Darren Effect (22 page)

He grinned. “Maybe I'll phone you next week then, Isabella?”

But he didn't. He didn't phone for weeks, though she was anticipating it and kept her phone plugged in. She found herself called in to substitute more often as a result.

The movie Cooper had rented was nearly over and Isabella checked the level in the wine bottle. It was empty, a surprise and disappointment. She would have liked one more sip. The movie, which Cooper had assured her was a classic, was a recent release lavish with blood and gore: a woman's severed head, a girl stomped to death, dresses and petticoats and bedding sloppy with pink, pretty blood. Neither Isabella nor Cooper thought the blood looked believable. It was too bright.

“I suspect that was the point,” Isabella said.

“What do they make it out of, Mom?”

“I'm not sure. I think they used chocolate syrup in the old black and whites. Yum, yum.”

“They couldn't use that now.” Cooper was digging items out from between the sofa cushions. A pen, stapler, hemp bracelet, monopoly shoe, tissues.

“No, I wouldn't say.”

“Look, Mom.”

“Don't be pulling all that stuff out now, Cooper.”

“Just look.”

He held out a small dark object. Isabella bent to have a closer look, but even before she knew what it was she knew better than to touch it.

“Well, that's unfortunate,” she said, which Cooper found funny. A dried-up bit of dog shit. “Put it in the garbage for me, please, then wash your hands.”

She sent Cooper to bed, promising she'd be right down to say goodnight. The two of them had been in the bungalow on Goodridge Place several months, but she still wasn't sure how she felt about Cooper sleeping in the basement. He seemed too far away, perhaps because she couldn't hear a single sound he made. She went into her own bedroom and remembered for the umpteenth time that she had intended all day to change the sheets on her bed. She tore the top sheet off and was appalled at the crud that had accumulated at the bottom, presumably transported via the soles of her feet. Were they equally dirty? She would check in the morning. In particular, she noticed a lot of dog hair, which led her to consider the whereabouts of Inky.

She returned to the kitchen and opened the door and leaned out into her new neighborhood. Jeanette's car was in the adjacent yard, behind Darren's truck. It was a warm night. Spring was here. Inky would be fine and he wasn't barking. There was only, in the distance, someone speaking in a harsh, clipped manner, making a point.

She closed and locked the door and decided a bit of toast would help her sleep, but was surprised to find herself weaving on her way to the refrigerator. She didn't realize she'd had that much to drink. She put her hands on the kitchen table and nearly fell onto it, her face lurching to within inches of the mahogany-stained pine. She saw the words “Danny sucks . . . ” but couldn't make out the rest of it. She exhaled impatiently. She was forever reminding Cooper to write over several pieces of paper to protect the soft tabletop. Yes, toast would be just the thing, toast with the blueberry jam she'd bought that day, and a glass of milk. This time crossing the kitchen she made a conscious effort to follow a straight path, and thought she did quite well. She was careful pouring the milk and pleased with herself for finding things so quickly and easily in her new ugly home.

She carried the toast into the living room, eating it as she wandered around, absently looking for a place to sit. The lights were off, and through the window that faced her front yard, the single dogberry caught her attention. The recent addition of leaves seemed to make even such a puny tree worth admiring, though in the light from the streetlights it seemed reduced to two colours: black and green. She wanted to sit by the window and more closely examine that tree, but there was a stack of unpacked boxes there. She turned, thinking to drag the armchair from the opposite side of the room across, and was on her way towards it, when she heard the voice again. Somebody making a point.

Her clumsiness vanished. She quietly placed her plate and glass on a nearby table and made her way to the window facing the side yard. The drapes were drawn. She dropped to her knees and surfaced between the glass and drapes.

She slid the window open a few inches and heard Jeanette ask, “When did you decide this, Darren?”

She was crying. Sweet Mother of God, Jeanette was crying. Through the wooden lattice enclosing her neighbour's deck, Isabella could make out two figures: Darren sitting, his back to her, and Jeanette standing.

“Mom?”

“Shhh! Don't turn on that light!” Isabella whispered, pushing the drapes away.

“Why's it so dark in here, Mom?”

“Shhh. Don't turn on that light.”

“What are you doing?” Cooper was looking in her general direction but couldn't see her yet. “Mom?”

“Over here. I think the neighbours are having an argument.” She ducked back under the drapes.

Jeanette was asking, “When are you moving out, then?”

“I didn't say I was moving out. I just said — ”

Cooper popped up beside her. “You're bad to the bone, Mom,” he whispered in her ear.

“Shhh.”

“Darren, you know I don't like to sleep alone in the house. You know I'm afraid of the dark, Darren.”

“I haven't made any decisions. It wouldn't be the end — ”

Jeanette's next comment was broken and muffled.

“Do not mention that pool again, Jeanette. Please.”

Isabella sat quickly back on her heels and put a hand over her mouth. She was surprised by the sharpness in his voice, by the hint of cruelty. By the mention of that bloody pool.

The pool was still in its box in the den. There had been a distancing in her relationship with Darren since its purchase, a purchase she regretted. Shopping with — or without — Darren had distracted her, and she knew it for what it was: a way to get through her day. But when he had pulled his Visa from his wallet, insisting the pool be bought, she'd felt uneasy.

Perhaps she had been looking for control, a stabilizing influence, someone to reach a hand out to warn her off her extravagances — though, if anything, Darren had encouraged her purchases. He was kind, and she appreciated the way he accepted Cooper without giving her any parenting suggestions. But the pool had been a mistake.

She returned to the window. Through the lattice she caught a glimpse of Darren's hand as he lifted a can of Coke and squeezed it. There was the sound of metal crunching, followed by a noise like a burp.

“It wouldn't be the end of the world, Jeanette,” Darren said, rising.

Then the light went off, the door closed and there was silence. Isabella watched Jeanette descend into her backyard and fade from view; perhaps she was inspecting the potentillas she'd been pruning the other day. Isabella rose and collected her glass and plate and tottered into the kitchen. Cooper had vanished. Glancing down, she was mortified to see her white blouse spotted with blueberry jam the size of bullet wounds. Though she had never seen a bullet wound except on television.

*

The following morning Isabella lay on her bed listening to a repetitive thumping coming from the bathroom. She was dressed, but had returned to bed after breakfast, careful to dangle her feet over the side because untying her laces and removing her shoes seemed out of the question. Her head contained a familiar constituent difficult to label: at times it was definitely pain, then it flipped and became regret. Lately, she had been drinking a little too much wine. It was something she was going to have to keep an eye on.

“Cooper?”

But there had been an element of thrill, you couldn't deny that, spying on the neighbours, although now she recognized another feeling for what it was: shame. If only Cooper had not come up from the basement and caught her. If only he'd stayed in bed where, of course, he wasn't sleeping. She wasn't sure what he did at night after she'd gone to bed, but she was fairly certain he wasn't sleeping.

Or reading. Or doing anything at all she would approve of.

“Cooper?”

“Word?”

He was just outside her closed door. “Cooper, what are you doing?”

Cooper's answer came in a high-pitched voice that was not unmelodious and reminded Isabella of the Supremes. “Somebody's going to get hurt,” he sang.

She knew he wasn't talking to her, not per se. And she detected no malice, no real threat. She was thinking he was really perfectly well adjusted when he delivered a horrendous kick to her bedroom door. She thought how much she hated the hollow, cheaply made doors of this house. If she opened or closed a door in one end of the house, all the others rattled.

Isabella could use Benny on a morning like this. When Cooper had been a sleep-resistant infant and she, exhausted, had wished for anything other than getting up, Benny would
take Cooper to Tim Hortons or out to feed the ducks, leaving her alone in bed to catch up on her sleep. But, ironically, she had been unable to resist the temptation of an empty house on those mornings, and rarely fell back to sleep. There would be the commotion of the two of them leaving, the murmured string of bribes and extensive explanations on Benny's part, followed by the sound of car doors shutting, the engine starting — a period of warm-up on winter mornings — and then, at last, the car was pulling out of the driveway and Isabella would turn over onto her back and open her eyes. There was the smell of coffee, the kick and whirr of the furnace and the profound desire that they not return for hours. Ten minutes later, exploring her own house as though she'd never before seen it, barefoot and carrying a mug of tepid coffee, she would be struck by the vast emptiness of those rooms. But though empty of people, of movement and talk, she would feel the presence of love, like a liquid poured into every nook and cranny of her home.

“Cooper?”

“Mom, were you pissed last night?” He was still standing just outside her door.

“Of course not. And I've asked you not to use that particular word.”

“We thinks you were, Mom.”

Regret.

“Mom, some missus called.”

Isabella sat up on an elbow. “Come in here, Cooper, so I can see you.”

The door slowly swung open as though of its own accord; Isabella was reminded of that exhilarating haunted house in Disney World. Cooper had not seen it because he was too frightened, so Isabella had gone in alone, leaving her son and husband to wait for her outside.

Cooper approached her bed and stood stiffly before her.

“Who called?”

“Don't know.”

“Did she leave a message?”

“No.”

Isabella sniffed. “Have you been lighting matches?”

“No.”

She studied him. He looked far too restless. “Why don't you invite someone over today?”

“Can't.”

“Why not?”

“Lewis is grounded. It's Stuart's dead uncle's birthday and he's at church. And Andrew is at Lewis's house.”

“Stop. Who's grounded?”

“Lewis.”

“Then why is Andrew there? Are you sure Lewis is grounded?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. His mom even told me.”

“But Andrew is at his house? That doesn't sound grounded.”

“Mom, you and Dad don't know what grounded is. Grounded does not mean staying in your room. Grounded means staying in your
house
. Grounded means you can still watch TV, play Xbox and have friends over. Are you laughing? Shut up, Mom.”

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak that way to me.”

And Dad died six months ago.

“Mom, can we buy some Kool-Aid?”

“Certainly.”

“When?”

“When did you need it by?”

“One hour. Please.”

“Oh, honey, there's the phone again. Could you get it for Mommy?”

“If they don't have black cherry, I want strawberry.”

“Get the phone, please?”

Isabella stared at the ceiling. There had been a leak in one of the corners, staining the ceiling a cloudy urine colour. She was thinking about what she overheard last night. It was a relief to hear Darren speak that way to his sister. He needed to stand up for himself.

But do we all possess the capacity for some cruelty? Benny? Herself?

Isabella had wanted to hurt Heather Welbourne, but in the end it was Benny who hurt her, backing away from her after he became sick. Retreating, moving inside himself. Isabella had been grateful for this, for what appeared to simplify her life and protect her dignity, but she could not escape the knowledge that there had been elements of cowardice and cruelty in Benny's actions.

“Think of murderers,” she said aloud, thinking of cruelty in general, which led her to listen for Cooper. Where was he? Had he answered the phone? Was he still in the house? Was he safe? She was forever imagining him getting himself beaten up, kidnapped or murdered. Dropping him off at school, which she did two to three times a week when he missed the school bus, Isabella had developed the superstitious habit of glancing back to get a last look at him before he entered the building. She felt that in some way this glance protected him, yet the action always inspired the alarming thought, what if this is the last time I see my son alive?

Cooper returned with the phone. “It's some missus,” he said loudly and Isabella gave him a severe, pointless frown. She took the phone.

“Yes? Oh, yes, hi Cindy. Barbeque this Saturday. Darren Foley said it was potluck. But I'm new to all this. Yes, see you then.”

Isabella handed the phone back to Cooper. “Did I sound nutty? Did I sound like I was in bed?”

“Mom, you worry too much about what other people think. And you
are
in bed. Listen, pop quiz: how do you know if a Newfie's gay?”

She was having second thoughts about the barbeque, which she had offered to host. It was a few years since she'd had a real party, and this house . . .