Neighbourhood Watch

wanted him to … Anyway. You like the violin, right?’
‘ … ’
‘We’ll need to find you lessons now. You can touch it. It’s yours.’
Roxane brings the violin to her stomach.
Hugs it against her like a life preserver.
‘Thank you.’
* * *
Five o’clock. The kid’s late.
At that moment, footsteps on the stairs. Louise smiles. Tells herself she’s a crap mother, but she’s a mother all the same. They can’t take that away from her.
She’s had only two beers. Maybe three.
‘Hi, sweetie.’
‘Hi, Mom.’
Roxane hugs the black case against her stomach.
‘What’s that?’
‘A violin.’
‘A violin?’
‘The librarian gave it to me.’
‘What for?’
‘To play.’
‘Let’s see.’
A pause. Takes a breath. Approaches. Kneels down. Puts the case down, gently.
Louise, understanding the tenuousness of the moment, kneels too, awkwardly.
Mother and daughter face each other, between them the black case Roxane gently opens.
The violin appears. Like a sunbeam scratching the grey of the room, a scar of the ugliness of their life; mother and daughter look at the perfect object.
Too nice for them. Too clean, too shiny, too smooth.
‘You’re going to play it?’
Roxane looks at her mother from deep inside. Looks at her mother, her reflection in her eyes.
Roxane is looking at herself.
‘You’re going to play it?’
‘Yes.’
* * *
Mélissa is sitting facing the teacher who is trying in vain to catch her eye.
Mélissa has her feet crossed under the table. She furtively glances at her black shoes, which dangle nonchalantly.
‘And how are things at home, Mélissa?’
‘Good.’
‘Good?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Look me in the eye, Mélissa.’
‘ … ’
‘You’re wearing makeup?’
Silence.
‘Yes.’
* * *
Steve is still walking along Ontario. Crosses through a huddle of prostitutes. They’re all there already. Must be close to five. Prostitutes keep time in the east end of the city, he thinks to himself. Eastern time. Not always at the same time, but always the right time. It makes him smile.
They would warm him up a little, but it would hurt even more to go back to the cold afterward. He is all too familiar with it. A woman’s body makes him founder.
He walks by the garage.
Tony’s there. He’s reading the paper while he waits for cars. One comes in. It’s Michel and his old powder-blue Mustang. It’s breathtaking, all the same. It has a particular smell, of its time, something reassuring that smells like its era, that smells like the good ol’ days.
Tony would call him to fill it up when it came in, because he knew the smell did something to him. Steve leaves before Tony spots him.
He walks briskly home.
It’s empty and cold there too.
He cracks open a beer.
* * *
Kevin stomps up the stairs, the music from his game in his gut, an action tempo full of suspense: someone is chasing him, he sneaks landing to landing, back pressed to the wall, looks left, right, takes the stairs four at a time, slams right into the big guy who collects the rent.
‘Sorry!’
The big guy who collects the rent is coming out of Mélissa’s. He’s doing up a button on his shirt, putting his coat back on.
Through the doorway, Kevin sees Mélissa dressed in lace, like those bus shelter ads. She avoids his eyes: looks down at the ground and Kevin’s eyes follow.
‘Nice shoes!’ he says.
Mélissa closes the door.
Kevin stands facing the big guy who collects the rent.
‘Your dad home?’
‘No. He’s working. Is your dad home?’
Kevin flings himself at the next door, slides in his key, and in a flash he’s inside.
Sigh of relief. He got away from the bad guy.
* * *
‘Hey, Dad!’
Kevin jumps on his father, uses his big night voice.
‘He jumps on him, ladies and gentlemen, yes, he’s going to drop him … ’
‘Stop it.’
Kevin keeps it up, going wild. ‘And WonderKev grabs Big by the throat and – ’
‘I SAID STOP, GODDAMMIT!
Kevin stops, surprised.
Sniffles. Chews on his lip.
Goes to the fridge. Pours a glass of Coke.
Comes back to sit in the living room, turns on the TV.
‘Turn that off.’
Kevin turns to look at Steve.
‘I said turn that off.’
‘Why?’
‘Come on. Don’t you have homework to do? Something to make you smart, school stuff? Do it.’
‘I’m going to do it after, I … ’
Steve turns off the TV. ‘You’ll do it now. How are you going to get smart otherwise? What are you going to do with your life, huh? Sit on your ass watching goddamn stupid cartoon men tear around all over the place? Practise shooting fake people, with a fake gun in a fake fucking apocalypse? Huh? Not too smart, that. Go on, get out of here!’
Kevin’s lips are bleeding.
Doesn’t move.
‘MOVE IT!’
* * *
It’s late.
Silence in the apartment.
The blood has dried on Kevin’s lips. He is drawing, absorbed.
Doesn’t hear Steve approach.
Over his shoulder.
‘That school work?’
Kevin jumps, turns toward him. Steve, awkward, clears his throat.
Kevin looks at him. Thinks he looks rough. Tired. His eyes are drooping. For the first time he thinks he looks old.
‘Don’t look at me like that!’
Kevin goes back to his drawing.
Steve stays standing behind him. Tries to find the words.‘ … When was that?’
Kevin keeps his nose in his drawing.‘The semifinal. When MadMax clotheslined you in the right corner.’
‘But I came back after that!’
‘ … I know.’
‘You’re not drawing that, are you?’
‘No.’
Silence.
‘Time for bed, little man.’
‘Mmm.’
Silence.
‘If you want, on Friday, you can come to the match.’
Kevin lifts his head, but doesn’t look at his father. ‘Okay.’
Steve closes the door.

шесть
6
Early morning. Mélissa leaves before she used to, because sometimes when it’s early there are still prostitutes on the corner. Maybe she’ll still be there. The boys follow her in silence; they’re still halfasleep in their puffy jackets, dragging their feet, leaving snail-like trails on the ground.
She’s there, on the other side of the court-ordered fifty metres. But she isn’t looking at her. Mélissa slows down a little. She just wants her to look at her for a heartbeat, just a bit, just, you know, for her to look at her …
No. She has her back turned. As if she hasn’t seen her. If Roxane could cross the street, she would spit in her