Neighbourhood Watch by Rhonda Mullins (best feel good books txt) 📗

to the right. A jab to the left. Leg lock, right jab, two rough power moves, and Kevin smiles.

‘Is it holding?’

‘It’s holding.’

Steve puts on his long black coat over his costume and his winter boots. He opens the door.

‘Dad, can I come?’

‘No, Kev. Not too often, you know. It’s expensive.’ He pats him on the back. ‘Finish your game and go to bed, okay?’

‘Mmm.’

Steve barrels down the stairs.

‘Bye, Dad!’ Down the stairs: ‘Kick his butt!’

The door to the apartment block slams. Kevin heads back into the apartment and goes back to his game. The half-blown-up little man is still frozen in his patch of blood. He looks at him for a moment. It’s all over for him. Kevin, solemn, presses the PAUSE button. The little man finishes exploding, and the blood disappears. Kevin turns off the television.

Goes into his bedroom, opens his album, the one with the leather cover. The one his mother gave him. Inside, faces of all the wrestlers, with their autographs beside them: SmartFox with his rabid-fox mask, MegaStar in his old electric-blue costume, BadJo that time he grabbed Speedy by surprise. And Big, with his shiny red cape, Kevin sitting on his shoulders. He had won again. Always wins.

Kevin falls asleep with the album beside him.

* * *

From the bowels of the church to the corner of the sidewalk, people are doing their best to exist. ‘Killkillkillkillkillkill!’ Heavy metal music reverberates from the basement to the street. Under the blank screens of the pawnshop, Kelly and Kathy caress each other to the syncopated rhythm of the wrestlers. ‘Killkillkillkillkillkill!’ while in the ring, Big throws Fighter into the ropes,‘Killkillkillkill!’ Under the blank screens, Kelly and Kathy make love.

* * *

The sound of a key in the lock. Kevin opens his eyes a little. 00:12. Face pressed in his album. Steps in the hallway. His father’s shadow for a moment in the crack of the door. Behind the shadow, his smell: a mix of sweat and warm beer. Then the sound of fabric that he carefully puts away in his closet, the weary zzzzzzzzz of the large pouch that contains the hero, until next time. A sigh.

Steve turns out the lights, and Kevin goes back to sleep.

четыре

4

The doorbell rings. Mélissa opens her eyes in her mother’s bed, too big for her. It’s 7:00 a.m. It’s her! She leaps out of bed, throws herself at the door, opens it. It’s the guy for the rent, looking surly.

‘I’m here to collect.’

‘Collect what?’

The big man looks around. His little rat eyes roam shamelessly from the living room to the kitchen.

‘Collect what?’

‘Where’s your father?’

‘He’s not my father.’

‘Then the guy who takes care of you. Where’s he?’

‘At work.’

‘Ah.’

His rat eyes everywhere again. It’s like they’re boring through the walls.

‘Bye.’

Mélissa shuts the door. Fuck. She looks around the apartment. Old dishes and empty cans, liquor bottles and chip bags, clothes and dvds scattered on the floor. And the two boys sleeping fully dressed in the middle of the living room. Fuck, fuck. Mélissa shakes them.

‘C’mon, guys! Get up. We have to clean up before school. Dammit, Francis. You pissed your pants!’

Mélissa collapses in the middle of the mess. This morning, she would like to disappear. Not forever. She would come back once she is an adult. Once she has grown up, hair untangled, with a job and a house. And a dog. Maybe a dog. The past, the present, whoever wants it can have it.

• • •

Roxane is in the living room. Her mother is still sleeping. Roxane is talking on the phone in a hushed voice.

‘Hi, Dad.

‘( … )’

‘Did I wake you up?’

‘( … )’

‘It’s ’cause I wanted to ask a question. Was Grandma Russian?’

‘( … )’

‘Where’s St. Hippolyte?’

‘( … )’

‘Oh.’

‘( … )’

‘No, just wanted to know. My teacher said I look Russian.’

‘( … )’

‘Yeah, I know. I just wanted to find out. Go back to bed. Bye.’

* * *

‘Dad! Dad! Wake up!’

Kevin is in his underwear, bags under his eyes.

‘Dad! You’re going to be late for the garage!’

Steve’s eyes fly open, he snaps up in bed, looks at the time.

‘You’re going to be late for work, Dad, c’mon!’

Kevin climbs on the bed and jumps up and down, a foot on either side of his father. Steve groans and flops back down.

Kevin stops jumping. ‘ … Dad?’

‘Mmm … no work today.’

‘Oh.’

Kevin looks down at his father for another minute. His stubble, the dark circles, the drool from the night drying on his cheek. Kevin gently climbs off the bed and leaves, closing the door behind him.

* * *

‘It’s World War Eight, there are 233 clans, and you have to choose yours, your allies, your spies, your vessel. When you start, you have ten more lives, so you don’t die right away. Wanna play?’

Steve is eating toast, reading the Journal de Montréal. ‘No.’

Kevin keeps playing alone.

On a full page, a girl is split open; she’s bathing in her own blood. Her eyes are open. Steve lingers on her eyes. He would like to know what colour they are, but the newspaper is black and white. They could have made an exception for her. Show her eyes in colour, at least for today, I dunno.

‘Why’d they do that?’

Out of the corner of his eye, Kevin continues to invade new virtual countries. ‘What?’

‘The girl.’

He asks the question every time. Can’t get used to it.

Steve lights a smoke.

‘To remind you that you’re lucky, or to warn you not to do anything stupid, or to remind you that people are shit. Take your pick.’

A knock at the door. Kevin hits PAUSE, jumps up, and goes to answer it. It’s the rent guy.

‘It’s the rent guy!’

‘Mr. Gingras,’ the rent guy grumbles.

Steve gets up from the table and does up his bathrobe. ‘Hi. I can’t pay you right now. I don’t have the money.’

‘Oh. So when?’

‘Soon, I’ll get it.’

‘So I’ll come back in three days?’

‘Yeah. Three days.’

Steve closes the door.

He goes to sit down, stubs out his cigarette. Kevin watches