Cinnamon Toast and the End of the World (24 page)

Lana came to my place to pick me up on the night. Traditionally, I should have been doing this, but her mother still wasn’t
thrilled about having me at the house. And anyway, as Lana said, ‘It’s not like we’re a traditional couple, right?’

My mom took pictures as we stood in the doorway, all dressed up.

‘God, you’re beautiful. You’re both so beautiful!’

‘We sure are!’ said Lana. She looked like the Queen of the Underworld, corseted in dark red satin and black lace, boobs pushed
up to magnificent heights. I couldn’t wait to step into the gym with this girl and watch every guy who’d ever called her ‘fatso’
collapsing in a stupor of sexual frustration. Lana grabbed me by the lapels. ‘Look at you! The girls are gonna go nuts. And
all the boys are going to turn.’ She glanced back at my mother. ‘Turn envious.’

Mom kept snapping photos, oblivious. We did look pretty damn gorgeous. I was trying to think of professions where I’d get
to wear a tux every day.

The gym was draped with paper streamers and balloons, an enormous disco ball sending squares of white light spinning around
us. Everybody I’d been to school with since Grade Three was there, dressed up like they were on
Dynasty
: tuxes and satin and shoulder pads, big stiff waves of hair.

Of course some people said lame stuff – insulting me, insulting her
for being there with me. But they were just a couple of stupid losers who didn’t know any better.

Lana and I hit the dance floor, improvised a demented tango to ‘The Sun Always Shines on TV’. And for a while I didn’t give
a fuck what anybody thought of me.

The book slid from my lap and hit me on the foot. I blinked, knocked out of a bad dream. Sunlight was glaring off the side
of the wing. Miles below you could see a layer of drifting cloud, green land gone blue with distance.

The annual visit had rolled around: a week in Montreal with Stanley, his wife Sheila, and my two baby sisters. This was my
fourth journey to the Shulevitz house – possibly the last. We’d never discussed what would happen when I was in college. And
of course if I got my revenge, I’d never be going back again.

I was always full of resolve, every time I got on the plane, every year since I was fourteen. Biting my nails and looking
out the round window at tiny fields, forests and towns, rehearsing all the terrible things I was going to say. Oh, I would
make him sorry. For everything he’d done to me, to my mother. This year I’d do it.

Stupid kid
.

My little fold-up tray was open and covered with garbage. I could
see my book under the seat in front –
The Brothers Karamazov
, all nine hundred pages of it. I squirmed and angled myself so I could get my fingertips around the spine, just ended up
knocking it farther away.

It was July. I wasn’t a high-school student anymore. I was a graduate. The ceremony had been fun, although we didn’t get those
platform hats to throw in the air like on TV. Lana was valedictorian. They’d offered it to me, but I chickened out. Speeches
weren’t my thing. Winning prizes was. I got them all, except Physics and Math. Money in the bank. Had to stop myself from
swaggering up to the podium and waving at the audience when I collected the last few.

It was weird not to see Mark there. I wasn’t even sure if he’d shown up for his exams.

My father called on the night with congratulations – at least he’d got the date right this time. I made excuses to get off
the phone. This is what I usually did, when I was left clutching a plastic receiver, confronted with the fact of Stanley.

Being around him was like watching something slip out of my hands and shatter against the floor, over and over again. Stan
Shulevitz. ‘Spider’ to his friends. I wasn’t a friend.

I was nine, wearing
Star Wars
pyjamas. I woke up because my mother was screaming.

‘Stanley, don’t. Stanley, don’t!’

I could hear him on the stairs.

Then he was in my room with me, my old child-sized room with the high narrow bed in the corner. The light was on and I couldn’t
stop
blinking. Stan closed my door, used a straight-backed chair to force it shut behind him.

‘Up here, Maryna!’ He was smiling. ‘I’m up here with your little half-kike son.’

‘Jesus, Stanley!’ It sounded like she was just outside. ‘You’re not telling him that. I said I didn’t mean it!’ The doorknob
twisted. Stan held it steady and blocked the door with his body. I sat hugging my knees into my chest, covers bunched around
me.

‘Yeah, your mother just called me a kike,’ Stanley said. His voice was loud. He was talking to both of us. ‘It’s an insult.
Just thought I’d warn you, buddy. In case she calls you one.’

The doorknob rattled again. ‘Oh, God, Stanley, I told you I’m sorry. You made me so mad and I wanted to hurt you. And nothing
I said made a difference. Nothing I ever say makes any difference!’

My father tested the chair to see if it was secure and then took himself for a walk around my room. He peered at my books
on the set of shelves Mom had built for me, seemed fascinated by my nightlight.

‘I can’t believe she lets you keep that thing. People need darkness, you know.’

In the hallway behind the door, my mother was crying. ‘It’s not my word,’ she said, muffled and echoing. ‘It’s not even my
father’s word. I don’t know why I …’

Stanley sat on the edge of my bed and started flipping through my old copy of
Stuart Little
. ‘Look at that. The mouse has hands. Actual hands. He can hold a knife and make a boat. Now that is weird.’ He turned to
me. ‘Do you like this book, buddy?’

His eyes were red and he had that smell on him. I asked my father if he was high and he said yes, he was.

‘Stanley,’ I said, ‘can I open the door? Please?’

He lay back on my bed, holding the book above him.

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

I stayed put. The chair was still wedging the door in place. I hoped it wasn’t dark in the hallway.

Stanley rested the book face-down on his chest. ‘The people she’s from. You have no idea. I didn’t listen to anybody. Not
my family, not my friends. I wanted Maryna Solovyov.’ The way he said my mother’s name made her sound like a different person.

She was knocking softly. ‘Please. Can’t we forget this ever happened?’

I must have made a move towards the door, some twitch. My father shook his head at me, frowning.

‘Stan? Stephen?’

I curled up in a corner of the bed by his shoulder and hid my face, grabbed a handful of his scratchy wool sweater and squeezed
it. Stanley was talking about a party, some party he’d gone to in college when he was still living with his parents in Toronto.

‘She was getting sick on a rose bush,’ he said, in a dreamy half-asleep voice.
Who was? Oh. Mom
. ‘I was watching her most of the night. Very, very pretty, but she didn’t know what to say to anyone. On the outside of every
group.’
Stuart Little
went sliding off his chest and smacked onto the floor.

‘She drank too much and then somebody got her high, so she was in the backyard throwing up. There was a person standing over
her. A man. She wouldn’t know what she was doing. And I thought:
I will not let that happen. Not to that beautiful girl
. So I helped her up, and I took her upstairs, and do you know what I did?’

I whispered that I didn’t know. I did. I’d heard this story before, although the details shifted around depending on his mood,
and he never said what happened after they left the party.

‘I made her brush her teeth. Stomach acid. Very bad for the tooth enamel.’ He stretched himself out. ‘Everything I said made
her laugh. Everything I said made her smile. Beautiful girl. Before she went home, she had to change back into these awful
clothes her parents made her wear. All covered up, skirts down to the floor. She went behind the shower curtain. I wanted
to look, but I didn’t. She stumbled and I caught her. Touched her through the plastic.’ He smiled. It made him look younger.

‘Then we walked home. I mean I walked her home, but I had to stay by the gate. Actually hid behind a tree in case her father
saw me. He was waiting. Filling the doorway. Big guy, Stepan Solovyov. You’re named for him.’ I was still curled up by his
shoulder, trying not to move. This was the part of the story I’d never heard.

‘She was walking up to the house alone. Taking these careful steps towards him. Neither of them said a word. No other noise
from the street. She must have been so scared. It was close to two in the morning and she wasn’t supposed to be out past ten.’
Stanley went quiet for a moment. I thought he’d fallen asleep. Then his voice came again, softer, sad.

‘He hit her, buddy. Right across the face. Maryna. I did nothing. Just stood there. But I thought to myself:
Now, I am going to save that girl
.’

Then his arm was around me. ‘Buddy? What’s wrong?’

I’d started crying as soon as he got to the part about Mom’s father hitting her.

‘Did he really do that?’

‘Yes, but …’

Couldn’t stop. ‘She just wanted to go home. And he was waiting?’

‘Emotional boy,’ he said. ‘What am I going to do with this emotional boy?’ Stanley ruffled my hair. ‘Hey. It was a long time
ago. That was your grandfather. He’s dead now.’

‘Good.’

My father relaxed into the bed, gave a low chuckle. ‘Oh, I’ll miss you, Stephen,’ he said, and I was suddenly terrified.

I remember walking home from school with Mark in our lumpy winter coats, a few months after my parents had had that fight.
Snow banks were still skulking on the edges of the roads, low clouds shutting out the sky.

A few doors from my house, I’d started to run. Something was wrong. The car. Mom was supposed to have it today. Some days
Stan would need it to get to the university, and then he’d bring her home from her office job two towns away. But this wasn’t
one of those days.

I got closer. Mark was behind me. Our old green Volvo was backing out of the driveway, Stanley behind the wheel. I didn’t
have to look in the windows to know it was all there. The guitar, the typewriter, everything.

I ran to the side of the car. He hit the brakes and the noise of the engine died. We glared at each other. Stanley told me
something through the window that sounded like ‘get out of the way’ and rolled down the glass.

‘Look. You weren’t supposed to be home. I should have been out of here by now.’

‘Where are you going?’ I grabbed the door handle and pulled. He’d locked it. I hung on.

‘Stephen, don’t … don’t make this …’ He reached out the window and tried to pry my fingers away. I held tighter, fusing myself
to the car.

‘We’ll see each other again,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’ Seemed like he
was making a move to touch my head but I dodged him. ‘Aw, come on, buddy. Just wave me goodbye. Huh?’

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t going to let him go. He could drive off and my arm would still be there, stuck to the handle.

‘Stephen,’ my father said. The voice he used for giving orders. ‘I need you to go to the house. I need you to … get me something.’
He closed his eyes. ‘It’s in the kitchen. Third drawer down from the left. You understand?’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s … you’ll know when you see it.’

‘Promise you won’t go anywhere?’

He sighed. ‘I … yeah, I promise.’

I was breathing quick and shallow, felt nauseated. I wanted him to stay. But he wanted to go, and he was stronger. The only
way to end this was if I went into the kitchen like he wanted. If I decided to believe him. I relaxed my grip on the door,
fingers coming away red and stiff. Took a few steps towards the house. Mark was in the front yard. He’d been there the whole
time. I’d forgotten all about him.

‘Mark,’ I said. ‘Stan promised he wouldn’t …’ Mark nodded at me, folded his arms and kept his eyes fixed on the car. I opened
the front door.

Couldn’t remember which drawer. I opened them all. Placemats. Birthday candles. Casserole dishes. A box of matches. Knives
and forks and spoons. I kept looking. Even when I heard the car start up, sound of the motor getting softer in the distance.

I stayed in the kitchen, turning around in circles, bouncing from one corner to the next. Tried not to think about my mother
coming home.
Don’t be mad, Mom
. I wanted to go down in the basement and hide, but Mark was calling my name. There was a brass bottle opener
in the top drawer next to the spoons. I decided this was what my father had asked for.

I opened the front door. The car was gone.

Now it was real. I didn’t have to imagine it anymore. I wondered if I’d still need a nightlight in my room.

‘He lied to you!’ I’d never seen Mark like this. He was practically shaking. ‘He lied to you, Stephen. I threw a rock at his
car, but it didn’t hit.’ Mark stared down the road. ‘Fuck!’

I echoed him, gazing down that empty street. I wasn’t supposed to use that word, but it felt right.

We stayed in the front yard all afternoon. Usually Mark and I would play some variation on soldiers pretending to kill each
other, but I couldn’t focus, kept wandering into the line of fire. Then it was almost supper time. No sign of my mom.

‘Please don’t go home, Mark.’

‘Okay.’ Mark chucked rocks against the fence while I went ranging up and down keeping an eye on the street. He stayed with
me till my mother arrived, in a car I’d never seen before. She didn’t even have her feet on the ground before she was asking
about Stanley. I told her everything I could. Mom said he’d taken our car for the day and promised he’d pick her up after
work. But she’d waited and waited, called the house a dozen times. We were outside, so we didn’t hear.