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Authors: Eden Robinson
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wide and he held my hand. Mom looked down at us. “Go wait in the car.”
I took Jimmy back, put his seat belt on him and told him to stay put. I ran back to Mick’s apartment. The door was open. Mick was in the living room, pulling apart his eight-track tapes. Mom watched him, hugging herself. Finally, she reached out and tried to stop him. She said something I couldn’t hear.
“He’s dead!” Mick yelled at her. “Don’t you get it? D-E-A-D.”
She took a step back. He crumpled and sat with a heavy thud, the pile of broken eight-tracks crunching under him.
She went over to the phone. As she talked in a low voice, Mick’s head rolled listlessly, as if he couldn’t keep it still. Mom turned around and I ducked out of sight before she could spot me.
Wow, I thought. He’s really drunk.
I went back and waited in the car. Jimmy asked if we were still going swimming. He looked so hopeful when he said this, I said maybe.
Mick’s drinking buddy, Josh, walked up the apartment building steps. As he headed inside, I slouched in my seat so he wouldn’t see me. The times that he came to pick up Mick at our house, he would stagger over, wanting to talk about their glory days on the basketball team when they were teenagers. If he cornered you, he’d go on and on about how hard he’d trained, how good he’d been and what a great team he’d made with Mick. Mom came out of the building a few minutes after Josh went in, frowning, but no longer looking lost.
“Uncle Mick’s not feeling too good,” she said as she clambered into the car.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
She slammed her seat belt in and gave the ignition a yank. “The world has come to an end,” she said very dryly. “Elvis is dead.”
“Who’s Elvis?” Jimmy said.
Mick took off for almost a month and we later learned he’d driven to Graceland. Not knowing this at the time, Dad phoned and phoned, and when Mick didn’t answer, Dad banged on his door, yelling at him to let them in. Mom phoned Mick’s friends, his ex-girlfriends, his fishing buddies, all the family. By the time he came back, he’d lost his job and his apartment. My parents put him on the missing person’s list and had to call the police department to tell them he was okay. When Mick said that if they pushed the panic button every time he took off, they’d be grey-haired by the time they were forty. Dad picked up his brother’s eight-track machine and threw it against the TV.
Dad didn’t talk to his brother for two weeks. If Mick came over, Dad would go into his bedroom. He hung up if Mick tried to call. But the more he ignored Mick, the more cheerful his brother became. He was staying with Josh, but visited our house almost every night, trying to make Dad say something even though Dad was ignoring him.
Mick came by with an offering of freshly killed deer. As he held the carcass in his arms, covered in a blue tarp, Dad stood in the doorway, not letting him in.
“I’ll just leave it here then,” Mick said.
His footsteps clunked down the stairs. Before he got to his truck, Dad yelled out, “Do you expect me to carry this in myself?”
Late one afternoon, Erica and I were playing hopscotch in front of the rec centre. Erica was cheating, but I had to let her, or she’d go home and I’d have no one to play with but dumb old Jimmy. It was getting cold. The streetlight flickered on early, then spasmed and flashed like a strobe light, yellow against the blue sky. Erica was almost finished, balancing on one foot as she bent over to pick up her rock. As she straightened, I saw her freeze, then she was running, her shoes clicking fast against the pavement. I turned just as someone pushed me down.
I put my hands out and managed to scrape only my palms. Three boys about my age circled me on their bikes, laughing. One of them was Frank, who kept trying to run me over. I had to roll fast to keep out of his way. He was bigger than anybody in grade two, and if he decided he
I took Jimmy back, put his seat belt on him and told him to stay put. I ran back to Mick’s apartment. The door was open. Mick was in the living room, pulling apart his eight-track tapes. Mom watched him, hugging herself. Finally, she reached out and tried to stop him. She said something I couldn’t hear.
“He’s dead!” Mick yelled at her. “Don’t you get it? D-E-A-D.”
She took a step back. He crumpled and sat with a heavy thud, the pile of broken eight-tracks crunching under him.
She went over to the phone. As she talked in a low voice, Mick’s head rolled listlessly, as if he couldn’t keep it still. Mom turned around and I ducked out of sight before she could spot me.
Wow, I thought. He’s really drunk.
I went back and waited in the car. Jimmy asked if we were still going swimming. He looked so hopeful when he said this, I said maybe.
Mick’s drinking buddy, Josh, walked up the apartment building steps. As he headed inside, I slouched in my seat so he wouldn’t see me. The times that he came to pick up Mick at our house, he would stagger over, wanting to talk about their glory days on the basketball team when they were teenagers. If he cornered you, he’d go on and on about how hard he’d trained, how good he’d been and what a great team he’d made with Mick. Mom came out of the building a few minutes after Josh went in, frowning, but no longer looking lost.
“Uncle Mick’s not feeling too good,” she said as she clambered into the car.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
She slammed her seat belt in and gave the ignition a yank. “The world has come to an end,” she said very dryly. “Elvis is dead.”
“Who’s Elvis?” Jimmy said.
Mick took off for almost a month and we later learned he’d driven to Graceland. Not knowing this at the time, Dad phoned and phoned, and when Mick didn’t answer, Dad banged on his door, yelling at him to let them in. Mom phoned Mick’s friends, his ex-girlfriends, his fishing buddies, all the family. By the time he came back, he’d lost his job and his apartment. My parents put him on the missing person’s list and had to call the police department to tell them he was okay. When Mick said that if they pushed the panic button every time he took off, they’d be grey-haired by the time they were forty. Dad picked up his brother’s eight-track machine and threw it against the TV.
Dad didn’t talk to his brother for two weeks. If Mick came over, Dad would go into his bedroom. He hung up if Mick tried to call. But the more he ignored Mick, the more cheerful his brother became. He was staying with Josh, but visited our house almost every night, trying to make Dad say something even though Dad was ignoring him.
Mick came by with an offering of freshly killed deer. As he held the carcass in his arms, covered in a blue tarp, Dad stood in the doorway, not letting him in.
“I’ll just leave it here then,” Mick said.
His footsteps clunked down the stairs. Before he got to his truck, Dad yelled out, “Do you expect me to carry this in myself?”
Late one afternoon, Erica and I were playing hopscotch in front of the rec centre. Erica was cheating, but I had to let her, or she’d go home and I’d have no one to play with but dumb old Jimmy. It was getting cold. The streetlight flickered on early, then spasmed and flashed like a strobe light, yellow against the blue sky. Erica was almost finished, balancing on one foot as she bent over to pick up her rock. As she straightened, I saw her freeze, then she was running, her shoes clicking fast against the pavement. I turned just as someone pushed me down.
I put my hands out and managed to scrape only my palms. Three boys about my age circled me on their bikes, laughing. One of them was Frank, who kept trying to run me over. I had to roll fast to keep out of his way. He was bigger than anybody in grade two, and if he decided he
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