him Cracker yells Crazy mutha! Jump off, Jacob!
But Jacob aims for the ramp dead on, and holy shit he is moving. Snow spits in his face. Eyes closed, bits and pieces slamming against their backsides – bone and bloody mess and the ashtray smashing and there’s the Wall coming at him like a fist fwoop, he’s up, and over.
Sky in his eyes.
But it falls away from him and then a sound like a hockey stick snap over a knee, but Jacob knows it’s bone. He curls, clenches his toes. Rolls. And sits up, his head leaning all on its own way over Jacob’s left shoulder.
Up top Cracker and Bobby are screaming Mr. McKnight Mr. McKnight!
But Dad just waits, pops a Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth, puts his hands in his parka pockets as Jacob, holding his arm by the elbow, climbs. When he gets to the top, Dad says Think you can fly?
Jacob tries to shrug.
And Dad bites down on the lozenge, nods his head toward the hospital. Let’s go then.
Dean doesn’t look at them as they walk by, just keeps kneeling in the stepped-on angel.
Jacob’s not sure what was in that shot, but it was a humdinger. His tongue feels fat and sleepy, but he manages to ask if he can see the X-rays. Mrs. Hollingsworth looks at Dad. He nods, grumbles as he ducks through the curtains. He told Mrs. H and Dr. Smythe no X-rays, any fool can see the boy’s bust his collarbone. Patch him up meself, Chrissakes. Mrs. H told him not to talk nonsense, they’ve got to see what kind of break in case it needs pins. Pins? She probably doesn’t know that Dad isn’t Canadian yet, he’s a Landed Immigrant and just a part-timer. No OHIP. And Jacob wonders how you figure what a collarbone’s worth when Mrs. H pops her head in and asks how’s he feeling.
Tickety-boo.
Pain?
Don’t feel a thing.
Mrs. Hollingsworth ruffles his hair and ducks out.
Jacob sits up, slides to the edge of the gurney. Blinks. Other side of the curtains Mrs. Hollingsworth says Poor thing, and laughs. Dad growls and grumbles, but Mrs. H says Oh shoosh, not to worry, it’ll be taken care of. Then she comes back in and p-tunk, p-tunk puts up two X-rays on the display board, flicks a switch. There you be, Jacob.
That’s me?
That’s you.
Jacob looks at his bones. They have haloes. He blinks, focuses. Vertebrae. Sternum. Floating rib. Humerus.
Very good, Jacob.
The ulnar nerve goes along here.
Is that a fact.
Jacob nods, tells Mrs. Hollingsworth that The Anatomy Coloring Book says when you press the ulnar nerve hard enough, it speaks. That’s what it says in the book. Nerves speak. Jacob asks if Mrs. H knows what sort of thing the ulnar nerve might have to say, and would you be able to understand it.
Aren’t those painkillers fun, dear?
Mrs. H pats Jacob on the head, ducks back out the curtains. Tells Dad and a nurse about the things Jacob just said, and the nurse has a laugh. Dad doesn’t.
Then Dr. Smythe and his aftershave come through the curtains like a breeze, and his crisp white coat swishes, and he has an accent like Mum’s.
A-llo, Jacob.
’Lo.
’Ad a nawsty fawl, did we?
Jacob shrugs with his good shoulder.
Right then, let’s have a look.
Jacob smiles at Dr. Smythe’s voice and his Mentos breath. The mint clicks across his teeth as he palpates with soft, clean fingers.
Pain here, Jacob? says Dr. Smythe, pressing near Jacob’s nipple.
Jacob nods.
Bad?
One-shouldered shrug.
You’ve probably also torn your pectoral muscle, says Dr. Smythe, turning to the X-ray. Jacob looks at his nipple. When he was little he thought it was called a pupil and Dad said No, son, tits are blind.
Not often I hear laughs in here, says Dr. Smythe.
Best medicine, says Jacob.
Quite. Well. Heah, Jacob, says the Doc, tip of pen tap tap on the X-ray. See that, Jacob? You’ve fractured your clah-vicle.
Jacob stares at the ends of bone, one on top of the other. He touches ever so lightly the lump under his skin as Dr. Smythe flicks a switch and the bones lose their glow.
You’re being a very bryve boy, I must say, Jacob.
Jacob blinks, heavy eyes.
Hmm. Well. Let’s get you mended. Be right back.
Dr. Smythe disappears through the curtains. And Jacob lies back, remembers what it felt like, for those few seconds, flying.
But at home that night Dad hulks. Thuds his palm against his temple and says What gets into that fucking head of yours? Eh? Thud, thud.
Jacob stares at the coffee table. Tries not to breathe. It hurts. Eh?
Jacob stares.
I’m talkin to you.
Jacob meets his eyes.
That’s you for four bloody weeks, Dad says, holding four fingers in Jacob’s face. At least four weeks. Six with the physio you’ll be needin. That we will do here, Dad says, standing straight, hands on hips as he paces. I will show you the exercises you need to do.
Jacob keeps his eyes on Dad as he paces, paces. Under his breath he says two hundred and fifty fucking dollars, then turns away and thumps to the kitchen, where he whacks open cupboards and clangs and bashes pots and pans on the stove. Four weeks, he says, and you just increasing your distance.
Jacob tells himself he’s glad he broke his shitstinking collarbone. No cold black mornings. No wind. No hills. But as he watches Dad get the supper on, snot slides out his nose. He snuffs it up and says Sorry, Dad.
Dad lifts the pan this way that way to spread the Crisco and says G’wan to your room. I’ll call you when it’s ready.
In his bedroom Jacob gets down – slow – on one knee, feels under his bed. Slides his sketchbook and pencils out. Opens one-handed the pencil case’s clasp. The case convulses and pencils pop out. He picks up the sketching pencil with his other hand. Blinks through pain as he tries to draw a clavicle. But with his right hand he can barely hold the pencil proper. Flings it across the room. Fingers The Anatomy Coloring Book from the shelf under his night-stand and flips through the skeletal system to Plate 28. Looks for a colour. Picks Payne’s Grey. Tries.
But stops
