The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (free e reader txt) 📗

in the fall,” I told Walter one night while we were wandering through town on one of our walks. “Steve said they’re looking to hire more people because of the rubber factory or whatever it is that’s opening. The factory will be using raw water and that means the water plant has to add a night shift.”

“So, you’re not going back to school then?”

“I’m going to take these courses instead,” I said. “Steve says he can pretty much guarantee me a job at the plant if I get my OIT licence.”

We were heading toward Ice Cream Island, mainly out of boredom. It was one of those hot, still evenings, where the sky remains strangely lit with pale summer sunlight long after the street lights have come on. Walter and I crossed the short, wooden bridge that led to the ice cream hut and stood in line behind a group of girls who kept changing their order and laughing as if not knowing what kind of ice cream they wanted was the funniest thing in the world. We took our cones to one of the benches at the edge of the island and sat down. The water reflected the murky, pinkish-grey light from the sky and lapped against the shore. Neither of us said much. Three seagulls hopped around our bench, looking for scraps. Walter kicked his foot out at them angrily and they flapped away, squalling.

I knew, as I sat on that bench beside Walter, that this moment was the beginning of the end for us. In less than two weeks, he would move to Waterloo where he would make new friends — friends who were more like him than I ever had been. The days, the weeks, even the years loomed ahead of me. I swear, sitting on that bench, I could already smell the loneliness that awaited me.

WE WERE IN HIS BASEMENT playing foosball when Walter brought up the school thing again. It was a Sunday afternoon and my brother was in town with some new girl. I had promised Mom I’d be home in time for dinner, but was otherwise avoiding the house while Ricky and his girlfriend were visiting. He and Sabrina or Serena or whatever-her-name-was would be driving back to Leeville after dinner and knowing he was leaving that quickly was a relief. Mom was so excited he’d brought a girl with him, likely reading all kinds of hopes and dreams into it, that she was kowtowing to him like he was royalty.

Walter scored the game-winning goal and as we were resetting our points he said, “So, I guess you’ve completely given up on the whole college or university thing, then? You’re just going to stay in Dunford forever?”

“I’m not giving up on anything,” I said. “There’s no guarantee I’d get into college anyway. Not everyone is as smart as you.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Walter said. “You had a plan. And you’re not stupid so don’t pretend like getting out of here and doing something with yourself is out of your reach.” He walked away from the foosball table, toward the stairs.

I followed him. “How is getting my OIT not doing something with myself?” My fists were clenched at my sides and I could feel the blood in my veins surging.

“You always hate being compared to your brother,” Walter said, turning to look right at me. “But if you ask me, you’re acting an awful lot like him.”

I stepped forward and shoved Walter. He stumbled backwards. “This has nothing to do with Ricky!” I shouted. I drew back my fist and smashed it into the drywall inches from Walter’s flinching face. Then, I pushed past Walter and fled up the basement stairs.

Sitting behind the wheel of my mom’s car, I examined the scraped knuckles on my hand and fought back angry tears. I didn’t want to drive away, but I also didn’t want Walter, or his parents, to see me in front of their house, choking back sobs like a child.

IT OCCURED TO ME THEN that choosing to stay in Dunford did have something to do with Ricky. But Walter had the reasons all wrong. It had nothing to do with giving up. What I was choosing wasn’t just about staying; it was about not leaving. About not running away. About not being like my brother. Which made the unfairness of Walter’s comparison sting all the more.

CHAPTER FOUR

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MY MUG OF MR. NOODLES has gone cold and tastes like paper. I dump the contents into the garbage and set the mug in the sink. Clearly, I can’t drive to Toronto to string Ricky up the way I want, and, even if Darius did come completely clean, which I doubt, that doesn’t mean my story has to change. No one knows about my suspicions except for me. I never breathed a word to anyone. But if I’m questioned again, will I be able to lie? Will I be able to pretend I didn’t know all along who was in that car? But you didn’t, I remind myself. Back then, you really didn’t.

Mom won’t survive learning that both her children are implicated. She just had a heart attack, and that was before this whole thing was ready to blow up. What would it to do to her to discover that her precious son is a monster? And that her sweet little girl kept that small fact a secret?

I’m going to lose my mind if I stand around waiting for my world to cave in. Despite my throbbing head and aching limbs, despite the panic coursing just beneath my skin, I flee to my darkroom.

I can forget myself here. And if I force myself to focus on the next print I need to develop for Parker’s birthday collection, maybe I can trick myself into believing that everything will be fine. Everything will be just fine.

One of the places Parker has always loved in Dunford is the duck pond behind the old train station. It’s really a stormwater management