Dave

[Izabella]

When I was a child he seemed like the most wonderful person in the world. Even when I was only five, and useless by everyone else’s standards. Dave made time for me. I would go to Julie’s house and play, and he would be there, sitting in his bedroom with Bruce Springstein moping in the background. I remember how blue the entire room was, how the nubbly carpet felt under my feet, and how the posters stretched themselves out in a vain attempt to cover the walls. At that age, I didn’t know why Dave was so good to me.

The other boys didn’t like him. They included him because Roger made them. Just as wolves always single out and devour the weakest member of a herd, Joey Griffin and his friends seemed to single out and devour Dave. They tore him to pieces in little ways, until there was nothing left of him to resent. And even then, they weren’t satisfied. The younger kids all watched, and though they loved Dave, they idolized Joey. So when Joey graduated and left town, they took up where he left off. Perhaps it would have happened as they got older, anyway. Childish charm is no longer endearing in an eighteen year old man.

Schizophrenia. It’s an ugly word. Some words taste delicious when you roll them around in your mouth. “Gossamer.” “Corinthian.” Not “schizophrenia.” It tastes harsh and dirty, like gravel. I never understood it when I was growing up. I knew that Dave wasn’t like the rest of us, but no one in my town was able to explain why. My mother always shushed me when I asked, saying “There’s nothing wrong with him; it’s just his nerves.” I had no idea what that meant, either. Even if someone had been able to explain it, we still wouldn’t have understood, not really. And so we tormented him because he was different, because he was older but still, somehow, weaker. Innocence isn’t always beautiful.

My mother seemed to think that Dave was happy as he was, and maybe that was true. But only for a little while. As he grew, as the taunts became worse and even his friends, even I, turned against him, he withdrew into himself. It was noticeable, the way he changed. Once, he had walked tall, shoulder-to-shoulder with Roger. When his friends graduated and Rog went to University in Ottawa, Dave began to shrink before our eyes. He loped down the road every evening at exactly 3:15, going to Healey’s General Store for a Half Moon and an RC Cola. It seemed that every time he passed my window, he looked just a little smaller. His shoulders seemed to hunch over his ears, his back becoming bent, almost convex, as though he carried a great weight. He reminded me of all the grass-clad women I had seen in National Geographic, carting babies on their backs. Dave was nursing something entirely different.

His little sister, Julie, was my best friend. She was blonde and blue-eyed, smart as a whip and the apple of her father’s eye. Dave, in comparison, was like a wraith. Dark hair, pale skin, dim eyes. Though he was the eldest, he was not entitled to the love and preference that such a distinction usually deserves. Leo, his father, had been a biology teacher for most of his life, and much of his hope had rested in his eldest and only son. Leo farmed a small plot of land in the summer, and encouraged young minds to grow for the rest of his year. His son’s was the only mind he could not reach, the only soil in which he could not cultivate growth.

On the outside, they looked like a perfect family. Leo did not acknowledge his son’s deficiency, and because everyone respected Leo, no one else acknowledged it either. Well, not to his face, anyway. But there were rumours, if you cared to listen. On Sundays, when the family congregated in my grandmother’s kitchen, I would linger at the table after dinner and listen discreetly, nudging my pie with an idle fork as I tried to look uninterested.

“Well, did you hear what Mr. Tom said to Leo the other day?” My cousin Shirley, her voice conspiratorial, looked at my mother over her teacup. Everyone at the table seemed to lean forward, waiting to hear the news. Mr. Tom and Leo were brothers, and everyone knew that Tom didn’t care much for the way Leo treated “poor ol’ Dave.” We had been waiting for this to come to a head for almost three months. I prayed that no one noticed I was still there.

Satisfied that she had grabbed everyone’s attention (saving mine) Shirley continued, eyes alight, the centre of attention. “Well it seems that Mr. Tom came up to Leo’s the other day, and the two of them went to work in the garden to get the rhubarb in before the frost. Anyway, Jason and Jeff were working down there too, and they heard the whole thing. Seems that Dave walked by while they were working, on his way to Healey’s again, to be sure. Leo calls out to him and says ‘David, wouldn’t you rather be down here helping your father bring in the vegetables?’ Well, you knows Dave now, he wanted no part of it. So he didn’t even look up, just shook his head and said no, like he always do. Anyway, when he was out of earshot, Leo started complaining to Mr. Tom about Dave never wanting to do anything and about him getting bad grades in school. I suppose Mr. Tom had enough because he lost his temper and let Leo have it.”

Here, Shirley stopped to take a dainty sip of tea, eyeing her audience once more, teasing them with the wait. “’Leo,’ Tom says, ‘there’s something not right about that boy, and you knows it as well as I do. There’s no use in you raising him like he was exactly the same as Julie, because he isn’t. He gets bad grades because he can’t understand what they’re teaching him; he doesn’t want to work in the garden because he doesn’t know what to make of you. He’s your child just as much as Julie is, and if he’s not perfect, well, who is? You’re going to have to get that boy the help he needs, Leo, or you’ll have a right mess on your hands. There’s no use in pretending everything’s fine when any fool with eyes in his head can see that it ain’t. You’re on a dangerous path with that young fella, and you better start treating him better and trying to help him out. Lectures and yelling aren’t going to do Dave no good. Take him to a doctor Leo, and find out what’s wrong with the poor child. I’m his uncle and his godfather, and I got just as much right to worry as you do.”

I felt as though someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water over me. I sat stock still in my chair, no longer pretending to eat my pie, staring openly at Shirley. My mother rose with alacrity and started clearing the table. She gave Shirley a stern, angry look before she spoke to me. “Bobbie, go clear the plates and the rest of the roast and bring it out to the cats on the meadow. And then go out and play. And I don’t want to hear peep out of you about anything you heard, do you understand? Not a peep. If I finds out you’ve been telling tales, I’ll redden your arse. Now go.”

I grabbed the plate of leftover roast and thick, congealed gravy and ran through the big red porch door. As I climbed the small hill to the meadow, cats running around beneath my feet and butting me in the shins, I mulled over the news in my mind. Shirley had said that Mr. Tom thought Dave needed to see a doctor, that there was something wrong with him. Maybe he had a brain tumour. My uncle Ron had died of one, and, come to think of it, he’d acted quite a bit like Dave, mopey and confused. But that didn’t sound right. Uncle Ron had only been like that for a little while, whereas Dave had been that way his whole life.

Maybe he was mental. That would explain a lot. He was too quiet, he never looked you in the eye, he always seemed afraid or ashamed. But Noel O’Reilley was mental, and Dave was nothing like him. Noel was thirty-six and the terror of our town. I wasn’t allowed to walk past his house or go in the woods when he was outside. He had beaten up some of the boys, the ones who taunted him, and he had raped a girl on the old railway track next to my elementary school, during a pre-teen dance. We were terrified of him. No one was afraid of Dave. Dave wasn’t like that. He couldn’t be mental.

Then what? I had no idea. I reached the large, flat rock where we fed the cats and pushed the meat off the plate with a spoon. It made wet, splatting sounds as it hit, and the cats crowded around, eager for the Sunday meal. After a few moments of watching them, I turned and wandered back to the house.

 

 

Several days later, I was on my way down the hill, heading to Healey’s with a note from my mother: “Mary, please give Bobbie a package of split peas, a pack of Du Maurier, and a cream soda. Christine.” In my pocket was fifteen dollars, with the promise that I could keep the change and buy something sweet. I could already taste the snowball.

I could hear screaming not too far ahead of me, high-pitched and angry, and I thought I recognized at least one of the voices. As I rounded the corner, I saw Julie standing in front of the small, man-made pond beside her father’s garden. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, more obscenities than I had ever heard, especially from her. Julie was supposed to be the perfect one. Joey Griffin’s little brothers had circled themselves around her, and for every insult she threw out, they flung five back. The argument, as far as I could tell, was about Dave.

Julie’s eyes lit up when she saw me, and she began waving her arms and calling my name. “Bobbie! Bobbie, come here and tell these fuckers that there’s nothing wrong with Dave! Bobbie, come here and tell them!”

I stared straight ahead, not daring to look at her, pretending I didn’t hear. She kept calling to me, waving her arms, while Joey’s brothers laughed. Eventually, her voice trailed off, and when she began screaming again, the obscenities were aimed at me.

I quickened my pace until I was practically running and I didn’t slow until I’d reached Healey’s. The bell above the door rang as I slipped inside, and I quickly made my way to the back of the store, where the shelves of non-perishables stood. I took my time choosing the right brand of peas, not wanting to run into Julie on the way back. As I waited in line at the counter, I heard someone say my name, and I turned to see Dave standing behind me with an RC Cola and a Half Moon in his hand. My stomach knotted even as I smiled, unable to meet his eyes. “Hey Dave.” I said quickly, moving up in line and handing my note to Mary Healey. She and I made polite conversation as she handed me the items on the list. I forgot to ask for a snowball in my hurry to escape the store.

When the door finally closed behind me, cutting off the jangling of the bell and the buzz of conversation, I breathed deeply of the fresh air. Clutching my bag, I hurried along the street toward the hill; I wanted to get home before he could catch up with me. Unfortunately, I was young and my stride short, whereas Dave’s loping gait seemed to span miles. He was upon in no time, slowing his stride to walk beside me.

“Ah… Bobbie. I got another album. The Boss. Next time you’re down with Julie you can listen to it.” His voice was deep and gruff, his speech as uncertain as ever. He didn’t look at me as he spoke, but rather loped along beside me, his eyes shadowed by shaggy hair. He rarely, if ever, approached anyone so boldly.

“Sure Dave, sounds fun.” I murmured, my voice tripping over itself as I quickened my pace once more. We were silent for a long time, the only sound the crunching of gravel and sand beneath our sneakers. Dave’s hands were in his pockets, the bag from Healey’s hanging off his wrist. His face was slowly turning red, his hands fidgeting within his pockets. After a few more minutes of awkward silence, he spoke.

“There’s nothing wrong with me you know Bobbie.” His words came out in a rush and almost stopped me in my tracks. “I know what everyone says about me. But that don’t mean they’re right.” Before I could answer he had quickened his pace. In just a few moments, he was a dim figure receding into the distance.

 

I didn’t speak to either Julie or Dave very often after that. We grew up, and in the process grew further and further apart, like a tree split by lightning. Leo had retired from teaching by the time I reached high school, and for that I was infinitely thankful. When he saw me on the street, he would smile and ask why I never hung out with Julie anymore. I always shrugged, told him I didn’t know, which was not far from the truth.

Dave didn’t change at all in those years. Every day at 3:15 he would walk past my house in his navy blue sweats, his pocket jingling with change, on his way to Healey’s for an RC Cola and a Half Moon. As the boys on the hill grew, however, they also got bolder. Dave was now twenty-six and stranger than ever to their eyes. No longer content to torture Julie, they began to concentrate their efforts on Dave, just as Joey had done before them. When the taunting began, most people shook their heads, muttered about “Poor ol’ Dave.” But everyone, even Leo, pretended not to see. No one would defend him.

The winter of my senior year in highschool was quite a bad one. It seemed as though the snow would never end. Each morning I would look out the living room window, into the open expanse of the bay. The horizon was usually cloudy, obscured by the snowstorm that was inching its way over the water, towards land. School was cancelled every other day, either because of snow or because the ancient furnace in the damp basement of Laval High was simply too tired to perform, leaving the school cold and lonely.

On one such day a group of us had gathered in the lightly falling snow, clad in heavy parkas, mittens and skates. The pond across from Leo’s garden was a popular spot in the winter, the only decent ice for miles. The boys took three quarters of the surface for a game of hockey, the girls claimed the rest to practice rudimentary figure skating. I was in the middle of a shaky figure eight when Dave walked past. It was 3:15; time for Healey’s. He went every single day, no matter what the weather.

The first snowball hit him in the shin, the next in the back of the head, the next in the shoulder. The boys had dropped their hockey sticks and had crowded around the edge of the ice, gathering lumps of hard packed snow as they shouted. “Hey Schizo, what the fuck are you doing out?” Dave walked on, loping quietly in the falling snow. The barrage of snowballs continued as the boys followed him along the ice, Jerry Griffin in the lead. “Hey you fucking mental case, you fucking fudge-packer!” The next snowball was filled with sharp bits of ice and rocks. When it hit him in the mouth, his lip split open and drops of red blood fell to earth, mingling with the fresh snow, tainting it.

Dave’s hand rose to his jaw and came away covered in blood. He straightened slowly, his perpetual hunch disappearing. For as long as I could remember, Dave had been shy and unassuming, coiled in on himself like mouse in a burrow. Now, that shyness was unfolding, and instead of a mouse I saw a snake.

He stumbled down over the bank, going to his knees in the snow. The boys scattered, laughing with mirth, delighted that they had finally provoked a reaction. Blood dripped from Dave’s mouth, freezing almost instantly as it hit the ice. He left a trail behind him as he skidded and slipped over the surface, snatching and flailing at Jerry and his friends. I stood at the edge of the ice with the rest of the girls, gaping in horror. He looked like something wild, terrifying, and for a moment I actually could believe that he was mad.

The boys circled around him, too fast to catch on their hockey skates. Sticks darted in and out, striking him in the legs and ribs, knocking him down as he fought to stay balanced in his Reeboks. Blood frothed from his mouth, and I thought that either he or one of the boys would surely die before this ended.

A roar split the air, drowning out the screams and the cheering on the ice. My head jerked around and I saw Leo running across his snow-covered lawn in his shirt-sleeves, his features set in a fiery rage. The boys scattered to the edges of the pond, unable to escape into the woods on their skates. They scowled at Leo as he slid down the embankment that led to the pond. Dave stood in the very centre, surrounded by the skid marks of a dozen skates, blood frothing from his mouth, his breath harsh and ragged.

Leo walked over the ice calmly, his unlaced work boots threatening to knock him over at any moment. He didn’t bother to glare at the boys standing around the pond, and didn’t even spare the girls a glance. “Dave.” He said, his voice not stern like it was wont to be when he addressed his son. “Now Dave, never you mind this bunch. They’re as ignorant as you’re bound to get in this place. Come on home and let your mother look at that lip.” Dave didn’t say anything, just nodded. He didn’t look at any of us, either.

They made their way slowly across the ice and up the bank, helping each other over the rough spots.

Edited April 21, 2004 by Enitharmon

[BlackCagedHeart]

I terribly enjoyed it , but It makes me want to cry, as it seems I too, know how it feels to be in this Dave's situation. I, unfortunetly, was having chunks of harshly packed ice balls flung at me from behind when I was tormented like that. People are so mean to people they don't understand. They start acting inhumane. I can calmly agree this is a terrific story, as Dave is personified to a tee in which I can agree with, as that IS how people treat "schizoids". I know all of this because I am this. I congratulate you. Not many can detail something about a certain type of person and get it exactly right. You did. Great job.....

 

 

BlackCagedHeart