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Author of the Month: Joyce Wayne

by

Tell us about yourself.

My first novel, The Cook’s Temptation, has just been published. It took me about 35 years to make it happen. It wasn’t until five years ago that I actually decided I must do what I always wished to do: be a novelist.

When did you realize you had a passion for writing?

I realized I had a passion for writing when I was nine. That year, I wrote a science fiction Chanukah play for our Sunday school. The teacher liked it and wanted to produce it for our holiday festivities. But the principal thought it wouldn’t be fair to the other children if only one student’s work dominated the event. So it was forgotten and I didn’t write anything again until I was fifteen.

What pieces of writing/authors have had the greatest impact on you?

Looking back, I’d have to say Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. I read it in high school and I never forgot it, never for one day. It’s always somewhere in the back of my mind when I’m writing. The Cook’s Temptation is set in England, near the moors, so Wuthering Heights has been haunting me all these years.

What has been some of the biggest challenges you’ve faced as a writer?

I’ve always had difficulty finding time to write. In truth, I’m a very engaged person in everyday life—teaching, meeting friends, volunteering, going to movies and theatre—so setting myself apart from everyone and everything has been my biggest challenge. Now that I’m older, it’s easier. Increasingly, I like to stay home, buried in my books.

How have you changed as a writer over the years?

I’m what is now termed a late bloomer. Time was my challenge; that is, getting to a place where I felt free to write. Writing can’t be the last thing you do in your day. Somehow I needed to find the courage to make it the first thing. Now I can convince myself, but it’s taken many years and a multitude of false starts.

These days, I write much shorter sentences. They are tighter and less laden with emotion. I want the drama to emerge from the characters and the plot, not the heaviness of the words themselves.

Shade

by

Dad plans to bring me to the Baracuda, the bar he used to own.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come out with us, Mom? ” I ask one more time before we leave. “We don’t need to go to the bar. We can go somewhere else.” After hearing the consequences of Dad’s drinking from Paring, the prospect of spending time with Dad in a bar is daunting.

“What do you mean? Of course we have to go to the bar,” Dad says. “Don’t you want to see the Baracuda? It’s my handiwork, after all.”

“Of course, but how about Mom? ” I ask. “We can just stay in together.”

“Really, princess? ” Dad asks. “You’re in Boracay and you want to stay in? ”

It doesn’t help that Mom’s already turned the TV on to Little Sister – the Philippine version of Big Brother—and the reality show brings back all the mediocrity of our life in Canada. It’s depressing to think of amidst of this luxury.

“Go on,” Mom says. “It’s good for you and your dad to spend some time together. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Then we wouldn’t be doing anything at all,” Dad says, but eases his comment with a kiss. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m just showing Benni the sights.”

*

Inside the bar, hanging cloth lanterns tie-dyed pink, blue, and yellow provide dim lighting for the small space. The lanterns serve as the only other company besides the bartender. The bar’s walls are panelled with chalkboards boasting the number of shots guests could down in a row.

Dad points to his name on the wall. It’s faded and dusty, but still there for anyone to see.“It says I could do twenty-five here, but in truth I can do at least thirty. I was going easy that night.”He approaches the bar. “Hoy, Chris, two tequilas for my daughter and I, and a B&B each to chase it down.”

“Dad, I’m fine. Just a coke for me.”

“A coke? ” Dad asks. “You’re coming to my bar and getting only a coke? ”

“Why not? You can get one too.”

“Are you kidding me? This is our night together, princess.” When I don’t respond, he asks, “Have you ever even tried a Bénédictine and brandy? ”

“No. I can’t stomach brandy,” I say.

Dad lets out a hearty laugh and hands me an ice-filled glass topped up with a rich amber liquid. “Take just one sip,” he says.

“I’d really rather not. How often are we out together, Dad? It’d be a shame to get drunk.”

“Drunk? Whoa, princess, who said anything about getting drunk? One celebratory shot and a glass of B&B will not get us drunk. We can go after that.”

Dad’s words are so earnest, and his look so genuinely eager for us to spend time together, that I wonder what harm one drink could do.

I cheers Dad and we down the tequila followed by the B&B. Both drinks burn my throat and numb my tongue, but the B&B leaves a rich taste behind that lingers on the roof of my mouth.

Dad laughs as I cough.

“Dad, that’s the foulest chaser ever.”

“We can get you a sweeter one.”

“No. No more shots and no more chasers. Let’s go and see the sights.”

“What’s the rush, princess? The night is young. Besides, I want to chat with Chris for a quick second, okay? ”

I sit by as Dad asks after the wellbeing of old friends and business connections. I sip my B&B, growing accustomed to the taste. Chris keeps Dad’s glass topped up as they talk. I can’t keep track of how may top-ups Dad’s had, and Dad brushes off my entreaties to go until my hearing has grown dull and I realize with a start that I am beyond tipsy from my far-from-watered-down drink.

I get up, surprised to find I can hardly stand. Friends in Canada used to tease that I was a cheap drunk. I used to boast that it saved me money, but I regret it now.

“Dad, we should go.”

“Go? ” Dad looks at his watch. “Princess, it’s only 10:30.”

Despite the number of refills Dad has had, he looks more sober than ever, albeit with slightly more rosy cheeks. In that moment, I hate myself for not paying enough attention, and even more for wanting to leave.

“How often do we get a night out like this? ” Dad asks for the fifth time tonight.

The statement is so true that I want to cry. I take a deep breath, nod, and sit down, determined to cut myself off and monitor Dad. As soon as I sit, though, Chris refills my glass.

Dad holds his glass up for a toast. “To being here. I’m glad you’re here, princess. I’m glad we’re all here together.”

“For sure. We haven’t done this in a long time. We hardly ever see each other anymore.” I’m still sober enough to see how my statement subdues Dad—the sides of his mouth tip down and a look of dissatisfaction crosses his face.

“Aren’t you going to drink? ” Dad asks. “It’s bad luck not to drink after a toast.”

I take a small sip and, not wanting to ruin the night further, change the topic. “It’s nice being here, Dad. I’m learning a lot. I never knew about Sarah, for example. Talk about an oversight.”

“An oversight? ” Dad laughs. “What do you mean? Why would I tell you about a girl I used to date? ”

“You always talk about girls you used to date. You just told us about that chick you crashed your motorcycle with.”

“Oh, but she was nothing,” Dad says.

“Unlike Sarah,” I say.

“Unlike Sarah,” Dad says. “For a long time, Sarah was everything. I really did love her. I didn’t feel right for a long time after we split up. Heartbroken, y’know. The word’s not a cliché for nothing.” Dad shakes his head and looks at me. “Are you seeing anyone, Benni? Anyone I need to carry my shotgun for? ”

“Dad, you know the answer to this already. I was seeing Tom.”

“You guys split up ages ago. You’re not seeing anyone new? ”

“We split up three weeks ago, Dad.”

“Tom was nothing though. You dated for all of two months, didn’t you? ”

“I wish. We dated for two years. I only thought we were going to get married. I’m only a bit heartbroken.” I laugh, trying not to sound self-pitying, and take a gulp of B&B so I don’t have to talk more.

Dad snorts. “That guy? You never seemed to like him much.”

I choke on my drink. “Are you kidding me? Tom was great. He was a lot like me, and he made me feel like I belonged.”

“Princess, you have no problem fitting in. You don’t need someone to help you belong. Let’s be honest here; what’s really bugging you? ”

I stare at Dad with glazed eyes, trying to focus. Something he’s said has stood out for me—one of those moments where you want to pull out a pen and put an asterisk beside it. I’m trying to puzzle it out long after Dad’s lost interest in the conversation and ordered us a second round of shots.

I study my father’s face, taking note of the greys peppering his hair that I hadn’t noticed the last time I saw him—a long time ago. I don’t have the heart to say that I finally realize I’d been trying to fill the gaps he’d left—the sense of not belonging he’s given me, and the feeling of never being enough to stick around.

I leave the bar when I am finally too drunk to speak. I stumble out onto the sand, blinking as though the millions of faraway stars are too bright.

I ask Dad to join me, but he tells me to leave without him. He wants to stay and beat his personal best.

I don’t turn to say bye when I go. I don’t want to see him sitting there with his sandy toes clutching tight to the weathered bar stool, his heavy arm and moistened palms nursing a sweating beer bottle, his eyes open but seeing nothing.

At that moment, I prefer to see nothing too.

The sea is only a few strides away, but remains unseen beyond the light of the bar’s front door. I stumble towards our suite. Occasionally, I veer too far to the left or right. On one far detour left, I feel water on my feet. The sea, which barely touches the tops of my toes, lies before me in an unseen sheet of blackness. I could be standing in tar—that’s how dark it is.

I wade out into the darkness, seeing nothing and feeling only the clothes on my skin and the wet sand under my feet. I keep wading. The water doesn’t reach any higher than my calves. At one point the land dips and I wade in beyond my knees, but soon it levels out and I remain ankle deep.

I spot a white blur in the water and approach it, drunk and without fear. It’s a white buoy, which during the day is too far out to see.

I gaze around. “The tide’s gone out,” I say to no one in particular. “I’m standing in the middle of the ocean.” I look around again before lying down on the sand. “I’m lying in the middle of the ocean!” I yell, my voice thick with alcohol.

The stars are infinite from this position, studding the sky as far as I can see. The water is warm from the day’s sun; it washes into my ears, cradlesmy neck, and fans my hair out beneath me. I imagine this spot in the day—hundreds of meters below the crushing waves. I’m usually scared of the ocean, and I shiver imagining the water returning to bury me the way Moses buried the Egyptians as they crossed the Red Sea.

But here, Dad and I soared well above the tallest tree on the island, and now I lie on the ocean floor.

Here, I am invincible.

*

I return to the resort well past midnight, still tipsy and dripping wet from my rest in the ocean. Our resort’s section of the island is populated with older tourists who sleep rather than party at night. The effect is one of eerie silence, as though Boracay has become my own personal island in truth.

To amplify the feeling of seclusion, our building is the only one lit along the surf, standing out amongst a sea of shadowy black as though to beckon me home. As the light washes over me, I watch my white shirt and pale limbs come into being from the shadowy, far-flung world.

“Home, sweet home,” I mumble. “It was a good night.” I think of Dad sitting alone at the bar, shake my head, and say again, “It was a good night.”

“If you’ve had a good night, you can’t let it end yet,” a man’s voice says.

I look up to find five men. They’re locals, judging from their dark skin and dusty clothes. It’s as if they, too, have just materialized, though I realize they must have been part of a larger group on the resort’s patio that I failed to notice. The light that’s beckoned me forward hasn’t been for me, but for them where they gather. I offer up a polite smile. I don’t know what they want, but the beach has been friendly all night. My beach.

“Hello, beautiful,” the closest man says. His words are slurred, his gait uneven. The other men are similarly glassy eyed, stumbling through a reek of alcohol. I haven’t seen these men at our resort before, though I notice one of them is clad in the tropical uniform used by resort staff. “What are you doing tonight? ” he asks.

Despite my alcohol haze, I realize that I am only one woman among many men. “I’m on my way back to meet some friends,” I say. “I’m expected now.”

“Is that so? Your friends are lucky to be here with a beautiful woman like you. You should join us instead. We promise we’ll be nice—especially to a woman with those legs, those lips, and that—“ he stares at my chest”—dress.”

I see now how ridiculous I am—exposed and unprotected. I am wearing a nearly-transparent shirt, clinging skirt, and am standing on a dark, empty beach where foreigners keep their windows closed and shuttered. My beach? Ha. Their beach.

I cross my arms over my chest.

“What are you doing? Why are you covering yourself? You could be a real artiste. The only question is: can you perform like one? ” He winks and I remember what Mom said about the country’s movie stars: they’re beautiful, but whores—all of them.

He steps forward just as someone yells, “Stop!”

Dad strides past me and plants himself between us. “What do you think you’re doing? ” he asks.

The man pauses, confusion and resentment on his face.

“Do you know who this girl is? ”

The other men start backing away.

“Do you know who I am? ” Dad yells. “Benni, go upstairs,” he says to me.

Though he’s well outnumbered, I know he’ll be okay. His tone commands authority.

The men hear it too, and the leading man’s resentment gives way to worry.

I slip unmolested towards the resort, though I have to pass the men on the patio to go upstairs.

Dad singles out the resort’s staff in the crowd. “Your boss is going to hear about this,” he says, pointing at the man, whose brow beads with sweat upon realizing we are customers at his resort. “That’s right. If you come back, I’ll have my men on you. Scram! Don’t mess with the King of Boracay!”

*

“And then he said, “Don’t mess with the King of Boracay!” and the men ran away.”

Dad sits proudly beside me. The night’s events, in the sun and heat, feel like nothing more than a dream.

“Dad, you’re my hero,” I say, pretending to swoon.

“The King of Boracay? ” Mom asks. “What if those men pulled out knives? ”

“But they didn’t,” Dad says. “No need to worry, Mother Superior.”

“Or what if someone had a gun? ”

“But no one did.”

“Or what if they come back? ”

“But they won’t. Relax, Maria, it’s our final full day in Boracay”

“It’s comforting that you’re so confident, your grace, but why was Benni alone in the first place? A young woman, foreign to the Philippines, who has no understanding of the language, and has never been to the island before. Why was she alone in your kingdom when she was supposed to be out for a night with the king? ”

“I . . . ”

“You what? I would love to hear your answer.”

“I was . . . ”

“You were what? ”

When Dad doesn’t reply, Mom stands up.

“You’re lucky those men were probably just as drunk as you were. Idyota,” she mutters as she leaves.

Emerging Author of the Month: Mia Herrera

by

Tell us about yourself.

I love to travel, learn, read, drink lots of coffee, and spend time with my family. I studied English Literature, Book and Media Studies, and Cinema Studies in university, which was a blissful period of reading and happiness for me. Since graduating, I became a Certified Associate of Project Management, obtained a certification in adult education and staff training, and am currently working towards my Project Management Professional designation and Certificate in Human Resources Management. I’ve worked many jobs, from being the person who calls homeowners to confirm they received their complimentary Yellow Pages telephone book to working as a creative writer for video games. I am currently working in the Corporate Communications Bureau of my local police service, and I hope for a long career in law enforcement in the years to come. Many of the things I do are often in response to the question, “Why not? ” Why not hop on a plane, train, or motorcycle? Why not learn something new? Why not embark on a new adventure? With all that being said, and despite my insatiable thirst to do everything while I can, a couple of things remain constant in my life: my family and my writing. In this long and winding journey, the latter is likely why I’m featured in Shorthand this month. My fiction has appeared in publications such as TOK: Writing the New Toronto—Book 7 and the Hart House Review. I have been lucky enough to receive the Tatamagouche Scholarship for Young Writers, a Writers Trust Fund Scholarship to attend the Humber College School for Writers, and be featured on CBC Radio and in the Markham Economist and Sun. An excerpt from my current work is featured in Shorthand this month.

Tell us about the piece you’ve decided to share.

The piece I am sharing is an excerpt from my novel, Shade. Shade follows a young woman named Benedictine Manlapaz on her trip to the Philippines for the first time—the place where her parents immigrated from. Benni, who was born and raised in a small town in Ontario, embarks on a two-week vacation with her mother to visit her father, who recently moved to the Philippines, and relatives, whom she has never met. Benni arrives to find a completely different world of wealth and luxury and is forced to confront her family’s secrets.

The excerpt provided shows Benni and her father at a bar in the island paradise of Boracay. As this excerpt shows, the trip to the Philippines opens Benni’s eyes to things she previously ignored, including her father’s alcoholism.

When and why did you realize you had a passion for writing?

I’ve loved writing for as long as I can remember. One of my earliest memories involves drawing looping circles across a page and presenting it to my mother as a love note. No one understood the scribbles but me. After that, I learned to spell by writing epistles of our family trips and recording my dreams in a dream journal. Since then, I’ve dabbled in poetry, screenwriting, and fan-fiction, but my heart has always belonged to fiction. I cannot do without writing, even if my writing is only reserved for a sentence a day in reflection and the rest is left for endless lists of things to do. Writing keeps me organized and sane.

What pieces of writing/authors have had the greatest impact on you?

I’ve grown up admiring strong female writers—pioneers of fiction and authors of classics such as Jane Austen and Frances Burney. I also have a deep love for L.M. Montgomery. Her stories manage to be sweet, heart breaking, simple, and complicated all at once, and they have stayed with me from adolescence. I also have a deep appreciation for authors like Deanna Fei who wrote A Thread of Sky. I admire authors who can uniquely portray the hybrid life of diverse women and men living in North America without falling into the traps of cultural stereotypes. There have been so many narratives outlining the immigration story that I am interested in seeing the narratives that come after—stories of second—and third-generation immigrants such as myself and how lives are lived in between.

Each of my writing mentors has also greatly impacted me. Gwen Davies saw enough in me to offer me a scholarship to the Tatamagouche Centre, where I began my book.Sandra Birdsell encouraged me to persevere with one lasting comment that said she believed in me. David Layton taught me—among many things—that in order to write my best book, I first had to learn more about myself. I am extremely grateful to these guiding hands that helped me develop into the writer I am today.

What kind of writer do you aspire to be?

I aspire to be the kind of writer that keeps writing. I read somewhere that the difference between a good writer and a bad writer has nothing to do with skill, but with perseverance. It’s easy to push writing aside when life gets busy and people around you don’t always understand the compulsion to write. Writing is one of those things that I need to watch so that it doesn’t get endlessly pushed to the bottom of my to-do list. It has been so important, and has gotten me through so much, that I hope it always remains a big part of my life—not only a small piece of me that I forget along the way. Thankfully, I doubt this could happen even if I tried. If I don’t write, I get grumpy, so it’s really in everyone’s best interest for me to do so.

How and when do you find time to write?

I schedule in my writing. I only have evenings and weekends free after work—evenings and weekends that must also be shared with school and family activities. As a result, I pen writing into my agenda and make sure it’s included on my list of things to do—as important as work, school, or time with the family. Being part of the Diaspora Dialogues program really reinforced the wonders of a deadline for me. As a result, I set deadlines, write them in my calendar, and get down to it. My partner is a shift worker as well, so I usually do all the solitary things on my list of things to do when he’s working evenings or weekends. Otherwise, since he’s an early sleeper and I’m a night owl, I use the silence of my household between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. to get my thoughts down on paper.

before you go

by 

before you go I demand one thing
that you and I return to the forest

[where all those faded nights ago the velvet moths in brushing whispers told me not to leave by your side and the sun in skeins wrapped my fingers like the ring you were supposed to give]

to where we began. and before you leave I demand you and I dismantle the house we built

[from hay and limerance deconstruct piece by coronary piece of the structure that once gave us life and limits]

well placed, the beams will lie belly to ground no artifact will stand and so, nothing will have the chance to fall.

Show Not Tell

by

Have everyone put two words for emotions on scraps of paper. Put the pieces of paper into a hat. Each person picks two. Everyone has to write a piece (poem, prose, doesn’t matter) where the character feels those two emotions but you are not allowed to use the words or any synonyms for the word. This is to encourage people to show not tell—i.e., have a character slam a door instead of saying “Bill was angry.”

Second part of the exercise: Everyone reads out their piece and has to guess which emotions the writer chose.

Sissy

by

1.

Sauntering down Aisle 6 at the 24-hour Dominion grocery store, Lee is cradling an overly large zucchini. It sits inside the sleeve of his thick pea-green parka, where he is pretending to house a broken limb. He conjures the cast’s hard shell and the way he’d have to lay on the couch watching daytime TV instead of dishwashing for eight hours at a time. He considers breaking his elbow, a swift snap. Then it wouldn’t be a lie.

Lee has a strange relationship to the truth. The truth sticks her tongue in his mouth obsessively. She runs her hand up his leg, almost, whispering, Why are you shoplifting a zucchini, you fucking idiot? Lee suspects he has latent Tourette’s, what with these voices coming in sharp spurts, accompanied by a shudder or a shoulder tick.

Lately the truth is too much. Last week, there was a staff party at the restaurant. Everyone got too drunk. His girlfriend Linda was throwing up in the bathroom downstairs in the basement for what seemed like hours. Kevin, the other dishwasher and Lee’s sometimes after-work friend, disappeared. When Lee finally found Linda, she’d been hit in the face, her dress torn. She couldn’t tell him what had happened until the next day, and it was all in pieces. She kept saying, It was Kevin, but it was more like a Kevin imposter. He was a monster. I kept pushing him off me, but he wouldn’t stop.

Lee brushes away the truth’s impalpable hand, walks towards the front cash.

“The worst thing is the itching,” he tells the cashier, a bottle redhead, who nods sympathetically as he pays for a pack of cinnamon gum.

“I broke my wrist last year. It sucked,” she says. Lee feels a slippery worm of guilt sliding down the back of his throat. The woman shifts from anonymous cashier to someone with bones that can fracture and heal. He slides the gum in the back pocket of his fading black work pants.

Sometimes Lee uses a crutch. Once, a fake wheelchair stolen by his older brother Dan to use for scams.

Tucked in his Y-front briefs is steak wrapped in Styrofoam. In his right boot is powdered gravy. Up his other sleeve a slim candy bar, for good luck. Always take something from right up front if you’re going to bother.

Lee comes from criminals. “It’s in your blood,” Dan told him as a kid. “Forget working class, we’re thieving class.” He’d pump up his chest, throwing Lee over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes while Lee kicked and giggled, yelling, Let me down! Put me down! Stop! Before Dan finally laid him out on the grass of their yard and tickled him until he yelled Mercy!

Lee still shoplifts on occasion, but he doesn’t do anything else illegal. He has vowed to stop stealing as soon as he makes an annual income above the poverty line. He has never hit anyone or stolen money from a person. He is an anomaly in his family, and he likes it that way.

Lee is thin and lanky, almost girly. Blondish hair, shy smile. His voice lilts a little, higher than most men, and he is often called a fag because of this. Miraculously, despite his femininity, he has never been beaten up or fought anyone. As a kid, Dan was always around to fight for him, and as an adult, he managed to avoid it. He never wanted to hit anyone before. It was what separated him from the rest of his family—the fact that he could avoid it. He counts himself lucky and always had. His adult life was filled with things he created so carefully: good friends, warm holidays, minimal conflict.

Six days ago, it was as though all of his warmth, all of his luck he lived with, was thrown into an industrial blender. He looked at his limbs and couldn’t tell if they were his. Is this my arm? Drop a dish. You’d be surprised how good it feels. To watch shards of white restaurant plates finish their purposeful lives and get swept away into giant dustbins caked with blackened grease and dirt.

What the fuck is your problem? Eyebrow twitch. He shakes his shoulders around to calm his muscular outbursts.

Lee is trying to look forward to supper. George and Stephanie invited him over to get away, out of the house. Steph will bake something weird like a buttermilk pie. She’s very Little House on the Prairie right now. She’s declared a household embargo against beer and pizza, and has taken to doing things like making her own crackers and dehydrating her own fruit. She always makes cordial and serves it in tall parfait glasses with silly straws. Exotic fruit cut up in the shape of stars and hearts on the side of the plate. She likes presentation. She has a lot of fruit scrubs and a lotion that smells like cookies in her tiny bathroom.

George and Stephanie are one of those couples who would shake the foundation of all your beliefs if they ever broke up; a ball of yarn in complementary colours. They have weekly dinner parties with Lee and other friends, but this is the first one since the staff party. They wanted Linda to come, for her to feel comforted and distracted, but she declined the invitation.

The snow crunches underneath Lee’s work boots. Sounds like the crack in his jaw where he holds all of his tension. He walks up Brunswick Avenue a little shoplifting-high, a little remorseful. Mostly hungry and blank. He can’t help wondering when his brain will return, as if it was erased by what happened.

Lee has stopped plotting to hurt Kevin for the first time in six days. Squeeze, or kick, or punch him until he cries. He is trying to make peace with the situation, going against his mother’s suggestion to “kick the living shit outta that waste of skin,” at Linda’s pleading to “just let it go.”

All other days have gone as follows:

Bring Linda breakfast in bed, wait until it is congealed and she is still staring up at the ceiling. Take it away. Stand in living room with daytime television on for noise. “My Teen Daughter Wants to Be a Stripper and a Humanitarian!” Bring her bouquets of flowers, novelty candy from the store across from Future Bakery, books of poetry from Book City. Remind her to go to counseling appointment, doctor. Shuffle in her mother, her sister, Steph, who is her best friend. Apply arnica to her bruises. Hold her if she cries. She only cries once, usually, before Lee goes to work.

Linda talks. There was a guy in high school, her swim coach. There was a trial, a jail sentence, a school divided. Linda is reminded of it all, and can’t go outside. When the coach went to jail, six months plus probation, she didn’t feel satisfied. Still, people avoided her. Blamed her. When Lee suggested calling the cops about Kevin, Linda said,Why bother. Didn’t work the first time.

Outside is too much. Lee is trying to be a good boyfriend, support her, but he is completely uncertain what to do.

He goes to work at the restaurant and works an eight hour shift dishwashing. Lee calls her on the hour.

“I’m fine, don’t worry so much. I’m just, tired.”

“Do you need anything? ”

“I need you to not do anything stupid. Bye.”

When she hangs up, always first, Lee rests his head against the brown grease-stained wall next to the pinned-up schedule and tries to breathe. Lee’s name is written in red marker eleven days in a row. He has no days off because Kevin quit so suddenly, just didn’t show up the day after the staff party.

Kevin. Lee can’t even think his name without his eyes going out of focus, the dirty floor paneling shifting. Kevin. Lee blacks out all the Kevins that appear on the January work calendar. Out of ink. Tries again with his nail. His nails have grown long from neglect.

He brings the mop water out into the alley to dump and looks up to the third storey window where Kevin lives above the restaurant. He thinks it would be too easy, to walk up the stairs, break down the door. Instead, Lee goes back into the kitchen, where every move his body makes feels leaden and irritating. When he thinks there may be a lull long enough for a smoke break, another table clears, another grease-caked pan arrives.

After punching out, he declines invitations to go next door for pints and pinball and instead climbs up the fire escape of Kevin’s building.

He watches through the window. Kevin’s in red jogging pants and a shirt that says “I Survived the Black-Out 03.” He smokes and flicks the remote. Picks at the knee hole in his pants. His girlfriend sleeps on the armchair. It’s the same every night. Stops to roll joints on a TV guide. Eventually falls asleep. Lee looks for signs of distress in his face, guilty dark bags under his eyes. Finds nothing.

Lee goes home when a woman startles him, walking through the alley muttering to herself. He notices his fingers are numb, and he’s lost his nerve. If there was one thing valuable he learned from his brother it’s that you don’t want to go to jail. The voices of reason beat the voices that chastise and degrade.

2.

Stephanie is doing pretty well, considering Linda is her best friend. George is one of those people who deals with tragedy very calmly. He has been writing letters to the community paper about safety for women in the neighbourhood. He has been examining his life and begun using phrases like “I’ve been noticing my male privilege.”

George has never seen a crime that he wasn’t watching on television. He thought it would feel different, that it would feel monumental. His own composure scares him.

Stephanie is all life goes on, and it coulda been worse, and she’ll heal and move on.Steph had a gun in her mouth during a hold up at the Cash Mart, a father who locked her in a closet for three days, and scar in her left foot where someone once stabbed her when she bartended at a strip club.

When Lee arrives for dinner at the apartment that Stephanie and George share with some other kids from school, she notices his TV-dinner eyes. His complexion is an old dishrag.

“You look good,” she says, giving him a friendly hug. Stephanie regards her position amongst their peer group as Den Mother, emotional glue stick, party starter, and conflict mediator.

Stephanie watches silently while Lee reaches into his pants, pulls out the steak. She grabs his red offering and smiles warmly, careful to hold his gaze, hoping to transmit some comfort. She’s worried for him. He doesn’t seem right. Even though she knew he was sensitive, erratic, a soft little boy with the exterior of a lanky slacker comic book artist.

She sits Lee down on the couch and runs her hands over his head before going into the kitchen to bring out a tray of lime cordials. George is finishing up a PlayStation game while Stephanie tells Lee about her latest art project embroidering internal organs on the outside of cowboy shirts.

Lee seems pretty calm, considering, being around his friends.

“So, Linda doesn’t want to come eh? ”

“No.”

“I made buttermilk pie—her favourite.”

“Yeah,” Lee says, shrugging. “She’s still taking those sleeping pills the doctor gave her.”

The dinner table is set with a frilly lace tablecloth and fancy china Stephanie bought at an antique sale two weeks ago. A plastic pitcher with Strawberry Shortcake is filled with strawberry daiquiri. “My latest eBay conquest,” Stephanie says, filling the metallic pink pint glasses with the pulpy liquid.

All three take bites and chew methodically. When they are done, George clears the dishes away and Stephanie prepares the pie and ice cream.

Lee says it first.

“I want to hurt him.”

Stephanie says, fork clinking on china, “I want to kill him.”

George raises his eyebrows a bit. Closes his eyes tightly, turns red. “We could probably get away with it.”

Anna, their cherubic roommate walks into the kitchen, mumbles, “Hey.” She looks like a commercial for facial cleanser. She goes into the living room and turns on the television. The sound of The Simpsons fills the apartment. The one where Maggie shoots Mr. Burns.

“I love this one,” they say simultaneously, getting up and heading towards the other room.

3.

Lee goes to the bathroom and throws up. George watches TV with Anna. Stephanie chain-smokes. Lee watches the swirls of former pie turn and he thinks he might faint. He rests his head on the toilet bowl, snivels, squeezes his eyes shut.

What am I supposed to do with this? How can I live with this?

The truth climbs up his spine, says, You’re just going to have to.

Lee knows that he is the worst person to ever live. He hadn’t fully believed it before. He protested vehemently his own self-worth. But here it was, staring him in the face while the creamy vomit swirled down. Like his mom used to say, “You’re fucking nothing.You sissy little shit, you’ll never be anything.”

The memory of his mother’s voice sometimes sounds like the truth, the same soft woman, insistent and composed. It confuses him. He heaves again.

Leaving the washroom, George hands the cordless to Lee with an anxious look on this face. Linda says, “I hear something outside. I can’t breathe.”

Lee grabs his coat and runs out to the street, keeps a steady pace the whole two blocks home. He climbs into bed with her, still wearing his parka and sloppy snow-covered work boots. She is staring at the ceiling. He holds her and falls asleep there, dreams about eating fish sticks made from dead prime ministers. When he tells Linda about the dream, it’s the first time he’s heard her laugh since it happened.

The next day Lee comes out of the kitchen at work, wipes his wet, pruned hands on his apron, and walks to the bar to have a smoke. George is sitting there nursing a pint, “Hey, I was waiting for you to take a break. Come with me.” He takes Lee by the arm, weaves through the tables, and out into the street, even though they are both wearing T-shirts and the snow melts on their pale arms. He stops three doors down at a storefront window. Looking in they can see a self-defense class in session.

“I’ve been watching them for an hour,” George says. “And I think I know how to do it, how we could really fuck Kevin up, you know, make him pay for what he did.”

“Are we going to kick him in the groin until he dies? ” Lee asks, laughing. Inside, a sweaty blond in a ponytail is kicking a padded person that looks like the marshmallow man from Ghostbusters.

“Well,” says George, who is even more girly than Lee, more timid and non-confrontational, has never so much as landed a punch, Lee guesses.

“We need Stephanie,” Lee says.

They run around the corner to George and Steph’s apartment. Stephanie is doing crunches on the living room floor, listening to Michael Jackson’s Off The Wall.

“How are we going to do it? ” George says, panting.

“Why aren’t you guys wearing coats? Do what? ”

“Kill Kevin.”

She sits up, takes the small pink towel from around her neck and dabs at her forehead.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I just said I wanted him dead. I didn’t say I was going to kill him.”

The boys sit down and light smokes. Rub their numbing arms with couch pillows.

“Isn’t your break over? ” George asks.

Lee is startled. “Holy shit, I forgot I was still working!”

Lee runs out the door and crosses the street moving fast into the parking lot, ducks into the back door of the restaurant. A backload of dishes, resentful looks from the waiter who hates him. He feels energized, like maybe something will happen, maybe they can make Kevin feel some sort of forced empathy for what he did. They don’t have to kill him, just fuck him up a bit. Like a beat down. Like in rap videos.

Kevin is waiting outside in the alley when Lee goes out to dump out the mop water after closing. His face is a blank glazed donut. Lee feels cheated, that this wasn’t what he planned.

They stare, a foot apart, like two cowboys in a standoff. Kevin starts to speak, “Look, Lee, I don’t really remember everything, I was so wasted, man.”

The crowd in the bar next door cheers after the Leafs score a goal.

Lee’s heart is the only thing he hears. His mouth is dry. He lifts the mop out of the bucket, slopping water all over the pavement. He pushes Kevin up against the brick wall, pins his chest with the mop handle.

“You don’t remember? That’s your excuse? ”

Instinct takes over. It must be in his blood, this violence.

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