Theories of Relativity Read online

  “Can I use a computer to do—research?” I ask.

  “Sure. All we ask is that you fill out this form first.” He slaps a piece of paper down on a table and pulls out a chair for me. I sit and read it over. Name—first only, if you prefer. Reason for using computer. Time you log on, time you log off.

  “It’s to keep track of how much the computers are used,” Glen explains. “It helps to have concrete figures when you’re asking for corporate support.” He wanders off and begins to sort books on a shelf.

  I pick up a pen, fill out the form, and hand it to Mr. Crowe.

  “We’ll get you on this one,” he says, pointing to a computer.

  “I thought this was a peer tutor set-up,” I say. All these adults hovering around are making me nervous.

  “It is,” Mr. Crowe replies. “Glen and I are volunteer support staff. At the moment, none of our tutors are in. Glen’s company donated most of these computers and puts up the rent money.”

  I can’t help wondering—why?

  “Well, I know you can find your own way from here,” Mr. Crowe says, and he leaves me alone.

  I use a search engine and enter the town name: Murdock.

  And there it is, on a map right in front of me. Murdock. And suddenly I can see the farm, Granddad crossing the yard to the barn, stopping to sniff the weather, calling back to Grandma. A small face is in a window, watching him. Me. I smell lemon furniture polish, fried onions, baking bread, dry grass, ripe pears, honeysuckle, and hollyhock. I’ve travelled back in time. Part of my brain wonders idly what Einstein thought about time travel. Did he believe in it? I do.

  Reluctantly, I wrench myself back to the present.

  I check further. Population: 1000. Primarily an agricultural area. Five and a half hours northeast of here. Bus service, no train. I go to the telephone directory website and type in my granddad’s surname, Wallace. It takes me a minute to remember his first name. Edward. Then the town. And there is his phone number. I think I’m going to puke!

  “How’s it going?” Glen asks. He puts a hand on my shoulder.

  I stiffen, and he casually removes it.

  “Good,” I say. And suddenly, I want to share this with him, with anyone. “This is my grandfather’s telephone number.” I go back a website. “And here’s where he lives.”

  Glen bends and looks at the screen. “Murdock. I’ve been through there before. It’s a pretty place.” He straightens. “So what do you want to do?”

  At first, I think he means with the computer, then I realize he means with the information. “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Do you want to call him?”

  “No.”

  “Go see him?”

  Yes, I desperately want to see the farm. See my grandfather. Be safe. But I’m scared. It’s been nearly ten years.

  Glen pulls out a chair next to mine and sits. “You’d need to take the bus,” he says. “I’ll help you with the fare—” I start to protest, but he waves it off. “It’s not a gift. You’ll have to work it off. Think of it as an advance on your pay.”

  “Pay? What kind of work?” I ask.

  “We could use you in here. We need more peer tutors. Alex”—he nods toward Mr. Crowe—“says you’re good with computers. You’ll have to take the three-day training course that all our volunteers take before you start. And then you can help out in my office. That’s the paying job. You’ll run errands and sort mail. We’ll work out the details on paper—how much you keep for yourself, how much you pay back on your debt. And you’ll have to sign it, like a contract.”

  “You can hire me?” I say. “Don’t you have to check with someone—like your boss?”

  “It’ll be fine,” he assures me.

  I study the computer screen a long time. It’s a commitment, and I don’t like commitments. But it is a way to see my grandfather.

  “Why would you do that?” I ask. “Buy a bus ticket for me. Give me a job.”

  “Because I think you’re intelligent, worthwhile, and full of potential. I want to get you off the streets”—his face tightens—“before something happens to you. What do you say?”

  I gnaw at my raw thumb, brain spinning. “I need to think about it.”

  Chapter 16

  A week later, Glen and I are at the bus station to buy the ticket. That was the limit of my endurance of the factory.

  The station reeks of disinfectant, but it can’t disguise the odour of years of unwashed bodies and greasy french fries. We join a long line at the ticket counter, and I look around while we wait. The Garbage Man is rooting inside a bin. I’m surprised they let him do that here, but he’s causing no harm. A group of kids, the oldest maybe thirteen, taunt him, but he’s oblivious. Or appears to be. What is beneath the garbage bags, the multiple layers of clothes, the skin of the Garbage Man? What does he think? Feel? Could he actually be a genius like Einstein? More likely his thoughts plod in the same groove day by day, ruled by his obsession with garbage.

  “Huh?” We’re at the front of the line and Glen is speaking to me.

  “I said, I can get you a ticket for this evening, but you know it’s Christmas Eve,” he repeats.

  “Oh, gee, I had plans for a real down-home family Christmas,” I say. “But that’s okay, I can change them.”

  Glen rolls his eyes and turns back to the counter.

  A few minutes later, I have a printed ticket in my hand.

  As we leave the bus station, Glen hands me a business card. “This is mine. You can reach me here.” He pulls it back. “Just a minute.” He writes on the back of it. “And this is my home phone. Keep in touch, and let me know how it goes in Murdock. Feel free to call collect,” he adds.

  I put the card into my pocket.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call your grandfather and let him know you’re coming?” Glen asks. “That’s a long way to go to find he’s not there.”

  “I’m sure. He wouldn’t leave the farm. It’ll be a surprise. A Christmas gift.” That’s what I say, but really I’m afraid Granddad will tell me not to come.

  Glen slaps my shoulder. “Well, I’m off. I hope it works out for you. But don’t forget, that ticket isn’t a gift. You have to work it off starting in the new year.”

  “Glen,” I croak. I have something else to ask, but it’s hard.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I work off more than this?” I ask, waving the ticket.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I guess I mean, can I have another advance? Just a small one.” I look at the sky, the pavement, the buildings, anywhere but at Glen. “I want to get something for my brothers. For Christmas, you know.” I haven’t even thanked him for the ticket, and already I’m asking for more!

  “What sort of gifts did you have in mind?”

  “Well, I saw this remote-control car for Micha. He’d think that was pretty cool,” I say quickly. “And Jordan. He’d like a portable CD player, but they’re kind of expensive.”

  “Where did you see this car?”

  “Two blocks down. At the electronics place.”

  “Well, we can go look, but I’m not promising anything,” Glen cautions.

  At the electronics store, people are jammed shoulder to shoulder checking out the goods. Christmas music blasts out of speakers. A man pays for a television set and CD player, and I’m jealous as hell of the person who is getting those gifts. I plow through the people to the front window, Glen in my wake, and point out the red car.

  “How old’s Micha?” Glen asks.

  “Six.”

  “You’re right. He would like that,” Glen says. “Fine. You go ahead and get one for him.”

  As I pick up the car, I imagine the joy on my little brother’s face.

  “And Jordan?” Glen asks.

  “He’s ten.”

  We bend and look at a glass counter full of CD players.

  “There’s no point in getting the cheapest one,” Glen says. “It’ll be broken before Christmas Day is
over. How about that one?” He points to a silver case.

  Suddenly, I think this is a bad idea. I’ll be working the rest of my life for Glen. But Micha’s excited face is right there in front of me, and Jordan’s eyes when he sees the CD player, and I wonder what Dan got them.

  Glen indicates our choice to the sales clerk and pulls out a credit card. I push through the crowds and look at the new CD releases rather than watch the sale go through. I’ve got a couple of my favourites in the bottom of my pack but nothing to play them on.

  Glen comes up, pocketing the bill. “We’ll add that to your total amount owing,” he says.

  “I will pay you back, man,” I tell him. “I’m not shi—I’m not kidding you.”

  “I know,” Glen says. “I wouldn’t do this otherwise.”

  Now I really do have to pay him back, because he’s acting like he believes in me. This is why I don’t like being obligated.

  We push out of the store to the sidewalk.

  “Now, I need to go buy my wife something,” Glen says.

  “Thanks for this.” I hold up the bag.

  “Hey, if we hadn’t bought them, you’d have just stolen them.” He grins. “This way, I keep you honest.” He holds out a second bag. “This is for you, from me. This one you don’t have to pay back.”

  I take the bag, open it, and see a second CD player.

  “I hope you have some music to listen to,” he says. “It’s a very long trip to Murdock.”

  Shit! I’m going to cry. In the middle of the street with people all around, I want to lay my head down on this man’s shoulder and bawl my eyes out like I’m a baby. And worse, I think Glen knows.

  “I hope everything goes well for you. Merry Christmas,” he says briskly, and he’s gone before I can thank him.

  I stuff the gifts into my pack—like Santa, I tell myself—and I feel good. I have a bus ticket, somewhere to go for Christmas, presents, and, most important, I have a plan—to take Jenna with me to Murdock.

  As I walk, I work out the details. I’ll exchange Glen’s ticket for two others to take Jenna and me as far as we can get, then we’ll hitchhike the rest of the way to Murdock. I’m not sure what Glen would think of my plan, but as the end result is the same, he doesn’t need to know. I can see Jenna in Granddad’s kitchen, filling Grandma’s empty chair, hair shining silver, and his surprise and delight that we’re there. But first I have to find her.

  The youth centre is crowded. Twitch sits at a table with Amber.

  “Hi,” I say as I ease my pack from my shoulders, pleased with the weight of it, the presents inside.

  “Hi yourself,” Amber replies.

  Twitch says nothing, and I notice how unnaturally still his legs and arms are. So still, I know he’s sick. Really sick.

  A blast of cold, damp air whips both our heads around to see the Bandana Kids come in.

  “Hey.” The leader of the posse comes over and punches my shoulder. Hard. “Long time no see. How are you doing? Making any money?” They burst into laughter.

  “Leave him alone, you fucking assholes,” Amber says.

  “Shut up,” I tell her.

  I begin to get to my feet, but a hand on my shoulder pushes me back into my chair.

  “Hi, Dylan,” Ainsley says. She turns to the Bandana Kids. “You’re just looking for trouble, so get lost, boys.” She jerks her head toward the door.

  They flip me the finger but leave, as she asks.

  “Something special for Christmas Eve.” Ainsley sets a steaming cup of apple cider and a plate of cookies in front of me, then glances worriedly at Twitch. “You sure you don’t want anything?” she asks him.

  He shakes his head.

  I remember then my theory about Twitch. Bus tickets and presents temporarily pushed it out of my head.

  “He didn’t go to his doctor’s appointment,” I tell her.

  “So I gather,” Ainsley replies. “Did you tell him the date and time?”

  “I gave him the note,” I start to say.

  “I’m fine,” Twitch breaks in. “I just need a . . .”

  His voice trails off, but I know what he was going to say. He needs a fix. Medicine up his nose, down his throat, or in his veins that makes him better. For a little while, anyway.

  “You need a doctor,” Ainsley says flatly. “And you,”—she turns to Amber—“need to quit smoking.”

  Amber pulls a face as Ainsley walks away.

  “Look at this, Twitch,” I say grandly. I pull out the bus ticket, put it down on the table, and tap it. “Read that.” Time to prove my theory.

  Twitch glances at it and nods.

  “No, I mean read it.”

  Twitch pulls it closer to him and lowers his head. I see his lips move. He shoves it back.

  “You don’t even know what it is, do you?” I say.

  Twitch looks over my shoulder out the door. “I know what it is. A ticket.”

  Amber reaches for the ticket, but I pull it away from her and push it back across the table to Twitch. “To where? Read it. Out loud.”

  “I don’t have to read it,” Twitch says. “I don’t give a shit.”

  “You’re the lousiest liar,” I say. “You don’t know what it’s for because you can’t read.” I say this triumphantly, though a part of me wonders why I need to have this particular theory proved.

  Anger flickers in his eyes. “So what? You came in here just to piss me off? Well, you did, so go away,” he says.

  I grab a couple cookies and scramble to my feet, picking up my pack.

  I walk to the back of the room, where Ainsley sits at a desk, a textbook open in front of her.

  Amber trails behind me. “That was a shitty thing to do,” she says.

  “Get lost.” I don’t need her telling me. I know. But I was so wrapped up in proving my theory, I didn’t think any further. “And I don’t need you butting into my life,” I add. “I can take care of myself.”

  Now it’s Amber flipping me the finger as she heads toward the washroom.

  “Have you seen Jenna?” I ask Ainsley.

  She lowers the textbook. “Amber’s right. That was a mean thing to do to Twitch. Everyone knows he can’t read. That’s why I told you to tell him the appointment date and time.”

  “I didn’t know that—then,” I say. I’m getting pissed off now. “Have you seen Jenna?”

  Before she can speak, the door opens again. A female police officer comes in, glances around the centre, and walks back to us. I move to one side, but close enough to overhear. I’m surprised to see how blank Ainsley’s face has become. Then I remember. Ainsley was a street kid once.

  The policewoman holds out a picture to Ainsley. “Have you seen this girl?”

  Ainsley studies the photograph, then hands it back without a word.

  It’s pointed in my direction, and I see Jenna smiling at me. “You seen her?”

  I shake my head.

  She turns back to Ainsley. “So, she’s not been in here?”

  “Not recently,” Ainsley says carefully.

  “And if you had seen her, you wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

  “You drag her back home, you know she’ll just run again.”

  The policewoman pockets the photograph without comment.

  “Are there other children in the family?” Ainsley asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are the parents being investigated?”

  “I don’t know that, either,” the officer says. “Why?”

  “Something pushed that girl out the door.”

  The officer regards Ainsley a long moment, nods, and leaves. Ainsley goes back to her textbook.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Studying,” she says shortly.

  “For what?”

  “I’m taking courses to be a social worker,” she says, voice defiant.

  “To be one of them?” I’m incredulous. I thought Ainsley was one of us.

  “Look at him.” Ainsley stabs
a finger at Twitch. “And then there’s Amber. The way I see it, their problems should be straightened out long before they get to this point. To being on the street, to being high all the time, abused. If we could get to the problems earlier, help families sooner, we might stop this.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” Ainsley admits. “But I think these”—she points to the books—“might be the first step. They try, Dylan. It’s just such a huge job.”

  Amber wanders back over. “You’ll find Jenna at Holy Rosary,” she says. “It’s Christmas Eve and noon hour Mass will be packed. Brendan won’t want to pass that up.” She laughs loudly. “You’re such a fucking lovesick puppy.”

  I push past her and leave without saying goodbye to any of them. Outside, I cram the cookies into my mouth. They’re shortbread. I hate shortbread.

  Like Amber said, Jenna is in front of the church. Her lips are blue and her entire body shakes with cold. She’s thin, tired, dirty. She now looks like she lives on the street.

  As I gaze at the church behind her, stained-glass windows and soaring spires, I get one of those rare instances of enlightenment when colours dazzle, edges become razor sharp, time freezes, and you know something important is attempting to shove itself into your brain. Einstein experienced these moments. I know that for a certainty, because I can see it in his face.

  What’s shoved itself into my head is that it’s unfair. Grossly unfair. The huge cathedral of goodwill, riches, Christmas joy and peace, and Jenna at the gate, begging. In that eerie otherworld of enlightenment, I travel through past ages and see ragged, hungry people sitting at the gates of cathedrals all over the world. It’s been like this forever. It will always be like this. My shoulders droop beneath the weight of my thoughts.

  “Why are you staring at me?” Jenna asks.

  The world returns to normal.

  “Just thought I’d tell you, I’m going away for a few days,” I say casually. I need to do this right. Not scare her off.

  “You are?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to see my grandfather. He lives in Murdock. It’s about five hours north of here.”

  She glances at the clock between the spires. “This must be the longest church service ever. When are they coming out? I’m freezing my ass off.”