Down Sterling Road. Adrian Michael Kelly
wish. Said no to cake and – You spoiled little bugger – just stared at his dish. Because his bike was different. Was supposed to be the same. Every year before – toys or clothes or trikes and bikes – they always got the same. Mum said Stop your bloody grumbling. But the bikes changed the game. Their favourite secret game. Criss-cross Go down the subdivision hill.
You’re me!
I’m you!
Faster!
You, too!
Skid like a C the other way round, skid like a J but upside down. Then smack the stop sign, and do it one more time. A thousand times they did it, almost every single day. Cailan never traded. And cars hardly came.
Except the day after Halloween. Pumpkins still on porches. Windows needing cleaned.
Please, Cailan, trade?
Just to spook him was all. He never knew. Jacob’s back tire. He can still see it. Worn almost through. Just one time. To spook him. If the tire even blew.
We should go to the hospital, Jacob, Dad’ll brain us if we’re late.
Just one more time, Cailan, cross my heart it’s true.
Jacob knocks his fists together, whispers Stop it, stop it, please. But he hears the bang like yesterday. Bites his hand. Thumps his knee. Bang like a backfire, bang like a gun. Here comes the car. And that sound – Jacob slaps his ears – of skin, and metal. Scraping along road.
The rest is bits. Pieces. And, in between, big white blanks.
Jacob. Jacob.
Rubs his eyes. Yeah, Dad?
Lunchtime.
Dad’s doled out the Chunky Soup and has his big ambulance book on the table. He’s studying for his EMCA exam: Emergency Medical Care Assistant. Let’s go, kid, quiz me.
’Kay.
Jacob stands the book one half either side of his bowl, and between mouthfuls of Beef Veg – Dad put Lea & Perrins in – asks him questions about procedure. Subdural hematomas. Puncture wounds. Dad gets them all bang on but one: during CPR, intubation is recommended when there is excessive blood in the lungs.
Spoons, the sugar bowl and Jacob jump when Dad bang hammers the table and says I fuckingwell knew that.
It’s okay, Dad, you got almost perfect.
But Dad doesn’t hear, really, just says like a secret Should have fuckingwell known, and goes to his room. He won’t come out for a long while.
Jacob sits on his hands. Stares at the gleam on the edge of the table, at the sugar that splashed out the bowl.
The phone’s on its fourth, fifth ring and through the door Dad yells Get that.
’Lo?
Asalamalakim …
Jacob’s shoulders drop. It’s Graham Hollingsworth. Except everyone calls him Cracker mostly because of his first name because even when he makes like black dudes from the TV – What’s hatnin, you jive-ass turkey? – he talks slow as molasses.
Not much hatnin, Cracks. What you doing?
Factory … You wanna come?
Who’s all going?
Just us … guys.
Spielman?
Yeah.
Jacob looks at Dad’s closed door. Should maybe stay in, he says.
How come?
Read.
It’s Christmas break … sucka.
He won’t let us in anyway.
Never know. You comin or not?
… Guess so.
See you there.
’Kay.
Fingers in his pockets, out his pockets, Jacob steps this way that way in front of Dad’s door. Listens. No snoring.
Dad. Dad?
Eh?
Going outside.
Careful.
Will.
Jacob gets his togs on. Rummages through the junk drawer in the kitchen. Finds a safety pin for the busted zipper on his coat. Takes the stairs quiet. Jogs, hands in pockets, all the way to the factory, cold coming through the tear in his armpit. Out back the factory Dean Spielman says Nice coat, for the umpteenth time. Jacob just blows on his hands, does a dude shake with the Cracks. Bobby Hollingsworth, Graham’s little brother, takes a haul on his puffer and says Colder than a witch’s tit out here.
Shouldn’t feel anything under all that fat, says Spielman, and Bobby flips the bird at his back when the Deaner turns and knocks on the black back door. Knocks again. Loud.
He always answers, but just opens the door a crack. You can see one eye. Part of his big bald head with the splotch on it. The scar on his lip. Teeth. You again?
Bobby always looks like he’s going to shit his pants but it’s him who says Us again.
Told you a hundred times, porker, don’t give tours anymore.
Let a bunch of other guys in last week, says Spielman.
Who.
Garth Hutchinson. Lyle Bunyan.
Liars.
We saw it.
Saw what.
The chocolate, says Jacob. You gave it them.
And what are you gonna give me, eh, little runner boy?
Jacob looks down. But Spielman says Give ya two bucks.
The Murph laughs. Two dollars. Rich boy. Get outta here. Freeloaders –
Are not, says Bobby, but his voice and face are shaky –
Little cocksuckers, says the Murph, out of here! And everybody jumps.
Boom. Door closed.
Holy motha, says Cracker, bending with his hand on his heart. Thought he was gonna grab one of us.
I’d hoof him in the balls, says Spielman. Fucken pervert. Let’s go.
It’s not true, says Jacob.
Is so. Lyle Bunyan brought him a Penthouse. That’s how he got in.
Lyle Bunyan talks daft crap. And anyway your dad reads Penthouse.
Ours, too, says Bobby, nodding and nodding and the ball on his toque bobbling and bobbling. Then he takes another haul on his puffer.
And Cracker hits him in the shoulder. Mum said just one pump, dumbo.
Have to breathe, asswipe. That hurt.
This hurt? says Dean, and he nails Bobby’s other shoulder. Jacob pictures nailing Spielman – right smack on the jaw, like Dad shows – except Spielman’s mum always gives Dad good deals on flowers. Plus Jacob’s hands, they’ve gone half-numb.
Let’s just go tobogganin, says Cracker, and Bobby says Yeah! like no one ever hit him.
McKnight can’t go tobogganin, says Spielman, he doesn’t have one.
Can borrow mine, says Cracker.
It’s okay, says Jacob. I should go home. My dad –
Needs you to cook dinner? says Spielman.
Shut up, Dean.
Make