Bunny, p.17
Bunny, page 17
A cold, wet nose nudges his leg. Goober looks up at him in that way that dogs do when they know something is wrong. To a dog, any problem can be solved with a wide blast of love through the tip of their nose. He strokes him, watching stray black hairs drift into the air and onto the floor. He walks into the bathroom to shower, in an empty attempt at removing the stain.
HAMNER – BY DAY
The sterile strip lights hurt Silas’s eyes. He rubs the bony ridge above them with his thumb and forefinger, then tries blinking away the dull ache that still pulses behind his left eye. He scans the room for the umpteenth time as he waits.
Brown plastic chairs hug the walls of the clinic reception. In one corner, faded rainbow-coloured floor squares delineate the kiddies play area. A Fisher-Price–style scuffed plastic playhouse-cum-castle squats in its designated area – no doubt lacquered in clear smears of dry mucus from little noses. A prehistoric radio perches atop a wicker coffee table in the middle of the room, mewling banal, middle-of-the-road-horseshit country music. An assortment of mind-numbing magazines gathers around the radio like congregants, their covers festooned with the faces of the British royals in their latest look-at-me-don’t-look-at-me flirtations with the American Tabloid Machine. Silas knows that if he chases his imagination down its current path, in about a minute’s time he will have the royal family re-enacting The 120 Days of Sodom in his head, so he stops. His imagination always turns blue and yellow when he’s in a bad mood. And he’s in a bad mood.
The drive to town was about as uncomfortable as expected. Between Lou Lou’s nervous stream-of-consciousness ramblings, and Bunny’s eyes boring into him from the rearview mirror, he’d been casually tempted to pick an approaching roadside pine to wrap the car around.
But his suicidal fancies fled as quickly as they arose; he knew Rose and Goob would miss him too much, so he put the fantasy aside. We couldn’t all be Yukio Mishima.
The opening gambit that morning had been Lou Lou’s car not starting. He had come downstairs after showering, dressing and stripping the bed to find Bunny sitting in the backseat like a kid on a field trip. Lou Lou had stood over the open hood, looking at the engine as if she could fix it telekinetically. Silas probably knew less about engines than she did, so he had asked Rose to go and grab their car keys while he unloaded Lou Lou’s trunk – apparently, one psychotic drunk going to rehab requires three suitcases of stuff. Bunny had remained in the car, watching proceedings while she rubbed her crucifix. Goober kept his distance, pacing back and forth, watching the back passenger window that Bunny peeped out of. Rose had returned with the keys, and had had to shepherd Goober inside. He started barking as soon as Bunny cracked her car door. Silas had invented a reason to go back inside, and stole a moment of privacy with Rose.
‘I’ll be back late afternoon,’ he had said before kissing her. She had smiled, reassuring him that they would be fine, and that she’d enjoy the morning sun by taking Goober for a much-needed ‘W-A-L-K’.
Everything was fine. Rose told him that she’d also finished putting the script together, and that she had already sent it off to Jerry while he slept.
He was grateful that she hadn’t mentioned the bed-wetting again. He hugged her goodbye and scratched Goober’s ears as he walked out the door.
We rarely know which goodbye will be the last one, he thought, for no reason at all, as he walked to the car. He hastily dismissed the thought as quickly as it had arrived; there were myriad reasons to explain it away: anxiety, the stress of the current situation, overactive imagination, the fact that he sometimes had the temperament of a maudlin man-child . . .
The most precious moment in the drive had to have been when he’d parked in the gas station, waiting for Lou Lou to come back with two strong coffees – he had offered to buy Bunny one, and she had simply said, ‘Bless you, no,’ as she continued to sip from a thermos, ice blocks dully thunking against the plastic interior.
He had needed a shunt of caffeine, but the real reason he stopped was to grab a few minutes alone with Bunny.
He had waited until he saw Lou Lou saunter through the glass convenience-store door before turning to the eyes boring into him from the backseat.
‘Rose and I are staying until the end of next week. If you do what I ask, you’ll never see me again. I know you don’t want me around; you’ve made that clear my whole life. Do as I ask and you’ll get your wish.’ It sounded ridiculously dramatic, but he said it as reasonably as he could. Bunny had continued rubbing her gold crucifix as he spoke.
She cocked her head as if to say, ‘Go on.’
‘When you see the doctor, I want you to agree to go to treatment. Even if it’s just for the time that Rose and I are here. When we go, you can do what you want. Come back if you want to, I don’t care.’
Her lips peeled back in a saccharine smile.
‘Sound fair?’ he asked.
‘But I like seeing you, I like having you around, we all do,’ she purred, sounding like dry, creaking leather.
‘You have a funny way of showing it.’
‘You’re funny,’ she said, staring at him.
Silas knew he was about to lose his temper and he knew it would not help the situation. Impulse and reason ricocheted inside him like opposing pinballs.
‘Listen to me, you cunt.’ Her eyes widened in surprise as he lunged towards her from the front seat, stopping just short of grabbing her. ‘That scared little boy hiding under his bed is dead. I killed him.’ His voice was a swirling whirlwind of gravel and iron. ‘If you touch Rose again, I’ll kill you and hide your body in the fucking woods.’
There. It was out. He hadn’t known what he would say until he said it, but the words had felt good coming out and he meant them.
Bunny stared back at him, unreadable. He held her gaze. Unfiltered hate washed out of his eyes and onto her, clear and pure like a snow-melt river in spring. The social niceties of passive aggression and appeasement had been replaced with bald truth.
‘Agree to the treatment.’ He held her gaze a moment longer, then turned back to the cracked steering wheel as Lou Lou exited the convenience store. A local man around his age held the door for her. She walked through coquettishly and looked mildly confused when he didn’t respond to the advance.
Back in the car, Lou Lou felt the echoes of an unpleasant exchange, like the ozone after a lightning strike. She had heartily launched into nervous verbal diarrhoea as the car’s tyres spat gravel behind them and Silas hurriedly accelerated back onto the road towards Hamner.
Silas shifts in his waiting-room seat, trying to wake up his ass. He decides to stretch and peruse the pamphlets on the wall: Your Weight and Diabetes and Heart Health: A guide stare back at him. He picks them up as if interested.
The prehistoric receptionist clears her throat. ‘Y’all c’n go through to Dr Singh, please,’ she yells deafly, pronouncing the doctor’s name as Zing.
He and Lou Lou shuffle down the hallway into Dr Zing’s office. It has the unremarkable hallmarks of every doctor’s office: a large white desk with a prominent desktop PC in one corner, a plastic elbow joint, and a hodgepodge of knick-knacks with pharmaceutical branding strewn across the front of the desk – a stealthy breakwater between patient and doctor. The patient side has the obligatory three chairs – on one of which Bunny now sits, trying to face away from them.
Silas imagines a typical Hamner family consisting of Mom, Dad and Timmy sitting on these fake leather chairs as they discuss (as is common in these parts nowadays) Timmy’s burgeoning Oxy habit.
Dr Singh is standing by the door to greet them. They make small-talk introductions before sitting – the pleather chairs farting as they adjust themselves. Dr Singh leans back slightly in her chair, lacing her fingers together in a false, but reassuring, show of ease and relaxation. This’ll be a near-facsimile of a conversation – she’s probably done this once a week since opening up shop.
‘Now,’ she begins, ‘Bunny has expressed an interest in seeking help for her issues.’ Dr Singh speaks in a soft, eloquent voice with just a hint of an accent. Probably second generation American – the light accent a gift from her parents, like a cultural fingerprint, fading in the bleach-bath of Americana, Silas thinks, before pondering if the thought is unintentionally racist. He can’t tell, but he hopes not. He’s made comments several times in the past that made Rose cock an eyebrow. All he knows is that when people repeatedly refer to Rose as ‘exotic’ it makes him wince; these people are sometimes their friends, and (like him) are white.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Lou Lou says, casting a small, panicked look at Bunny, who sits beside her, poker-faced. The sisters have been each other’s gin-soaked rocks (but rocks all the same) in the great twin-timed storms of their lives. A parting, even if temporary, will be painful.
Dr Singh continues. Her words, though sincere, are slightly too well rehearsed, like those of an actor who has played a part in a play for a few too many performances. ‘Bunny has also said that she would like to start as soon as possible and I agree that that would be best.’ Dr Singh switches on her best friendly smile. ‘The nearest facility is in Clearidge – one of the only no-cost centres in the state. It’s not flashy, but it’s a very fine place, so with Bunny’s permission, I’ll make arrangements for her to check in today. As I explained to her though, the demand for care far surpasses available supply, so it would need to be today.’
‘We’re happy to drive her,’ Silas says enthusiastically.
Dr Singh’s eyes flick to Silas. A shadow of reproach in them says: Careful, fella, we’re on a knife edge here. Let me do the driving.
‘Actually, that won’t be necessary. The centre runs an outpatient service that makes rounds to neighbouring towns. They drive through here on their way back, so they could pick Bunny up, say, a little bit after midday?’
‘Fantastic,’ he says.
Dr Singh gives Silas another one of those looks. Empathetic, active listening; firm answers; caring delivery. ‘Why don’t you folks go get something to eat, and I’ll get the receptionist to call you around then, when the van is here. It’s half-price burger day at Surley’s, I believe.’
‘Never had a doctor suggest a burger before,’ Silas says as they stand.
Bunny and Lou Lou walk down the corridor ahead of him.
Lou Lou’s hand finds Bunny’s, gripping it until her knuckles turn white. Bunny leads her like a mother leading a timid little girl through a mall.
They walk through the clinic door, hand in hand, and turn left on their way to Surley’s. Silas opens the door and watches them walking away. Lou Lou leans into Bunny as the two speak quietly. Something tells me the ride home will be a quiet one.
‘S’cuse me, chief,’ a voice says from behind him.
Silas has been standing in the doorway, blocking it as he watched them go. He hops aside. ‘Sorry about tha–’
Shit.
By the look on the other man’s face, he’s just thought the same, but has the courage to say it aloud, ‘Well shit . . . You.’
‘Me,’ answers Silas.
The mechanic from the world’s shittiest diner stares back at him, eyebrows raised, in a cloudy mix of surprise and amusement.
What feels like an awfully long time is actually only three seconds. Silas hasn’t shifted into a different stance, but the tension in his body is ready to do so quickly. I cold-cocked him last time. This time he isn’t going to be taken by surprise, and he’s a lot bigger than me. I’m fucked.
Mechanic turns his head to the side and spits out a toothpick, never taking his eyes off Silas. Here we go. But instead of swinging, the big man’s eyes flick to Bunny’s bald, emaciated figure down the road and out of earshot.
‘That your anchor, huh?’ he says as he jerks his jaw at her.
Silas chews the question over. Your anchor? Oh shit . . . Scary mechanic . . . alcoholic granma . . . anchor . . . equals . . . Anchor equals projectile-vomiting Granma! Gotcha, buddy – olive branch accepted. Sweet Jesus, please be an olive branch.
It amazed him how people who had lived with a drunk could so easily spot other drunks in a crowd, just from their gait or body language. He had experienced it himself while working as a bar-back, or when he saw a homeless person. He could always tell if the forty-something working stiff at Thursday night happy hour, who seemed just to be blowing off steam, had a genuine problem with the bottle by the way they edged past him on the way to take a piss; it was the way that after two beers they cleared up, rather than fuzzed down. Or the way, if you watched for it, their hands never quite came to rest, fluttering from one surface or texture to another like bees on spring blossoms. Same with the homeless person; he couldn’t tell you if they were crazy or just plain down on their luck, but he could tell you whether or not alcohol was a patch in that quilt.
Silas steals a glance at Bunny. ‘It is.’
‘Looks a beaut,’ Mechanic grunts sardonically.
‘Yeah.’
And just like that, they run out of things to say. Given their history, Silas isn’t sure how to disengage without making the conversation uncomfortable, so he continues, slowly nodding as if he’s still digesting the remark.
This is when he punches me.
Mechanic shifts from one foot to the other, and for the first time, Silas notices that he is holding two prosthetic legs.
Anchor Granma . . . and her fucking legs. And I thought Bunny was bad, he thinks, staring at Granma’s legs, which Silas guesses are supposed to resemble some sort of Caucasian skin tone, but appear more off-yellow.
‘I shouldn’t have tried to grab your lady like that,’ Mechanic says. ‘Deserved what I got for it. No hard feelings?’ He extends his free mitt towards Silas. The legs chatter as they hit one another. Silas shakes his hand, making a gallant attempt to match how hard Mechanic is squeezing – which is extraordinarily firmly. No moisturised city-boy handshakes round here, folks.
‘Morgan.’
‘Silas.’
Silas releases Morgan’s hand. ‘So, uh, how is your grandmother, Morgan?’
‘My anchor?’ He holds up the legs and looks at them as if they’re a cage containing a rare bird. ‘Sunk,’ he says with a hint of both weary relief and grief.
‘I’m sorry,’ Silas says diplomatically.
Morgan’s heavy-lidded eyes drift over to his. ‘Don’t be. It was time for the urn. The drinking . . .’ His eyes flick back over to the back of Bunny again, more distant now. ‘Well, I don’t have to tell you.’
‘Takes its toll,’ Silas offers.
Silas knows the thing with alcoholic relations is that they often drown everyone around them before they drown themselves. They don’t mean to, they just can’t help it. And the fact that they can’t help it makes the guilt much worse when you begin to hate them, and then hate yourself, and then Mary Lou and do-si-do, grab a partner, here we go!
Morgan snorts and raises a thick eyebrow like Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson right before he defeats John Cena in front of eighty thousand screaming fans. ‘Was gonna say that it makes ’em all fuckin’ assholes.’
Silas laughs out loud and his body is grateful for it. There’s a tenuous bond of common experience between the two men, like returning soldiers from different fronts in the same war, who agree that the whole business is bullshit.
Morgan continues, ‘Granma insisted she needed to go for walks in the woods, made me get these expensive fuckin’ things fitted for her and then the first goddamn day she has ’em, she gets loaded, sneaks out in the middle of the night on ’em, and gets lost.’
He shakes his head and snorts with a bitter but amused grimace. ‘All the search party found were these things’ – he jangles the legs at him (Silas really wishes he wouldn’t) – ‘and an empty bottle of her favourite on the riverbank . . . Figure she went for a swim and never came back up. No point looking anymore either. She would have died from exposure by now, even if she didn’t drown . . . Ayuh, by now she’s definitely coyote shit.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Silas says, more out of shock from the ‘coyote shit’ comment than from the disappearance/death of projectile-vomiting Granma.
Morgan’s eyes crinkle against the sunlight as his gaze drifts to the green-forested hills in the distance. ‘Nah. He ain’t got naught to do with it. Not here.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Silas says.
Morgan seems to be deciding whether or not to tell Silas a secret. As the big man leans closer, Silas worries that he’s about to be told about aliens doing ‘butt exams’ by the local crackpot, or maybe Morgan hasn’t really gotten over the fact that Silas punched him and this has all been a ‘don’t worry, we’re cool, bro’ ruse so he can head-butt him through the clinic window.
‘Out back of the diner, me and Granma live in a couple of old worker’s cottages right up against the pines. It’s not much, but the bank hasn’t owned it since before fuckin’ Reagan.’
The left-handed pride seems to be masking something, like he’s working up to saying what he’s actually wanting to share.
‘When she was real liquored . . . y’know . . .’ Morgan is choosing his words carefully, with a level of reticence that convinces Silas he isn’t talking to the local crackpot, or at least not the garden variety one – those ones had a well-rehearsed presentation memorised and would often deliver it enthusiastically, invited to or not. Morgan, on the other hand, is not enjoying talking about this.
‘She’d just sit out back, facing the woods, and talk into the trees.’ His eyes turn to Silas, then back to the wooded hills in the distance as if pulled there. ‘This wilderness. It’s never been kind to the white man. And we sure ain’t never been kind to it. Maybe we should’ve been, ’cos there are older things than Jesus and God out in those woods. And if you sit on the edge of them when the sun goes down and the world gets quiet . . . sometimes, you feel ’em in there.’
