Black Rabbit and Other Stories Page 4

  Alicia walked to King Street, busy for a Tuesday evening. People had money to blow. Drunks thronged the taverns. Crackheads and potheads and junkies searched the streets and alleyways for dealers. Everyone was getting high or making money. It was cold out, the skies clear and flecked with stars; Alicia’s teeth chattered and her torso shook uncontrollably. She wanted to hop a bus out to Joe’s place. She didn’t have a key, and he’d probably get pissed off if she got there before him, but she didn’t care. When he saw what she had on underneath the jacket he wouldn’t care either. Joe always said she was the best pussy he’d ever had. Not that she was very experienced. He told her what to do and she tried her best. She even let him do anal, and though he used this lube from Europe it still hurt. But she never mentioned this to him. She wanted to make him happy. One time her doctor asked about the blood in her panties but she played it off. She changed doctors after that.

  As Alicia waited for the bus at the stop near the fire-station, three teens approached her, a girl and two guys. At first she didn’t recognize them. The guys had hoods pulled over their heads, their movements jerky. Then she recognized one. His name was Justin Royal and he had done time at the youth detention centre for beating and robbing an eighty-year-old woman. Put her in the hospital for a month with a fractured skull and a broken leg. Justin wore the hood in a way that concealed his acne-scarred and cratered cheeks. He couldn’t hide the nose though, and the ripe boil bulging the end of it almost clownishly. She recognized the other guy now too. Danny Orr, a crack dealer and an asshole. He had tried to come on to Alicia one time at a party and when she told him to go fuck himself he slapped her across the face. She was drunk or she would have killed the bastard. She never told Joe about it or he would have done it for sure.

  The skanky redhead with them didn’t look familiar. Then she said, Hey, it’s me, in this raspy voice and right away Alicia knew it was Jessica Ferris, a girl from the group home. When Alicia was ten, her father beat up her mother and threatened to kill the lot of them. After the cops arrested him, Family and Child Services moved in and put the sisters into foster care until their mother recovered from her injuries and got her life back together. Her father went to Kingston Pen for aggravated assault and was still there, as far as she knew. Anyway, her sisters landed in good foster homes but she proved harder to place, rebelling at every instant and treating her foster families with contempt. They finally stuck her in this shit-hole group home near the old steel mill, run by a bunch of perverts, and she hated every minute of it. She never liked Jessica; she was sneaky and dirty and used to give the boys blowjobs in the washroom for quarters. Man, she looked rotten, her face red with pimples and little scabs, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, her lips blue. Only two years older than Alicia, she must have been sucking the pipe pretty hard to get her face like that. No telling what else these punks were doing with her. A pocketful of crack gives some people a sense of power. Danny felt pretty cool, standing there smiling with his faux-platinum gate and his neck weighted down with shiny chains. He crossed his arms on his chest and checked out Alicia from head to toe. Then he sucked his teeth and nodded, as if in approval. Jessica said something. The words came out slurred, delayed. She was high as a kite, her eyes half-closed, her head lolling. Justin stuffed his hands in the pockets of his camouflage pants. He seemed bashful, evasive. Alicia didn’t know him that well; she wondered what had driven him to beat the shit out of an eighty-year-old woman. Was it just the money?

  Danny sparked up a joint and passed it around. When it came to Alicia she refused but Jessica insisted. For old time’s sake, she cooed. Alicia took a few light tokes that tasted like sulphur. She wondered if they’d laced the weed with something. She passed the joint to Justin. He took it with blunted fingers, nodding and mumbling under his breath. His eyes looked odd; one sat lower on his face than the other, and as he smoked the joint the higher eye closed while the lower one stared off into space.

  Alicia stood up on her toes hoping to see the bus, but it was running late. Jessica asked her if she wanted to party with them. Alicia told her she was on her way to her boyfriend’s place. What’s his name? Jessica asked. Joe, Alicia answered, Joe Moffat. The Priest, Danny said under his breath. Alicia knew people called Joe the Priest but she didn’t know why. She wanted to ask Danny why but his sneer discouraged her. He puffed on the joint and held it out to her but she refused. He spat on the sidewalk and hauled on the joint again before handing it to Justin whose face popped out from the hood like a snapping turtle’s. Alicia looked for the bus again.

  Jessica started talking, rapidly, but more to herself than to anybody. She was fucked. Alicia almost told her to shut up, but not with those two snakes standing there. She didn’t trust them. Then Danny said something. Alicia told him to repeat it. I hear the Priest’s into kiddy porn, Danny said. Despite the cold air Alicia’s cheeks heated up. But the weed buzz creeping up her spine and gripping the back of her head dulled her anger and suddenly she felt anxious, short of breath. Danny stood there grabbing his crotch and leering. Jessica continued talking, her face contorting, her voice like sandpaper. She asked Alicia if she had any smokes. Alicia stumbled for words and drew a toothy grin from Justin, rocking back and forth on his heels. Look, Danny said, she’s all fucked up. Yeah, Justin said, all fucked up. Relieved to the point of peeing herself, Alicia saw the blue-lit bus approaching and readied her fare. Danny swung his head around and also saw it coming. He jumped to the curb and waved his arm for the bus to pass. It whooshed by without slowing down and continued to the next stop. Danny and Justin screeched with laughter. Another bus wasn’t due for an hour.

  Enough of this shit, Alicia thought. She’d just walk to the variety store at the corner, withdraw money from the ATM there and cab it to Joe’s. She started down the street, moving quickly, but Jessica caught up to her, the boys in tow. Leave me alone, Alicia told her. Don’t be mad, Jessica said. I didn’t do nothing. I love you. We’re sisters. Where you going now? To the store? Buy me some smokes. Alicia continued walking. But Jessica kept on her heels, stumbling as they neared the corner. Danny and Justin hung back, still laughing.

  Alicia entered the store and took out her bank card. Jessica came in behind her but stopped to look at the magazines. Alicia just wanted to take out some cash, hail a cab, and get to Joe’s. She withdrew her money and exited the store, leaving Jessica at the magazines. The two boys waited outside with their hands in their pockets.

  When Alicia hurried by them Danny said, I’d like to come in your face, baby. This stopped Alicia cold. She turned around, walked up to Danny, still laughing, and slapped him across the face. She slapped him so hard her hand stung when she dropped it to her side. Danny did nothing at first. His chin quivered and his lips twitched and tears welled in his eyes. But he didn’t cry. He cocked his fist and punched her in the mouth with a crack. She dropped to her knees, her eyes glazed. Then Justin appeared before her, smiling, bowing, and reached out his hand— not to assist her, but to balance himself as he flung his leg and kicked her in the face, pitching her backwards. Hot salty blood gushed from her sinuses, filling her mouth. Someone grabbed her legs and then she felt her arms and her hair being pulled. They dragged her into an alley and threw her against a dumpster. They stretched her out on her back, spread-eagled, and she could see the sky above her, cold and star-filled.

  Justin jumped up and down above her, his boots landing on her head, but she didn’t lose consciousness. She kept her gaze focused on the sky and the stars. Her jacket came off—Look, the fucking ho is only wearing a bra!—and then her bra fell away, baring her breasts to the cold air. A hot mouth descended on one of the nipples and for a moment it almost felt good, not sexual, but comforting, human. Then teeth clamped down on the nipple and the stars grew brighter in the sky and Alicia felt herself lifting off the ground, away from her body, away, until she seemed to float above a doll of herself, plastic and silent, eyes shining in the smashed face. Justin’s trousers came down. Danny let him go first.r />
  Sirens sent the trio scrambling out of the alley. Jessica’s turned her ankle, but daring not to stop, she limped behind the others. The sirens passed. Alicia stirred. Blood poured from her mouth. She tongued chips of broken teeth behind her torn lower lip. She had no idea how badly hurt she was. She looked at her bloody breast, and then saw the bra twisted up beside her. She pulled up her pants, found her bomber jacket by the dumpster and, blood flowing in ribbons from her mouth and nose, put it on. She touched her skull, where she thought it might be fractured. She didn’t feel any pain, just a tingling sensation. A light came on in a window above her and then went out again.

  She hailed a cab on King Street and when the driver got a good look at her face he wanted to rush her to the hospital, but she gave him Joe’s address and quietly pleaded with him to take her there. Feeling pity for the beaten girl, the driver relented and said he would drive her. He even offered her a handkerchief. Afraid of what she’d see, she avoided looking in the rearview mirror as she cleaned herself. She wondered what Joe would say, what he would do when he saw her, what he’d do to them. She’d tell him the truth; she couldn’t keep this from him. He wouldn’t allow it. And he wouldn’t let them get away with it. Joe would take care of it, he’d fix it somehow. The driver dropped her off, refusing to take her money. Watch yourself, little girl, he said. She climbed out of the cab and staggered to the front door of Joe’s apartment building.

  She rang up. After a moment Joe’s voice came over the speaker and asked who it was. It’s me, Alicia said, and he buzzed her in. She took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Smells of pan grease and marijuana smoke permeated the dimly lit hallway. Indistinct sounds of crying, a woman or a child, issued from one of the units. When Alicia knocked on Joe’s door a shadow crossed the peephole. A latch clicked. The peephole remained covered. She stared at it. What was he doing?

  Joe? she said, pressing the blood-soaked handkerchief to her mouth. Her front teeth were loose, her tongue scratched. Her crotch burned and ached. Joe, she said, please. She could feel him standing there behind the door. Her legs trembled. She tried the doorknob but it was locked. She spat a clot of blood into the handkerchief and rested her forehead against the door. Joe, she said again, but more to herself this time as she felt him retreating.

  Miss Alligator

  Wendy Kovach wasn’t shocked to hear that her nephew Connor had beaten up and robbed an old man. Mugging a senior was right up his alley. He snatched an old lady’s purse at the mall last summer, dislocating her shoulder. She was the aunt of a police sergeant, so the cops took care of the matter themselves. After they were done with Connor, he couldn’t talk for a month, what with the jaw wired shut and his throat bruised—but they never pressed charges.

  This time they issued a warrant for his arrest. Two cops came by that morning asking questions. When Wendy told them Connor hadn’t been around for days they traded little cop smirks and said they’d return. Wendy wondered what they had in mind this time. She knew he needed to be taught a lesson, but prayed they didn’t go too far. He was blood after all. But mugging seniors never won you any friends. Maybe a beating wasn’t the worst thing for him.

  When Niagara Family and Child Services came snooping around a week ago, Wendy told them she could not control Connor’s behaviour. She urged them to make him a ward of the state, but they refused.

  Away for a two-month stretch of court-ordered rehab, Connor’s mother Kim had it easy by comparison. Connor no longer concerned her. And he no longer concerned his father, Ronnie, Wendy’s brother. Ronnie had begged her to take custody of Connor, just until he got flush. She agreed but knew what awaited her. Connor, a sixteen-year-old thug, followed his own rules. He only came around when he was hungry or needed a place to crash or money for smokes. Wendy gave him just enough coin for smokes but never more. She knew what he’d do with any extra.

  “Stop it, Donna?” she shrieked at the loudest of the seven-year-old triplets.

  “It’s not me, Mommy!”

  “Stop it or I’ll tear your fucking head off!”

  The other two, Doris and Deb, hiding smiles, waited for Mom to finish scolding the sister. Little differentiated the three: blonde hair, blue eyes, and identical pixie attitudes. When they gathered in a room people stared; and people stopped and gawked in malls and on the street, especially when Wendy dressed them up the same. Sometimes she found herself gazing at them with wonder, and not just because she was their mom; she saw nothing of herself in those faces. They looked exactly like their father, the prick.

  Donna burst into tears and in seconds the others joined her. A wave of stomach cramps bent Wendy over. Usually they passed in a few seconds.

  The girls stopped crying. “Mommy’s sick,” they said together.

  Kind of creeped Wendy out when they did that. Never pulled that shit as toddlers. Sometimes she overreacted. She took the wooden spoon out one morning, as she readied them for school. They’d been acting up, confusing her, making her feel bad. She snapped right out. Hurt Donna bad, in the face, told her to say she fell down the stairs if anyone at school asked about it.

  Bracing the filthy toilet, Wendy puked her guts out, the last of it coming up green. She had eaten almost nothing that week. Her bones ached. That morning after the cops came by she went down to the methadone clinic with the girls in tow—thank God school started up in two weeks—but barely got a buzz from the juice. Now her stomach was fucked up.

  She washed her face and put on lipstick. The bathroom smelled like cat shit. The girls kept the kitty litter behind the door, knocking it around when they entered, but they refused to move it anywhere else. They were stubborn, like their father. Maybe that trait would help them more than it had helped him.

  She pushed aside a green plastic alligator on the edge of the sink, and it clattered into the bathtub. She started brushing out her tangled, bleach-scorched hair but gave up after several painful tugs. So, she looked like hell. What else was new? Not that she needed to get dressed up for anyone—her ex-husband was doing time in Kingston Penitentiary. She had almost lost the girls because of that fucker, bringing contraband home, not to mention all the blow. But Chris never owned up to any of his crimes; not even to punching out Wendy in front of the girls on their third birthday. He blamed the booze for that, or was it the cocaine?

  She opened her tea-stained bathrobe, glanced at her arms, then retied the belt. She still had a soft spot for Chris, no matter how she tried to hate the man. She’d even gone up to Kingston for visits. He had abused her, fucked around, taken away her youth—but he had fathered those triplets and they were nothing short of life to Wendy. And Chris was cool; no one could short him on that. Not a big talker. He did most of his talking with cool baby blues and narrow hips. Any time he and Wendy showed up to a function or a bar the ladies eyed her with envy. People said he looked like Patrick Swayze, but Wendy thought Chris had it all over Swayze. Yeah, Chris was very cool. He’d stand in a room wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt, sucking on a beer, blonde hair all crazy, and he looked cool, exuded cool, and he knew it. She wondered how cool he felt sitting in his prison cell.

  She opened the medicine cabinet and removed a plastic vial full of Percodans. They helped dull the aches and pains. Connor had scored this batch for less than a fin a pop. He was good for that, the kid. Technically, this breached her court orders, but if no one knew, no one could rat her out. She downed four pills with a gulp of tap water. The doctor had ordered her to eat better and to exercise. She chuckled at the last suggestion. Exercise.

  In the kitchen Doris had Deb by the hair. The third sister watched with an impish smile.

  “Let go of her fucking hair!” Wendy yelled, but half-heartedly, she didn’t want them crying again.

  Doris let go, but not before Deb’s chin started quivering. Wendy grabbed three lollipops from a canister on the counter and handed a red one to Deb. The other girls, offered yellow lollipops, demanded red ones. Some remained in the canister but Wendy refused to budge th
is time. The girls had to learn to take what they were given. Life offered few handouts. She ordered them out of the kitchen. “March?” she cried, but the Percodans had come on, smoothing the fray in her nerves and filling her chest with a numbing, radiating warmth that took her breath away.

  She stretched out on the chesterfield and watched a muted television show with pregnant women shouting at skinny, goateed men who looked sheepish, broke, and stupid. Why do women fall for scum like that? Wendy wondered just before she dozed off. She dreamed she rode a horse across the countryside, a tiny pinto, with ink-blot markings. It kept looking back at her with sad brown eyes as they clopped over the green terrain. Then the terrain gave way, the pinto dissolved. One of the girls had mounted her. Doris. She jumped up and down on Wendy’s thighs. Wendy grabbed her hand and squeezed until she stopped.

  “That hurt, Mommy.”

  “Did not, now get off me.”

  “Mommy, I’m hungry.”

  “We’re hungry, too!” chimed the others, floating around the chesterfield.

  For a moment Wendy couldn’t tell them apart. That happened once in a while. They aped each other on purpose to confuse her. She rarely dressed them the same for that reason.