and Blue were eventually forced to stop holding hands at school, they were always aware of the precise whereabouts of the other. They met at the corner store three blocks from school every day in order to walk home together, well out of eyesight of cool Brenda Tailgate. For two blocks it was safe to hold hands.
With his hand safely in the grip of his sister, Blue would natter on about how Joshua, a boy in his grade four class, had peed all over his hands, or how he had a new best friend called Stewart who had a hockey card for every one of the Boston Bruins. Emma would tell him that Sandy, the girl with eyebrows that met in the middle, was wearing abra, and that Mrs. Daniels, their art teacher, had let out a fart when she bent over to pick up a piece of pottery that Gary, the hyperactive boy, had thrown on the floor.
âDo you think these pants make me look fat?â she asked him.
âBut you are fat,â he responded, in all innocence.
âThatâs why boys donât like me,â she sighed.
âBut I like you,â he had said in his wide-eyed way.
âI know, Blue. But it doesnât count.â
Elaine wordlessly handed Emma a book at the end of that year called
Dr. Nelliganâs Diet Book for Girls
. She had offered her daughter the first silent lesson of being female: dieting was the road to love; thinness, in a mad, mad world, was the answer. The world was becoming like thisâless and less spoken, much more in books. The world above the basement had grown quiet since Oliver had started to sleep in the garage on a camp cot from the army surplus store.
âDreaming is an essential part of any creative process,â Oliver had said, defending his self-imposed exile to the end of the garden. âI simply need my psychic space to be free of distraction in order to invent.â Distraction obviously meant human contact, particularly that with the members of his immediate family who seemed to him more wanting and needing than other human beings. âLook, Elaine. Just give me some time and space. Iâm on the verge of something big.â
âYouâre
always
on the verge of something big, Oliver.â
âWell, Iâm on the verge of something
really
big this time.â
âAnother flying whatâs-it?â she asked.
âYouâre taking the piss, arenât you?â he said, annoyed. âThat airborne radio receiver had revolutionary potential. Do you hear me?
Revolutionary
. You just couldnât see it. You donât have any vision. Or any faith, for that matter.â
âWhat are you working on now then, Oliver?â she asked without the slightest bit of genuine interest.
âIf youâre really curious, Iâd be happy to show you. Hey, Iâve got an idea,â he said, raising an eyebrow.
âWhen have you ever
not
had an idea?â she muttered to herself.
âWhy donât we have a date? Come to the garage on Friday night. Weâll have a bottle of that Chianti you like and look over the plans.â
âYou mean the big something is still at the paper stage?â she asked, rolling her eyes.
âOh, please, Elaine. Itâs a final draft,â he pleaded.
âWhy donât you just show me when youâve actually built the thing. I donât believe in make-believe any more, Oliver.â
âWhen did that happen?â
âAbout seven inventions ago.â
Elaine hardly needed Oliver to share a bottle of Chianti. For the next couple of months she drank one by herself nearly every night while Oliver whittled away in the garage in silence. They didnât hear much from him except for the occasional torrent of profanities from the end of the yard when he inadvertently hammered some body part. There was a small mountain of empty takeout pizza boxes growing at the entrance to the garage, reassuring them that Oliver was still, in fact, alive.
Blue took to retrieving the discarded pizza
Learning to Kill: Stories