Creeps (12 page)

Wayne tries to make it to the hall, but his mother's voice stops him.

“All over the road was he, Wayne?”

Wayne turns but doesn't say anything.

The front door opens and it must be Wanda back from somewhere.

His mom glares back at his dad. “Suspended licence and there'll probably be a fine and a trial and I hope they lock you up and throw away the key!”

“You'd like that, wouldn't ya?” his father says.

“What?”

“I said, you'd like that, wouldn't ya?”

Wayne stares at his mother and thinks that if she were within arm's length of a fork or cutting board or frying pan, she'd send it flying.

“Who saw, Wayne?” she says.

“No one,” says his father.

“‘No one'—just listen to him. Everyone sees everything
here
.”

“No one saw, eh Wayne?” says his father.

Wayne shakes his head. Then Wanda comes in and her music's blasting and she makes her way to the fridge but then stops. Switches off her iPod and takes out her earphones. “What's going on?”

“Your father's a drunk, that's what's going on,” Wayne's mother tells her.

Wanda nods and opens the fridge door and peers inside and then looks back at their mother like she's seen the ghost of Christmas Past. “Is there Diet Coke?”

His mother shakes her head. “Ask your father to drive over and get some— No, wait … he doesn't have a
licence
anymore!”

His father looks up and goes to say something but thinks better of it.

“What am I supposed to drink?”

Wanda says. “Water, like everyone else,” their mom says.

Wanda shuts the fridge door. “I … AM … NOT … DRINKING … WATER!” Her eyes brim with tears.

“That's all any of us will be drinking after your no-good-for-a-father is finished paying his fine.”

His dad stands and knocks over his chair.

“I hate this house,” Wanda says, stomping to her room with such force that the salt and pepper shakers above the stove tremble, then she slams her door and one of them—the salt—falls over like a felled tree.

His father picks the chair up and sits back down, and his mother grabs the phone and presses some numbers, then kills the call and presses more numbers and says she's arranging a place to stay while the divorce is being settled.

Wayne leaves the kitchen and walks down the hall to his sister's room and knocks on the door, but Wanda won't answer, so he keeps knocking until finally she opens the door a crack and says,
“What?”

Her eyes, cheeks, and neck are red.

“Can I come in?”

Something breaks in the kitchen and then his father says, “I won't be buying another one of those!”

Wanda steps out of the way so Wayne can go in, then she closes the door and stands with her back against it and says, “I'm not crying because of Diet Coke.”

Wayne sits on her bed.

“And I don't give a shit that Dad was drinking and driving, if that's what they're fighting about … Is it?”

Wayne nods. “They took his licence and fingerprinted him and Mom had to come and pick us up.”

She pauses. “You were with him?”

Wayne nods.

“And you're not pissed off?”

“Should I be?”

“What if he got into an accident and you ended up in a wheelchair or, even worse, a vegetable, or dead?”

Wayne keeps quiet.

A shout from the kitchen … their mother: “I'll never set foot in this house again!” Then their father: “Promises, promises!”

After a while Wayne says, “Why then?”

“What?”

“Are you crying?”

Another shout from the kitchen … their mother: “I curse the day I ever set eyes on you!” Then their father: “Not a moment's peace since I put that goddamn ring on your finger!” Then their mom laughing and saying: “It was the
bottle
you married!” Something else smashes and their father says: “I won't be buying another one of those
either
!”

Wanda suddenly turns and opens the door and
screams,
“SHUT UP!”
then closes the door again and goes over and sits down beside Wayne. “I'm leaving,” she says.

He looks at her. “You are?”

She nods.

“When?”

Wanda wipes her nose. “That's the thing. It was supposed to be the end of the month, but now— seeing as Stephanie's changed her stupid mind—I don't know.” She pauses. “Goddamn her! She says she's in months ago, so we're saving up our money: me taking extra babysitting shifts for Greg and Mona and their two little retards, and Stephanie working evenings in her father's parish, and we're all ready to go, right: take the train to Sept-Îles on Saturday and then make our way to Montreal and then Toronto, but no, Stephanie can't go now because her father found her stash of money and asked if she was into drugs, so the stupid cow goes and tells him everything, and now her dad and mom won't let her out of their sight and she has to pray every evening for God's forgiveness. Sure, they kicked me out of the house and everything … her father there in his clerical collar and holding his Bible and calling me the devil—
Me!
Can you believe it? And here I am, after sneaking over a six-pack of wine coolers, which the stupid cow Stephanie ended up drinking most of.”

Heavy footsteps in the hall and a slamming door and something being knocked over.

“I suppose I could go myself, but that wouldn't be too smart, would it … hot piece of gear like me, and you know what those Frenchmen are like.” Wanda breathes out like someone fed up with the world. Unzips her jacket. “So that's why I was crying: freedom at my fucking fingertips, but now I gotta stay here longer and listen to the likes of them.”

No one speaks for a while, then Wayne says, “So you've decided to quit school?”

“Why not? It's not like I'm going to be prime minister, right. I failed home economics. Who flunks home economics for God's sake! By the way, you mention a word to the folks and I'll skin ya. Anyway, like I was saying, education's more your thing. Me? I was hoping to get a salon going up in Toronto. Well, me and the stupid cow Stephanie were hoping to. Our idea was to make it alternative: shaved heads and piercings and tattoos and whatnot. And we wouldn't hire any high school graduates, only people like ourselves. And we'd call it Dropout Zone Hairstyling. You like it? Well, do you? I came up with the name on my own. No help from stupid cow Stephanie.”

The faint sound of running water.

“He'll fill the kettle and then fall asleep in the rocking chair,” Wanda says.

Ages pass.

Wanda says, “Listen.”

“What?”

“Just listen. Hear it?”

“I don't hear anything.”

“Exactly.”

They just sit there.

“I'll miss you when you go,” Wayne says finally. Wanda pauses, then goes to say something but stops herself. Tries again. “You'll leave too one of these days and all those jerks that pick on you will still be here hanging around the corner store trying to pick up girls half their age. I'd beat the Jesus out of the lot of them, but what good would that do you?” Wanda goes silent for a second. “You think there might be one in the crisper that I didn't notice? Or behind the condiments or something?”

“What?”

“Diet Coke? I'm jonesing. Never mind. What was I saying— Oh yeah, those dickwads that pick on you: look, I'm sorry I'm not around much anymore but that doesn't mean I don't have your back, little brother. And hey, when I've got my studio up and running you can get out of this shithole and come visit and have your hair done for free. Hmm … let's see, a nice Mohawk would look awesome on you.”

“No way.”

“Or a perm.”

“You're not touching my hair.”

“Don't trust me or what?”

“Not with my hair, no.”

Wanda stands up and takes off her jacket and hangs it up in her closet. “All right, get out.”

Wayne heads for the door.

Wanda blocks his way.

“What?” he says.

“Remember: you mention anything I told you to Mom and Dad and I'll cut out your tongue. Got it?”

Wayne nods.

“Okay then.” Wanda opens the door and Wayne steps into the hall and heads for his own bedroom and hears singing. His father, that Irish tune he always sings when he's had more than he should. Wayne stops and listens and it occurs to him that his father has a nice voice. Strange he hadn't noticed before. Then the song's finished and his father starts from the beginning but then abruptly stops. Wayne goes into the living room and sees his dad slumped over in the rocking chair, so he heads to the kitchen and takes the kettle off the stove and stands there for ages, then goes back to his room and sits at his desk and takes out his pen and notebook and writes:

Dear Wanda,

Have you ever seen that show Intervention? Well maybe we could do one for Dad before you go. Whaddya think? You could read your letter first and
then Mom and then me. Maybe we could get you off the Diet Coke too while we're at it. Do they have a place for that in the mountains somewhere? I've never heard of one but there must be something because there's a place for everything else.

I was thinking that when you go the shouting will be even louder with one less person in the house to suck up the sound.

I don't say a lot sometimes or maybe I say too much but you're an okay sister and I didn't know you had my back, so thanks a lot, I appreciate it.

Do people always leave? You will eventually and maybe Mom too after tonight and Pete The Meat's father left Pete (although I don't know why) and some leave even when they're still here (like Dad and Marjorie's mom), so it's like we're always waiting for the person sitting beside us at supper to be gone at breakfast. This all sounds silly I bet, but I've been thinking about so much lately and sometimes I can't keep everything in my head so I suppose that's why I have to write it all down.

Will you ever come back, Wanda? I suppose not, eh? Why would you? Oh, and by the way, that thing you said earlier about not being cut out for school? Well maybe that's true but it doesn't mean you're not smart. You can talk to everyone and stand up for yourself and people seem to like you and I'd give anything for that.

I'll come and see you Wanda as soon as I'm able and I'll miss you 'cause you've always been two doors down and it's given me comfort to know you're there.

Your brother who gets comfort from having you there,
Wayne Pumphrey

MARCH

Anywhere But Here

ONE

Mr. Rollie throws his loafer onstage and knocks over a lamp. Marjorie goes over and picks it up (the lamp, not the loafer) then goes back to where her acting partner, Les Faulkner, is standing.

Mr. Rollie limps towards them. The heel of his multicoloured sock is worn through. He stops near the lip of the stage and holds out his hand. Kendrick, the stagehand, hair down to the middle of his back and repeating grade ten for the third time, appears from stage right and retrieves the director's shoe, placing it in Mr. Rollie's palm.

“Thank you, Mr. Mercer.”

Kendrick nods and returns to the wings.

Loafer still in hand, Mr. Rollie says, “Why'd you stop, Mr. Faulkner?”

Les folds his arms and juts his chin towards Marjorie. “Ask her.”

Mr. Rollie looks at Marjorie.

“Yesterday I grabbed his arm,” she says, “but today I walked over to the chair.”

Les licks a few fingers and smooths the part in his hair. “She's sabotaging my performance.”

A sound like someone choking from the back of the gymnasium.

Les steps forward, a hand over his eyes to block out the glare from the stage lights. “Problem, Pumphrey?”

Wayne closes his notebook and tucks his Razor Point extra-fine pen behind his ear and says nothing.

“Keep quiet then.”

“
Tone
, Mr. Faulkner,” Mr. Rollie says.

Les looks like he wants to say more, but instead he turns and walks upstage and applies more spit to his fingers and runs them across his scalp.

Mr. Rollie bends down and puts his loafer back on. “You can't just stop in the middle of a scene, Mr. Faulkner. What happens when we have an audience? Are you just not going to say your lines?”

Les faces forward and makes a show of picking something off his pleated slacks. “If
she
can change things, why can't
I
?”

“But she made the scene better!” goes a voice from the back.

Les looks up. “See, that's why you're not in this
production, Pumphrey: you know nothing about acting!”

“He's your assistant director, Mr. Faulkner,” Mr. Rollie warns.

“But I've been in drama since I was six and what's he done other than upset the manger and hit Mary with the frankincense in the stupid pageant last year?”

“Costume was too big,” Wayne says.

“That's just an excuse for your lack of talent, Pumphrey!”

“Enough, Mr. Faulkner,” says Mr. Rollie, pointing his pinky with the gold ring. “We don't belittle in my rehearsal room, understand?”

The now second best actor (after Marjorie) in the school presses his lips together so tightly they disappear.

Then Marjorie says, “I'll do it like before.”

Les's lips reappear and a partial smile lifts their corners.

Mr. Rollie takes off his glasses and massages his eyes and puts them back on and says to Marjorie, “I don't want you to do it like before, Miss Pope. I prefer what you did just now. What did you think, Mr. Pumphrey?”

“Awfully good,” Wayne says.

Les's smile vanishes and his eyes become slits.

“Don't be afraid to try new things, Mr. Faulkner. We've almost a month left. There's time.”