Here So Far Away(50)

I hadn’t let myself think a lot about where we were headed. I’d been riding on this blind faith that, somehow, everything would work itself out once I’d graduated. Odds were against that. If Dad didn’t go back to his old job in the summertime, there was a good chance Francis would get a permanent position in the valley while I went off to school. And if my dad did go back to his old job, they might reshuffle within the ranks at the detachment again, and Francis could be transferred. They could send him anywhere in the country.

“George, you’re crying.”

“I don’t know why . . . It’s not like I caught my arm in a car door.”

“What are you talking about, car door?”

“I love you.” Now I was bawling.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I love you too.”

“No, I’m sorry. You’re not supposed to say it first if you’re not sure someone is going to say it back.”

“I did say it back.”

“Only because I’m crying.”

“George, this is how much I love you. I love you even though you have never embraced the art and the soul of Serbian disco.”

I wiped my eyes. “This is how much I love you. I don’t mind that you’re wearing a T-shirt and no bottoms like a giant baby.”

We had been in a hurry to get our clothes off.

“This is how much I love you. I’m here with you. Which is crazy. George, what we’re doing is crazy.”

“I know.” I was really scared.

“That’s how much I love you.”

My skin was raw where it had been rubbed against his day-old whiskers, exfoliated smooth and almost hot to the touch. I was going to have to powder the bejesus out of my face to cover it up. I kissed him anyway.

It was after midnight when I got home. I braced myself as I turned into the driveway, half expecting the Sergeant to be waiting on the stoop, but all of the lights in the house were off, even the one over the front door.

No one stirred when I came in or when I tripped coming out of the bathroom and hit the bookshelf in the hallway. In the morning, I woke up with my bedside lamp on and still in my clothes from the night before. When I went downstairs, Dad was alone in the kitchen and the only thing he said was, “Get me my cigarettes.”





Twenty-Four


Mum was smoothing down her hair in the mirror of the front hallway, her purse over her shoulder. “Where are you going so early?” I asked. It was only quarter to eight on a Tuesday morning.

“To work.”

I was slow to get it. “At the nursery? Dad let you take the job?”

The look she gave me withered my nonexistent balls. I guess let was the wrong word.

“Now. George. I’ll be doing shift work, which means my schedule will be all over the place. I’ll be home by two today; tomorrow, I’ll be out all afternoon.”

“What will you do at a nursery this time of year?”

“Oh, wreaths, houseplants, seed inventory, bookkeeping . . .”

“Is there anything to eat?” Dad called from the kitchen.

“I’m on my way out the door! Georgie, make your father some breakfast.”

“I gotta go too. Bill’s all banged up from hockey, so I’m driving him to school, and I promised we’d stop for a donut at the Grunt.”

Mum hesitated before she yelled, “Matty!” He appeared at the top of the stairs. “Make breakfast for your father, please. Cereal, toast, and orange juice. Don’t let him have jam. Coffee’s already made. And if you have time, make him a sandwich for lunch too.”

“I don’t know where everything is.”

I pointed toward the kitchen. “Fridge. Chicken, mayo, lettuce.”

“No lettuce!” Dad called. “What about my insulin?”

Mum looked at her watch, then up at Matthew. “You have time before the bus.”

“Oh no!” he said. “I’m not sticking a needle into anyone!”

“Your father will help you.”

“Why can’t he do it himself?”

“You know why,” I said, following Mum to the door. “Because he stabs himself like a psychopath.”

“This is what they call exposured, dear,” Mum said. “It’s good for you. If you feel weak, you know the drill.”

“Head between the legs,” Matthew said miserably.

Ernest Burns was one of those people whose hand shot up the moment a teacher asked a question. Some teachers pretended not to see him, or they’d make a lame joke about Ernest being the only person who’s taking an interest. Thing is, it’s not like Ernest always had the right answer—or an answer. Sometimes it wasn’t about the subject at all. Like in history he’d go: “I know this is a little off topic, but what’s the average life span of the Arctic snow monkey?”

That morning in biology, Mr. Huskins kept rotating between the chalkboard and the opposite side of the classroom from where Ernest sat. Finally, Ernest called out, “Mr. Huskins! Please, Mr. Huskins!”

Huskins slowly pivoted around and said, very wearily, “Yes, Ernest? Do you have a question?”

“No, sir. It’s just, Mr. Huskins, my desk is going to fall apart.”

Then it did. Out popped the last screw holding it together, and Ernest and his desk collapsed onto the floor.