Pontypool Changes Everything Part 4

As they pull out of Green River, father and son are dissolving the blue halves of a Dilaudid under their tongues. As they sail through Greenwood, some minutes later, Dad thinks to himself: Well really, if the baby gets half, maybe I should take one and a half. Well really, if the baby gets half, maybe I should take one and a half. He twirls off the lid and pops another into his mouth. Beside him his son is quiet. He twirls off the lid and pops another into his mouth. Beside him his son is quiet. This is what it takes. This is what it takes. Les flops a hand across the comfort of the steering wheel. Les flops a hand across the comfort of the steering wheel. I'm stoned. I'm stoned. He feels the tiny fractures in his elbow melt over and strengthen. He feels the tiny fractures in his elbow melt over and strengthen. I have been conscripted into an army. I have been conscripted into an army. Les smiles to himself. Les smiles to himself. That kid at the pharmacy knows a little more now. That kid at the pharmacy knows a little more now. The world has revealed the gun it points at him. Along the stretch of road between Brooklyn and Manchester, Les has his first fantasy about life with his son. A son he names Ernie. The world has revealed the gun it points at him. Along the stretch of road between Brooklyn and Manchester, Les has his first fantasy about life with his son. A son he names Ernie.

21.

It's a Wonderful Life With Ernie The church in Pontypool is one of those rural teeth that have turned slightly toward the back of the throat, missed by the toothbrush. It appears as a s.p.a.ce, sometimes dark with dirt, sometimes cast in shadow. A round black-orange structure that sits off the back, under the trees, hides a tiny cemetery from the road. Two black Labradors are running between white-skinned headstones. One dog moves with a dip and find gait, and the other follows, not trusting its own navigation because of the chopstick deformity in its jaw which causes its lower teeth to slap eastward when it goes south. The dogs stop in the woods just beyond the back row of headstones and they circle a contraption made of metal tubing and the flesh of old tires. The lead dog takes a hunk of this rubber in its mouth and growl whines at the other while it blinks its intelligent eye from side to side. The contraption is a large cartoon of a bear trap made out of a bike rack. Around the playing dogs are trees cut to their stumps.

This is the theatre of Les Reardon. The sculpture, now being dragged to the back door of the church by one of the Labs, is the skeletal form of a stage prop that was to have been central in his first production, The Harrowing of h.e.l.l. The Harrowing of h.e.l.l. Les had spent many afternoons sitting on a stump here, blowing cigarette smoke at the bugs in his face - a new habit - picturing the children of Pontypool emerging through hinged jaws to climb up onto a sunlit bed of moss and lie spent and ancient at the feet of their proud parents. Les had spent many afternoons sitting on a stump here, blowing cigarette smoke at the bugs in his face - a new habit - picturing the children of Pontypool emerging through hinged jaws to climb up onto a sunlit bed of moss and lie spent and ancient at the feet of their proud parents. The Harrowing of h.e.l.l The Harrowing of h.e.l.l was not to be. The drama coach of Pontypool, Les Reardon suffered a ma.s.sive relapse of a painful mental illness. He was treated; however, that treatment forced him to eventually stagger off home from school, under the draining influence of strong medication. His wife, Helen, and their son, Ernie, spent the last couple of months walking as light as prayer around Les as he lay on the couch under an orange throw. He clutched the remote in two fingers that he poked through the loose crochet of the blanket. The medication eventually worked, and the drama of his psychosis quieted; still, he was so weighted with the drug's wisdom that he was unable to coach, unable to lead the children from h.e.l.l to their parents' feet. was not to be. The drama coach of Pontypool, Les Reardon suffered a ma.s.sive relapse of a painful mental illness. He was treated; however, that treatment forced him to eventually stagger off home from school, under the draining influence of strong medication. His wife, Helen, and their son, Ernie, spent the last couple of months walking as light as prayer around Les as he lay on the couch under an orange throw. He clutched the remote in two fingers that he poked through the loose crochet of the blanket. The medication eventually worked, and the drama of his psychosis quieted; still, he was so weighted with the drug's wisdom that he was unable to coach, unable to lead the children from h.e.l.l to their parents' feet.

The priest who had donated an area around the cemetery to the teacher's project took pity on the man who lost his mind in the woods behind his church. When Les returned some weeks later, altered but less wild, to wander with stiff limbs across his stage, the priest offered him a job. The job that the holy man concocted for Les already existed in larger city parishes. He applied for the funding and was immediately granted the means to hire the first rural Custodian of Dogs. Les managed to walk and feed the dogs for one week only - the brief spell after his energy rose from under the medication and before that energy was wasted against a chaotic range of depressions. As his desire to live met with the life he would have to live, Les slipped on his own weight, down a rope that dropped him under a crocheted blanket on the couch, where he sits, once again, with two fingers poking through the loose weave to direct a remote control. This summer, Ernie experiences his first vacation from school as an adolescent. The priest, who still needed an employee, gave the son the father's job and Ernie inherited the t.i.tle Custodian of Dogs.

Ernie spent July wandering in disgust among the ruins of his father's life: the destroyed bits of forest, the hiding places under plastic. And the job: waiting for dogs to s.h.i.t - a wait his father was now unable to endure. In the evening he couldn't bear to be in the same house as the man, so he'd invent things he had to do at the church and then drive off in the car his father could barely understand. His nightly request for the keys was met with an uncomprehending stare and lips so dry that Ernie winced when they touched to speak.

Tonight, Helen will answer the phone and learn that someone has stolen one hundred and forty-six dollars from the church's petty cash. In three days the police will call to tell her that they have apprehended Ernie Reardon. She spends these days comforting a poor husband who has long retreated into an uncaring silence. In the coming months, as his depression sinks into a lifelong organization, Les will never miss an opportunity to appear misunderstood and wounded. He feels himself domineering, emerging in his family for the first time, and he will twist forever in a kind of happiness that will never abandon him.

22.

Midlife Heat Score As they pull through Myrtle Station an OPP OPP car pa.s.ses them and slows. Les looks at the baby drowsing peacefully on the seat, its small feet pressed against the barrel of a handgun and the bulk jar of Dilaudid sitting on the floor mat. The arrangement makes Les think of pieces gathered at the start square of a board game. He moves the handgun onto the floor and slides it with his foot under the seat. The lights on the car pa.s.ses them and slows. Les looks at the baby drowsing peacefully on the seat, its small feet pressed against the barrel of a handgun and the bulk jar of Dilaudid sitting on the floor mat. The arrangement makes Les think of pieces gathered at the start square of a board game. He moves the handgun onto the floor and slides it with his foot under the seat. The lights on the OPP OPP cruiser fire off and Les pulls his stolen car onto the shoulder. The cop steps out onto the pavement of the highway and, before approaching Les's vehicle, takes in the spot: the six cows gathered near the muddy back of a barn, the twenty odd birds strung like pointy teeth on a hydro wire. He calculates something, reading the fresh spring with a local's discerning eye, and moves his hat forward to accept a message given. He stops halfway between the two cars and realizes that he's approaching a stolen vehicle. He drops to a squat, withdraws his sidearm and, with his hands joined and fingers pointing along with the barrel, shouts from his elbows. Les lays his hand on the spot that has grown so comforting to him, his son's warm belly, and decides, while there's time, barely perhaps, to imagine yet another life for him and little Ern. cruiser fire off and Les pulls his stolen car onto the shoulder. The cop steps out onto the pavement of the highway and, before approaching Les's vehicle, takes in the spot: the six cows gathered near the muddy back of a barn, the twenty odd birds strung like pointy teeth on a hydro wire. He calculates something, reading the fresh spring with a local's discerning eye, and moves his hat forward to accept a message given. He stops halfway between the two cars and realizes that he's approaching a stolen vehicle. He drops to a squat, withdraws his sidearm and, with his hands joined and fingers pointing along with the barrel, shouts from his elbows. Les lays his hand on the spot that has grown so comforting to him, his son's warm belly, and decides, while there's time, barely perhaps, to imagine yet another life for him and little Ern.

23.

Yet Another Life For Him and Little Em "Did Ernie take the Boy or the Girl for lunch?"

Helen hasn't sat down all morning. She hovers over the kitchen sink: above it stretches a narrow shelf littered with Mommy's drug things. A spoon with a soggy bit of filter; a lighter; three origami packets lined in some priority to the left; a thin razor blade. Helen pushes a long fingernail into the enveloped opening at the top of one of the packets.

"Les, honey."

Les is seated at the kitchen table. A light sweat has broken out on his forehead.

"No, thank you dear."

Helen stops twirling the plunger of a syringe in her spoon and looks over her shoulder at her husband.

"No? I mean, no. What do you mean? I didn't get that."

Les scratches his shoulders with crossed arms.

"I mean no, darling, I'm OK OK. I did some of the Girl after I did the Boy, so I'm alright - you just make yourself right, there, don't worry about me."

"OK, OK OK. I'm glad that you did the Girl already, that's what I'm fixing here, but I asked whether Ernie went off with the Boy and and the Girl. He never forgets the Boy, he thinks that's all he needs, but he misses half his lessons, so I tell him if he takes some of the Girl, not too much y'know, but a little wake up, and he'll do better at school. Makes the Boy a nice after-school wind down. So I was asking, did Ernie take the Girl with him to school this morning?" the Girl. He never forgets the Boy, he thinks that's all he needs, but he misses half his lessons, so I tell him if he takes some of the Girl, not too much y'know, but a little wake up, and he'll do better at school. Makes the Boy a nice after-school wind down. So I was asking, did Ernie take the Girl with him to school this morning?"

Les is doing his morning reading, an interview with Liv Tyler in Details; Details; beside his right hand is a thawing cup of wheat gra.s.s juice. beside his right hand is a thawing cup of wheat gra.s.s juice.

"Oh honey, I don't know. He left early."

Helen walks across the kitchen floor with a syringe dangling and clinging to the crook of her arm. She stands in front of a large television. A Breakfast Television Breakfast Television celebrity is watching a small man drag a comb through brown paint to create a fake wood grain. Helen observes the process, mindless of the unadministered drug laying like a broken branch from her arm. As the segment concludes, opening a replay box over the audience and a scroll of the next segment beneath them, Helen lifts the syringe away from her forearm and works it slowly, playing in her arm with its searching tip. She is obviously enjoying herself as she parries with the moment of injection. The moment comes and goes and Helen returns to the kitchen sink. She turns her back to it and leans long enough to push herself into a walk through the kitchen again. Her walking, not quite a pace, and not without some meaningful gestures, is what she concentrates on, experimenting with the pleasure of appearing not so crazy. celebrity is watching a small man drag a comb through brown paint to create a fake wood grain. Helen observes the process, mindless of the unadministered drug laying like a broken branch from her arm. As the segment concludes, opening a replay box over the audience and a scroll of the next segment beneath them, Helen lifts the syringe away from her forearm and works it slowly, playing in her arm with its searching tip. She is obviously enjoying herself as she parries with the moment of injection. The moment comes and goes and Helen returns to the kitchen sink. She turns her back to it and leans long enough to push herself into a walk through the kitchen again. Her walking, not quite a pace, and not without some meaningful gestures, is what she concentrates on, experimenting with the pleasure of appearing not so crazy.

"I think ... I think... Lester, I think Ernie is doing really really well at school." well at school."

Les is reading the advertis.e.m.e.nt for a hair-loss treatment on the page opposite the Liv Tyler interview. The interview continues seventy-five pages later, but Les thinks he may never return to this particular point in the magazine again, so he's taking his time before moving on. Helen has left the kitchen again, and she exits down the hallway. But she returns too soon to have actually left for any other reason than the opportunity to come back to the kitchen.

"He's really good with math, y'know? He gets that from me, I think. I have a cousin who's an architect. But he also gets it from you, you're good with numbers."

Helen disappears and returns again, this time having retrieved three notebooks from a room down the hall. She sits across from Les, who has moved on to the conclusion of the Liv Tyler interview. Helen stacks the books in front of her and opens the first with a formality that reminds her of her own mother.

"Look at this... Oh my G.o.d!... This is totally neat... He's doing algebra ... I knew it..."

Helen looks up, irritated. Les is flipping through the magazine now, comparing the icons that signify the conclusions of articles, wondering whether the feeling of conclusion is just an effect of their appearance on the pages.

"Oh, look, he does drawings here in the margins... That's cool... He could draw for the comics..."

Les looks up, closing the magazine on a finger to mark his place.

"Do some of the Boy. I think I need some of the Boy - let's split a tenth, honey."

Helen closes the notebook and returns to her narrow shelf. "I wonder if he forgot those books this morning. He needs his notebooks." She opens the lid of a packet with a fingernail. "A student can't take notes without a notebook. How come he left his notebooks here?" As she sets up a small blue jar of distilled water on the counter she flips two antiseptic swipes out of her pyjama pocket. "Maybe he has a locker. Maybe the books he uses at school are in his locker."

Les is distracted. He's looking at a large photograph of Lena Olin that fills a tall page in an old issue of Interview. Interview. A bar of sand clings to the side of her bare foot. A bar of sand clings to the side of her bare foot. So wrinkled, So wrinkled, he thinks. he thinks. Not age, just...foot wrinkled. Not age, just...foot wrinkled.

"Sweety, I've only got a quarter left..."

Les rumples his nose with a loose fist; the skin of his face, now arid, folds and bends without resisting.

"Sweety, how ... uh ... how much do you have?"

Les scratches the back of his head with the vigour of a porch dog. He has been preparing to ignore this question long before it has occurred to Helen. Not that he won't answer, and she won't mind asking two or three times, it's just a kind of protocol of married life.

"Hmmm ... I thought I had at least a half. . . Well, let's do a Tee anyway, right honey?"

Les is drawing bubbles on a photograph of a martini gla.s.s. Mmmmm. Hmmm. Mmmmm. Hmmm.

"OK, yes, a nice half-Tee, that'll be nice for us. Uh... Les, how much do you have left?"

Les draws the stick of an umbrella leaning out of the martini.

"Sorry, sugar. What did you say?"

Helen snaps a blade through a pebble of heroin, pinning the halves on either side of the tiny knife with her fingers. She asks again with a voice that is patient and refreshed.

"Oh, I was just wondering how much of the Boy you have left."

Les pushes the magazine to the edge of the table, conscious of what it would take to send it sailing onto the floor.

"How much of the Girl is left there?"

Helen lifts her hands from what she's doing and slides another packet into the area of her operation. She opens it without lifting it from the shelf.

"Two big grams."

She looks over her shoulder at Les. She feels she deserves her answer now.

"Three-quarters. Second drawer. In the purple box. Pull it out."

Les puts a flint of power in his mouth and it only allows him to use short sentences. When Helen puts the larger bindle on the table in front of Les, he covers it with one hand, watching her back while she loads two syringes.

"Here darling."

They silently administer the heroin and listen, in the seconds that follow, for more comfortable breathing in each other. Helen smiles at Les and he returns the gesture. Her smile twists apologetically and she returns to the shelf. The Girl again. Christ. Helen, you're not in control of what you're doing. The Girl again. Christ. Helen, you're not in control of what you're doing. Les says nothing as he spins the packet towards himself and opens it. Les says nothing as he spins the packet towards himself and opens it.

"What the f.u.c.k is this?"

Helen jumps, dropping a new syringe into the sink.

"f.u.c.k Les, f.u.c.k!"

"No. No. Really, Helen, what the f.u.c.k is this? There's only a couple of Tees here."

"No! Oh no no! f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k! Are you sure? Lemme see!"

"There was almost a gram in here this morning! Where the f.u.c.k is it?"

"I don't know, Les! I don't f.u.c.king know. Oh G.o.d!"

Helen is screaming now. Crying and angry, she reaches across the table for the packet. Les makes quick fists, striking distance; to protect her he stomps his feet.

"Ernie! f.u.c.king Ernie! He's selling at school! The f.u.c.ker!"

Helen whips open the top drawer and pulls out a handgun.

"OK you little f.u.c.k! I can't f.u.c.kin' believe him! I'll kill him." you little f.u.c.k! I can't f.u.c.kin' believe him! I'll kill him."

"No you won't."

Helen looks up, confused, still crying, the rims of her eyes are flicking around her sockets.

"But keep the f.u.c.king gun out anyway."

Helen places the gun on the table and with a gluey pull at her nose she returns to the shelf. Les stares at her back. She is struggling with the cocaine, messing up her fix and saying "f.u.c.k!" every six or seven seconds. Les picks up the gun, checks the chamber for rounds, and lays it flat against the inside of his thigh.

"I can't f.u.c.king take this. I need some music."

24.

Yet Another Life for Him And Em: Part 2 Les looks down at his son before stepping out onto the highway. He takes the word Ernie away from his boy. He leaves the baby to scratch, nameless and alone, at the red patches that have risen on his wrists. The OPP OPP officer and Les stare at each other. Neither of them has a clear idea of what happens next. They are both expecting to die, though they have probably never been in safer company. In fact, they are both pretty much willing to die for each other. The officer makes the first move. Gracefully and delicately, he floats his right hand out and down. officer and Les stare at each other. Neither of them has a clear idea of what happens next. They are both expecting to die, though they have probably never been in safer company. In fact, they are both pretty much willing to die for each other. The officer makes the first move. Gracefully and delicately, he floats his right hand out and down. Down. Lie down. Down. Lie down. The gesture is so compelling that a shrub nearby bends several of its tiny white flowers toward the ditch it overhangs. It encourages Les to crouch against the road, to block out a place there. On his stomach, Les breathes out the weight of his back onto his lungs, blowing clear a patch of asphalt by his cheek. The gesture is so compelling that a shrub nearby bends several of its tiny white flowers toward the ditch it overhangs. It encourages Les to crouch against the road, to block out a place there. On his stomach, Les breathes out the weight of his back onto his lungs, blowing clear a patch of asphalt by his cheek.

This is the end of the line.

At the station house Les is put into custody. He is asked quietly for his rare possessions. The arresting officer is agreeable and polite. The superficial pleasure of the procedure baffles Les. It reminds him of a Latin exercise from school. He is a noun in declension - all the handcuffs, the five coils of smoke on his fingertips, the secretive case, the ablative justice of the peace and an entire world that will, except for him, run on a series of sentences that begin with the letter O.

Les is sitting in just such a circle. He has given his son up to the law. He has surrendered his illegal firearm. The controlled substance he shared with the baby. The stolen vehicle and its violent history. Murder. He has given the OPP OPP a murder. a murder.

Les sits in a chair in the small police station outside Caesarea not knowing that a growing number of people in Ontario are now also giving the OPP OPP murder. All across the province vicious gangs of cannibals are moving on the police, sweeping through like a system of weather, s.n.a.t.c.hing up large parts of the population. Les fishes in his pocket for one of the Dilaudid that he had managed to scoop from the jar before his arrest and he pops it in his mouth. He has already begun to contemplate other forms of consuming the drug, and he antic.i.p.ates, with an excitement that makes him chew the pill, a man he'll meet in the shower who'll slip a syringe into his hand and then drop his fingers against the side of his p.e.n.i.s. The officer has left him sitting alone for over an hour to picture prison life. In an adjacent room Les hears the first yelp of a son who is stirring back up into cutting discomfort. murder. All across the province vicious gangs of cannibals are moving on the police, sweeping through like a system of weather, s.n.a.t.c.hing up large parts of the population. Les fishes in his pocket for one of the Dilaudid that he had managed to scoop from the jar before his arrest and he pops it in his mouth. He has already begun to contemplate other forms of consuming the drug, and he antic.i.p.ates, with an excitement that makes him chew the pill, a man he'll meet in the shower who'll slip a syringe into his hand and then drop his fingers against the side of his p.e.n.i.s. The officer has left him sitting alone for over an hour to picture prison life. In an adjacent room Les hears the first yelp of a son who is stirring back up into cutting discomfort.

There is another system, more beaded than weather or murder, that is moving up into the province. As Les leaves the chair to investigate his son's crying a thousand zombies form an alliterative fog around Lake Scugog and beyond, mouthing the words Helen, h.e.l.lo, help. Helen, h.e.l.lo, help. This fog predominates the region; however, other systems compete, bursting and winding with vowels braiding into diphthongs so long that they dissipate across a thousand panting lips. In the suburbs of Barrie, for instance, an alliteration that began with the wail of a cat in heat picked up the consonant "Guh" from a fisherman caught by surprise on Lake Simcoe. The echoing coves of the lake added a sort of meter, and by the time these sounds arrived in Gravenhurst, the people there were certain that a musical was blaring from speakers in the woods. All across the province, zombies, like extras in a crowd scene, imitate a thousand conversations. They open and close their mouths on things and the sound is a heavy carpet of mumbling, a pre-production monstrosity. In minutes the Pontypool fog will march on the town of Sunderland and over the barriers south of Lindsay. This fog predominates the region; however, other systems compete, bursting and winding with vowels braiding into diphthongs so long that they dissipate across a thousand panting lips. In the suburbs of Barrie, for instance, an alliteration that began with the wail of a cat in heat picked up the consonant "Guh" from a fisherman caught by surprise on Lake Simcoe. The echoing coves of the lake added a sort of meter, and by the time these sounds arrived in Gravenhurst, the people there were certain that a musical was blaring from speakers in the woods. All across the province, zombies, like extras in a crowd scene, imitate a thousand conversations. They open and close their mouths on things and the sound is a heavy carpet of mumbling, a pre-production monstrosity. In minutes the Pontypool fog will march on the town of Sunderland and over the barriers south of Lindsay.

If Les were to remove his shirt, turn his broad back to a light source and allow a map to be drawn there, sharp metal flags could be used to mark the progress of his dead wife's name, while the top of his underwear could be used to absorb blood as it flows past his belt. The curved red stain that dips over the cleft of his b.u.t.tocks resembles the smile that has yet to become important to him.

He stands over his son, a little pink twitching man, and he shrugs out our pushpins as he lifts the infant in his blanket. The baby spits out the pill. Les has to insert it into the baby's throat across the tongue with a finger. Les holds the tiny body against himself; it resists like an insect would, kicking with limbs that improvise. Les holds on in a crush, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Soon the baby slackens, the way that babies do when they give up, and Les realizes that he is alone in the police station. Alone with his son and, lying beside a jar of Dilaudid, on the desk, both his gun and the keys to his car. Les puts the keys in his pocket and, juggling the jar and baby like twins, thinks: not mine, really, n.o.body's. not mine, really, n.o.body's.

He leaves the empty station and finds his car. Driving it from the small pound, he feels a little less excited about his escape than he had about his capture. The objects he carries cling together in inventory. They are only designed to go full circle and he feels them moving beside him. He hears them: "How can we stay meaningful in this, the loose wing of your adventure?"

Les looks down at the son he renames Ernie in desperation, and he cries because a mighty army of questions is bursting in on him from somewhere. I am too small. I am too small. A tear, followed quickly by another, hangs off his upper lip and turns to a salty drizzle on his tongue. A tear, followed quickly by another, hangs off his upper lip and turns to a salty drizzle on his tongue. I want to be him. I want to be him. Les lays his hand across baby Ernie's tiny forearm and he feels the cool chiaroscuro of the tubular limb in his palm - a peaceful place, a narcotic baby world. Les lays his hand across baby Ernie's tiny forearm and he feels the cool chiaroscuro of the tubular limb in his palm - a peaceful place, a narcotic baby world.

I want to drive my car in there.

25.

Somewhere Familiar One of the circles that remains for Les to complete is made round in Caesarea. Les pulls the grey Datsun up into a driveway over an oil stain that drops like a tumbler beneath the car, clicking into place midway along the cha.s.sis. The house is a long lakefront structure with wide windows. He steps out of the car. He doesn't recognise this place, though he has been here before. He does hear the distant jungle thrum of his wife's name distorted and repeated by a relay of zombie mumbling. He can't distinguish the word as he stands searching the white air for the source of what he thinks, with alarm, must be a very loud noise somewhere. Some kind of crazy tree bugs. Some kind of crazy tree bugs. Les scoops his inventory out of the car and sneaks like Santa Claus around the house, into the backyard that slopes its fine yellow lawn down to Lake Scugog. Les scoops his inventory out of the car and sneaks like Santa Claus around the house, into the backyard that slopes its fine yellow lawn down to Lake Scugog.