Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility Page 14

  She whips around with her hands on her hips. “Are you laughing?”

  “No,” I choke, laughing hysterically now, doubled-over with the effort of trying to conceal it.

  “You’re the one who’s crazy.” Carin yells at me and stomps off down the dark street in the direction of Sunnyside. My laughing fit settles into gentle hiccups. All I can hear now is the gravel under the slap of my flip-flops.

  THOUGH I’VE NEVER TOLD her, I was thankful for Carin that day on the channel when we were kids and we tied our inner tubes together. As we floated, a storm was building off Skaha Lake and the clouds were blowing in fast. We were tired from the ordeal under the bridge and shivering from the cold, so we decided to get out of the water to find a payphone and call Mom to pick us up early. Grabbing onto the long grasses edging the channel, we hauled ourselves up onto the steep bank. I ran up the incline, dragging my inner tube behind me, determined to leave Carin to chase after me. The grasses grazed our thighs, and the rocks and prickly weeds bit at our bare feet, but Carin never whimpered, scurrying to keep up with me.

  When she suddenly dropped her inner tube and grabbed my arm, I turned and slapped her. It was quick and instinctual. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes remained focused beyond me on the ground, the insistence of her hand enough to keep me still. A few inches from my feet, a large rattlesnake rested, wrapped in a fat, lazy spiral. Another step would have landed my foot in the middle of its coil. My stomach shot into my throat and for that moment while Carin’s hand gripped my arm, I felt our hearts racing together. She guided me as we slowly crept around the snake, and back on the path we walked side by side to the gas station. We didn’t speak a word to each other, but I could feel Carin’s pride, her delight at having saved me.

  We never told Mom anything about what happened that day — the tubes tied together, the bridge, the man, the knife, the snake — and now that she’s gone it bothers me. I’m not sure why we never told her that story. I guess we thought — the way kids always do — we’d be in trouble.

  IT’S ONLY NINE O’CLOCK, but the trailer is already stifled with morning heat. I pull back the little curtain to Carin’s bedroom, where she’s sleeping with her mouth hanging open, a small puddle of drool on her pillow. Sometime during the night she kicked off all her covers in what looks to me like a violent rejection, her arms still a frozen flail above her head and her legs stalled mid-kick. I pull the curtain shut quietly and walk back outside.

  The car is sweltering and I roll down all the windows while I load my bag into the trunk. As I pull out of the trailer park, I catch sight of Carin in the rearview mirror, stumbling from the trailer in her pajamas, her hair a rat’s nest on top of her head. I pause for a moment and then reverse, putting the car in park and leaving the engine running. Carin leans into the window. “Here.” She reveals two sweaty aspirin from the clutch of her palm. “Thought you might need these.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You were a mess last night.” Carin grins at me. “It was hilarious.”

  “I’m sure it was very funny for you.” Sitting, looking up at Carin, it’s the first time I feel like the younger sister.

  “Get home safe.” Carin is still chuckling as I start to drive away. “Mexico,” she yells, as I roll through the trailer park.

  I stick my head out the car window. “I’ll think about it.”

  Carin follows the car to the edge of the road and as I drive away, she hops across the hot concrete in her bare feet, waving at me in her goofy way. I reach my arm out the window and wave back before pulling out onto the highway and following the snaking road through the arid hills and up into the green mountains. The air turns cool on my skin, sending a shiver of goose bumps up my arms.

  Deep into the mountains everything thins: the trees, the air, the clouds. I’m not sure if this mountain highway is actually the highest I’ve been above sea level, but it feels that way. Every time I drive it, I feel like I can see great distances. The forest stretches and spills off the sides of the Earth. I reach the highway’s crest and then I’m descending again. Everything from here on is closer to the coast. It’s here, at this height, that it hits me: a pang of missing that catches like a stone in the softness of my throat and settles somewhere in my stomach. I finally miss her at the right time. She is my childhood. She’s the part of me that has passed and I miss her.

  THE SPIDER IN THE JAR

  AFTER COLLECTING THE BEER bottles from the bunkhouses at the sawmill, the brothers headed into the forest behind their house to eat wild blackberries until their bellies were rotten with them and their fingertips were stained purple.

  “Lookit.” Ben crouched on one knee, shaped his hand into a gun and took aim at a sparrow perched on a branch. “Bam!” The bird took flight through the trees. When the boys were in the forest, Ben spent a lot of time talking about BB guns.

  “Don’t scare them,” Henry said. Their Mama kept three birdcages in the kitchen — one with finches, one with budgies and one with an African Grey — and Henry liked to stick a finger through the cages to rub their bellies or feel the curt jabs from their beaks. Every morning, it seemed to Henry, they tried to escape. At first light, he could hear them flapping around, screeching and knocking against the metal cages. By lunch they quieted, and by evening they slept. There was always a racket in the kitchen in the morning with the birds and the coffee machine and the brothers.

  “It’s not real,” Ben said. He stood right in front of Henry and aimed his weapon at Henry’s black eye. “Bang!”

  Henry flinched then looked away.

  “Pantywaist,” Ben said. It was what their father called men he didn’t respect. Whenever Henry heard the word he thought of their mother’s underwear, the caramel-coloured ones that reached up past the belly button. Ben picked up two sticks and twirled them between his fingers like nunchucks, spinning his legs around with circular kicks. He pointed a stick at Henry’s swollen eye. “Does it still hurt?” It was the first time Ben said anything about it.

  “No,” Henry lied. The area around the eye was a deep shade of purple, and this morning when Henry looked in the mirror and pried open the lid, there was a bloody spiderweb across his cornea. That day Ben had stood on the other side of the school’s chain-link fence, watching as the boys yelled faggot and chased Henry across the field toward the trees. Henry thought there would be lots of places to hide in the forest. Part of him had believed that once he hit the treeline, he would disappear or swoop high up into the branches of the evergreens like a winged creature.

  “It’s this way,” Ben said when they reached a fork in the path. They were looking for a cave they found yesterday, past the clearing and past the creek. Henry wasn’t allowed to cross the water because he wasn’t a strong swimmer, but Ben had a way of making him do things, like sticking six peanuts up his nose. Henry had snorted most of them out, but he had to go to the emergency clinic for the last two.

  This time they had matches with them, pilfered from the glove compartment of their mother’s car. The cave had been pitch black and Henry had ripped his favorite T-shirt scrambling from it after Ben let out a scream that made his eardrums go fuzzy. Ben was only teasing him, but in the total darkness of the cave Henry had imagined a bear’s coarse fur brushing against his cheek.

  The creek came into view now, twisting through trees dripping with moss, and Ben ran ahead, wading through the water and coming out the other side soaking wet. He took off his shirt, wringing it out before putting it back on, smoothing the wrinkled cotton over his chest. “We need a torch,” he shouted across the water, picking up bits of dried grass and twigs from the ground. Henry scanned the length of the creek, trying to find a safe place to cross. The water was deep in parts, swirling gently where the rocks created whirlpools. Henry crossed along a line of large boulders, taking his steps carefully on the slimy green rocks. He tried not to think about being swept into the water and dragged all the way to the o
cean. Every summer on their first day at the lake, their father would check his wristwatch and time Ben as he swam the length of the shore. He’d compare the result to last year’s time and then enter the numbers in a small booklet that fit in his shirt pocket. Henry would stand on the shore and watch, leaning against their father’s leg and letting his body go limp, his limbs hanging as though he were sick or very tired. When Ben came to shore, their father would pull out a stub of pencil for recording and give him claps on the back as Henry shrugged off the water drops that fell on him.

  By the time Henry reached the entrance to the cave, Ben was on his hands and knees, already half inside, the unlit torch under one arm. Henry rushed to follow behind him, accidently bumping into his behind. “Give me some room, would ya?” Ben said, kicking at him. One of his kicks got Henry on the nose, making him sneeze and sending a spasm of pain through his eye.

  The tunnel leading into the cave was narrow and as they crawled through, their bodies sealed off any light from outside.

  “What about bears?” Henry said, feeling phantom bristles along his skin.

  “The hole’s too small, dummy.” Ben’s voice was muffled.

  The damp rock hugged the brothers as they squeezed blindly through the passageway, and then all of a sudden the cold walls were gone. The air became verdant, cool and wide. Henry reached out into the dark space and felt nothing. They sat silently in the void for a minute, close together, their knees touching. Henry tried to quiet his breathing so it sounded normal — the cave exaggerated every small noise. Ben lit a match, the delicate glow flickering, barely lighting the small circle between them. He held the match to the torch and the flame stirred before fizzling out. He lit a second match and the torch ignited, flaring brightly and filling the space with a smoke that smelled of burning hay.

  “Holy crap.” Ben’s face warped in the fire’s weird light as he stood and swung the torch around. “This is awesome.”

  The cave was almost a perfect circle of smooth rock walls with a dusty, pit-marked floor.

  “Awesome,” Henry said, but the knot in his stomach was still there as he watched the sharp shadows move across Ben’s face.

  A couple metres away from the brothers, something fell from the ceiling and landed near their feet. They stepped closer, peering down at the dark lump before looking up to find a black quivering carpet above them. Before Henry’s brain could make sense of the sight, Ben dropped the torch and darted out of the cave. In the now-total darkness, the impression hit Henry like a knee to the stomach — the cave’s ceiling was thick with large black spiders. Henry scampered back through the tunnel, but no light appeared before him. For a second, he wondered if he’d gotten turned around and was actually going deeper into the cave. His arms shook as he clawed at the darkness, trying to get his bearings. He hit something soft, reached out, and felt the stiff fabric of Ben’s jean jacket, his bony shoulder blades. Henry pushed at his brother’s back, but Ben had dug in his heels, sealing the exit with his own body. Henry’s throat tightened and from him came a strangled moan — an animal-like noise. “Benny, let me out.” Henry’s entire body trembled now, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please.” His screams became frantic shrieks, echoing around the cave until they no longer seemed like his own. He thrashed around like one of the caged birds at daybreak. And then, all of a sudden, everything gave way — light poured around Henry’s body and he burst from the tunnel’s mouth, sprawling in the dirt, arms flailing over his body.

  “Get them off me,” Henry shrieked. “Get them off.”

  “There’s nothing there,” Ben said, doubled over, laughing so hard he was crying. He wiped at the tears streaking his cheeks, his dirty hands leaving behind bands of warrior dirt across his face. Even though Henry knew he was unharmed, he couldn’t stop screaming, his eyes wild and wide to the forest around them. Ben grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Shut up, already.” But Henry couldn’t stop. “Shut up. Shut up, you pantywaist,” Ben said, shoving Henry to the ground.

  Henry sat in the dirt and tasted blood on his tongue. “You’re supposed to protect me,” Henry said, trying to swallow his sobs.

  “You should learn to protect yourself,” Ben said. “Otherwise people are always going to say stuff about you.”

  Henry was quiet after that and Ben left him sitting on the ground to walk home alone.

  DURING DINNER BEN FIDGETED in his chair, almost knocking it over twice, until their father asked him if he had to go to the bathroom and their mother slammed her fork down on the table, making their baby brother, Eli, laugh. Ben then blurted out their discovery of the cave in great detail — how he had found the hidden tunnel, how he had fashioned the torch, how he had burned some of the giant spiders. He left out the part where Henry cried. In fact, he told the story as though Henry wasn’t even there and Henry had to yell over everyone’s voices, “I was there too, ya know.” Henry got a spanking for crossing the creek and Ben got one too for letting him cross. The next day their father asked Ben to show him where the spiders’ cave was, but Henry had to stay at home to wait as punishment. He sat at the window all afternoon watching the edge of the forest turn to shadows.

  They brought one of the dead spiders back in a pickle jar. Their father said he’d never seen anything like it before, and the brothers fought over the jar all night, turning it round and round, pressing their noses to the glass, examining the bristles on the spider’s crooked legs, its leathery body, its wolfish eyes.

  “It’s my specimen,” Ben said. “I collected it.”

  “It doesn’t belong to you,” Henry said.

  “Who does it belong to, then?”

  “God,” Henry said.

  Their mother wouldn’t let them keep the jar on the table while they ate dinner. “It’s a hideous thing,” she said.

  After their meal, Ben brought out his magnifying glass and an encyclopedia from the set their father had given them. He made a drawing of the spider, labelling its parts — cephalothorax, pedipalps, chelicerae. At the top of the page he wrote ARACHNID in big, bold letters. Ben kept a protective arm around the drawing so Henry had to crane his neck to see anything. Eli pulled himself up and hung onto Henry’s chair, his chubby legs bouncing rhythmically while he sucked on Henry’s knee. Henry grabbed the spider jar and thrust it in his face, twisting his mouth and roaring at him. “I need to see it,” Ben said, grabbing the jar back and setting it carefully in front of his drawing. Henry watched Eli for a moment before reaching down to pinch the soft fold of skin behind one of his knees. When the baby cried and fell to the floor, their mother stuck her head out of the kitchen. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said, stroking the fine hair on Eli’s head. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

  Later that night, Henry locked the bathroom door and took off all his clothes. In front of the mirror, he brushed his teeth vigorously until a thick froth poured from his mouth onto the counter. With his black eye he looked like a hideous thing. He snarled like a rabid dog then spit the toothpaste into the sink. He ran his hands over his skinny arms and legs and along the ribs jutting out from his chest, whispering cephalothorax, pedipalps, chelicerae.

  There was a bang at the bathroom door. “Get out,” Ben yelled.

  After Ben finished his drawing and the brothers were in their pajamas, they watched as their father packed the spider jar in a box and sealed it with loops of masking tape. Tomorrow morning first thing, he would send it off to a lab in Victoria for analysis. He posted Ben’s drawing on the fridge.

  Later that night, Eli cried and slept in their parents’ bed, and Henry had nightmares, but he didn’t tell anyone.

  WHEN HENRY WOKE THE next morning his first thought was, Today is Ben’s birthday. He kicked off the sheets but lay in bed watching the patterns from the curtain roll across the ceiling. The shapes morphed from fat triangles to skinny diamonds to long spears and then disappeared. Hen
ry decided he would change himself today. He’d tried it before, but it never worked. By the time he was back in bed that night, he’d realize he was exactly the same. He was determined this morning, though, not to be the same old Henry. He combed his hair straight back instead of parting it in the middle and practiced speaking with the British accent he’d heard on the radio the other day.

  The birthday party was at the lake and the day was sunny, but a cool wind skipped across the water, stirring up waves that lashed the shore. Fat picture-book clouds glided across the sky, trailed by dark shadows over the lake’s surface. Henry helped his mother tie blue balloons to the picnic tables, where they whipped around in the wind, competing for attention. Ben and his friends gathered to eat hot dogs then open presents. Henry’s father pulled the last gift out from under the picnic table, and in the frenzy Henry helped Ben rip open the package. Ben held the brand new BB gun — a pump-action Daisy Red Ryder with a solid wood buttstock — high above his head and everyone cheered, even Henry, because he was different today. After the gifts, all the boys went into the lake. Henry stood beside the shore at his father’s side for only a moment before running full tilt toward the water.

  “Be careful, Henry. You can’t go in over your head,” his mother called after him.

  “Be careful, Henry,” one of the boys mocked.

  Henry bellyflopped into the lake, the cold sending prickles over his flesh and knocking out his breath. He thrashed his arms and kicked his legs, scraping his feet on the rocks in the shallow water and gasping as waves hit him in the face. He wanted to turn back to the shore’s safety, but after a minute he realized his feet could still touch the lake’s bottom and he could bob along easily, only pretending to swim like the other boys. If he found himself too far, losing the feeling of sand between his toes, he simply paddled himself around and went back. The water was no longer cold but felt pleasant and Henry began to feel as calm as the pure, fluffy clouds drifting overhead. Shouts and laughter bounced over the water as he buoyed himself along. “Ello,” he said in his cheerful British accent to any boy who crossed his path. “Ello, ello.” The water was clear, his pale toes wiggling like creatures among the glittering rocks on the lake bottom. The boys splashed one another, sending droplets through the air that hit Henry’s smiling face. He drifted over to the dock, where Ben and some friends were doing cannonballs into the water, and he floated underneath, weightless between the cobwebbed pillars. Through the slats he watched the boys’ bare feet slap along the dock; occasionally he poked a finger up and tickled their soles. “Quit it, Henry,” Ben shouted from somewhere above. His head appeared, hanging over the end of the dock, “I see you.”