Falling Backwards: A Memoir Page 8

  Duray and I were walking up our gravel road to catch the bus one morning when what did we see but a gigantic hairy pig rushing up the road behind us, squealing away like a wounded cheerleader. I guess one had finally managed to escape its old rickety pigpen and come to seek its revenge on the wrongdoers, meaning me. We ran like we’d never run before and the pig ran too. Pigs are not slow. We narrowly escaped the jaws of death that morning by jumping up on a fence. I was very happy that pigs could not fly. My dad told us that once a pig got hold of you, there would be no letting go. They literally have a death grip and they’d rip your arm off before they’d let you go. My idea of pigs has never been the same. Charlotte’s Web has never held much water with me. You can forget Babe as well. Pigs are vicious killers with no regard for a child’s young life. I am lucky to be alive. Yes, I am dramatic.

  In the fall, Mr. Baldwin, Dale’s dad, would always butcher a pig or two so they’d have meat for the winter. This was news to me because I thought meat came from the Woodward’s Food Floor at the Chinook Centre. Dale’s dad would pick two of the biggest, fattest pigs from the Scots’ farm and haul them up the road in his pickup truck. I always thought they looked so funny in the back of that old beat-up truck, like he was taking the pigs to a movie or something. They had no idea where they were headed, and it was just as well. All of the pigs looked fat to me because I knew that every single one of them had eaten at least seventy-six dozen eggs and a million or so onions. The pigs would ride into the Baldwins’ yard in the back of that truck, and then be led down a path for a few hundred yards, to a spot just behind a rundown old shed. There they would meet their porcine maker. Their throats were slit and then they were immediately strung up by their back legs on a big tree branch over an old claw-foot bathtub. They’d hang there for an hour or so until all the blood ran out into the tub. I remember looking up at them, hanging there, twisting around in a mad attempt to free themselves, blood spurting out of long, gaping wounds in their throats. It was horrible to see—the life drain out of them into that old white porcelain tub. It was like watching some weird Fellini film. Eventually the squirming and twisting and gurgling stopped. Everything was incredibly quiet. The dead pigs swung from the tree like a grotesque pair of Christmas ornaments. Eyes open and watching you wherever you went.

  We kids were lucky enough to have the task of scraping the coarse hair off the pigs after they had succumbed to their injuries. You couldn’t butcher the pig until you had scraped all the hair off it. (You learn something new every day in the country.)

  We’d use a long, sharp knife that had a handle at both ends, and as you pulled it towards you, you’d scrape off the hair. It was disgusting. That hair was tough to remove. You’d have to go over and over it with the blade. It made a strange sound as it ran across the pale pink skin that stuck with you when you’d lay your head down at night. It was worse than fingernails on a chalkboard. I’ll never forget that sound, or the pigs hanging there upside down over a bathtub full of warm, crimson-red blood.

  I think about those pigs a lot. I feel guilty that I didn’t save them from Dale’s dad. Some nights I’ll lie in bed and stare at the ceiling with my blankets pulled up underneath my chin, watching the pigs’ ghosts flit about the room. I am afraid to even have an arm outside of the covers. I hold my breath and stare at the shadows that seem to swoop down from the rafters to get me. It’s scary as hell. And it isn’t just pigs that float down from the ceiling, it’s the odd cow as well.

  One year, Dale’s family was heading out on a two-week summer holiday and thought it would be a great idea for me to look after their one and only milk cow. I had never milked a cow in my life, but Dale and his dad were going to teach me and I was going to milk that cow every day so it didn’t go dry. I couldn’t help but think of the twenty bucks I would make and what I would buy with it.

  I was an eager student. I carefully watched how Dale’s dad grabbed the teats and pulled on them in such a way that long streams of milk magically squirted out of them into a big steel bucket. He made it look incredibly easy. Dale could do it as well.

  “See,” he’d say to me. “See what I’m doing?” He’d sit there on the little wooden stool with his head tucked into the cow’s side and squeeze those teats evenly and with just enough pressure so the warm milk flowed out of there like it was the easiest thing in the world.

  When it was my turn, no matter what I did, no matter how I squeezed and kneaded and pulled on that udder, not a single drop came out. Dale and his dad laughed at me for the first hour and then they were completely frustrated that I couldn’t figure it out. Finally, after the third or fourth day of lessons, I got it. Definitely a “ta-dah” moment! On one of my last futile tugs, a stream of milk trickled out of one of the teats and onto the ground. I didn’t hit the bucket, but I had at least gotten something to happen. The family would be able to go on their holiday after all and return home to a not dry milk cow. I can’t tell you how many times they told me that if I didn’t milk that cow every day it would go dry. Preventing that from happening was to be my sole purpose for living for those two weeks. Two really long and hot weeks.

  Off they drove, out of their dirt driveway, headed for some crystal-clear lake, and there I stood, ready and determined to complete my task. I have to admit that the first day was not great. My mom came with me for moral support and I know she thought that the Baldwins were extremely brave and a little crazy to give me this job. We managed to corral the poor cow (which, I have to say, did not look all that healthy to me), get her into the pen and place the little wooden stool underneath her. As I sat there and looked up at her side I noticed her skin was kind of coming off, but what did I know about healthy cows? Maybe the skin was supposed to do that. I didn’t have a clue. All I knew was that I was going to milk that cow, and that was that. My mom stood beside me as I painstakingly milked away until I thought I’d pretty much emptied her out: I got only about a Mason jar’s worth. Dale’s dad told me that half a bucket was fine if that was all I could get. Three quarters of a bucket would be great, but I should just do the best I could.

  Every day I’d walk up the road to the Baldwins’ place, call that scruffy-looking cow over to the shed and sit on that little wooden stool and milk to my heart’s content. I never did manage to fill that bucket up—in fact, every day I seemed to be getting less and less milk from that cow, and every day that cow seemed to look weirder and weirder. Her hair was coming off in clumps and she seemed bloated. My mom had no idea what was wrong with her, and why would she? We didn’t know anything about cows. We both just stood there looking at this ragged thing, wondering what we were doing wrong.

  I still had a week to go. I walked up there, rounded up the cow, who was now really reluctant to stand still for me, sat on my stool and began to milk her. She wavered around like she’d had a barrel of vodka for breakfast, making very deep, mournful sounds. I kept trying to steady her and squeeze that milk out. All I could manage was a few drops. I felt the cow’s weight suddenly shift from side to side and, before I knew what was happening, she tipped over. She literally kicked the bucket. I screamed and jumped back about ten feet. The Baldwins’ cow took one final breath and blew it out of her nose with such a force that the dirt blew up around her head. She made one last throaty moan, and that was it. Her eyes stayed open; they looked like wet pieces of coal.

  She looked like she’d been crying.

  I could not believe that the Baldwins’ one and only cow had just died, right there on the spot. I prayed that she had just fainted, but she was as dead as a doornail. I cried so hard that I could hardly find my way home. I wanted to run but I couldn’t catch my breath and my legs seemed to fold underneath me. The half mile seemed more like a marathon. I don’t know what I said to my mother when I came crashing through the back door—it was all a snotty blur. I went to sleep that night seeing the sick old cow tipping over again and again.

  It’s not like we had cellphones back then. There was no way we were going to be able t
o get hold of the Baldwins on their holiday. They would just have to hear the happy news when they got home. We ended up covering the cow with a tarp and left her where she fell. My dad said that there was no way in hell that we could bury her—it would take a month just to dig a hole big enough, and besides, what if she came to life again? Anything was possible …

  Dale’s dad wasn’t mad at all. He said that the cow had been sick for awhile; I thought, I wish he had told me that. Dale’s little sister Caroline cried a lot over that cow. I guess it was her pet. I didn’t know how in the world a person could ever make up for something like killing a cow. Saying I was sorry didn’t quite seem to cut it. They never asked me to look after any of their animals again and I guess I don’t blame them.

  The summers were flying by. The house was more or less finished and we had been living in it for over a year, but dad still worked on it constantly. I had settled into my new school and things seemed easy. Leonard and Dale and I had been roaming the hills and meadows for three years now and we knew every square inch of the land for miles. It’s funny how one summer can change everything, though. Suddenly the boys didn’t want to shoot or snare things anymore. They didn’t want to play with bows and arrows and they didn’t want to drive around on the go-cart. They were changing. Me? Not so much. They got so tall over the summer between grades six and seven. Their hormones had started to take over their young bodies. They were much more curious about my body. The funny part of it is that they had seen me without a top from time to time. When we swam in the pond we’d often just go in our underwear. They’d seen me pee more times than you could imagine. But now everything was different.

  Apparently there is a big difference between nine and twelve. They wanted to play spin the bottle and Truth or Dare. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. I hadn’t changed at all; I was still very naive and wanted to stay the way we were. There wasn’t very much “truth” involved in Truth or Dare; it was mostly “dare.” Their voices were deeper and their muscles were bigger and they were much more aggressive about everything. They were intent on talking me into playing doctor all the time, examining me and wanting me to examine them. Once in awhile I gave in and let them peek into my pants. They would try to bribe me with gum. Gum? What about cash? I couldn’t imagine what was so exciting to look at down there. I felt like I hardly knew them anymore.

  Leonard was much worse than Dale when it came to the touchy-feely department. In fact, Dale was always a perfect gentleman. He was very gallant for a twelve-year-old. Leonard, on the other hand, was forever trying to persuade me to go into his parents’ dark and creepy basement so he could try to kiss me. His bedroom was conveniently down there and I remember it was always cold and uncomfortable. I had no idea what he was trying to do, I just knew it was making me embarrassed and sick to my stomach. I’d lie there and stare up at the faint bit of light coming through the curtained window and yearn to be outside playing. I wanted to be anywhere but there with him. He had one tooth that poked out of the side of his mouth slightly. When he tried to kiss me I could always feel it touching my lips, which were very tightly pursed, I might add. I wondered what had happened to my pal? Where had the old Leonard gone? Hormones had happened, that’s what.

  I don’t know why I didn’t just push him off me and run home and tell my mother what he was up to. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t really have anybody to confide in. It certainly would not have been either of my brothers. Patrick was five years younger than I was and Duray was hardly ever home. Duray and I certainly never sat down and had long, intimate conversations.

  It felt like Duray was disappearing before our very eyes. To say he was becoming estranged from the entire family was an understatement. He was secretive and kept to himself when he was around. He smoked pot and drank my dad’s beer and listened to his music and the rest of his life was a mystery to me. (My mom told me later she suspected his pot smoking, but she wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it.)

  I thought I’d keep the whole Leonard ordeal a secret. I thought that was the best option. I regret that now. I should have said something to someone. I was just very ashamed. Dale probably would have popped him one for me if I had told him. I would walk home from Leonard’s house after one of those encounters feeling like I was the worst person in the world, that it was my fault. I think that’s a pretty common feeling. We all have similar tales to tell. The shame somehow silences you. Growing up is hard. The person I am now would have taken Leonard by the throat and twisted his little balls off. But when I look back I feel nothing but compassion for both of us, Leonard and me. I often wonder what he recalls of it? Maybe his recollections are different from mine.

  It was all so bizarre, and trust me, there was nothing even remotely sexual about any of it for me. I truly thought that Leonard had gone completely bonkers. I thought he had lost every single one of his marbles. I had no clue what was so exciting for Leonard. He wasn’t a bad guy at all. He probably thought, what the heck is happening to me and why do I feel like humping fence posts, pumpkins and old cars? He never forced me to do anything. I was just too stupid and shocked to say “stop it!” I suppose that’s why they call it learning.

  The hardest part was that I knew there would be no going back to who we had been. The wonderful, innocent days of running through the flower-filled meadows, skimming stones in Douglas’s Pond and flying kites and riding snowmobiles at midnight were behind us forever. I don’t think we fully realized that at the time. Maybe the boys thought we could do both: Leonard could dry hump me from time to time and try and steal a kiss in his parents’ basement and we could continue to shoot things and have bonfires every weekend and build tree forts. But it wasn’t meant to be. That was our last summer. We were headed back to school and I was already starting to spend more time with my other friends, so I didn’t speak to them much at school anymore. Leonard and Dale just started to fade like an old Polaroid. I don’t even know if they ever graduated. I think they may have gone to another school. All I know is that I’d never had friends like them before in my life and I doubted I would have friends like them again. To say we didn’t have a care in the world was the complete truth. Every morning I stepped outside my house and squinted into the Canadian sun, there they’d be, standing with their dogs, their hair blowing sideways, waiting for me to come and play.

  chapter five

  SECRET HEART

  My older brother, Duray, had become pretty much a shadow to me during my Leonard and Dale years. He was three years older than I was, so we didn’t play together and I didn’t see him much at school. When I was in elementary school, he was in junior high, and when I got to junior high, he had moved on into high school. I was busy running through the pines and riding horses and having fun. I didn’t notice him and it was like he didn’t want to be noticed. While I had been living like Huckleberry Finn with Leonard and Dale, Duray had been slipping deeper and deeper into incredible sadness. Something terrible had happened to him, and none of us could have imagined what. Later, my mother said that they’d lost him the summer of his ninth year. She said that we’d come back from our yearly summer holiday at Woods Lake in British Columbia, and he was just not the same. Part of him was gone. It wasn’t until years later that we pieced together our version of what may have happened. Duray to this day does not discuss that time in his young life, period, no matter how much we prod him. All I know is he became isolated and sullen. The always smiling and happy boy just disappeared. He went from doing incredibly well in school, doing well in sports, being well-liked and achieving straight As, to becoming anti-social and failing at every subject.

  It worried my parents no end. They couldn’t understand it. I know now that part of the reason they moved us out of the city was so that Duray could attend a smaller school and have the chance to make a new start. I guess they hoped that he might get back on the right path in Springbank. Sadly, nothing was going to get him onto the right path. He was constantly in trouble and my parents were completely
helpless to do anything about it. Lord knows they tried everything to get him to understand that his actions would be met with bigger and bigger consequences. My mother always says that some people are determined to ruin their own lives, and he was one of them.

  I remember his big brown eyes looking down at his shoes all the time. Duray always seemed to look at the ground. It’s hard to see a person’s head hang so low, especially a person you love. Even when I was young I knew that something was really wrong with him. He didn’t seem to have good friends. He hung around with these guys who thought the world owed them something, and nobody seemed to stick. Kids would just come and go, in and out of his life. You’d see them for a few weeks around the house, hanging out in the basement, and then they’d be gone. He went through people quickly. It’s like he didn’t want anybody to know him, like he didn’t feel worthy of being known. I think he wanted to be invisible.

  Maybe that’s where the drugs and alcohol came in. They could make him invisible. I was too young to know how to help him or, for that matter, that he even needed help. He always seemed so mad, arguing with our mom and dad. He has said many times over the years that he never felt like he fit in. He was always on the outside looking at all of us, like we were speaking a foreign language. I don’t think he knew how to tell us what was bothering him or what had happened to him. Of course, we didn’t find out any of this out until it was far too late. He buried all of it away and hoped that it would just stay there, out of sight and out of mind. I don’t think that ever works for anybody. It certainly never worked for me.

  My brother and I could not have been more different. It’s always weird to think that we came from the same two parents. I wanted people to know me. I wanted to nurture new friendships, and I wanted to fit in no matter what I had to do. I enjoyed every minute of my life. Everything was fun. Even when I was alone, which I liked to be as well, I was serene and content. Not Duray. Duray had shadows following him around all the time. He was cloaked in darkness.