Upbound (excerpt)
Copyright © 2008 Peter Hassebroek - All rights reserved
Karl Stevenson, snugly bundled in a tight curl underneath blue flannel sheets and a thick Sylvester and Tweety Bird comforter, heard the soft, familiar thud of a palm against his bedroom door, followed by a faint whoosh, and a whisper.
“Time to get up, dear.”
He shifted his bum and shoulders back and forth, as if still asleep, as if he hadn’t heard a thing.
“Come on now. I know you’re awake.”
With on purpose slowness he uncurled his body, stretched his fingers out and slinked up, like a worm—no, a snake—up and over his pillow, until his hair rubbed the hard wood of the headboard. He rolled the sheets down to his chest and then rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
The dim hallway light revealed a slender figure at the door, a blurry yet eerie shadow that was watching him, sort of. The way her head leaned, slightly up, and out toward the window, it was as if his mother was trying to get his attention but avoid him too. When she flicked on the bedroom light, the brightness caught him by surprise and he ducked back under the covers.
“No games, Karl Philip. I don’t want you to be late.”
He poked his head out and—blah—she looked better with the light off when darkness had hidden the pale face and baggy eyes and dry lips. Everyone always said how pretty his Mom was, but they wouldn’t if they saw her now, not even Uncle Douglas. Her brown hair, normally smooth and wavy, all jumbled up. It was hard to tell where the hair ended and her torn and ugly old brown robe began. If she were a jigsaw puzzle, that section would be as hard to do as any body of water, clear blue sky, or dry grassy field.
“Do I have to go?” he said, only partly joking.
They stared at each other and, for a moment, it looked like she might let him stay home. But then she smiled her impossible to fool smile.
“Stop being silly, you love school.”
“I know, but—”
“Then snap to it.”
“Mom, I’m pooped. Can’t I stay in bed?”
“I don’t believe—how can you be so tired? How much sleep do you need?”
“Huh?” Karl said, with a shrug.
“You don’t remember yesterday? The game? You barely made it through the third quarter.”
The game. He rubbed his eyes again, shook his head a couple of times before it came back to him. How could he have forgotten? The Super Bowl, Super Bowl Six—or Super Bowl Vee Eye as his Dad had called it— and Uncle Douglas’s surprise visit.
At the time, Karl had been so busy getting out a puzzle that he almost didn’t hear Uncle Douglas’s big and loud LTD bounce onto the driveway. When he did, he almost spilled all the pieces in his rush to the door. First, the big hello hug, and then the snowmen self-portraits in the backyard, followed by a snowball fight, ending up with the challenge from his uncle that Karl couldn’t finish his puzzle before halftime. That started Karl’s flurry of puzzle piece sorting, fitting, inspecting, discarding, re-sorting, all the while keeping his eyes on the game, silently cheering time outs, penalties, incomplete passes, even injuries and commercials, anything that stopped the clock. Karl would have been done on time too, except for that last piece which, as he always did, Uncle Douglas had put in his shirt pocket. For a long while they wrestled for it until finally, just before halftime ended, his uncle gave it up, letting Karl finish the puzzle, all by himself. Suddenly tired, Karl had gone to bed then.
No wonder she was surprised, after all that sleep. Of course, he couldn’t say anything about his midnight walk, and seeing the mess, and…
“Has Daddy gone to work already?”
“No, they won’t be up for a long while.”
“They? Do you mean—?”
The look on her face was just like last week when a cashier gave her too much change. Then she shook her head and grinned.
“Nice try, but I’m afraid not, young man. Besides, you don’t want to miss your special breakfast.”
As if by magic, the frying pan sizzled and the smell of bacon rose to his nose. She noticed that he noticed, and left the room. He threw aside the covers, jumped over a pile of puzzle boxes, landing on the bright yellow Nerf football. Somehow, he avoided stubbing his toes against the dull yellow Tonka truck and wagon as he stepped through the plastic cowboys and injuns.
He stopped in the hallway. Something was different. Something was wrong. Bacon? On a school day? No, that wasn’t it. Of course, the mess in his room. She was about to let him eat before making him tidy up.
Down the stairs he went, but stopped again when he saw the clean living room. The empty beer bottles, the spilled food, the cigarette butts, potato chip crumbs, all gone. Newspapers and magazines collected and piled under the coffee table, the rocking chair ottoman no longer flipped over but back up against the wall by his Dad’s La-Z-Boy recliner. Even the small pillows against the now straightened sofa cushions sat properly, as if company was coming.
His Mom must have been up early because it was the same with the kitchen. Except for the toaster and cutting board, where he spotted an opened package of bacon, a loaf of Wonder bread, and a bucket of margarine stabbed by a knife, the kitchen counters were clean and empty. Where had all the empty beer bottles gone?
Hissing wisps of smoke danced over the frying pan, turned his attention to his growing hunger. The window over the sink was slightly open and, through the early morning darkness, a cold, fresh breeze pushed the smoke around.
“Mom?”
No answer. Where had she gone? Probably to the bathroom again, he thought. She was spending a lot of time there these days, especially in the mornings. Even so, it wasn’t like her to leave anything cooking on the stove.
He climbed onto the corner chair at the small dining table. His favourite blue plate was set out, along with a knife and fork resting on a folded white paper towel. From this spot, feet dangling, he had a perfect view of the entire kitchen.
What a dull kitchen.
Everything was beige, brown, or dull green. The floor tiles, wallpaper, counters, cupboards, and appliances, as if red—his favourite colour—or any bright colours, were not allowed. The worst were the matching stove and refrigerator. His father called the colour almond, as if that sounded better. If anything, it sounded worse. Karl once called it wet-snot-green, after hearing Uncle Douglas say it, but his Dad hadn’t liked that. At least the pictures he’d drawn at school helped hide the ugly colour on the fridge. The latest was of a large ship about to enter the Welland Canal from Lake Ontario at Lock One. Mrs. Takahama, his teacher, had wanted to put it up in the classroom, but Karl had made it especially for the kitchen. On purpose, he’d used the deepest red crayon he could find for the hull, and the brightest blues and yellows for the flags and hatches and other parts, all to add as much colour as he could to the room. Luckily, his Mom liked it enough to let him keep it on the fridge, unlike the one before of Toronto and the big buildings. For some reason, she didn’t care as much for his drawings of Toronto.
“Mom?”
Still no answer. Should he go find her? Maybe she was punishing him for teasing her about wanting to skip school. Of course, he liked school and wanted to go, and of course, he knew Daddy slept in the day after football games, and of course—but hold on—she’d said, they, hadn’t she? Karl closed his eyes and thought back to the night before. How dark it had been, how slowly he’d walked. When he got to the basement, the guestroom light was still on, the door partially open. The cool, damp air had a faint smell of cigarettes and cologne, a smell that got stronger when he pushed the door fully open. On the pullout sofa, laying on his side under the sheets, like a long white log, his face turned into the pillow, Uncle Douglas. It took several shoulder shakes before he turned his handsome face toward his nephew.
“Karl? What time is it? Why aren’t you in bed?”
“Can we go to the canal tomorrow? You said it might be frozen. I want to see a ship trapped in the ice.”
“I’d love to sport, but I won’t be around.”
“What? Why not?”
“I have to get back to Toronto early, before rush hour.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“I hardly ever see you these days. Last season you were here every Sunday for football. But this year, hardly at all.”
“I know. I know.”
“Nowadays, whenever you leave, I worry that you’ll never come back.”
“Don’t you ever worry about that, all right? I’ll always find a way to see my favourite nephew.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise. Now, why don’t you get back to bed?”
“There’s a big mess upstairs. We should clean it up, together, before Mom gets mad. I don’t like it when Mom gets mad at you. I think that’s why you stay away longer.”
“Sometimes, Karl, your Mom just likes to get mad at me.”
“No she doesn’t. In fact, it was her idea to get Dad to invite you.”
“Her idea? Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I remember Dad being surprised. Me too, but not as much.”
“I see.”
“Yes, so you’re wrong about Mom. She’s only mad when there’s a reason, and the mess upstairs is a big one.”
“Just let it go,”he had said.
Then Uncle Douglas had fallen back asleep. Karl’s tiredness had returned too and now he couldn’t remember getting back to bed.
A crackle and spatter from the frying pan reminded Karl of his hunger, but there was still no sign of his Mom. He slipped down from the chair. Just as his feet touched the floor, she returned and he scooted back up.
“Where were you off to?”
“To see Uncle Douglas.”
Shaking her head, she walked toward him and poured a glass of orange juice.
“You’re not going anywhere until you eat your breakfast. And then you’ll get dressed and go to school. We don’t have time for any delays.”
So Uncle Douglas was still here, Karl happily thought. He took a long sip from the drink, more to hide his smile than from thirst. The tangy delicious coolness settled him back in his seat while his Mom got busy at the counter. Somehow, she could turn over the bacon, load the toaster, make tea, start the coffee maker, and butter bread for his father’s lunch, while still checking on him, as if knowing what was on his mind. When the toaster popped, she gave him a long look before she turned to scrape butter on the toast. Meanwhile, the frying pan sizzled away and the kettle rumbled, almost ready to whistle.
This was his chance.
With the quietness he’d used last night, Karl climbed down from the chair and, hoping the kitchen noises would shield the creaky steps, tip toed down to the basement. It was just as dark, just as damp, and just as chilly. Even through his warm slippers, he felt the coldness of the cement floor. Karl crossed his arms and rubbed his shoulders while his eyes got used to the darkness. He had a couple of minutes, at most, before she’d notice him gone. Now that he was certain Uncle Douglas was there, his mind tried to figure out ways of talking him into talking his Mom into letting him skip school. That way Karl might be able to see the frozen canal, after all.
Near the guestroom, the air seemed thicker and his nose twitched from an unusual smell, a weird mix of familiar odours, which had a sickly sweetness. His heart beat faster and, inside his stomach, butterflies. This was like an adventure movie. The kettle whistled above him and even though the sound was muffled, he jumped. A warning? Bah, warnings were for chickens.
The guestroom door was shut this time, darkness in the crack underneath, unlike last night. That was no mystery though, as Karl now remembered that he’d turned the light off, to let his uncle sleep. Karl turned the knob slowly and pushed the door open but couldn’t pass beyond the doorway, stopped by a thick stink-wall. Now he knew where that awful smell was coming from.