Me forehead went numb a few miles back, but I can still feel the drops peltin off it like BB shots, like the wars we had in the woods around the cliffs back home on the Shore. This is real fuckin rain, from the heavens, if you believes in shit like that, if you believes that the apocalypse, when it comes, is gonna be a personal event. Rain like you’ve never seen it. The kinda rain that swamped beneath me mother’s pickup that day, liftin her off the road and into the arms of that quick death. Rain like the way Randy stared at me across the supper table in the years to come. Rain like the fat boozy tears that streamed down his face in the mornings after he’d lost a job or a car or left another piece of his soul in some bottle somewhere. Rain like the way she never even said goodbye.
It bombards me like hail, raw, vicious pinpricks on me neck and eyelids and wrists. The sting of the raindrops like a handful of beach sand whipped into me face. Me pants are plastered to me legs, so tight I can hardly walk, the threading around me crotch is diggin into me nuts, a steady stream runnin down the back of me pants, fillin me boots like Brent the time he pissed hisself that night at the Closet. Fuck me, if I could have that night back right now. The night I slept with Trish. The first night. I wouldnt do that this time around. If I had me time back, I wouldnt. Isadora drunk and saucy at the Ship, sittin on that Crane fucker’s knee. Bouncin like that, like she’d never with me. Impenetrable, no way to hurt her without actually smackin her one. I shoulda seen it all comin right then and there. I did. I saw all this comin. Me, fried outta me skull. And Trish, Trish on the guardrail beside me, skin tight with liquor on her breath. She never looked better. The best way to hurt Isadora, best way to get at her, I thought: heave into ’er best friend. Keep it to meself till the time comes to use it against ’er. And didnt that fuckin well blow up in me face?
It’s so fuckin black out here on the Trans-Canada. So many miles from nowhere. There’s not even the hint of a light in any direction. I could be anywhere. I dont know how many hours have passed, cant think how far I’ve come since I left Isadora’s little squat in Port Rexton. It was a three-hour drive out from Town. Me grandfather once told me he useta fuckin walk to Town from the Shore. That’s a little more than an hour’s drive. Walkin, took him three days to get there, three days back. Him and his horse. Assuming the horse mighta slowed him down a bit, I’d say it’ll take me…eight days to get back to the apartment, back to me bed. But I could very well be headed in the wrong direction now. Or maybe there is no wrong direction from here.
I might be dead before this night is over.
Wouldnt that be a fuckin laugh.
I tried to scream a few miles ago, threw me head back and went to let wail. But I nearly drowned, me mouth full up as soon as I opened it, drops splattering up me nose and down me throat and chokin me. It’s all I can do to just keep me head down and feel for the side of the road with me gimp fuckin leg.
Too many big trucks on the go now and I gotta get way in off the road when they passes cause, sure, they wont even stop for a moose, they’ll just barrel on through a big old bull and pick the legs and grizzle outta the rack at the next gas station. Fine way to get meself back to Town, all mangled into some trucker’s moose rack.
Thought I saw an overpass up ahead a while ago and I tried to run for a bit. Shelter. But when I got to where I thought it was, it just wasnt there. Some hole in the fabric of the world. And I woulda gladly disappeared into it. How could she ever live with herself after that, knowing that she turned me away at her door and then I just vanished into thin air? There’d be the odd report from fucked-up, drug-addled truckers about a dark figure that mighta been a rock or a big dog or a moose. Or an apparition. I’d like that.
I’d been playin it all straight. I knows the fuckin rules, the only ones that’ll get you through—dont call, no matter how much it’s killin you, no matter if you’re curled into the foetal position holdin a shard of mirrored glass to your own throat. Dont fuckin call. Dont talk to her friends. Just dont. And if by chance you bumps into one of ’em, put on your brightest smile and say how you’ve never felt better, say how much lighter you feels now, now that it’s all said and done. How you never loved her in the first place. And always, always look your best, dress your best and smell good and hide your eyes whenever you can. Do your crumbling behind closed doors. It’s only heartache. It’s only pain. It cant fuckin kill you and you’ll be stronger in the morning for havin looked it in the eye.
So I’m goin along like that, gettin through the days, healin up and movin on and reprogramming meself to just not want her anymore, when all of a sudden she strolled into the apartment, back from the boonies for a night, no Crane in sight, and found me on the couch and sat right close. She put her hand on me leg and shook her head at the mess. She asked to do her pee. She went into the bathroom and then came out without even mentioning the toilet. I shoulda showed her to the bench out on the back roof.
It was comin on dark and she wanted me to go have a look at this house she was plannin to buy from the money she was makin on that stupid fuckin movie. That’s what the Port Rexton thing is about, she’s been stayin with another bunch from the movie in this apartment while they does rehearsals and shoots a load of outdoor stuff. I saw the fella who’s doin Ambulance Attendant #1. He’s forty-something, easy. Ugly bastard too. Woulda been so fuckin nice hey, for me and her to get outta town like that and live together for a few weeks and work on a movie and make money and shit. But no, soon as she gets the call for the part, she’s gone. I calls her up then, that first weekend she was gone, and she tells me she’s not so sure about us. Nothing new about that, but there was something else. I asked her if she was with someone and she says yes, just like that, cause where she just gotta be so fuckin disgustingly honest all the time.
—Who? Who the fuck is it? Dawe?
Someone told me they saw her and Dawe out there somewhere in a café havin dinner. Soon as he heard I wasnt out there with her, he hops in his car and tracks her down and tries to buy her back all over again. He’ll get his.
—Clayton…
—Who the fuck is it Missus? I hafta live in this town too you know.
—He’s not from here.
—Who? Do I know him?
She was quiet then, and I fuckin well knew.
—That Crane faggot aint it? Mr. Director.
—Clayton…
—Fuckin tell me!
—Yes…
—Did you fuck him?
—…
—Iz? Did you sleep with him?
—Well, he was inside me for a little while…
—Is that right? Well I suppose we’re even then arent we?
And I hung up then and got shit-faced. Put the final touches on the apartment. Saw Silas Lawlor down on the street from me window and drilled a glass at his head. Fuckin old queer. Inside me. He was inside me. Just for a little while though, Clayton. I finished him off with my mouth. And what’s he? All man? Two parts man and only one part boy? I’ll fuckin slay ’im.
She came back then, after her big fuckfest weekend, gave me the keys to her apartment before she left again, asked me to look after her plants and shit, make sure the place looked occupied while she was away. She was all happy and giddy about movin on and concerned about how I’d get on. Bein right gentle and fuckin motherly with me. She went off to the grocery store to buy some specialty veggie shit that’s not available out in Port fuckin Rexton. While she was gone I wacked off into her shampoo, this real expensive shit she buys downtown, eighty bucks a bottle. I wasnt even horny or nothing, just twisted meself and smacked at and when I was hard enough I hauled at it till I blew a load onto the rim of the bottle. Scraped it in from around the edges with a joker from an old deck of cards. I turned the bottle up and down till I was pretty sure it was mixed in. And I didnt do it to be gross either, even though it sounds a bit sick, I did it for…I dont know…it was a spiritual thing, if you believes that sorta shit. First thing she did then when she got back was to wash her hair in the sink and I stood there and handed her the bottle when she reached out for it. And then a horn was blowin. I looked out the window and there was Cunty-balls Crane sittin in the passenger seat with the big black sunglasses on, talkin into his little silver girlie phone. I was right ready to go out into the driveway and haul him outta the car and pound the livin shit out of ’im, drag his face up and down across the asphalt till his cheekbones showed, but of course Isadora told me not to make a fuss. And I listened to ’er. If I had me time back now I’d be in fuckin jail. That Yolanda bitch came to the door then to get her and the first thing she mentions is how lustrous and shiny Iz’s hair is. I shoulda shouted yeah, that’s my doin. She just scrubbed my semen into her scalp. You want some? But I let that go too and tried to find it funny. Yolanda never even spoke to me, never even looked at me. I grabbed Isadora’s arm when she was finally leavin.
—Iz, please…
—Clayton. I cant. I’ll call you. Dont get lost. Be strong.
—Isadora…
—Look, lets just see where we are in a month’s time Clayton, when this is all over with.
—But, just, please. Are we finished?
—I dont know Clayton. I think so. I’ll call. Dont you call me though.
And then she was gone. And I poured Javex into all her plants. They turned a pale yellow and shrivelled and died within an hour. I felt even worse, cause really what did the plants do?
Another big old tractor-trailer now. I tries to get as close as I can to the shoulder of the road and starts wavin at him. He pulls his horn and blows on past. How can another human being leave one of their own out in the middle of nowhere on a night like this?
When I’d finally found the place where she was stayin in Port Rexton, she wouldnt even come out on the step to talk, just told me to go home. She said she knew I’d show up sooner or later, that it was typical. I wouldnt beg her though, stayed on me feet too I did. I heard someone from inside. I reckon it was that cocky Crane fucker, shoutin to see who was at the door. I tried to push past but gave up when I saw the look in her eyes. I didnt wanna cause the big scene for her, I wanted to talk. It was just startin to rain then and she opened the door wide enough to toss an oilskin coat into me hands.
—Here, you’ll need this.
—Iz, you cant just…
—Look Clayton, you’re big and ugly enough to look after yourself.
—What? How can you—
—You know I dont mean it like that. It’s a figure of speech.
Me legs were like rubber. She shut the door. I never knocked, never kicked nothing, never said another word, just walked on down the gravel driveway hopin and prayin she’d come runnin after me. Whatever good prayer ever did anybody, that’s another fuckin story. I never looked back. It was pitch-black and pissin down rain by the time I made it out here to the TCH.
She’s blamin it all on that night I got locked up, see. Says how she just crumbled and gave up, how she died a thousand deaths, waited up all night, thinkin I walked out on her. I tried to explain over and over that the fuckin cops wouldnt even let me use the phone. If they’d let me make that phone call none of this woulda happened.
She was supposed to be gone with the movie till the end of August, but she’d come back to Town see, no warning. The night she found me on the couch. And I was stunned enough to go with her. Me there livin in the scuzziest hole on the ground floor of the city, escorting her to her soon-to-be new house on Monkstown Road. The roses in full bloom in the little garden by the front step. Dandy big two-storey house, the floors so fuckin solid and even, every room empty, and I could see her eyes lightin up in every room we went to while she pictured what to put here and which one would be her bedroom and where the bookshelves were gonna go and how to best situate the kitchen table for maximum lighting and flow. She’s all about fuckin flow since she quit drinkin. And all the while, roamin through the big empty house, I was expected to be so enthusiastic for her, the life she could have, fixin up the back garden and maybe get a dog, for protection. Cause you cant fuckin well depend on someone who’s only two parts boy to protect you, no.
We wandered around and checked the taps and the windows and flushed the toilet and turned on the shower. A wobbly wooden swing out in the backyard and we sat on that and I didnt even smoke even though she told me to go ahead. She leant her head on me shoulder and I put me arm around her and she said:
—Do you think it’s too late to start again Clayton?
And the next minute we were diggin blankets out of an old chest and flingin ’em across the floor of the room that she picked to be her bedroom and she had her skirt hiked up and I stayed steady till she was shoutin out the only words I ever really wants to hear from her again:
—Oh God, Oh God, I’m coming. Clayton I’m coming…
And I kept steady, waitin for me own turn like I’m suppose to and what do she do but start in fuckin bawlin. And the house so empty then that her wails just bounced and echoed off the walls and into the dusty corners so fuckin loud. And then she was sayin:
—I cant. I cant.
—Well you just fuckin did girl, c’mon.
But she pushed me out of ’er then and wanted to talk, of course. Talk, talk fuckin talk. She got on again about me goin sober and havin a life and how I aint supposed to grab her in the middle of the night, wherever that came from. It was all pourin out of ’er. I latches on to that then, about me grabbin her. I says how that’s one of the best ways to have sex, just fuckin half awake and shit, but she’s somehow after convincing herself that I does it in the hopes that she wont notice, like I’m tryna rape her for fuck sakes. And she thinks I’m expecting her to lie there and take it without makin a fuss, when in actual fact I’m scarcely awake when I does it, just gone hard in me sleep and attracted to her. And she says well whatever the case it feels creepy to her, kinda implying that I’m some kinda pervert.
But at least we were talkin like we were gettin back together or something, makin moves towards fixin things, so I settled down and reassured her that that kinda shit wont happen no more if she feels so strongly about it. Jesus.
She dropped me off down on Water Street then. She didnt think it was a good idea to spend the night together so soon. She wanted to be alone. She was goin back out to Port Rexton the next day. But we were back, she was back, she came back to me, far as I was concerned. I walked up to the Ship and got shit-faced. Had a good time too, felt better than I had in months.
Next day I calls out and she’s fine, tellin me all kinds of gossip about who’s screwin who on the set and how she despises Cunty-balls all of a sudden, Crane. How hard it is to work with him after…well after she fucked him, but she never said it like that. I tried to lend a sympathetic ear but in truth I could barely contain me rage. We were back though, that’s all that mattered to me. I tried to clean up the apartment a bit and even went out and bought a new plant for her. Next day I calls her and everything is gone right to hell all over again and she’s askin me what I meant when I told her we were “even” after she first told me she fucked Crane. I knew it was too soon to lay that card when I did. I told her it was nothing, that I was only tryna get her paranoid, just reachin out for something I could hold over her head. But she knew. She fuckin knew. That Trish slut got a little walk-on role in the movie and they had their little chat and Trish spilt the beans. But of course they were fine with each other, bosom fuckin buddies all over again, and I was the prick. I tried to deny it first and only made meself look like more of a fucker. And I says to her, I says:
—Look girl, we were always at each other’s throats back then. How was I s’pose to know we’d be all fucked-up in love and after lastin as long as we did?
I tried to explain to her that I was laced on acid the night Trish dragged me off. I reminded Iz how she fuckin snubbed me in favour of lap-dancing her way into a fuckin movie for Christ sakes. And I couldnt have known I’d be this much in love with her months later sure. But no, she wasnt hearin none of it and finally slammed the phone down on me in mid-sentence.
Me then, off to the Ship. Tried to get shit-faced all over again. I had a good look around at everybody havin their dinners and behaving so sensible and I realized I was the only one in the bar drinkin. And I knew I had to get her, had to find her out there and bring her back around. I just wanted to talk, needed to make the trip, collect meself, fess up and convince her I could clean me slate. I knew she was out there and everybody knew by now that I fucked around on her and that she was sober and everybody’d be tellin her to move past it and forget about me, that I’m a draining little bastard and she’s destined for so much more, shit like that. That’s always the way. I tried callin but she wouldnt hear from me. Keith walked into the bar then and sidled up next to me, even bought me a drink. We got chattin and I told him what was up, how I was tryna conduct meself in the face of it all, how I’d been holdin firm to the rules but she’d come along and fucked me all up again. Keith never said much, only nodded here and there, but when I was finished he goes:
—Just go fuckin get her man, right now. Walk every step of the way if you have to. Women loves that kinda shit.
So I hit the road. I wasnt lookin to be melodramatic or nothing, I didnt ask for the rain. But I couldnt have planned a better death, now that I thinks on it.
Another truck roars past and the force of the water off the wheels knocks me back on me hole, gravel and muck runnin down me face. I props meself onto me knees and just stays there for a while. The traffic picks up for a bit but I just lets ’em all go cause I knows they cant see me and if they did they’d only think I was cracked and wouldnt want me in their car soakin the seats and plannin their murders anyhow. I tries to think through the rain, tries to think about the rest of the world, real people out there havin hard times, gettin drove outta their homes and losin their families. Prob’ly someone right here in Newfoundland might die on the TCH tonight on their way home from a wedding. People on their way to funerals or on their way to jail, fellas locked up down in the Pen by Quidi Vidi and the whole world after givin up on ’em. But no matter how hard I thinks on all that stuff, I still cant take meself off the side of the highway. It still feels like it’s only raining on me, that everyone else on the planet is bone-dry and cozied up to someone they loves. Well, he was inside me. I wants so much to just throw meself into the ditch and pound at the rocks with me fists and scream and then maybe run like mad into the woods and never come back. I tries to cry but it wont come, feels fake, even though it’s only me here to witness it. I realizes then that I’m on me knees and that’s the last place in the world I wants to be caught dead and the last position I intended to be in tonight. I stands to me feet and takes a deep, snotty breath. I unzips the oilskin coat she gave me and slings it back into the alders down aways from the road. I starts staggering towards what I hopes is Town. Cause I can fuckin make it. Right away I trips on a piece of board from an old road sign and I splats face first into the mud. I lies there for a bit and squeezes big handfuls of gravel in me fingers and rubs it off me face till I knows it must be cuttin through. I gets up again. Walk. Dont limp. Walk. Three parts man. Head high. And I starts to sense something, like a presence lookin down on the whole pathetic scene, but not like watchin over me or anything like that, more like makin sure I gets what I deserves. I throws me head back and arches me back and screams up into the sky:
—FUCK YOU. C’MON! DO AWAY WITH ME THEN! WHAT ARE YOU WAITIN ON? FUCK YOOOOOOOUUUUU!!!!
I throws me hands into the air and spins around like that with the rain beatin down on me and me voice not travelling two feet past me mouth but instead gettin swallowed up in the relentless downpour that seems to fuckin…fuckin…encapsulate my entire existence. Not that I wants to be melodramatic, like I said. A car whizzes past and I just gets off the road in time. I’m walkin backwards now and me heel catches in a swell of gravel and I’m down again, on me back in water and road sludge up to me neck, laughin and pointin at the sky, at whoever or whatever is up there deciding what becomes of me.
—FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!
I can see meself so clearly, last fall, the end of the summer, fancy free on me own two feet, unencumbered by want or guilt or heartache. Sober. Clean. Powerful. Indestructible. New in town and not needin nothing. Armed and fuckin dangerous. Un-fuckin-touchable.
—FUCK YOU! FUCK FUCK FUCK YOOOOOOOUUU!!!!!!!
And then there’s a slender red glow in the mud on the pavement beside me and the laboured hum of an engine and a car door creakin open and a cautious voice sayin:
—You alright buddy?
I props meself up on me elbows and a chunk of pavement gives way and slithers into the mudslide leading down into the black woods to my left.
—Yes b’y, I’m the best kind.
—Well…you wanna run? You’ll catch your death.
And I likes that expression. Long time since I heard it. Catch your death. Maybe that’s what’s up there, lookin down, mockin me, knowin that sooner or later I’ll hafta own up, fess up. Come clean. He was inside me. Maybe if she’d just said yes, I fucked him or yes, we had sex or we fooled around for a bit. I dont know. I knows she tried to say it as clean as she could, cause that’s her way since she quit the booze.
He was inside me.
There’s just something so final about it.
Because it’s somewhere I’ve never been, somewhere I just couldnt get.