Early Christmas. Bought a new chair a few days ago. A cheap motorized model. Has a joystick. Manoeuvres like a dream. Only one previous owner who used it to go to the denturist. Owner died two weeks ago. Massive stroke while cruising past a high school. Misfortune breeds discounts.
Maggie doesn’t talk to me. She watches Randal and me when we talk. Her eyes both anxious and accusatory.
Doing all my marking by computer. Key by effing key. As much as I want to use my red pen to bloody up the margins of my students’ papers, my writing has become too illegible. I wouldn’t normally care, but I don’t want all my students emailing me asking what I was saying on page three.
Randal and I had a fantastic conversation yesterday. We talked about his father, whom he hardly sees and whom he won’t be seeing for Christmas. We talked about how he likes living with his mother. He loves his mother, but sometimes doesn’t understand her moods. As he spoke I noticed his voice has a natural depth to it. Most teenaged boys, the depth in their voices feels forced. Like they’re trying to plough their way through puberty. Randal’s voice is smooth and planed and he possesses profound delivery. The voice of a prophet, if I ever heard one. Yeah, I said. It was like that when we were younger. She was up and down and all over the place. Oh yeah? Randal put down the Pepsi he was drinking. That boy drinks at least three Pepsis a day and doesn’t twitch. Not even a little bit. In light of my tremors, it seems a small miracle. What was she like when you were a kid? he said. Ah, I said. What has she told you? I don’t know. You guys argued once in a while. Your parents died when you were teenagers, and she went back to Warman and took care of you when they died. I smirked. She told me to be wary of you, he said, not to believe everything you say. Randal shook his head. Why did she say that? Your mother doesn’t like me very much, I said. Why? Because she’s afraid of me. Why’s she afraid of you? Because of what I am. Randal looked me over. Because of your disability? Partly. Mostly it’s because she doesn’t agree with how I feel about my disability, or how I live my life, rather. Randal grimaced. That’s pretty shitty, he said. I know, I said. She told me you mistreat people, he said, that that’s why you got kicked out of that home. Your mother doesn’t understand. Do you treat people badly? Well let me ask you. Do I treat you badly, Randal? No. Do you feel that you can trust me? Yeah. But Mom doesn’t like that. I know she doesn’t. So what do we do? Well, you’re smart enough to make your own decisions now. You’ve reached the age of consent. The way I see it, you can decide whether you want to spend time with me. Your mother doesn’t have to make that decision for you. Randal nodded. Your mother and I had a talk a week or so ago. She said that she wants things to be more open. Therefore, shouldn’t you and I be talking then, if that’s what she wants? She said that to you? Yeah, she did. And one thing we can’t forget—I’m living here now, so I think it behooves us to talk to each other. Yeah, I thought that was weird, too, how Mom doesn’t want me to talk to you even though you live here. Did you ask her about that? Yeah. And what did she say? Well, I said Mom, how can we do that? Uncle Dexter’s living with us and you don’t want me to talk to him? You can talk to him, she said, just be wary of him. What does that mean? Just be careful, she said. Randal cocked his head. Like she thinks you’re trying to manipulate me or something, he said. I’m not trying to manipulate you, I said. Far from it. I want you to think for yourself and express those thoughts. Your mother said she thought you’re a lot like me when I was your age, except maybe not as angry. You were…why were you angry? I cleared my throat. Wiped my mouth. My vocal cords felt like they sagged. My voice felt weak. I arched back my neck in an effort to tighten the cords. Well, I said with a twang. The way your mother described our youth was really just the tip of the iceberg. There’s much more to it than that. Oh. Randal adjusted on the couch. Get cozy, young mantis, while I tell you all about your mother.
I told him about how we fought. About the water balloons filled with ink. The branding iron. The time I got my foot caught in a rat trap and she took her sweet time going back to the house to call Dad to tell him I’d broken my foot. The fight we had in the kitchen shortly after Mom died. How I read one of her university essays and corrected her spelling and received a kick for writing on it in ink. How I went to Toronto and then to Montreal for school. Randal listened to it all without commenting. It was only after I finished with my return to Saskatoon that he sat back, pondered for a moment, and said, So why did you come back here? I mean, you won all those awards in school. You got your doctorate from McGill and everything. I bet you could’ve gone to any other school in the world to work, like Harvard or something. But you came back here. There was a job open here, I said. There wasn’t much else for me. Randal studied me. And you didn’t wanna see Mom? he said. She didn’t have anything to do with it? I looked at him. I don’t know, I said. I doubt it. Randal hung his head. Mom said you’re angry all the time, and she doesn’t know why. Is it just because you two see each other? I pursed my lips. I was like this in Toronto and Montreal. So you’re always angry? I’m not angry. I’m antagonistic. I like to pick fights. Why? Conflict strengthens the mind. Randal nodded and frowned. Did you ever feel happy? Did you ever, you know, feel love? I was happy when I lived at the Residence. But you’re not happy now? Not entirely. But I do feel love. I feel love toward you, Randal. I never pick fights with you, and that’s because I don’t have to, because you already think like me. Randal squinted. I don’t know about that, he said. You’re a smart kid, I said. I’m proud to call you my nephew. He smiled. The living room, airtight during my narrative, seemed to decompress around us.