marty mimicked a diabolical laugh. “I am not afraid of you, Dracula! Just kidding! Come on now, Josh. 'Fess up! Be real! Bare your soul to me, brother, let the healing begin. I know you know the difference between right and wrong, but you can't help yourself. Is that it? I totally understand. I
empathize
. Believe me, Josh. I feel you, man.”

Tears filled Josh's eyes. “Daniel and I are friends.”

“Aw, touching. I'm touched, really. Young love. It's fucking Shakespearean, I tell you. And maybe in some world, in some sick, fucked up, degenerate, madcap world, such a union would be sanctioned, even encouraged, but not in this one, Josh. Not in Marty's world. I am not—I repeat—I am not a horse's ass. Do you think I'm a horse's ass, Josh?”

The youth shook his head.

“Good answer, boy. You saved yourself a slap in the chops. So, the question is, what do we do with the young monster? Do we train him to be civil, to repress his ugly urges? Or would this just teach him how to blend in, how to mask who he really is and who he will always be? Because let's face it—Josh will never change. He hasn't changed thus far. If all interventions and therapies have failed, what can anyone expect Marty to do?”

“You're talking garbage.”

“Is that right? I've been at this for a long time, boy. One thing I know. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck . . . See what I'm saying? Now get out of the van, Josh.”

“What?”

“Get out of the fucking van.”

“I won't do it.”

Marty punched Josh hard in the ear then punched him again, knocking his glasses off his face. Then he hauled Josh out the van, flung his legs out from under him, and started kicking him with his steel-toed boots. One of the blows cracked Josh's ribs. He grunted in pain, unable to draw a breath. Marty continued the assault, pumping his thighs, digging his boots into Josh's body. Gasping for breath now, Josh pitched himself sideways. He tumbled into a deep snow-bank, bleeding from the nose, his mouth gaping. He didn't even try to get up; a light layer of snow covered him. Marty watched for a moment, grinning. Then he returned to the van, climbed in, shut the door, and roared away.

The wipers thwacked back and forth. The headlights illuminated nothing but a whirling wall of white. Crosswinds shook the skidding van. Marty leaned on the steering wheel and strained his blue eyes for the main road, but didn't see it or anything else for that matter.

The snow whipped down, big fat flakes.

Larry Ostrander's latest counsellor, this guy named Miguel, took himself too seriously. When they first met, Larry didn't like him. He struck him as a bit of a blowhard. He swore a lot and seemed to have a bad temper brewing underneath the surface, a temper that took every ounce of his self-control to contain. He looked powerful, big forearms and a football player's neck. He had done some time, he admitted, but had seen the light. Larry had sat through five sessions with the guy—or “modules” as they liked to call them. He didn't feel any better or different for it. Anyway, during the sixth module Miguel said something that struck Larry. He said that each random act of kindness yields two more acts of kindness in return. Larry had to think about that and its implications for a minute. Was it true? No, it couldn't be true.

Larry didn't believe that if he did something kind for his mother, say, she would go out and do something kind for two other people. She hated everyone. If Larry did something kind for her she'd ask him what the hell he was up to; she'd be sour. But he went to the local groceteria and purchased a bouquet of white carnations for her anyway. When he entered the apartment, she was draped over the coffee table doing lines of coke from a small mirror. Where'd you get the money for that, Ma? he asked her. She blinked her red eyes and told him to shut up. Her hands shook as she rocked a credit card over a bluish lump of cocaine. I know where you got the money, Larry said. She didn't look at him, continued with her business. He went to his room, threw the bouquet on his bed. Then he opened the window and lit a cigarette.

But it wasn't enough to be kind. Larry thought Miguel had overstated the case. Even when you were kind, it didn't mean anything, it didn't change anything. People were dogs. If you threw them a bone they'd fight for it. And something told him Miguel understood the truth but refused to admit it, maybe as a matter of policy. They put together these programs, hired compassionate goons to run them, then forced young offenders like Larry to sit through them. And for what? Last thing he wanted was to be like Miguel, barely containing his true self. Miguel was dishonest about the world and about himself, and his message to Larry suffered from a lack of conviction. No matter how Miguel put it, the premise of random acts of kindness multiplying fell flat.

Downtown, near the new library, Larry ran into Toby, a bum who always asked for money. Larry figured he'd throw the stiff ten bucks for the hell of it, enough for a bottle of something to drown his sorrows. Unlikely he'd spread the grace. Larry walked up to Toby, who was bent over a trash can. Toby pulled out a half-eaten pizza slice and sniffed it before taking a bite. He started at the sight of Larry and dropped the pizza. What the hell do you want? he asked. Larry moved closer. Remember me, Toby? Yeah, Toby said, I sure do, you cheap bastard. Hey, Larry said. He flashed the ten-dollar bill. Toby's demeanor changed. He got real close to Larry, smiling with black-studded grey gums. Larry winced. Did you shit yourself or something? he asked Toby. No, the bum said. He thought about it. Then he said, Well, yes, I did a few days ago.

Then Larry went down to the park near his flat—Duke and Cayuga stood near the swings, selling crack. Duke saw him first and slapped Cayuga's shoulder. Cayuga looked over with his fake ferocity. He didn't scare Larry. He was a rat. Whenever he got pinched he ratted out the whole neighbourhood. And Duke was a punk. They knew Larry had been in for beating up a guy from Niagara Falls—put him in a coma. It was over an ounce of weed. The guy, this big mouth bastard, accused Larry of selling him a bad count. Larry didn't sell bad counts. Big mouth had it coming. Cayuga had it coming, but the act of kindness for him today was sparing him a beating. Hey, bro, Duke said, his greasy
hair shining in the sunlight. Cayuga, in torn and tar-stained dungarees, put his hands on his hips and tilted his shoulders. What's up, Larry? he asked. You're fucking lucky, Larry said, pointing at him. They kill rats inside, you know. Kill them. Taking a step back, Cayuga said, So what are you saying, man? He's calling you a rat, Duke chirped. Larry turned to Duke and without pausing a beat slapped him so hard flakes of dandruff flew off his head and shoulders.

Lacking fear gives you freedom in some respects. But fear serves to protect you. Bam-Bam and his son Darcy took turns on Larry one night in front of Duffy's Billiards. Larry had just stiffed this sap for fifty bucks playing snooker and was heading out the doors to go score some weed when he ran into the pair, both of them wired. Larry used to hang with Darcy. He had the triangle face happening now from using crack. Darcy asked him what was up and Larry said nothing much. Red-eyed and drooling, Bam-Bam looked fucked. Larry was about to split when without warning they jumped him and knocked him to the ground. Bam-Bam kicked him in the head. Darcy worked his torso, front and back, really reefing to impress the old man. Blood poured from Larry's torn mouth. Bam-Bam tired, wheezing, bending at the waist. Are we going to kill him, Dad? Darcy asked. Bam-Bam gave him a backhand to the teeth and told him to shut his fucking mouth. Bam-Bam then took out a pipe and cooked up a rock of crack right there, over Larry's motionless body. Darcy watched the spectacle with his head tipped almost sadly. Fuck you, Bam-Bam said, hauling. His eyes spun in their sockets and he started drooling. He forgot about Larry and his son and staggered off down the street. Darcy kicked Larry in the face one more time and then went through his pockets.

How long was he in hospital? A few days? His mother didn't come to see him. When he got home she wasn't there. A note taped to the refrigerator said she took off to Florida for a week with a friend. Bruises ringed Larry's eyes and a white cast encased his right hand
and forearm. They stitched up his lips and gums pretty good but it hurt like a bitch. He checked for telephone messages. Miguel left three. He sounded pissed off. He said that if Larry didn't call him within twenty four hours he would issue a letter of non-compliance. That message was two days old. Great, Larry thought, now my P.O. will breach me—MacKinnon didn't take any shit—and send me back inside to complete my entire sentence—one year. His brain couldn't get around that:
one year
. He couldn't do it—he couldn't do another year. He'd kill himself first. He called Miguel's number, got the machine and left a message explaining his situation. Miguel wouldn't doubt his story once he saw him. Miguel was a reasonable man.

Miguel was not reasonable, or sympathetic. Anger thickened the veins in his neck and heightened the dark intensities of his eyes; he cracked his calloused knuckles and flexed his forearms. He acted as if Larry had committed the assault. He said that Larry had put himself in place for the beating. If he had used his large human brain he would have stayed away from Bam-Bam and Darcy. Miguel knew Darcy very well. He had tried to run him through the Program but Darcy stopped coming after two sessions. Why didn't you press charges? Miguel wanted to know, flexing his forearm muscles. Get serious, Larry said. He had to live in this town. The Criminal Justice System offered little protection and less solace. So you'll let them get away with it, Miguel said with a sigh. But Larry never said he'd let them get away with it.

Early on Miguel insisted that the only thing the Program could do was make him
think
before acting, and before talking. Too often people rush into action, or blurt out whatever comes to mind. It only takes a few seconds of thought to change the course of history, because everything you do comprises your history and stays with you one way or the other. Did Larry want to go back inside? He was fifteen now, he'd be charged as a youth and serve three years. He couldn't do three years. He didn't think he could. He'd be eighteen when he got out.

And if it was something he could do, three years, why should he not get even? The modules preached non-violent solutions to all problems but this seemed unrealistic, even dangerous. Showing soft-ness
left you vulnerable, open to attack. At the heart of the Program throbbed the idea of a benevolent, peaceful, and lawful society, where everybody scratched each other's back, but in Larry's estimation such a society could never exist. Miguel talked a good game—and appeared empathetic. You were raised fatherless, he said, you have no positive male role models. An attentive father would have nurtured your strengths, turned all that mayhem into something powerful, for the good. You're smart, Larry. You understand what I'm talking about— you know the difference between right and wrong. You don't suffer from a cognitive disorder. And even though you've had it rough— remember you're not the only one. Larry, I was the son of immigrants, poor, despised, beaten down. And I fought. I fought like a tiger. Made a name for myself. Don't fuck with Miguel, my homies would say, he's loco. That's right, Larry. So I was a tough guy for a while. But for me it wasn't about that, it was about right and wrong— but only how I saw it, not the way society did. We live in a society, man. If we can't follow its rules then we get erased from the picture. I stood up for myself, yeah, with my fists. And it got me a good chunk of time. And during that time I came to understand that violence only leads to more violence and that when I thought about it, my . . . is any of this sinking in, Larry?

So his arm would heal and his face would come around. His mother had returned from Florida accompanied by this tall dark guy with a pencil-thin goatee and chocolate eyes. He called himself Jean-Guy. Jean-Guy is staying with us for now, Larry's mother informed him. Jean-Guy pretended not to speak English. Larry couldn't believe his mother spoke French as well as she did. Who could have known? He wished that she had taught him some of it. Comes in handy in a bilingual country. Grandma was French, she explained while she mixed a pitcher of martinis. What did you do to your arm? she asked. I fell, Larry said. You were always clumsy, she said. Jean-Guy laughed. He rested his Cuban heels on the edge of the coffee table.
He had very white teeth. I suppose the bruises on your face are also from the fall, his mother said. Yeah, Larry said. Jean-Guy laughed even louder this time.