Rage: The Reckoning Page 2

  "What do I think about what?" Mark asked.

  "It's not so bad,” John insisted, “and it's a lot quieter than the city. Besides, your friends can always come up and visit."

  "Right," Mark snorted. "Come on up to B.F. Idaho. Maybe we can go to a tractor-pull or count cow turds."

  "Language," John said while suppressing a smile. “We’re not in the city anymore, I want you to remember that.”

  “First of all,” Mark began, coming out of his stupor, “B F isn’t a curse, they’re letters from the alphabet. Secondly,” he continued, gathering steam as his brain began working again, “we’re only three hours,” Mark looked down at his watch, “ . . . correction, three hours and fifteen minutes away from Toronto. Which, based on your current speed, puts us between two hundred and eighty to three hundred and twenty-five kilometers from home. With that said, I seriously doubt that the people here are going to be any different from the city. Unless of course you’re referring to access to government funds and dentistry.”

  John couldn’t help but smile. For these brief moments, he could actually see and hear the boy he thought he knew. Lately, they occurred with less and less frequency. John was just glad to hear his voice, no matter what the topic. He did his best to keep him talking.

  "I hear they have lots of after school programs and clubs you can join. I don’t think their music department spends much time on the classics, at least, not on the level that you’re used to, but maybe you can be the one to get things started.”

  “Right,” Mark scoffed. “I’d have to teach them how to read and write first. And that could be a problem as most of them are probably too busy making babies with their first cousins and their sisters.”

  Mark fell into silence again. It seemed to happen every time they got a conversation going. It was heartbreaking to John that he lacked the culture, or the wit, or whatever it was that he needed to keep the exchange going. His entire damned profession was, when you got right down to it, based on communication with strangers. John could get a murderer to confess his crimes over a cup of coffee yet he couldn’t get his only child to talk to him. It made John deeply regret all those years he had been running the streets with Jimmy Hackerman while Audrey had been at home with Mark. He never imagined that one day he’d be raising this young stranger on his own.

  Almost as a last ditch effort to get a response from him, John reached down and fiddled with the radio station until he found one of the top forty stations being transmitted from Barrie. He knew his son detested modern music, so he turned up the volume on the car stereo until the speakers were near bursting. "There we go!" he yelled to Mark over the music. "You like this, right?"

  John looked back at Mark to see him pressing his palms into his ears as if he was being tortured. "That's not music dad!" he groaned.

  "Huh?" John yelled, pretending not to have heard him while turning up the volume another notch.

  "Come on," Mark cringed as he climbed into the front seat. "You're going to kill me with that junk." He secured the seatbelt and began scanning through the available stations.

  "I thought you liked Lady Gaga?" John mused.

  Mark rolled his eyes and made a gesture of sticking his finger down his throat. "Gaga me with a brick why don't you?"

  John laughed, something he hadn’t done much of lately. "Well,” he pointed out, “you've got all the music you need on your cd3 things."

  "MP3's dad." he corrected him, snapping the radio off. "I bet they never even heard of I-Tunes up here either."

  "I'm sure you'll make due," John smiled. "You know, when I was your age, you actually had to walk into a music store to buy your music."

  "Yeah?” Mark countered. “Well, people used to crap outside in the winter until they invented indoor plumbing, so what?"

  John made the final turn onto Elm Street and pulled over to the curb, leaving the long driveway free for the fifty-foot moving van which was due to arrive shortly. The house was a two-storey traditional farmhouse with a wrap around porch, set a hundred feet back from the curb. The front lawn rose up from the street to the front porch in progressive waves like steps with a small wooden fence marking the property boundaries. The neighboring homes had clearly been better maintained than theirs had and the decorative fencing made for a heavy contrast between them. A thick layer of wet leaves and twigs covered the lawn and the gardens were overgrown with weeds and the house itself fared no better. It appeared to have been painted in an eggshell blue with the deck and shutters in what was once close to white, now most of the paint had peeled away exposing the water stained lumber beneath.

  "Well, here we are," John said, killing the engine.

  Mark glanced up at the house briefly. "Huh," he said indifferently.

  "That's it?" John laughed. "That's all I get . . . huh?"

  "What do you want me to say?"

  John exited the Jeep and removed a box from the back. Mark followed him lazily up the flagstone path towards the house with his head down and his hands in his pockets. “Look at the size of this yard! Nobody has a lawn like this in the city.”

  “Tommy Sandano’s parents do,” Mark corrected him.

  “Tommy Sandano’s father builds six hundred houses a year out in Markham, he can afford a lawn.” John reminded him with some envy. Tommy Sandano was only one of many of Mark’s wealthy friends from his old school and his son was in the habit of invoking his name whenever the subject of money came up, especially since his mother had left with her checkbook.

  John put his hand on his son's neck and led him up the steps onto the porch, the planks groaning under their weight. A bench swing hung motionless between the large paned windows and a bare bulb hung from a wire over the front door. John tried the knob and found it locked, as he had expected.

  "Don't you have a key?" Mark asked, testing the chains of the bench swing.

  "No," John said, instinctively running his fingertips along the top of the doorjamb. "The realtor is supposed to meet us."

  From the sidewalk, a gentleman of about eighty wearing coveralls and a cowboy hat regarded them suspiciously as he shuffled along. "Good morning sir!" Mark called out. The man paused for a moment, and mumbled something under his breath before waving them away as if irritated that his rhythm had been broken. "Natives are getting restless."

  John checked his watch, and had just flipped open his cell phone when a white sedan turned the corner and pulled up the drive. An attractive woman of about forty behind the wheel put the car into park and rolled down her window.

  "Mr. Stevens?" she smiled. John was struck by her deep aqua eyes and her smile, two even rows of perfectly white teeth. Even more striking was the degree of confidence with which she carried herself. Casa Rio Realty was in fact Ratcliff’s only option and due to the time constraints, John had made all the arrangements over the phone, fax, and via Fed Ex with the man he assumed was her husband.

  "That's me," John replied, stepping off the porch to greet her.

  "Rebecca Andrews," she said, climbing out of the sedan carrying a brown manila envelope.

  "Nice to meet you,” he said, accepting her right hand briefly. "That's my son Mark. Say 'hello' Mark."

  "Hello Mark," he replied sarcastically, further testing the bench swing by rocking back and forth slightly while cautiously looking up to the where the chains were mounted to the porch ceiling.

  "Nice to meet you both," she said warmly. "Dan couldn't make it this morning, I hope you haven't been waiting too long."

  "Not at all,” he assured her. “We just got here ourselves."

  "Oh, good.”

  It came out Gewd.

  “Here are your keys. There are copies of the paperwork in there too. So if you have any problems, don't hesitate to give either Dan or myself a call."

  "Thank-you," John said, accepting the envelope. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

  "Dan wanted me to apologize again for the condition of the house,” she added sympathetically. “He says that if you change your min
d and you want to hire some people to come in and haul everything out of there that he’d still split the cost with you out of our commission.”

  “I’m sorry?” John said, confused. Dan hadn’t said anything negative about the condition of the house other than that there was what he called; ‘A bunch of junk’ left behind.

  “Dan did tell you, didn’t he?” she asked nervously as if she was just figuring out that she was the unwitting bearer of some very bad news.

  “He said that the owner passed away and his kids were out of touch with him.” John said, trying to recall the specifics of the conversation.

  “Oh boy,” the woman said, her smile fading. “I think we had better have a look inside.”

  Two

  Mark followed his dad and the real estate woman into what his father called; their new home. The instant he crossed the threshold into the parlor his senses were immediately assaulted by the reek of stale cigarette smoke and mothballs, worse, it carried a tinge of mould and mildew like the antique stores his mother used to frequent. Aside from a narrow path that led through the dining room to the kitchen, every square inch of space was occupied. Several decades’ worth of newspapers were stacked from floor to ceiling. Boxes of old magazines and periodicals competed for prime real estate with spindly old tables and bureaus which themselves were also loaded with as much weight as they could hold. None of the boxes appeared to be labeled, and most of the ones at the bottom of the stacks had burst their sides out leaking small piles of mouse turds and God knows what else. A yellow sap-like substance dripped down from the ceiling staining the walls that were painted an awful beige color.

  Mark entered the living room, he noticing that several paintings hung on the walls were slightly askew, revealing a different color on the walls behind them. He realized that the lighter shade was probably what the rest of the walls were supposed to look like. Following the only path through the stacks to the dining room revealed even more oddities.

  Clear plastic garbage bags, filled to capacity, held strange items that he had never seen before in such volume. Three of the bags were packed with pull-tabs from aluminum cans, Mark was pretty sure they used those for wheel chairs or something, another one of the bags was filled with plastic coated twist ties and he was pretty sure they weren’t good for anything beyond their original purpose. The strangest though, Mark couldn’t think of what they were called, were those plastic things that they put on loaves of bread and bags of milk that hardly anyone used beyond removing them and setting them free to join a colony under the refrigerator. There were three big bags of them, separated into their own designated space. It clearly represented years of deliberate effort to collect these things, and then to store them, but for what purpose?

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mark heard his dad say to the woman. “This is Dan’s idea of some stuff left behind?”

  “I’ve never seen so much crap in all my life,” Mark agreed.

  “I had no idea it was this bad,” the woman said apologetically. “I’m sure Dan didn’t know either, he would have said something.”

  “The moving van is going to be here any minute, what the hell are we supposed to do with all this junk?” his dad said as he turned in circles looking dumbfounded.

  “I don’t know what to say Mr. Stevens, except that I’m sorry.”

  Despite the circumstances, Mark almost felt sorry for her. He was no expert but she really did seem to mean what she was saying. His dad was too pissed off to see it though. She blathered on about how the couple that built this house lived in Ratcliff all their lives, and how the husband had died a few years ago and his wife had just passed away weeks before.

  “Their kids live out west somewhere,” she shrugged, “I think they had been out of touch for a long time so nobody came to claim their belongings. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for this, I have no idea how this could happen.”

  “Can’t we just stay somewhere else?” Mark asked hopefully, but he knew the answer before he had finished asking the question.

  “I’m afraid that on such short notice it was either this or an illegal one bedroom basement apartment,” she explained gently, her eyes welling up slightly.

  “Is this the way you do business in Ratcliff?” his dad snapped at her. “Maybe I’ll have to see about having both your licenses yanked.”

  The woman swallowed hard at the mention of her license, Mark guessed that his dad wasn’t talking about her driver’s license. She placed the manila envelope she was holding down on the dilapidated, couch.

  “If you want to cancel the sale, I understand. If it makes any difference, I’m sure that we can hire some people to come in and clear the place out. Maybe a cleaning crew and a couple of painters . . . ”

  “That does us a lot of good today, doesn’t it?” his dad countered, refusing to look at the woman.

  She was very close to tears now. Mark knew the feeling. His dad used the same tone with him when he was mad, but this was the first time he saw him do it with a stranger. He watched as his dad walked out of the living room, headed for the kitchen. Just as he was leaving the room he looked at one of the stacks of rotten cardboard boxes and kicked at it angrily. His toe punched through the box with a pop and as he withdrew his foot the box collapsed bringing the entire stack down spilling a mish-mash of spoons and cutlery intermingled with china teacups stacked carelessly inside.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled as he slapped one of the boxes aside.

  He disappeared into the kitchen and a second later he heard the front screen door bang shut from behind him. Mark spun around just in time to see the real estate lady through the living room window, retreating to her car. It was hard to tell in that quick instant before she disappeared from view, but she looked like she was crying into her hands.

  It was just like the day Mark’s mother had left.

  It was the first and only time he’d ever seen his father cry.

  His mother had been crying too. Mark remembered coming home from school and finding the house empty. The people his mother had paid to clear the house had been well compensated and were long gone. He found her standing in the living room in front of the fireplace (the room had never looked so big and small at the same time) and she was holding onto a letter in a red envelope. Before she had the chance to say BOO, his father had come in and lost his shit. After that, it was all (from what he could remember); ‘You’re a whore, don’t leave me baby’, and; ‘I’ve met somebody else’, and blah, blah, blah.

  She left, leaving only the note in a red envelope and all of Mark’s things in his untouched bedroom. When she walked out the door, headed for a sedan idling in the darkened street where a strange silhouette watched them from the driver’s side, Mark had begged . . . begged her to take him with her, his father had been standing right there too. Before she climbed into the car, she’d looked back at him (Mark) and mouthed silently I’m sorry.

  When the car drove off, and Mark had turned back to the house, his father had dropped to his knees and was sobbing into his hands. He’d never forgotten that image. He was sure he never would. Ever since then, all Mark had to do was think about that night and he would have a meltdown, just like he was about to.

  It started as a painful lump rising in his throat, hard as a rock. He clenched his jaw and tried to swallow but found he couldn’t. And with tears welling up in his eyes he headed for the staircase leading up to the second floor, desperate to be alone. Mark bolted up the stairs, taking the wooden steps two at a time and made for the nearest door. Luckily, the closest room turned out to be the bathroom. He shut himself in, twisted the lock and listened for a moment, half expecting to hear his father’s steps outside the door. Instead he heard the screen door bang at the front of the house and he knew he was alone.

  Mark sat down on the side of the rusted cast iron tub and tried to steady himself but it did no good. His eyes flooded with tears and his body began to hitch uncontrollably as he sobbed. Within seconds the room was no more th
an a blur and he let himself slide off the tub onto the floor to keep from falling and cracking his head. He lay on his side and pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs with his arms. This was the closest thing to comfort he could find outside of a razor blade in times like these.

  He hated that he couldn’t control these outbursts. Lately he had found that they came more and more often, usually very fast, and without warning. He thought seeing the real estate woman crying probably triggered this one. For some reason, seeing anyone else crying, even on television, would set him off. He did his best to hide it, often without success, and he was sure that the onset of these outbursts coincided with the ‘situation’. That’s what his father called it. ‘The situation’. As in: ‘The situation with your mother’ which had been followed by Mark’s ‘situation in school’ and his father’s ‘situation at work’ and the ‘situation with their house’. Mark was beginning to suspect that his whole life would be nothing more than one “situation” after another.

  After a few minutes, the spell, or episode or whatever the heck it was, passed. The lump in his throat faded and he found he could swallow again. He got up to his feet and looked at himself in the mirror and saw that his eyes were red and swollen. Mark splashed some cold water from the rusted faucet and patted his face dry with a handful of toilet paper and waited until he was sufficiently calm before unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out into the hall.

  This is what he often found himself doing after an episode.

  He was met by total silence. His father had probably gone outside to continue his attack on the real estate lady so he took the opportunity to inspect the rest of the house.

  The place was bigger than it looked from the outside. There were three bedrooms upstairs and his dad would likely take the largest of the trio. It was closest to the stairs and the bathroom, which would make sense for when he was working night shifts. Both of the other bedrooms were small to begin with and made even smaller by the angle of the ceiling that took up even more space making the rooms feel claustrophobic. Mark chose the room with the least amount of junk piled up in it. The bedroom window looked out into the backyard stretching out for a hundred yards or so before terminating at the edge of a large wooded area. The room itself had only a large four poster bed with no mattress and a couple of boxes. But, the best feature about this room was the twenty-foot high antennae outside his window.