Upbound

Upbound

by Peter Hassebroek

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Published by Upbound Solutions

Copyright © 2017 by Peter Hassebroek

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and to actual locations or organizations, is coincidental.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-0-9866640-1-4 (e-Book)

ISBN: 978-0-986640-8-3 (Paperback)

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Also by Peter Hassebroek:

The Dancer’s Spell

Melange and Other I. T. Stories

Greenplays

Thylacine

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www.peterhassebroek.com

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Contents

Title and Copyright

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/3\

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Acknowledgements

About the Author

/1\

Karl Stevenson, snugly bundled in a tight curl underneath the blue flannel sheets and his thick Sylvester and Tweety Bird comforter, hears the soft, familiar thud of a palm against his bedroom door, followed by a faint whoosh, and a whisper.

Time to get up, dear.

He shifts his bum and shoulders back and forth, as if still asleep, as if he hasn't heard a thing.

Come on now. I know you're awake.

With on purpose slowness he uncurls, stretches his fingers, and slinks like a worm—no, a snake—up over his pillow until his hair brushes against the hard wood of the headboard. He rolls the sheets down to his chest, pauses, before rubbing sleep from his eyes.

The dim hallway light reveals a slender figure he knows so well at his door, a blurry yet eerie shadow watching him, sort of. The way her head leans, up and out toward the window, it's as if his mother is trying to get his attention and avoid him at the same time. When she flicks on the bedroom light, the brightness catches him by surprise. He ducks back under the covers.

No games, Karl Philip. I don't want you to be late.

He pokes his head out and—blah—she looked better with the light off, when darkness hid the pale face and baggy eyes and dry lips. Everyone always says how pretty his mom is but they wouldn't if they saw her now. Not even Uncle Douglas. Her brown hair, normally smooth and wavy, is all jumbled up. It's hard to tell where the hair ends and her torn and ugly old brown robe begins. If she were a jigsaw puzzle, that section would be as hard to finish as any body of water, clear blue sky, or dry grassy field.

Do I have to go? he says, only partly joking.

They stare at each other. For a moment, it looks like she might let him stay home. But then she smiles her impossible to fool smile.

Stop being silly, you love school.

I know, but—

Then snap to it.

Mom, I'm pooped. Can't I stay in bed?

How can you be so tired? How much sleep do you need?

Huh?

You don't remember yesterday? The game? You barely made it through the third quarter.

The game. He rubs his eyes again, shakes his head a couple of times before it comes back to him. How could he have forgotten? The Super Bowl, Super Bowl Six—or Super Bowl Vee Eye, as his dad called it—and Uncle Douglas's surprise visit.

Karl was so busy choosing a puzzle he almost didn't hear the big and loud LTD bounce over the curb and onto the driveway. When he did, he almost spilled all the pieces in his rush to the door. First, the big hello hug, then the snowman self-portraits in the backyard, followed by a snowball fight, and the challenge from his uncle that Karl couldn't finish his puzzle before halftime. That started Karl's flurry of puzzle piece sorting, fitting, inspecting, discarding, re-sorting, all the while keeping one eye on the television, silently cheering time outs, penalties, incomplete passes, even injuries and commercials: anything that stopped the clock. Karl would have finished on time except for that last piece which, as he always did, Uncle Douglas concealed in his shirt pocket. For a long while they wrestled for it until finally, just before halftime ended, his uncle gave it up, letting Karl finish the puzzle all by himself. Suddenly tired, Karl went to bed.

No wonder she's surprised, after all that sleep she thinks he had. Of course he can't say anything about his midnight walk, seeing the mess, and . . .

Has Daddy gone to work already?

No, they won't be up for a long while.

They? Do you mean—?

The look on her face is just like the one last week at the grocery store when the cashier gave her too little change. Only this time she shakes her head and grins.

Nice try, but I'm afraid not, young man. Besides, you don't want to miss your special breakfast.

As if by magic, the frying pan sizzles and the smell of bacon rises to his nose. She notices that he notices and leaves the room. He throws aside the covers, jumps over a pile of puzzle boxes, landing on the bright yellow Nerf football. Somehow, he avoids stubbing his toes against the dull yellow Tonka truck and wagon as he steps through the plastic cowboys and injuns.

He gets two steps in the hallway and stops. Something is different. Something is wrong. Bacon? On a school day? No, that's not it. Of course, the clutter in his room. She's about to let him eat before making him tidy up.

Down the stairs he goes but stops again upon seeing the clean living room. The empty beer bottles, the spilled food, the cigarette butts, potato chip crumbs, all gone. Newspapers and magazines collected and piled under the coffee table, the rocking chair ottoman no longer flipped over but back up against the wall by his dad's La-Z-Boy recliner. Even the small pillows against the now-straightened sofa cushions sit properly, as if company is coming.

His Mom must have been up early because it's the same in the kitchen. Except for the toaster and cutting board, on which sits an open package of bacon, half a loaf of Wonder bread, and a bucket of margarine stabbed by a knife, the kitchen counters are clear and clean. And what happened to all the empties?

Hissing wisps of smoke dance over the frying pan, redirecting his attention to his growing hunger. The window over the sink is slightly open and through the early morning darkness a cold, fresh breeze pushes the smoke around.

Mom?

No answer. Where is she?

Probably in the bathroom. Again. She's in there a lot lately, especially in the mornings. Even so it's not like her to leave food cooking on the stove.

He climbs on the corner chair at the small dining table. His favourite blue plate is set out, along with a knife and fork resting on a folded white paper towel. From this spot, feet dangling, he has a perfect view of the entire kitchen.

What a dull kitchen.

Everything is beige, brown, or dull green. The floor tiles, wallpaper, counters, cupboards and appliances, as if red—his favourite colour—or any bright colours have been banished. The worst are the matching stove and refrigerator. His father calls the colour almond, as if that sounds better. If anything, it sounds worse. Karl once called it wet-snot-green, after hearing Uncle Douglas say it. His dad didn't like that.

At least the pictures he drew at school help hide the ugly colour on the fridge. The latest is of a large ship about to enter the Welland Canal from Lake Ontario at Lock One. Mrs. Takahama, his teacher, wanted to hang it up in the classroom, but Karl made it especially for the kitchen. On purpose, he used the deepest red crayon for the hull, and the brightest blues and yellows for flags, hatches and other parts, all to add as much colour to the kitchen as possible. Luckily, his mom likes it enough to let him keep it on the fridge, unlike the one a while back of Toronto and the big buildings. For some reason, she doesn't care for the Toronto drawings, even though they get higher marks.

Mom?

Still no answer. Should he go find her? Maybe she's punishing him for teasing her about wanting to skip school. Of course he likes school and wants to go, and of course he knows Daddy often sleeps in on days after football games, and of course—but hold on—she said 'they,' didn't she?

Karl closes his eyes, thinks back to last night, how dark it was, how slow he had to walk. How, when he finally reached the basement, he found the guestroom light on, the door open. The cool, damp air smelled of cologne and cigarettes, a smell that got stronger when he pushed the door fully open. On the pullout sofa, on his side under the sheets lay Uncle Douglas. It took a bunch of shoulder shakes before he turned up his handsome face.

Karl? What time is it? Why aren't you in bed?

Can we go to the canal tomorrow? You said it might be frozen. I want to see a ship trapped in the ice.

I'd love to, sport, but I won't be around.

What? Why not?

I have to get back to Toronto early, before rush hour.

When are you coming back?

I can't say for sure.

I hardly ever see you these days. Last season you were here every Sunday for football. But this year, hardly at all.

I know. I know.

Nowadays, whenever you leave, I worry that you'll never come back.

Don't you ever worry about that, all right? I'll always find a way to see my favourite nephew.

Promise?

Yes, I promise. Now, why don't you get back to bed?

There's a big mess upstairs. We should clean it up, together, before Mom gets mad. I don't like it when Mom gets mad at you. I think that's why you stay away longer.

Sometimes, my young nephew, your mom just likes to get mad at me.

No she doesn't. It was her idea to get Dad to invite you.

Her idea? You sure?

I remember Dad being surprised. Me too.

I see.

So you're wrong about Mom. She's only mad when there's a reason, and the mess upstairs is a big one.

Just let it go, Uncle Douglas said, before falling back asleep. Moments later, Karl's tiredness returned too. In fact, now he can't remember how be got back to bed.

A crackle and spatter from the frying pan reminds Karl of his hunger, but there's still no sign of his mom. He slips down from the chair. Just as his feet touch the floor she returns and he scoots back up.

Where were you off to?

To see Uncle Douglas.

She walks toward him and pours a glass of orange juice, her head shaking slowly.

You're not going anywhere except to get dressed and go to school. After you eat. We don't have time for delays.

So Uncle Douglas is still here. Karl sips from his drink, more to hide his grin than from thirst. The tangy delicious coolness settles him back in his seat while his mom gets busy at the counter. Somehow, she can turn over the bacon, load the toaster, make tea, start the coffee maker, and butter bread for his father's lunch, while still checking on him, as if knowing what's on his mind. When the toaster pops, her mind seems to be in another world, but then she responds to scrape butter on the toast. Just as the frying pan sizzles away and the kettle rumbles, almost ready to whistle.

This is his chance.

With the stealth he used last night, Karl climbs down from the chair and, hoping the kitchen noises shield his creaky steps, tiptoes down to the basement.

It's dark, damp, chilly. Even through his warm slippers he feels the coldness of the cement floor. Karl crosses his arms and rubs his shoulders while his eyes get used to the darkness. He has a couple of minutes at most before she notices him gone. Now that he's certain Uncle Douglas is there, his mind tries to figure out ways of talking him into talking his mom into letting him skip school and go see the frozen canal.

The air thickens as he approaches the guestroom. His nose twitches due to an unusual smell, a weird mix of familiar odours with a sickly sweetness. His heart beats quicker and inside his stomach, butterflies. It's like an adventure movie. The kettle whistles above him. The sound is muffled yet he still jumps. A warning? Bah, warnings are for chickens.

The guestroom door is shut this time, darkness in the crack underneath. That's no mystery though. Karl now remembers he turned the light off to let his uncle sleep. Karl twists the knob slowly and pushes the door open but can't pass beyond the doorway He's stopped by a thick stink-wall. Now he knows where that awful smell is coming from.

Beating his hands about him does nothing. Squeezing his nose with his thumb and forefinger helps allow him to slow his blinking enough to look at the bed. Among the scrambled white sheets, flannel blanket, and white pillow, his uncle lays on his back. He's wearing no pyjamas. His head is arched back, showing his Adam's apple. His tall body is spread out and covers the length of the bed while his big thing is in the open for the world to see.

Uncle Douglas?

No answer. Karl slowly steps forward, keeping his nose plugged. He has seen his uncle passed out before but never like this. Not with his neck and shoulders covered by a puddle of greyish brown liquid, mixed with solid specks of dull orange and dull green like the carrots and peas they had with the Hamburger Helper yester—yuck, yuck, yuck—it's barf.

For a split second, it seems funny, a joke, and Karl tries to laugh, but can't. He's woozy instead. When he opens his mouth to repeat his uncle's name, he wishes he hadn't. Like in some science fiction movie, the stink seems to gather in a whoosh and jump down his throat, reaching deep down to his belly, collecting, growing, and swirling like a tornado. Karl heaves and then sucks air into his mouth to keep it down, tightening his lips to trap the stomach storm. His next breath starts up a rush of stuff inside, flowing up to his lungs, and he heaves. Again he tries to hold it by gritting his teeth, but on the third heave it all gushes out on the floor. Gushes and gushes until there's nothing but dry, empty, painful coughs. It's as awful as last summer when his mom forced him to swallow that Ipecac medicine—he'll never forget that terrible word, Ipecac—after she thought he ate a poisoned pear. Like then, water now fills his eyes and turns to tears when he sees his own brown and green and orange barf on the floor.

At least it's in front of him, not on his pyjamas. Slowly he steps away, but then senses a presence behind him. He turns around. Three feet away, his mother looms over him, staring at him, her mouth open and eyes wide, terrified. Karl points at his uncle, his small hand and index finger shaking.

I don't think Uncle Douglas is feeling well.

She gasps. As if she's also having trouble breathing and trying not to be sick. That makes Karl feel less ashamed about his accident, though she doesn't seem to have noticed that yet. After a couple of huffs and deep breaths, she kneels down to him, her voice clear.

Go upstairs, sweetie.

Is he drunk?

She nudges Karl toward the stairs and then steps toward Uncle Douglas. Karl knows he should go but wants to know what's going on, what she'll do. Besides, if Uncle Douglas is sick, maybe he can help.

Mom, is he all right?

Honey, please, just go, okay?

Do you want me to get Daddy?

She shakes her head and points her finger toward the stairs. Karl starts to obey, then pauses to listen. She doesn't call out his uncle's name as he expects. By mistake, he lets out a little cough. His mother jerks around to face him. Her wild eyes flash in a scary way. He can't move.

Karl Philip. Upstairs. Now!

He bolts up the stairs, runs through the kitchen, but stops on hearing the violent sizzling and crackling from the frying pan. It's burning the bacon. Weirdly, the grease smell settles his tummy, which also makes his tears dry up. He walks up to the pan. A spatter of grease shoots up, arcs, and lands on his arm, making him wince, but not cry. He slides a chair against the stove, pulls himself up on his knees, and then pushes the frying pan to an unused element in the back. He reaches across and twists knobs until every oven light is off and the kitchen, the house, his fright, are all quiet.

A glance toward the basement gives no sign his mom, or Uncle Douglas, are coming up anytime soon. In a way, he's glad about that. Karl brings over his blue plate and helps himself to the unburned bacon strips in the pan. He stands in the middle of the kitchen and thinks about taking the plate downstairs to share with Uncle Douglas and ask his mom to make more. A tiny, sharp, cold gust of wind blows across his face, which somehow reminds him of her expression. So he takes the plate to his bedroom where in silence he munches on the crispy strips, happy at being able to use his hands.

Just as he swallows the last bite, Karl hears his mother's footsteps. He puts the empty plate on the floor, wipes his fingers on his pyjamas, expecting her to come in any second. Instead, she passes by his room and heads straight for the master bedroom. His parents' door closes behind her. He sticks his head out into the hallway where he can faintly hear his mother's frantic voice. Karl edges closer to their room, close enough to catch some of the words, but far enough to retreat if necessary.

. . . choked . . . yes . . . no . . . disgusting . . . and Karl saw it all . . . awful, awful, John, awful.

There follows a few minutes of silence, except for some sobs, then a bunch of loud whispering, none of which he can make out. A commotion of creaking springs, rustling sheets, and feet sliding into slippers sends him back to his room. More footsteps, heavier ones, his father's, rumble through the hall and thunder down the stairs.

Several minutes later, his mom enters his room. She gives him a big tender hug that she holds for several seconds longer than normal. Her shoulders are shaking. When she lets go, he's glad to see she's changed from that awful bathrobe into jeans and an old grey sweatshirt. Perfume too, not strong, but something that smells sweet and fresh like peaches. It clears the greasy bacon odour, which Karl no longer finds pleasant, now that he's full.

Karl, oh honey, sweetie, I'm so sorry I snapped at you, she says, wiping away a tear.

What's going on, Mom?

Can you be a good young man and wait here, until we come get you?

What about school?

I'm afraid you won't be going today.

That's what he wanted earlier but now it's the other way around and he wishes he was at school.

It's because of Uncle Douglas, isn't it?

Yes, but—

Distant sirens cut off her answer. She puts up a hand for him to keep quiet. When the sirens become louder, she rushes out, closing the door after her, trapping him, like a prisoner. Soon the high pitched wails stop. Strangers' voices, live and over walkie-talkies, fill the house, along with many footsteps, heavy ones like his father's, thudding across the floors below, up and down the basement stairs.

Too bad his window looks out on the backyard, not the street where he could at least watch the flashing lights of police cars or ambulances or fire engines or whatever is out there. All he can see, surrounded by patches of snow and dead grass, are the two snowmen from yesterday, standing useless and lonely, between the leafless maple trees.

Every half hour or so, his mother or father checks on him, sometimes bringing Oreos with milk or potato chips with cream soda. Whenever he needs to use the bathroom, they wait until he's finished, which he hates. Over and over they say how pleased they are with his patience and promise to tell him everything later, as long as he stays in his room, quietly. It's funny to watch in a way because at one time his father will be calm and his mother nervous and the next time it's the other way around.

Still, he gets bored.

Yet whenever he picks up a Tonka truck or his remote controlled Porsche, he puts it down a minute later. Only last week he read through his entire Donald Duck comic book collection, including the special issues with Uncle Scrooge and Huey, Dewey, and Louie, so that's out. He could start the giant Taj Mahal puzzle but then remembers his promise to wait for his uncle to help and continues looking for something to do.

*

Karl's dozing on top of his covers when he wakes to a light tap at his door. Other than the moon's yellowish grey glow, twinkling around his navy blue curtains, it's dark. Both his mother and father enter, bringing in more light from the hallway and the living room. Karl is so good at telling time that he can read his father's watch upside down. It's eight-seventeen, almost an hour past his bedtime.

His father still has on those silly green cotton sweat pants and the faded yellow golf shirt. Karl's used to seeing him shaved and in a suit; these clothes don't look right. Like how a tuxedo would never look right on Uncle Douglas. A few wrinkles around his father's eyes show, even when he's not smiling. His mother, on the other hand, doesn't look as upset as earlier, though she's not smiling either.

They sit on the edges of his bed, one on each side, his mother by the window. His dad picks up the Tonka Truck and pokes at it until he gets an impatient look from his mom. He puts the toy down and speaks, in his deep and smooth storytelling voice.

Son, I'm afraid we have something difficult to tell you. About Uncle Douglas. I know how close you two were, how much you loved him. This is why it's so hard to say this.

Say what?

I'm afraid that, last night, Uncle Douglas passed away.

Passed away?

His father scratches the side of his head while his mom stares at the stars, or something outside. Karl supposes she's listening, but can't tell for sure.

What I'm trying to say is that, well, your uncle is no longer with us.

No longer with us?

Yes, like—do you remember when we lost Smokey?

Smokey? Smokey ran away. Uncle Douglas isn't a cat.

No, of course he isn't, wasn't.

Dad, stop fooling. Where is he? I want to talk to him.

You can't talk to him, not where he's gone, his mother suddenly says.

Her gloomy voice bothers Karl and it seems her words have startled his father. Karl feels himself getting upset.

Where's he gone? Tell me.

Why, to heaven of course, his father says, as if he just came up with of that.

To a better place, his mother adds, still staring out the window.

To Karl, it sounds like heaven and a better place aren't at all the same thing. His parents look how they do whenever they try to trick him into trying a new food like spinach or broccoli or porridge.

What place? And when's he coming back?

His mother puts one hand on Karl's knee and rubs his hair with the other.