Читать книгу Down Sterling Road - Adrian Michael Kelly - Страница 9

Page a day, that’s the best way to go, slow but steady like a long run. That way the bits and blanks stay away, and Jacob can get to the housework, too. Fridge needs defrosting, dishes need done, tub wants a scrubbing, and the oven. The oven. Dad always burns meat pies and bangers. So Jacob scrubs and washes and, in between, he colours. The spine in shining silver, the elbow in a grey like steel. Then, on the morning before 1979, when Jacob is finishing the muscles of facial expression, it snows like bonkers and Cracker calls.

Hospital Hill, sucka!

Tobogganing?

It will be dyno-mite.

Don’t got a toboggan, remember?

You be borrowin mine.

I dunno. Might stay in.

You colouring again?

And drawing.

Colouring … and drawing, colouring … and drawing.

Have to.

Why?

Just have to.

Just come.

’Kay. I’ll come.

But Jacob, still in his PJs, goes back to his room and the muscles of facial expression. Use warm and cheerful colours, say the instructions, for the muscles (A–H) producing a smile. Colour the muscles reflecting sadness (I–O) with greens, blues and greys. Begin with the smiling side. Repeat the process with the sad side.

Jacob picks Neutral Grey from his Prismacolors, begins to colour L, Depressor Anguli Oris, on the sad side. But switches to the smiling side and colours D, Levator Labii Superioris. Labia means lips on your mouth or a woman’s vulva. The right eye in this picture is so sad. And the guy who drew it, Jacob thinks, must be a real artist, not a scientist, because more than how a muscle moves makes an eye look sad like that.

He pushes the book away. Pictures Dean Spielman’s face. How he twists his mouth. The way, without speaking, he can say So where’s your Krazy Karpet? Friends sometimes are better than being alone, but sometimes you’re complete bastards to each other, too. Like Spielman. Not sure you like him but afraid not to pretend to because he might beat the crap out of you.

Jacob looks at his watch. It’s after three. Was supposed to stick in a quick two-miler today. But he can sprint up Hospital Hill after each run down, meet Dad when he gets off and say he did intervals. Maybe go down to the Riverbend for a hot chocolate. Depending on Dad’s day.

He huffs it to the hospital, sees the Gran Torino in the parking lot as he walks over to the hill. The guys are at the top. Fighting.

I’m not doin’ it, says Dean. You do it.

Screw you, honky, says Cracker. You do it.

They both look at Bobby, who’s sucking on the end of his mitten. The pompom on his toque wobbles as he shakes his head and stomps around and glues every word together. Un-unh-noway-nope-always-me.

Chickennn, says Dean.

Know-y’are-but-what-am-I?

Are you even speaking English?

Then Bobby sees Jacob. Points. McKnight! McKnight-said-he’d-do-it! He said!

And everybody looks at Jacob.

Little bugger, Jacob says to himself. But he did tell Bobby he’d do it. Only Bobby. Everybody says they’ll do it sometime. Jacob just told Bobby because of last winter. So Bobby wouldn’t get hurt again.

But Dean starts chanting. Do it, do it, and Cracker and Bobby – pricks – join in.

Jacob, snow in his eyes, looks down Hospital Hill at the edge of the Wall.

That’s what everybody calls it, the big retaining wall built into the steepest part of Hospital Hill, about halfway up. Except for Dead Man’s behind the factory, Hospital Hill is the steepest. Starts at the edge of Glanisberg Memorial’s parking lot and phoom goes all the way to the high school football field. Usually you toboggan well to the Wall’s left. Usually have to, or you’ll slide smack into the Wall’s backside. But on blowy days like today the snow drifts right up to the edge, and someone, probably Spielman, has packed snow against it. A perfect ramp.

Dooo it, dooo it.

Jacob thinks of crazy Shawn Quinn, who bit a guy, and of his little brother, Terry, except everyone calls him Bulldog. In summer they pour out half a jug of Becker’s Jungle Juice, fill it with vodka. Slug it back and do meatballs off the Black Bridge. Shawn throws his dog in first. Complete bampots, says Dad. But not even the Quinns have jumped the Wall.

DO it do it do it. DO it do it do it.

Stop!

Do IT, do IT, do IT!

Jacob stares at Bobby. His eyes like beggars, Please, Jacob, not me. Bobby’ll do almost anything to stay in the group. Smack a cow on the ass, pee on Mr. McCluskey’s petunias, chuck chestnuts at Fish and Chippers’ hot rods. But not this. Last winter was the biggest ramp ever. Old tires and hay bales, plywood and packed snow. Dean told Bobby it was a test, and Cracker, the chicken, wouldn’t even stand up for his brother. Bobby almost cried. Had to use his puffer but thump dove headfirst down the hill. Hit the ramp like a boat on a huge big wave. Toboggan this way, Bobby that way. Crunch. Everybody slid down on their bums and Bobby slapped the snow I can’t mooovvve! Dean looked Do something, and Jacob ran hard up the hill and right into the ambulance office. Dad Dad come quick Bobby wiped out and he might be quadraphoenic! Just a hairline fracture of the coccyx, but Molly Hollingsworth brought the X-ray to the waiting room. Pick on someone your own size, ya buncha goons! In spring, they all had a laugh about it, quadraphoenic, though it wasn’t that funny.

Do it, do it, do …

He’s not gonna do it, says Spielman.

Bobby starts to bolt, but Spielman just flops down. Starts – swoosh-swa– making an angel and says Chick-en, chick-en, McKnight’s a big chick-en.

Bobby’s eyes say Jacob you don’t have to you don’t.

Cracker just stares at the ground, tongue curled under his nose.

Hollingsworth, says Jacob, stop licking your snot.

Dean stops swooshing and looks up and says Yeah, snot licker. But then he starts in again, Chick-en – swoosh-swa – McKnight’s a big chicken – swoosh-swa.

Jacob eyeballs Dean’s flashy coat and ski pants. Starts walking to the hospital.

Dean says Knew it, just when Dad comes out the ambulance office doors, waving See ya, lads, over his shoulder.

And Jacob spins.

Runs right at Dean. Grabs his Krazy Karpet and dives.

Behind him Cracker yells Crazy mutha! Jump off, Jacob!

But Jacob aims for the ramp dead on, and holy shit he is moving. Snow spits in his face. Eyes closed, bits and pieces slamming against their backsides – bone and bloody mess and the ashtray smashing and there’s the Wall coming at him like a fist fwoop, he’s up, and over.

Sky in his eyes.

But it falls away from him and then a sound like a hockey stick snap over a knee, but Jacob knows it’s bone. He curls, clenches his toes. Rolls. And sits up, his head leaning all on its own way over Jacob’s left shoulder.

Up top Cracker and Bobby are screaming Mr. McKnight Mr. McKnight!

But Dad just waits, pops a Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth, puts his hands in his parka pockets as Jacob, holding his arm by the elbow, climbs. When he gets to the top, Dad says Think you can fly?

Jacob tries to shrug.

And Dad bites down on the lozenge, nods his head toward the hospital. Let’s go then.

Dean doesn’t look at them as they walk by, just keeps kneeling in the stepped-on angel.

Jacob’s not sure what was in that shot, but it was a humdinger. His tongue feels fat and sleepy, but he manages to ask if he can see the X-rays. Mrs. Hollingsworth looks at Dad. He nods, grumbles as he ducks through the curtains. He told Mrs. H and Dr. Smythe no X-rays, any fool can see the boy’s bust his collarbone. Patch him up meself, Chrissakes. Mrs. H told him not to talk nonsense, they’ve got to see what kind of break in case it needs pins. Pins? She probably doesn’t know that Dad isn’t Canadian yet, he’s a Landed Immigrant and just a part-timer. No OHIP. And Jacob wonders how you figure what a collarbone’s worth when Mrs. H pops her head in and asks how’s he feeling.

Tickety-boo.

Pain?

Don’t feel a thing.

Mrs. Hollingsworth ruffles his hair and ducks out.

Jacob sits up, slides to the edge of the gurney. Blinks. Other side of the curtains Mrs. Hollingsworth says Poor thing, and laughs. Dad growls and grumbles, but Mrs. H says Oh shoosh, not to worry, it’ll be taken care of. Then she comes back in and p-tunk, p-tunk puts up two X-rays on the display board, flicks a switch. There you be, Jacob.

That’s me?

That’s you.

Jacob looks at his bones. They have haloes. He blinks, focuses. Vertebrae. Sternum. Floating rib. Humerus.

Very good, Jacob.

The ulnar nerve goes along here.

Is that a fact.

Jacob nods, tells Mrs. Hollingsworth that The Anatomy Coloring Book says when you press the ulnar nerve hard enough, it speaks. That’s what it says in the book. Nerves speak. Jacob asks if Mrs. H knows what sort of thing the ulnar nerve might have to say, and would you be able to understand it.

Aren’t those painkillers fun, dear?

Mrs. H pats Jacob on the head, ducks back out the curtains. Tells Dad and a nurse about the things Jacob just said, and the nurse has a laugh. Dad doesn’t.

Then Dr. Smythe and his aftershave come through the curtains like a breeze, and his crisp white coat swishes, and he has an accent like Mum’s.

A-llo, Jacob.

’Lo.

’Ad a nawsty fawl, did we?

Jacob shrugs with his good shoulder.

Right then, let’s have a look.

Jacob smiles at Dr. Smythe’s voice and his Mentos breath. The mint clicks across his teeth as he palpates with soft, clean fingers.

Pain here, Jacob? says Dr. Smythe, pressing near Jacob’s nipple.

Jacob nods.

Bad?

One-shouldered shrug.

You’ve probably also torn your pectoral muscle, says Dr. Smythe, turning to the X-ray. Jacob looks at his nipple. When he was little he thought it was called a pupil and Dad said No, son, tits are blind.

Not often I hear laughs in here, says Dr. Smythe.

Best medicine, says Jacob.

Quite. Well. Heah, Jacob, says the Doc, tip of pen tap tap on the X-ray. See that, Jacob? You’ve fractured your clah-vicle.

Jacob stares at the ends of bone, one on top of the other. He touches ever so lightly the lump under his skin as Dr. Smythe flicks a switch and the bones lose their glow.

You’re being a very bryve boy, I must say, Jacob.

Jacob blinks, heavy eyes.

Hmm. Well. Let’s get you mended. Be right back.

Dr. Smythe disappears through the curtains. And Jacob lies back, remembers what it felt like, for those few seconds, flying.

But at home that night Dad hulks. Thuds his palm against his temple and says What gets into that fucking head of yours? Eh? Thud, thud.

Jacob stares at the coffee table. Tries not to breathe. It hurts. Eh?

Jacob stares.

I’m talkin to you.

Jacob meets his eyes.

That’s you for four bloody weeks, Dad says, holding four fingers in Jacob’s face. At least four weeks. Six with the physio you’ll be needin. That we will do here, Dad says, standing straight, hands on hips as he paces. I will show you the exercises you need to do.

Jacob keeps his eyes on Dad as he paces, paces. Under his breath he says two hundred and fifty fucking dollars, then turns away and thumps to the kitchen, where he whacks open cupboards and clangs and bashes pots and pans on the stove. Four weeks, he says, and you just increasing your distance.

Jacob tells himself he’s glad he broke his shitstinking collarbone. No cold black mornings. No wind. No hills. But as he watches Dad get the supper on, snot slides out his nose. He snuffs it up and says Sorry, Dad.

Dad lifts the pan this way that way to spread the Crisco and says G’wan to your room. I’ll call you when it’s ready.

In his bedroom Jacob gets down – slow – on one knee, feels under his bed. Slides his sketchbook and pencils out. Opens one-handed the pencil case’s clasp. The case convulses and pencils pop out. He picks up the sketching pencil with his other hand. Blinks through pain as he tries to draw a clavicle. But with his right hand he can barely hold the pencil proper. Flings it across the room. Fingers The Anatomy Coloring Book from the shelf under his night-stand and flips through the skeletal system to Plate 28. Looks for a colour. Picks Payne’s Grey. Tries.

But stops colouring – Fuck this hurts – when he goes outside the lines.

Boy.

Yeah?

Doesn’t take two hands to set a table.

Coming.

In the kitchen Dad squints and stands way back from the hissing spitting pan. He’s got the heat on way too high again. The bangers split and ooze like wounds.