Critical Injuries (27 page)

Isla hasn't had in mind that he should ever get used to knowing the horrible thing he has done. She's thought his swift, stupid act should go right on haunting him. That and some hellish prison for a very long time would have suited her fine. “Well,” she begins carefully, “but you said he has family. Grandmother, father, whatever. Helping him would be their job, don't you suppose?” Although evidently they have already helped him, somehow, straight into crime, directly to punishment. “And where's his mother?”

“Oh, that's sad, too. Somebody said she killed herself, jumped off a bridge or something when he was a kid.”

He's still a kid. But that is sad.

“He and his father'd already moved back in with his dad's mother before that happened. They've been there ever since.”

So: blame the mother, what else? If his mother hadn't screwed up, Isla wouldn't be here. Everything would be different. And who would have known what they'd escaped? Not Isla, for sure.

“I didn't mean he's alone in the world, exactly, more that he looks alone. Like there's nothing
true
in his life, you know what I mean?”

Oh. Now Isla does suddenly know. She sees Alix has just told her something, but not about the boy: that Alix perceives aloneness and emptiness in him because those things are recognizable and familiar to her.

What a disastrously self-absorbed mother she has been: grateful, glad even, that at least during their worst times, Alix was more steady than Jamie, worked hard, did well, caused no real trouble.

Quietly waited her turn. Bided her time. Cultivated, as she waited and bided, her desires and longings. Her
yearnings
.

“Yes,” Isla says slowly, “I think I do see something of what you mean.”

“Then you wouldn't mind too much? I don't want to make it harder for you, but I have to ask. You know those moments when you
know
something's right?” Not really. Those seem to be moments that occur to other people. Like Lyle finding the place he belongs: some kind of magic.

Now she gets to give an opinion on whether her daughter should form an attachment, never mind what kind, to a kid who shoots people. Who shoots Alix's mother, one person only.

Imagine if Alix ever stumbled onto some normal, unworrying, probably not very interesting middle ground; but looking up into her daughter's intent, unwavering gaze, Isla sees this isn't likely. And really, there do have to be people on earth, surely, with intent, unwavering gazes. “Well, it's upsetting, of course, you'd know I was lying if I said otherwise. But I take your word that you know what needs doing. For yourself, I mean. I really can't give a damn about him. Let me just ask you, though, please, to be careful. I only saw him once, and just for a moment, but it wasn't the sort of moment that would make me think he has any good prospects.”

Imagine Alix visiting him wherever he has, thank God, been sent, although for far too short a time. Imagine her listening to him explain and explain, making attempts on her compassion and pity.

“Here's something that'll make you happier, though, Mum. The other thing I wanted to tell you is, I think I've decided I'm not going back to Serenity.”

What? Isla feels pistol-whipped: smacked hard one way, then the other. Could she have misheard?

“I'm sad, because besides everything else, most of those people have been my truest friends,” a quick smile when Alix adds, “which I guess means I wasn't as detached as I was supposed to be — but I've thought about it a lot, and I'm pretty sure I've decided.”

“Why?” By which Isla means,
What miracle is this, at last?

“Well, because even Master Ambrose says he can show us some of the ways, but he can't actually carry us anywhere, we still have to carry ourselves. So that's all I think, really: that maybe this is a good time to carry myself.” She pauses, frowns a little, makes another vague sweep of her arm above Isla. “Because what's happened changes so much, doesn't it? It means thinking about everything sort of differently. That things really do happen, it isn't only detachment.”

Hard to have to be shot in order for a daughter to have the odd life-saving epiphany.

But hallelujah anyway. Goodbye Master Ambrose, farewell brown dresses, au revoir dumb obedience? Oh yes, hurray. “You're right,” Isla says far more mildly than she feels, “that is good news, it makes me much happier. It feels like a good sign.” From too much ill luck, does she now court having too much good fortune? She wouldn't care for her quota to run out before Thursday. “But what, really, were you looking for there? Can you tell me now?” That great puzzle.

Alix looks surprised. “Just what it says: serenity. I mean, I heard ‘Serenity Corps' and I thought, ‘Bingo. That's it.' Not so mysterious. Kind of disciplined but peaceful. The
courage
to be serene.”

Well. Isla does see the appeal. The appetite and the desire.

It also feels as if somewhere in this conversation, Alix has offered, not an answer, not salvation, not even any credible variation on faith, belief, or desire. But a parable of some kind. A useful story buried in there. “I'm very glad, Alix,” she says again. “I can't tell you.” And really, she can't.

Everyone is on the edge of one drastic sentiment or another these days — really quite exhilarating, and strange. Life on a scale she hasn't particularly noticed before: microscopic, and close to the ground. The narrowed, focused perspective of stillness, of infinitesimal swayings this way and that, and tiny steps, crucial totterings, small, delicate, perilous, optimistic advancements.

Perhaps.

Alix will visit that boy, she wants to help fill him up.

Alix wants to save herself. She is not in favour of harbouring hatred.

She is leaning down over Isla. How rare this is recently, an embrace from Alix.

In jail, there can be no embracing of prisoners. There's that rule to rely on.

But skin is a hard, hard loss. “I wish you joy,” Isla says, by which she means, although Alix will have no way of knowing this, that she hopes for Alix the blessing of unburdened embraces. Absolute attachment.

It sounds like a benediction,
I wish you joy
. Benevolent, in fact. Now she has just a day to find some other good words. Not happy words, necessarily, but good ones.

Not Too Much Buddy-Buddy

All that talk about classes, studying, counselling, chores in the kitchen and laundry, tough discipline, hard schedule — but nobody mentioned Roddy'd have a roommate. Cellmate. Nobody said he wouldn't have a little space and time of his own.

Like everything else recently, this is totally new to him.

Even he and Mike in their high glossy shared apartment were going to have separate bedrooms. They counted on that much from Goldie's for sure. They checked out advertisements. They knew what sort of rent to expect. “We'll need our own rooms,” Mike said with his usual confidence, “especially for bringing back babes.”

That was going to be some glamorous change, some high-quality transformation, that parallel-universe life.

So what a surprise, another shock among many, to be driven away north in the van to this huge four-winged, grey-walled place, which has guards outside as well as inside, who stopped the van and checked what they called the “cargo,” one name at a time. And to be led inside and told to stand still while being hummed over by metal detectors, and stripped naked and inspected and showered, no dignity to this, no idea any of the four of them arriving together might be a particular human, and then — exhausted and heartsore, literally by then Roddy's heart hurt, to be steered to a cell, to watch the guard keycard the lock, to feel grateful that he'd now get to be by himself, quiet finally, even just for a little while, a few solitary minutes to catch his breath, close his eyes, retrieve the necessary visions and begin learning how to hold on to them. And then to see a guy on a cot looking up from his magazine, already a resident of Roddy's new home.

Shit. Oh, not fair to get nothing, nothing at all that he wants.

The metal door locked behind him. The guy sat up, nodded neutrally, not even apparently bothering, as Roddy was, to try to assess raw danger, bare kindness. He said, just, “Darryl. Called Dare.”

Roddy said, “Rod.” Added, since that seemed insufficient, “Hi.” The guy didn't look much bigger than him, and his nearly-shorn hair looked to be the uniform of the place, not a statement of fashion, like Roddy's, or of outlook, necessarily. Major muscles, though, in his arms, and little dark eyes Roddy took to contain potential for meanness, although maybe that's only what people imagine about little dark eyes; and anyway maybe he was only squinting to give the impression of menace, the way Roddy himself hoped to do.

Darryl gestured. “That'll be your bed, that one.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Darryl had pictures taped up on the wall on his side of the cell, so Roddy supposed he'd sort of made that part his home. Naked women pictures, huge, gargantuan breasts, the kind Roddy's never even dreamed of, so spectacularly impossible for somebody like him. He couldn't imagine it'd be a good idea to put pictures of tiny multi-legged creatures on his side of the room. Too weird, never mind that they belonged in some other, earlier, innocent time. Darryl's pictures say he's a normal guy, whatever that is, and moreover one who calls himself
Dare
. Roddy's pictures wouldn't exactly give a similar message.

The same kind of lidless crapper as the other place, the same tiny sink. Two desks, though, and two chairs, all bolted into the floor, and a couple of shelves each, bolted into the walls. Roddy's had two towels on them, and some sheets and a pillow, but they might also be intended for books; the business of taking classes. Darryl's did: a few texts and a couple of notebooks. He watched Roddy taking this in. “You been here before? You know how it works?”

“No. Not really.” Dare's not as big as Mike, and darker-skinned and while muscled, not as sort of bulked up. As an enemy, he might be more like Roddy himself, someone who goes in low, fast, hard, and mean. A bad enemy, especially with just the two of them in a small cell, or a good ally, especially outside the cell. Or maybe neither one.

“First thing, you could make your bed up. You probably got about fifteen minutes before a guard comes around and checks everybody. Last guy in here got out yesterday. He jerked off about six times a night so you probably want to turn over the mattress while you're at it.”

Oh yeah. Gross. Somebody else's mattress. Guy after guy had slept, or not slept, on that nasty grey thing. Not that Dare offered to help Roddy turn it over. Not that, on the other side, it was much less repulsive.

If he thought the detention centre had reeked of something backed up and leaking out, not water systems or even cleaning chemicals but something more to do with contained bodies, it was nothing to this place. Danger is as serious here as desire, and adds its own smell.

Everybody's under eighteen, that's what the whole place is for. Roddy's among the oldest ones here, but he feels practically virginal, almost innocent. Sure he can say “armed robbery,” but there's rapists, and guys who've run in gangs since they were little kids. There's guys to stay well away from, and sometimes that's obvious just from looking at them. Others go around looking nervous, which is about the worst thing to do because even with guards around, there's ways to get hurt. There's lots of low-voiced threats, and hidden weapons like sharp lengths of metal stripped from the bottom of beds, there's pool cues poked hard into a belly or back.

Dare's here because he stabbed a guy late at night outside a bar. “Stupid fucker died.” He told Roddy this their first night of cell-sharing. It was his biggest crime, for sure, but not his only one. Seemed like he'd earned his name. “Armed robbery?” he said. “Me too, a couple of variety stores but I never got busted for those. I used a knife, though, not a gun. I've never used a gun.”

He sounded impressed.

Roddy remains impressed the other way round. Knives. Maybe the results could be just as accidental, but sticking somebody — you'd get blood all over you, you'd touch actual flesh, it'd be completely personal, close-up, and real. There'd be particular in-your-face smells, and certain sounds. It didn't seem possible. But a lot of things don't seem possible and they happen anyway, including to him.

“Guy was where he didn't belong,” Dare explained as if this would sound reasonable, even obvious once pointed out. “Bunch of preppy kids slumming. Thought they were cool. Fuckin' pissed me off, lording it around like tourists or something, like they were kings of the world. So this frat boy, I mean it turns out he really was a frat boy, he's going on about how any of them could fuck our sisters and girlfriends and probably would, and like how they had these big-deal futures and too bad about us losers, real snotty shit, and I finally say, like, ‘Shut up and fuck off or I'll give you a future,' and he goes all, ‘Yeah, you'd like that,' and back and forth and so on and then fuck, I finally just say fuck it and pull out the blade and then he starts backing off, he says, like, ‘Whoa, dude,' and I say, ‘Way too late, asshole,' and I stick him. Three times. He goes down, just folds on the sidewalk.

“Everybody goes to split, me too, a lot of yelling and running around, his friends go totally out of their minds, but you know, like, he
was
an asshole. Big mess of blood all over the sidewalk. Weird.” Dare shook his head; but he didn't sound sorry, exactly; more, still, sort of surprised, but not entirely amazed. Didn't he scare himself? And if not that, didn't what happened scare him, the result? Well, he wasn't likely to say, was he? Any more than Roddy would. “His buddies won't be going to that part of town again any time soon, I bet. They can take their futures and shove them right up my hairy white ass. But hey,” and he turned on his side to look at Roddy, lying carefully on his fresh-sheeted bed, “you shot a broad?”

“Yeah,” Roddy said. “Wrong time, wrong place.”

“She die?”

“No. Still in the hospital, though.” He didn't want to say
paralyzed
. It would make her sound too much a victim, himself too much someone who only really defeated the helpless. “My lawyer got the attempt murder charge dropped.” He tried to sound as casual as Dare. Word gets around.

Darryl likes to talk, but he could be a worse cellmate. At least he doesn't go on and on about nothing. It's not completely impossible, when they're in the cell together, at the end of days that already feel endless when there's months and months more to come, for Roddy to slip behind closed eyelids into the visions he needs to hold on to. He can still, if he tries hard, make out a flare of bright hair, the skin he could almost see through, most of all the eyes that saw right into him. The days are hard, and the nights, too. Not much silence. There's so much yelling and other noise, practically round the clock, it's kind of insane. Everybody seems angry, prisoners and guards, too, and not just about small day-to-day matters. Roddy's kind of angry himself, but keeps in mind that quiet menace is the weapon he has, if he has any at all, if he needs one. It's not so much that bad things happen here, although they do, but that everybody goes around as if they could happen, any second and for any reason, or for that matter for no reason. There is not a moment's rest from knowing that.

He still has the dreams that wake him up, but even in sleep, he's learned not to wake up upset in any obvious way. He's trained himself already towards desolation — there's a word he comes upon in English class and likes the sound of — and silence. The dreams of his mother come the same every time, but they're still a surprise every time. He wakes up to the idea that, never mind what he thinks he remembers, he mustn't have been very lovable. He must have had something about him that turned his mother's heart away and took her to the railing of that bridge off which, night after night, he continues, sometimes gently, sometimes not, to finally push her.

Later in the day, occupied and fully awake, he can think, so what. Shit happens. To hell with it.

Only, not first thing in the morning.

Anyway, there's better dreams to have.

He has some of those, too.

But you can't count on dreams. The counsellor here, or therapist, or whatever she is, that he got dragged off to see once, more to come, asked him stuff like that: is he sleeping well here, does he have dreams, what are they. Like he'd tell her. Like he'd say anything about trying to hold a vision when he's awake, and in his sleep having a completely different one. How in a dream he puts his fingertips onto the perfect round nipples of that Alix, that Starglow, and is wakened, those much happier times, by something like electricity.

Like some woman maybe in her forties should hear that? So she could tell him this and that about it that wouldn't be right at all? No way.

She looks okay, but that's likely her job, to look okay to guys here. He saw her his first full day here, but not since then, in a little grey office down a mile of long grey corridors. She stood up from behind a grey metal desk and stuck out her hand and said, “I'm Mrs. Shaw. Hello, Rod,” which was a good start. “I'll be in charge of your counselling and education program. I mean setting you up in courses, not teaching them myself. I do personal and group counselling, though, so we'll be spending a fair amount of time together, one way and another.”

He shrugged. She had one of those business-type leather briefcases that she slapped down on the table and opened with a sharp double click. It was jammed full, and messy. She was kind of jammed full and messy, too, but with a low voice and friendly eyes. People probably found it easy to tell her things, he figured, although he wouldn't be one of them.

She said, “I'd say from those tests you did, and from your school records, that you have a lot of potential. That's not as rare here as you might think, but it's a very good start. It gives us something productive to work with. Hope that when you leave, you'll be better off than you probably feel you are today.” He had nothing to say to that; although hope would be nice. Also he liked knowing that, same as Stan at the detention centre, she realized he wasn't hopeless.

“And I have a copy of your pre-sentence report here. Comments from your family, some of your teachers and friends, a couple of people you worked for.”

He was startled into saying, “You talked to people?”

“Well, no, Rod, I didn't, but other people did. A PSR goes to the judge before someone is sentenced, to help the judge figure out the best thing to do.” So people had conversations about him. Felt free to talk, give details, tell stories, maybe true, maybe not. Is just anybody allowed to start demanding this and that about his life now?

Would Mike have been asked questions about him? Could Mike talk about Roddy without faltering, without showing anything? Roddy was desperate to ask this Mrs. Shaw, “What did Mike say?” Also, “What's he doing, does he still work at Goldie's? Did anybody notice if he looks like he's keeping a secret? Was he uncomfortable talking about me? Or sad? Or did he keep his mouth shut?”

Is Mike haunted? Does he feel guilty? Does he wonder how Roddy is doing, does he wonder at Roddy setting out to protect him?

Does he think about the woman at all?

There are no answers from Mike, who hasn't called or written or visited, as far as Roddy knows. Maybe he tried. Maybe nothing gets through.

He must wonder, though. Except Roddy can't be sure of that, not any more. They've gone off in totally different directions, him and Mike. One moment in Goldie's.