wallpaper peeling off the entry hall. No doors on the kitchen cabinets. No father either. What was it that McGill’s mother had said when she first visited the little girl and her overwhelmed, demon-beset mother?
Slattern?
It hadn’t gone over well with the mother. I watched from the back of the sofa, where I made the brat I inhabited squat and growl. What, she wanted to know, did McGill’s mother have over her, to pass judgement? Could McGill’s mother keep a man any better, who didn’t want to stay? By the empty divot in her ring finger, she guessed not. That hit a nerve, it did. And so it was that she turned on her heel and strode out of there, and left the poor woman to me.
McGill was the one who finally faced me. His mother had no idea. He came up the next day, on his own, in uniform: a tatty old Nirvana T-shirt, too-loose black jeans and that pustule of a face. He wasn’t ready. That was obvious. But for whatever reason, he didn’t feel right about disturbing his mother with the contrite phone message, begging her to return because My God, it’s killed the cat!
I’d done more than that. I’d smashed windows in the bedroom, caved in the ceiling over the door to the balcony, overturned the sofa and caused the television tube to implode. I caused the slattern’s neighbour, a man who carried a gun in his trouser-band and dabbled in the narcotics trade to, if not love, then lust for her in an overly solicitous way.
I was, I admit, not pleased when McGill’s mother left in such a rage. I wanted her back. To finish things.
McGill found me in the bathtub. The cat, who had been the child’s dearest friend, was there too—laid out in the doorframe, its head turned hard back, so it looked at its own tail. I saw to it that it wasn’t moved. I wanted McGill’s mother to see it. So she’d know who she was dealing with.
It had a different effect on McGill. He didn’t know me, then. His mother had left him at home when she met me at the schoolhouse. He’d waited in the car when we danced at the shopping plaza, and she vanquished me again. She obviously didn’t tell him about me—about the things I could do, to the world . . . to the hearts and heads of men and women. How formidable I was.
He saw that cat, and he saw me, in the tub smeared with feces and vomit and blood, and there was no fear. All that came up was anger.
“Let that little girl go, you fuckin’ cocksucker,” he said, and made fists. The camera he’d brought fell to the floor. His eyes filled with tears. And like a stupid, tantruming child, he stepped up to the fight.
That was the first time we met, and the only time I came close to besting McGill. I don’t know how his mother taught him . . . what talent he might have simply inherited . . . But even new to the game, blinded by stupid rage. . . .
He was a chip off the block.
She was giddy when we got home. She set my stroller in the living room, in front of the TV, and I sat there alone for a time, watching some colourful cartoon show about dinosaurs and science, while she scoured the basement.
She returned with a stack of slim, hard-covered books. Four of them. She settled on the floor in front of the sofa. Opened one of them. The inside flaps were covered in scribbles, notes like a greeting card. She pored over those for a few minutes, then flipped through the pages. It was filled with photographs.
“This is a yearbook, baby,” she said, as she noticed me looking over her shoulder. She scudded nearer me, and flipped through it. “This is mummy when she was a lot younger,” she said, stopping at a page filled with faces. Hers grinned out at me. She flipped a few more pages, and there she was, among a crowd of other girls wearing shorts and tank-tops. “This was the girl’s track and field team. That’s mummy.” And finally, she flipped back, to another of those face-filled pages. There, stuck in the middle like a dried piece of chewing gum, was McGill’s
Slattern?
It hadn’t gone over well with the mother. I watched from the back of the sofa, where I made the brat I inhabited squat and growl. What, she wanted to know, did McGill’s mother have over her, to pass judgement? Could McGill’s mother keep a man any better, who didn’t want to stay? By the empty divot in her ring finger, she guessed not. That hit a nerve, it did. And so it was that she turned on her heel and strode out of there, and left the poor woman to me.
McGill was the one who finally faced me. His mother had no idea. He came up the next day, on his own, in uniform: a tatty old Nirvana T-shirt, too-loose black jeans and that pustule of a face. He wasn’t ready. That was obvious. But for whatever reason, he didn’t feel right about disturbing his mother with the contrite phone message, begging her to return because My God, it’s killed the cat!
I’d done more than that. I’d smashed windows in the bedroom, caved in the ceiling over the door to the balcony, overturned the sofa and caused the television tube to implode. I caused the slattern’s neighbour, a man who carried a gun in his trouser-band and dabbled in the narcotics trade to, if not love, then lust for her in an overly solicitous way.
I was, I admit, not pleased when McGill’s mother left in such a rage. I wanted her back. To finish things.
McGill found me in the bathtub. The cat, who had been the child’s dearest friend, was there too—laid out in the doorframe, its head turned hard back, so it looked at its own tail. I saw to it that it wasn’t moved. I wanted McGill’s mother to see it. So she’d know who she was dealing with.
It had a different effect on McGill. He didn’t know me, then. His mother had left him at home when she met me at the schoolhouse. He’d waited in the car when we danced at the shopping plaza, and she vanquished me again. She obviously didn’t tell him about me—about the things I could do, to the world . . . to the hearts and heads of men and women. How formidable I was.
He saw that cat, and he saw me, in the tub smeared with feces and vomit and blood, and there was no fear. All that came up was anger.
“Let that little girl go, you fuckin’ cocksucker,” he said, and made fists. The camera he’d brought fell to the floor. His eyes filled with tears. And like a stupid, tantruming child, he stepped up to the fight.
That was the first time we met, and the only time I came close to besting McGill. I don’t know how his mother taught him . . . what talent he might have simply inherited . . . But even new to the game, blinded by stupid rage. . . .
He was a chip off the block.
She was giddy when we got home. She set my stroller in the living room, in front of the TV, and I sat there alone for a time, watching some colourful cartoon show about dinosaurs and science, while she scoured the basement.
She returned with a stack of slim, hard-covered books. Four of them. She settled on the floor in front of the sofa. Opened one of them. The inside flaps were covered in scribbles, notes like a greeting card. She pored over those for a few minutes, then flipped through the pages. It was filled with photographs.
“This is a yearbook, baby,” she said, as she noticed me looking over her shoulder. She scudded nearer me, and flipped through it. “This is mummy when she was a lot younger,” she said, stopping at a page filled with faces. Hers grinned out at me. She flipped a few more pages, and there she was, among a crowd of other girls wearing shorts and tank-tops. “This was the girl’s track and field team. That’s mummy.” And finally, she flipped back, to another of those face-filled pages. There, stuck in the middle like a dried piece of chewing gum, was McGill’s
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