Neighbourhood Watch Read online

  Mother and daughter face each other, between them the black case Roxane gently opens.

  The violin appears. Like a sunbeam scratching the grey of the room, a scar of the ugliness of their life; mother and daughter look at the perfect object.

  Too nice for them. Too clean, too shiny, too smooth.

  ‘You’re going to play it?’

  Roxane looks at her mother from deep inside. Looks at her mother, her reflection in her eyes.

  Roxane is looking at herself.

  ‘You’re going to play it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  * * *

  Mélissa is sitting facing the teacher who is trying in vain to catch her eye.

  Mélissa has her feet crossed under the table. She furtively glances at her black shoes, which dangle nonchalantly.

  ‘And how are things at home, Mélissa?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Look me in the eye, Mélissa.’

  ‘ … ’

  ‘You’re wearing makeup?’

  Silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  * * *

  Steve is still walking along Ontario. Crosses through a huddle of prostitutes. They’re all there already. Must be close to five. Prostitutes keep time in the east end of the city, he thinks to himself. Eastern time. Not always at the same time, but always the right time. It makes him smile.

  They would warm him up a little, but it would hurt even more to go back to the cold afterward. He is all too familiar with it. A woman’s body makes him founder.

  He walks by the garage.

  Tony’s there. He’s reading the paper while he waits for cars. One comes in. It’s Michel and his old powder-blue Mustang. It’s breathtaking, all the same. It has a particular smell, of its time, something reassuring that smells like its era, that smells like the good ol’ days.

  Tony would call him to fill it up when it came in, because he knew the smell did something to him. Steve leaves before Tony spots him.

  He walks briskly home.

  It’s empty and cold there too.

  He cracks open a beer.

  * * *

  Kevin stomps up the stairs, the music from his game in his gut, an action tempo full of suspense: someone is chasing him, he sneaks landing to landing, back pressed to the wall, looks left, right, takes the stairs four at a time, slams right into the big guy who collects the rent.

  ‘Sorry!’

  The big guy who collects the rent is coming out of Mélissa’s. He’s doing up a button on his shirt, putting his coat back on.

  Through the doorway, Kevin sees Mélissa dressed in lace, like those bus shelter ads. She avoids his eyes: looks down at the ground and Kevin’s eyes follow.

  ‘Nice shoes!’ he says.

  Mélissa closes the door.

  Kevin stands facing the big guy who collects the rent.

  ‘Your dad home?’

  ‘No. He’s working. Is your dad home?’

  Kevin flings himself at the next door, slides in his key, and in a flash he’s inside.

  Sigh of relief. He got away from the bad guy.

  * * *

  ‘Hey, Dad!’

  Kevin jumps on his father, uses his big night voice.

  ‘He jumps on him, ladies and gentlemen, yes, he’s going to drop him … ’

  ‘Stop it.’

  Kevin keeps it up, going wild. ‘And WonderKev grabs Big by the throat and – ’

  ‘I SAID STOP, GODDAMMIT!

  Kevin stops, surprised.

  Sniffles. Chews on his lip.

  Goes to the fridge. Pours a glass of Coke.

  Comes back to sit in the living room, turns on the TV.

  ‘Turn that off.’

  Kevin turns to look at Steve.

  ‘I said turn that off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Come on. Don’t you have homework to do? Something to make you smart, school stuff? Do it.’

  ‘I’m going to do it after, I … ’

  Steve turns off the TV. ‘You’ll do it now. How are you going to get smart otherwise? What are you going to do with your life, huh? Sit on your ass watching goddamn stupid cartoon men tear around all over the place? Practise shooting fake people, with a fake gun in a fake fucking apocalypse? Huh? Not too smart, that. Go on, get out of here!’

  Kevin’s lips are bleeding.

  Doesn’t move.

  ‘MOVE IT!’

  * * *

  It’s late.

  Silence in the apartment.

  The blood has dried on Kevin’s lips. He is drawing, absorbed.

  Doesn’t hear Steve approach.

  Over his shoulder.

  ‘That school work?’

  Kevin jumps, turns toward him. Steve, awkward, clears his throat.

  Kevin looks at him. Thinks he looks rough. Tired. His eyes are drooping. For the first time he thinks he looks old.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that!’

  Kevin goes back to his drawing.

  Steve stays standing behind him. Tries to find the words.‘ … When was that?’

  Kevin keeps his nose in his drawing.‘The semifinal. When MadMax clotheslined you in the right corner.’

  ‘But I came back after that!’

  ‘ … I know.’

  ‘You’re not drawing that, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence.

  ‘Time for bed, little man.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Silence.

  ‘If you want, on Friday, you can come to the match.’

  Kevin lifts his head, but doesn’t look at his father. ‘Okay.’

  Steve closes the door.

  шесть

  6

  Early morning. Mélissa leaves before she used to, because sometimes when it’s early there are still prostitutes on the corner. Maybe she’ll still be there. The boys follow her in silence; they’re still halfasleep in their puffy jackets, dragging their feet, leaving snail-like trails on the ground.

  She’s there, on the other side of the court-ordered fifty metres. But she isn’t looking at her. Mélissa slows down a little. She just wants her to look at her for a heartbeat, just a bit, just, you know, for her to look at her …

  No. She has her back turned. As if she hasn’t seen her. If Roxane could cross the street, she would spit in her face or bite her neck because her neck smells good, so good.

  Stupid fifty metres.

  Mélissa swallows. Lifts her head, starts walking, says,‘C’mon, guys!’

  As she is walking away, her eyes catch the white against the grey. Her letter. She didn’t even pick it up.

  She bends over, picks it up, opens it.

  Finds twenty bucks and a note:‘Act like I’m there. Nothing different. Take care of the boys, and if anyone calls, say he found a job and he’s not there right now and everything is fine. Don’t tell them you’re alone.’

  It’s the first letter she’s ever received from her mother.

  She reads it again.

  ‘Act like I’m there. Nothing different. Take care of the boys, and if anyone calls, say he found a job and he’s not there right now and everything is fine. Don’t tell them you’re alone.’

  I’m not alone.

  Okay. Okay, Mom.

  On the other side of the street, Meg has turned around. A big truck passes.

  Then Meg’s not there anymore.

  ‘Let’s go, guys, c’mon!’

  The snails advance, yawning.

  Mélissa, her hand deep in her pocket, the letter deep in her hand, goes to school.

  * * *

  Steve has put on a belt to hold up his pants and shined his shoes. It made his fingers dirty, and for a second (no more), he got emotional (just a little).

  Now he is standing in front of a big, thick-set guy who looks off to the side while Steve talks.

  Steve is nervous but tries not to show it.

  ‘Well, I’ve got experience with cars; I work
ed at a garage for a long time. I’m a good mechanic, I – ’

  ‘You see any connection between cars and snow blowers?’

  ‘Well, you drive ’em, I mean, it’s … I like storms, I … can kick up a pretty good one myself.’

  The joke falls flat. The guy doesn’t even spot it.

  ‘Our guys have experience with big cleanup jobs. Handling a vehicle like that isn’t like handling a car … You’d have to start at the bottom of the ladder.’

  ‘Okay, what’s the bottom of the ladder?’

  ‘Well, we don’t have anything right now.’

  * * *

  Roxane leaves the library. Runs into Mélissa in the hallway.

  They look at each other and know they would be less alone together, but neither of them knows what a bond looks like.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  So they just cross paths.

  * * *

  They got her violin lessons at school. They’re supposed to be just for the normals. But they made an exception. For her. The teacher’s name is Caroll. He knows Shostakovich and was surprised Roxane knew him too.

  She practises at lunchtime to catch up to the others. She practises on the same floor as the library. The floor with the normal classes. She is normal from noon to one, every day.

  Has to practise a lot, because there’s a concert coming up.

  A real one. With an audience.

  * * *

  A video poker bar. In the thick fog of last night’s bender, the guys hide behind their steins, letting their lives dribble into them.

  Steve stands tall in front of the bar, staring at a Latino guy squeezed into his tight T-shirt, would like him to tell him about his country some night, at the end of the bar, if he has any memory of it.

  ‘You know how to mop?’

  He’s lost his accent. Or just forgot it.

  ‘We need a guy on the floor … ’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I can mop.’

  ‘Nights.’

  ‘ … I can’t do nights, I – ’

  ‘That’s what we need.’

  ‘It’s ’cause I have a kid. I’m on my own with him. I can’t leave him alone at night, he – ’

  ‘That’s what we need.’

  Steve leaves.

  He sees the huddle of prostitutes in the street. It’s six o’clock. He needs some affection.

  ‘Meg?’

  His neighbour. All that’s left of her are her eyes. Used to be pretty.

  They head off together.

  * * *

  It’s slushy. Mélissa’s feet are wet, and her pants are soaking up the slop from the street.

  Her mother isn’t with the group of prostitutes. Mélissa looks at them one by one.

  It’s always the same ones, huddled together. Like a girl gang. There’s one close to her age. She’s skinny; in her high heels she’s like a raggedy stork. She looks back at her. Mélissa spits on the ground. Doesn’t like the girl. Little whore.

  She slides a new envelope under the tire, then leaves, staring the girl down.

  * * *

  It’s dark on Rue Ontario. Meg is freezing.

  Has a hard time opening the envelope, her hands are trembling so much. She asks the young girl to help her.

  The stork grabs the envelope, tears it, takes out the note, reads it to Meg.

  ‘I can’t get the washing machine going.’

  The stork looks at Meg.

  ‘Gimme a cigarette.’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Meg can’t hold the cigarette in her hands. The stork holds it so she can smoke. One puff at a time.

  ‘Want me to answer for you?’

  Meg nods.

  * * *

  Steve pulls on his tights in front of the mirror.

  Kevin is sitting on the edge of the bed, feet dangling. He looks at his father’s reflection in the mirror.

  Steve puts on his skin-tight T-shirt, adjusts the sleeves.

  ‘Did your shirt shrink, Dad, or what?’

  Steve looks at him, surprised.

  Looks at himself again in the mirror.

  ‘Huh … I don’t know … Fuck.’ Steve sucks in his gut.

  ‘Put the cape on.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Put the cape on overtop. Maybe it won’t show so much.’

  Steve takes the cape out of the closet. Slips it over his shoulders. Attaches it. ‘So?’

  Kevin gives his approval.‘That’s better.’

  Silence.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘No, little man. Not enough money.’

  ‘But you promised!’

  ‘Hey. Next week.’

  * * *

  From the window, Big looks tiny on the street in the falling snow; even with his cape, people could crush him. Kevin blows warm air on the window and writes fuck you in the condensation.

  * * *

  In an alley, on a stoop, Meg dictates to the stork, who concentrates on writing.

  ‘First you put the clothes in. Whites and colours separately.’

  ‘Wait, slow down!’

  ‘ … ’

  ‘ … co-lours sep-a-rate … Okay, then what?’

  ‘You put the blue liquid in the little holder, the one on the right.’

  ‘ … in the lit-tle hol-der … ’

  ‘On the right.’

  ‘On the right.’

  ‘Shut the door tight so the … ’

  ‘Shut the … You okay, Meg?’

  In an alley, the day is ending. What’s left of two women do laundry.

  * * *

  The room in the church basement is full. It’s a big night. Big is taking on a young new wrestler, FastAss, with a rounded ass and the face of a champ. Two mothers in sweatsuits are sharing a cigarette and jiggling their strollers. Two teenagers are selling hot dogs and soft drinks between French kisses that are heating up the air. Pot-bellied old friends touch cups with the soft click of plastic, to Big’s health. Backstage, he ties his laces. The master of ceremonies comes over.

  ‘New game plan, Big … ’

  * * *

  Run. Run. Run. Kevin crosses Rue Hochelaga, zips between two cars, splits the huddle of prostitutes in two, stumbles, gets back up, run, run run.

  * * *

  The master of ceremonies in a black tank top announces the match.

  ‘YO-YO-YO-YO!’

  Around the ring, applause, whistles, and shouts.

  ‘HOW’S EVERYONE DOING TONIGHT?’

  The shouts get a little louder. The music keeps pace.

  ‘OKAY, LET’S GET RIGHT TO IT, ’CAUSE THAT’S HOW WE ROLL, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LET’S GIVE A BIG HAND FOR OUR MAGIC CHAMPION … THE INCREDIBLE BIIIIG!’

  From behind a cloud of smoke, under blood-red lights, ushered in by heavy metal music, Big appears. He walks confidently, grasps some hands around the ring before climbing into it. Takes a lap to cheers, cape fluttering in the wind.

  ‘YEAH! AND TONIGHT, CHALLENGING OUR NATIONAL TREASURE, BIG, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE WELCOME A NEWCOMER, FASTASS!’

  The bells chime from the top of the church: the match is starting.

  The basement door opens a crack. Kevin slips through it. All eyes are on the ring. The fat cashier is looking the other way. The spotlight is on the master of ceremonies. Kevin slips in without paying.

  Sweating. Happy. He hasn’t missed anything.

  The match can start.

  DING DING DING

  The music fades out; all eyes in the crowd are glued to the ring.

  ‘LET’S GO, BIG! TAKE THE KID OUT!’

  * * *

  Meg jabs the syringe into the crook of her arm. A beat. Her face toward the sky.

  A sigh that travels across the street.

  Mélissa, pressed against a wall, would like to melt into it, become a red brick.

  From the other side of the street, her mother’s shadow and an impaled arm.

  The arm she would like to have all to
herself. That she waits patiently for, always.

  This arm broken shrivelled jabbed emptied.

  Mélissa vomits on her black shoes.

  * * *

  In the ring, Big and FastAss signal their hate with trash talk and fake blood.

  The crowd is going wild.

  ‘BIG, BIG, BIG! HAMMER HIM! HAMMER HIM! HARDER!

  They are shouting; they are shouting their week away, shouting their heads off; they are fighting without fighting, from their guts, with all of their pent-up rage – you find your winners where you can or you’re through.

  It’s a party, so order another hot dog, Big’s going to play hard tonight.

  * * *

  Meg crumples to the sidewalk. A dull thud, no cry, nothing.

  She crumples in silence, which makes it worse.

  Mélissa would have crossed the street would have lifted her mother would have got her to her feet would have looked her in the eye would have asked her if she’s okay.

  On the other side of the street, Mélissa turns her back and goes home to clean her black shoes.

  * * *

  Big misses a hold, takes a hit right in the face.

  Kevin staggers, takes the hit with him.

  The crowd reacts with shouts of holy shit, and Big ends up pinned to the mat.

  ‘C’MON, BIG! GET UP! KICK HIS HEAD IN!

  Big gets up. Straightens his cape on his shoulders. Lifts his head to the kid. Hurls himself at him, yelling.

  FastAss moves fast, dekes, turns, smashes him hard in the face with his fist, which the crowd takes in the gut, a fffff, like a wave on lips wet with warm beer travels through the room.

  Big is holding his jaw.

  Safe in his corner of the ring, the master of ceremonies is thrilled. The show is a hit. That’s how he likes it.

  ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BIG IS WORN OUT!’

  Kevin is hot. Wipes his forehead, his lips are wet – shit, it’s blood – looks at the ring, come on, come on, LET’S GO, BIG! KILL HIM, DAMMIT! YOU CAN DO IT!

  Big gets back up, like a projectile. Jumps on FastAss and grabs his head, pulls his hair, pins him against the ropes, rage in his belly, growls, fights, doesn’t want to die – FastAss screams.

  The master of ceremonies blows the whistle.

  ‘LOW BLOW, BIG! LOW BLOW!’

  FastAss holds his head, turns to the crowd, points to Big in his corner of the ring.

  FastAss is enjoying himself, Big isn’t.