Down Sterling Road. Adrian Michael Kelly

      Published with the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. We also acknowledge the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.

      LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

      Kelly, Adrian Michael, 1967-

       Down Sterling Road / Adrian Michael Kelly. – 1st ed.

      ISBN 1-55245-157-7

       I. Title.

      PS8621.E44D69 2005 C813’.6 C2005-905595-2

      In memory

      of

      Patrick Joseph Kelly,

      my Dad,

      March 16, 1938–April 30, 2003

      The life of everybody is a road to himself. ... No man has ever yet attained to self-realization, yet he strives after it, one ploddingly, another with less effort, as best he can. Each one carries the remains of his birth, slime and eggshells, with him to the end.

      – Herman Hesse, Demian

      There is no more to do

      But to turn and go away,

      Turn and finally go

      From one who was much to me,

      Nothing to anyone else.

      Often it must be so

      And always words be false.

      Child, do you blame what is?

      Child, do you blame what was?

      – Sydney Tremayne, ‘A Burial’

      Already awake, and curled like a busted C, Jacob has just taken his hands from his ears when Dad thumps the bedroom door and says Up.

      Two secs, Dad.

      Had an extra half-hour already. Let’s go.

      Jacob hides his eyes, turns the lamp on. Rolls over. Almost a whole year now since Cornelius Waldengarden got Dad into running. Johnny Johnny, let me tell you, big boy, it’s absolutely great exercise.

      To watch them slog it round the old horse track up beside the arena almost hurt at first. Thick spit stuck to Dad’s huff-puffing lips. His slow heavy strides, like the ground wouldn’t let him lift his feet. Neily slowing down for him, jogging backwards. C’mon, Johnny McKnight, move those bones. Shut yer gob, Walden-garden. Jockeys on the trot flicking whip sticks and clucking their tongues and having a laugh, look at these wackos, who in hell runs round a dirt track at seven in the morning? Every day. Even Sundays. With Neily, without Neily. Like something inside Dad sprouted. Down to Belleville for new shoes, track suits. Running logs, electrolytes. It’s got hold of me, son. Interval training, speed work. Johnny, Johnny, you’re looking great, boy. And by spring it’s Neily still driving down to the horse track for laps and Dad driving down the Sterling Road to spray-paint mile markers on the telephone poles and the pavement – three, then five, then six miles out. And back.

      And Jacob with him since summer. Every day. Can’t go as far, Dad, hurts my knees. Boy, I’ve told you, this sport is about your mind, and Dad tap, taps his temple. Good name for a body part, temple, it’s what running is for Dad now.

      Whump on the door. Hey, I said up.

      Jacob sits up and says sorry twice. Rubs his eyes. Breathes out phooh. It’s Saturday. Hill day.

      He shivers out of his PJS, into his sweats. Will need his nylon shell as well. Ice on the bedroom window.

      In the kitchenette, Dad’s waiting at the table, shell on and all. ’Bout bloody time, he says.

      Sorry, says Jacob.

      And Dad points his chin at the kitchen counter. Get stretched.

      Jacob nods, lifts his left heel to the countertop. Leans, and counts in whispers, one one thousand, two one thousand, as Dad gets the electrolytes mixed. They taste like soap and go half-slush in the cold, make Jacob gag. He swallows, hard.

      What’s the matter, boy?

      Just tired.

      Look half-dead.

      Didn’t sleep too good.

      You’ll be wide awake by the time we hit they hills.

      Jacob nods.

      Right, that’s us. Get your shell on and we’re out the door.

      Jacob tugs and zips and ties drawstrings. Steps into his Nikes. Could gag right now. Beginning – it’s almost as bad as hills. Butterflies, bad, till you get going. Then it’s okay. Can even be good, but mostly when Dad’s not there and Jacob can go his own pace, have a look round, when the sun comes up, at all the colours only mornings have.

      Double knots, kid, we’ll have no more stopping to tie bloody laces.

      Jacob nods, ties tight.

      And that’s them down the stairs, out the lobby, into the dark and hush. Still pitch-black almost. Cold. Jacob shivers – Buck up, boy, it’s no that bad – and jumps on the spot to get a peek round Dad and across the road into Chuck Linton’s yard. Hears Teddy’s chain clink and clank against the doghouse, but can’t see him behind Chuck’s big shitty flatbed truck. Jacob puckers, makes a kissy sound. And Teddy barks like it’s at the moon.

      Wake up the whole town, why don’t you?

      Sorry.

      Hope you’re staying away from that mutt.

      Yeah.

      Half-mad, that thing.

      Just lonely.

      See if I care. He’ll go for you like he went for bampot Linton. Stay away, y’hear me?

      Jacob nods and kneels and pretends to pull the tongues of his shoes so Dad can’t read his face. He’s been sneaking over to Linton’s lot with bologna or a leftover banger since Grade Seven started. Talks nice, tells Teddy

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