you, I swear.
I can’t, Dad.
Come on, boy.
Dad, I can’t.
Yes, you can, now come on.
I’m gonna be sick.
Be sick if you like. You’ll take the next hill.
Slow, Dad, please, I’m – Jacob gags – sick. And he stops, hands on knees, breath in heaves.
Boy, I cannot believe you.
I’m sorry, Dad, says Jacob, standing straight and getting – bumpf– a water bottle right in the chest.
Dad’s face. Boy, he says, fucksakes. I’ve no idea. I mean, what gets into you?
Jacob looks down, rubs his chest.
Nothing, is it? says Dad. Have you nothing in you? ‘I’m sick.’ Full of piss and vinegar yesterday.
Just the hills, Dad.
Eh? Speak up. I said speak up.
Jacob can’t talk. Just picks up the water bottle. Hands it back.
Guess you’ll be walkin home then.
I’ll give them a go tomorrow, Dad, I swear.
Tomorrow. Never fucking mind, tomorrow. It’s what you do today. How d’you expect to win anything without increasing your speed, your –
Endurance.
But Dad – Ach– just waves him off, and starts running back.
Jacob watches him until he crests the hill. Then runs after him, hard.
Rest of the morning Dad goes to his room. Says he needs to study. Jacob goes to his room, too. Slides a stack of comics out from under the bed. Iron Man. The Flash. And Green Lantern. Can’t read that one. Can’t read any of them. Even in bed under the covers bits keep coming. June 21. The Bairns’ Big Day. Icing. And you sing. Everyone okay.
Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday, you two, Happy birthday, dear JACOB A I L A N Happy birthday, you two.
Phooh!
Eighteen candles poof, nine either end. But Jacob didn’t blow. Jacob didn’t wish. Said no to cake and – You spoiled little bugger – just stared at his dish. Because his bike was different. Was supposed to be the same. Every year before – toys or clothes or trikes and bikes – they always got the same. Mum said Stop your bloody grumbling. But the bikes changed the game. Their favourite secret game. Criss-cross Go down the subdivision hill.
You’re me!
I’m you!
Faster!
You, too!
Skid like a C the other way round, skid like a J but upside down. Then smack the stop sign, and do it one more time. A thousand times they did it, almost every single day. Cailan never traded. And cars hardly came.
Except the day after Halloween. Pumpkins still on porches. Windows needing cleaned.
Please, Cailan, trade?
Just to spook him was all. He never knew. Jacob’s back tire. He can still see it. Worn almost through. Just one time. To spook him. If the tire even blew.
We should go to the hospital, Jacob, Dad’ll brain us if we’re late.
Just one more time, Cailan, cross my heart it’s true.
Jacob knocks his fists together, whispers Stop it, stop it, please. But he hears the bang like yesterday. Bites his hand. Thumps his knee. Bang like a backfire, bang like a gun. Here comes the car. And that sound – Jacob slaps his ears – of skin, and metal. Scraping along road.
The rest is bits. Pieces. And, in between, big white blanks.
Jacob. Jacob.
Rubs his eyes. Yeah, Dad?
Lunchtime.
Dad’s doled out the Chunky Soup and has his big ambulance book on the table. He’s studying for his EMCA exam: Emergency Medical Care Assistant. Let’s go, kid, quiz me.
’Kay.
Jacob stands the book one half either side of his bowl, and between mouthfuls of Beef Veg – Dad put Lea & Perrins in – asks him questions about procedure. Subdural hematomas. Puncture wounds. Dad gets them all bang on but one: during CPR, intubation is recommended when there is excessive blood in the lungs.
Spoons, the sugar bowl and Jacob jump when Dad bang hammers the table and says I fuckingwell knew that.
It’s okay, Dad, you got almost perfect.
But Dad doesn’t hear, really, just says like a secret Should have fuckingwell known, and goes to his room. He won’t come out for a long while.
Jacob sits on his hands. Stares at the gleam on the edge of the table, at the sugar that splashed out the bowl.
The phone’s on its fourth, fifth ring and through the door Dad yells Get that.
’Lo?
Asalamalakim …
Jacob’s shoulders drop. It’s Graham Hollingsworth. Except everyone calls him Cracker mostly because of his first name because even when he makes like black dudes from the TV – What’s hatnin, you jive-ass turkey? – he talks slow as molasses.
Not much hatnin, Cracks. What you doing?
Factory … You wanna come?
Who’s all going?
Just us … guys.
Spielman?
Yeah.
Jacob looks at Dad’s closed door. Should maybe stay in, he says.
How come?
Read.
It’s Christmas break … sucka.
He won’t let us in anyway.
Never know. You comin or not?
… Guess so.
See you there.
’Kay.
Fingers
