Bombing the moon, p.1
Bombing the Moon, page 1
BOMBING THE MOON
BOMBING THE MOON
A Novel
NANCY CHISLETT
Copyright © 2022 by Nancy Chislett
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Bombing the moon : a novel / Nancy Chislett.
Names: Chislett, Nancy, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana 20210366001 | ISBN 9781989689318 (softcover) | ISBN 9781989689356 (epub)
Classification: LCC PS8605.H586 B66 2022 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Printed and bound in Canada on 100% recycled paper.
eBook: tikaebooks.com
Now Or Never Publishing
901, 163 Street
Surrey, British Columbia
Canada V4A 9T8
nonpublishing.com
Fighting Words.
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for our publishing program.
For dad
The shadow of a fat man in the moonlight
Precedes me on the road down which I go;
And should I turn and run, he would pursue me:
This is the man whom I must get to know.
—James Reeves, Collected Poems, 1929–1974
CHAPTER ONE
DEVIN
Gramps jams the gas pedal and we ramp to Departures. I’d like to ask if he’s going somewhere, but safe to assume I don’t get that lucky. A taxi breaks free of the line, leaving a gap between parked cars. He swings in and pops the curb. His Chevy Bel Air rocks. A heat haze smoulders off the hood and he kills the ignition. I feel him wearing the expression I know best—disapproval. As though he can’t comprehend how such a life ends up on a man.
He gets out of the car, opens the back door and snatches a shopping bag from the seat, before strolling to the rotating doors. Then, he stares back, as if I’d missed something. International flags balloon overhead. I get out and we stand together, dwelling in an underworld of things unsaid. Finally, he takes a half-step closer and cuffs me on the shoulder.
“It’s time, Devin,” he says. “I had such hope for my first grandchild.” He squints towards the sky for so long that I follow his gaze. “I thought your Dad was ready for children.” His bloated nose sniffs the air and then drags in a lungful. “Did you know he used to smoke, your Dad? The day you were born he drove me to the hospital. On the way, he flicked his last-ever cigarette out the window. Said he wanted to be around to watch you grow up. Your Granny? You never got to meet her. Just as well. ’Cuz looky what’s happened? You’ve turned into a gutless shit.” His finger drills my forehead. “Twenty-four, and no job, no schooling, no respect for your parents. You want food and shelter, while you do what?”
“I wanna write music.”
His chest puffs out, but he’s not laughing. “You’ll be piss-poor living on poetry.”
He puts his hands on his hips, giving himself a six-foot wingspan. “As I remember it,” he says, “you were given a choice—get back to school, get a job. Or move.”
*
They tag-teamed me on the deck, Gramps and Dad. Defending the succession of Rush men.
Gramps said to Dad, “You can’t pay the kid’s meal ticket forever,” and then passed him a sheet of paper. Dad looked ruined, like an old warehouse. Without perusing it, he then passed it to me.
Notice to Devin Rush
September 2015
Nearly six months ago, your father and I met with you to discuss your future. You were informed that you had to finish your high school credits and get a job. Since that time, you have done nothing to improve yourself, and you deserted your schoolwork. This, then, is written notification that things must change immediately.
We insist on a signed declaration from you concerning what you are prepared to do. You must decide and report to your father within one week on whether or not you will complete your high school credits or find a full-time job. If you need new clothes or transportation, we will pay all costs.
If you want to remain as you are, and decline to accept and abide by rule #1, then you must find a new place to live. If this is your choice, we will do everything possible to help you find a place and help you get settled.
The current situation cannot continue any longer. You are an adult and must choose one of the options below.
__ I will make the requested changes and will make a total effort toward school or finding a full-time job.
(sign)
__ I will not follow the above request and will look for another home.
(sign)
From Granddad
I didn’t unleash a hit parade of swear words. Instead, I asked for a pen and drew out the moment, starring at the page like my answer shouldn’t have been obvious. Then I signed my name.
Dad’s stress vanished into relief. He might’ve even had a tear in his eye. He took the paper from me and shook my hand before looking down at what I’d written.
__ I vow not to be pathetic like you. Devin Rush.
*
A car alarm sounds. Gramps faces the hotel across from the airport. It gives me an idea for a song. Don’t know if there’s heaven or hell. But I’ll bet they’re both about twenty-six degrees. The only difference, the second one’s got family.
“It’s a betrayal,” Gramps continues. “Of your parents. Of me. Of everything decent.” His voice drops to a whisper. “The way you’re going, you’ll end up a slab on my table.”
I’m thinking, You’re not the Chief Forensic Pathologist in Manitoba anymore. Dad called him a stickler for quality. So what if he’s carved up his share of runaways, gangsters, drug addicts? “You know what a kid with a bullet in his stomach looks like?” he once asked me.
“The world’s teeming with spoiled brats with no work ethic,” he continues. “No respect. No sense, period. Well, I’m on a mission. It’s my job to see what needs done, gets done. And guess who’s twenty-four now?” He points a knobby finger between my eyes. “Bingo.” Gramps puts his hand on my shoulder. We’re walking. “Time away will show you the real world. Where people hafta make something out of nothing, instead of having everything and doing nothing. Where they hafta fight to survive every goddamned day.”
Passersby reroute their eyes. Their steps quicken.
I wish for once we could dispense with the obvious. The whole “hard work equals success” line is a stunt. Think we haven’t heard the shock talk of the year, “downward mobility”? School counsellors said, “Expect to have up to seven jobs in your lifetime.” More like 7-11 jobs.
“Here,” Gramps says, and hands me the shopping bag. “It’s everything a smart guy like you needs off the top.”
Lines around Gramps’s eyes deepen as he watches my wheels turning. The bag’s light. I reach in, feel something and lift. A wad of cash—shillings? I flip through them. There’s thousands. I’m confused, yet my heart leaps. I can’t remember the last time he gave me anything.
He nods at the bag. “Keep goin’.”
I pull out the passport Mom insisted I get last fall, even though we were just going shopping in Fargo. I reach in again and touch something soft. I pull out a roll of toilet paper. “One more thing,” he says. “Your itinerary.” He holds a crisp, white paper steady, cupping it from the sun’s glare. It reads, “Winnipeg to Toronto. Toronto to Frankfurt. Frankfurt to Nairobi.”
“What’s this?”
He levels his eyes with mine for what must be the first time today. “It’s Kenya, pop tart! A-fri-ca.” He’s whooping it up.
It’s nothing but lyrics this afternoon. How about a song about a kidnapper and hostage? The hostage is torn. He loves his captor yet he’d love to get away. Too bad it doesn’t matter. It’s not like he has a choice about leaving.
“You could’ve got her killed,” he says. I drop the plastic bag. “Didn’t think I knew, did you?”
“If it’s the party you’re talking about, Lily wasn’t gonna die.”
“How do you know? Could you read the minds of those punks?” He hacks into his sleeve-Kleenex.
I pick up the bag and hope that’s the end of it.
“Well,” Gramps gestures toward the stream of people going inside. “Go on.”
“You’ve had your stroke or whatever,” I say. “Mom and Dad are waiting.” Smug amusement spreads over his face. “You’re supposed to take me home,” I continue. “I haven’t had dinner.” His face is a bag of puffed wheat that I’d like to plow with a shovel. “What’s your problem? It’s not like you care about what I do.”
“You’re not gonna change, are ya?” His voice goes song-like. “Don’t tell me you’re scared?”
Of course he’s the same as the other boomers, expecting millennials to live as though the world’s been rigged in our favour. Automation. Environmental disasters. Wall Street. North Korea’s nukes. Like I should have all these dreams. Like I can trust my life
Gramps’s jaw has gone soggy-teabag. Now I’m nervous. Is he weeping? People are gonna think I did something. My face splits into a yawn so wide you could stick in an apple. Gramps marches back to his car.
“Hey,” I say, before having any idea what to say. “What about Mom?”
He pretend-searches as if she might be hiding in a bush. “You see her?” He pulls the driver’s side door. It shrieks. “They’re not gonna catch you this time.”
The old man laughs.
“Don’t think I’m not goin’,” I say.
“Don’t forget the toilet paper when you get the shits.”
The door slams, and he drives off.
The airport’s rotating doors send a cool draft into humidity. A young female voice announces a flight number to Vancouver. Another to Mexico.
I could let things cool off and then go home. Or I could refund the ticket and hang out at a friend’s house. No. There’s a reason Gramps did this. The family agrees. They think that they’re better off without me. It’s three generations of Rush family jeering me off the stage. Maybe they’re right. Maybe the only way to control something is to throw it away.
If I go, it’s like I’m following the old man’s wishes. I can’t do that.
But he doesn’t expect me to go. Let’s dispense with the obvious, he doesn’t think I can do it. If I go home, I give him the satisfaction of being right.
Besides, how hard is it to go to, where? Right. I wanna be gone. It doesn’t matter that it was Gramps’ idea. This is a load of cash and I’m not a baby.
I’ve been passed over for the absence of me.
Or maybe I’m throwing them away.
Outrage carries me through to the back of the Air Canada line. Kids run around, and a father calls after them. New song idea. Lyrics re dinner table where strangers call themselves family.
The attendant at the counter has a sad smile, yet her voice gives my twist of courage a pull.
*
“Been to Nairobi before?” my neighbour asks. The overhead bins shake. “You’re not gonna chunder, are ya?”
“I’m alright. Just a bit sick.”
“You’re a real battler. Tuck into these.” I squint. My neighbour is thin, with hair like beige shag carpet and a jawline you could cut cheese on. He offers a bubble pack of Gravol and a barf bag. “By the time you get to your hotel, you’ll be bliss.” He looks more closely. “Unless I’m too late. If we’re lucky, it’ll come out of your mouth and not your clacker. Think good thoughts.”
I lean back and remember the time I found my sister in my bedroom. Lily had my songbook in her lap and some of my vinyl collection lying in a semicircle around her. I didn’t mind the invasion. Gut-wise, she was my twin.
I held out a mandarin orange I swiped from the kitchen.
“Want half?”
A smile bent her cheek.
I peeled the skin, and a mist sprung between us. Lily. The walking strawberry. She handed me my songbook.
I put on my headphones and shut my eyes. Meanwhile, the five-and-a-half-foot thief must’ve got busy. Then, she cut the volume to my headphones.
I opened my eyes. She’d crawled on the bed and had her face almost pressed against mine. A gangsta scowl twisted her chin. She backed up off the bed and pulled back into an arms-crossed, heavy-on-one-hip, rapper pose, and started bobbing and wagging a finger. “Aaand, don’t ya be pinchin my cred. O, I’ma be bustin’s yo head.” Then a slew of karate chops. “Ninja style.”
She collapsed on the floor laughing.
With his usual MO, Gramps saw an open door to a private space and walked in. He scanned my domain, scowled at my Bernie Sanders poster and shuddered at the sight of Slick the rat. It was like he’d slipped into a shaman’s trance, and foresaw hell and the special circus cooked up for me. No wonder he was terrified for Lily. Under my influence, Lily’s corruption would soon be complete.
“You’re not alright,” my neighbour says. “Can I do something? Maybe fetch your carry-on while the stewardess is busy.”
“No thanks.”
“No worries, mate. I’m bored shitless.” He pops his seatbelt and gets up. The compartment clicks open. “Which one’s yours?”
“I don’t have one.”
He glances down at the plastic bag at my feet. “A no-fuss kind of guy.” He drops into his seat with his backpack.
“Where’ya staying at?”
“The Mercury. By the train station.”
His lips form a silent O.
“What? I saw it online at the Toronto airport.”
“Just,” he says, “I’m hopeful you won’t be robbed before dinner, that’s all. Up and out and suddenly ya can’t pay. Some bastard’s got your wallet.” His seatbelt snaps together. “Welcome to Nairobi.”
TV screens lining the cabin show our plane on top of my destination. A voice talks of descent. I finger-comb my hair. It’s dank at the roots. The stewardess gives me water. I retch. Nothing comes out, yet my neighbour has bounced into the aisle.
“No offence,” he says, “I don’t wanna wear your brekkie.”
I hold the barf bag open a crack with my thumb. The plane soars over the tarmac. I press my forehead against the seat ahead as my guts threaten to explode from the north and the south.
“Listen. You seem like an okay bloke, right? So you’ll taxi with me, yeah? And we’ll forget your hotel and head to River Road.”
“Sounds like you know your way around.”
“I know Nairobi, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m Paul by the way.”
Gears bounce on the tarmac. I burp-retch as the cabin tosses us in our seats. Then we settle in for the glide. When the plane stops, buckles pop. Passengers cram the aisle. The cabin begins to smell like diesel. I start the journey’s only soothing part: following the passenger stream out of the plane, down the stairs to the shuttle and through sliding doors to immigration.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Hell’s half-acre.”
People—enough to pack a theatre. The line to the immigration officials is a bloated, dead snake.
Paul returns from a side table handing something to me. Declaration. Words and lines and boxes. I can’t catch the meaning of any of it.
“Bend over,” he says.
I must’ve given him a queer look.
“So I can write on your back,” he explains. He shoulders off his pack as I stoop. I’m facing a baby, blowing spit bubbles, in one of those harnesses strapped on a man’s chest.
“Here,” Paul says. “Take mine and do one of your own.” With his paper beside mine, I can fill it out.
The line shuffles ahead every few minutes. There’s a girl with short, dark hair and a clingy purple dress. Her guy has a beard and a bag slung across his waist. They speak French. I overhear another guy say, “Canada.” He’s with some girls from the States who are here to do volunteer work.
When we get to the immigration desk, I push my passport under the partition to a woman of tight braids and short sentences. She says, “Visa.”
My head torques toward Paul.
“No worries,” he says. “You can buy it here.”
After fingerprints on an electric doohickey and handing over shillings, we are free to scram to the toilet. I get some relief, but the sour feeling in my gut remains. Paul grins as I meet him at the baggage turnstile. He retrieves a massive backpack with wheels, and I scan for the exit. He catches my shoulder. “You don’t have luggage, at all?” He looks down at my Dollarama bag again and a new look crosses his face, as if he’s seen something from faraway and wants to zoom in.
“Tell me you have money.”
I nod. He slaps my back. “Here,” he foists his carry-on into my arms. “Take that for me, wont’cha mate?”
We approach the exit: a set of sliding doors skimming the surface of another world. It should be exciting. But it’s too unreal to be adventurous. Too foreign to be fun. I can’t stop thinking about the black globe in Dad’s den. If I were to put my thumb on Winnipeg and my index finger on Nairobi, how many time zones would there be in between? It doesn’t matter. I might as well be in space.
