David Halliday - The Hole

“Jesus!” Terry laughed.

Once again the plane turned and disappeared over the horizon.

“My old man never bragged about me,” Wiggy said. “He must have been talking about your dad.”

Terry shrugged. Terry didn’t like to talk about his father, especially with Wiggy. There was always a joke attached to any comment Wiggy made.

“Sometimes… I can’t remember what my old man looked like,” Terry said. It’s like his face disappeared into a hole in my head.

“Shit! I wish I could forget what my old man’s puss looked like. It’s always in my face like some indelible ink. I can’t remember when that bastard hasn’t been on my case.”

The boys stopped in front of Duke’s Sporting Goods and looked in the window.

“How can Duke charge these prices?” Wiggy asked. “There should be some kind of law. It should be criminal to sell things that expensive.”

“Don’t buy them,” Terry responded.

“That’s not the point, Terry,” Wiggy moaned. “Look at those skates!

Two hundred bucks! If I had a pair of those I could have made the school team.”

“You can’t skate,” Terry said.

“My equipment was too heavy. Okay, I wasn’t the fastest guy out there. But those guys were such pussies.”

“The coach kicked you out of the first practice,” Terry said, shaking his head. “At least I made the first round of cuts.”

“The guy hooked me. So I hit him on the head. He had a helmet on.

Fucking broke my stick. It was practically new.”

“He was the coach’s son,” Terry reminded Wiggy. “What did you expect?”

Wiggy shrugged. He bummed a cigarette off Terry and leaned against the shop window, tapping on the glass with his elbow and wondered how much of a blow it would take to break it.

“How come you quit the team?” Wiggy asked. “Did you quit because they gave me the boot?”

“Why not?” Terry responded.

“I knew it. Told Frank that you quit on account of me and he said I was nuts. But we’re buds, right? One for all and all for one. But I gotta be honest, I don’t know if I would have quit if the positions had been re-versed. I mean, my old man would have killed me. He was pissed that I got cut until I told him what happened. Called the coach a pussy. Right on the phone. I heard it myself. My old man may be an asshole but he’s my asshole.”

“Very touching,” Terry responded.

“Ah, don’t worry about old George there,” Wiggy began, pointing back at the barbershop where the barber remained in front. “George ain’t such a bad guy. He’s just pissed off because he doesn’t have any customers. Being a barber-that’s one thing I would not want to be. Can you imagine all the filthy disgusting things you’d find in people’s hair?

Grease, lice, scabs. Disgusting! Frank Nitty, Al Capone’s right hand man, 54 was a barber. Did you know that? He slit a few necks in his time. How can someone do that? Maybe you get used to it after the first few times.

Like working down at Canada Packer’s. My uncle kills the cows down there. Did I tell you that? Pops them in the forehead with this gun.

Doesn’t fire bullets, just knocks them senseless. Has to carry a hammer with him at all times in case the animal doesn’t go down right away.

That must be quite a rush, eh? Killing something?” There was a long pause before Wiggy continued. “I can’t believe that Johnny’s back and I haven’t seen him. We’re supposed to be buds and he doesn’t call me.” Wiggy looked at Terry. “Hey, what’s wrong? I told you not to sweat old George.”

“It’s Cathy,” Terry responded.

“She late?”

Terry shook his head. “I told you, Johnny’s back.”

“So? I thought she was your girl now. Her and Johnny were tight last year before he took off for college, but that’s over. Right?”

“I thought so,” Terry said. “She forgot to inform Johnny that they were no longer an item. He thinks he’s still got property rights.”

“He’s still banging her?” Wiggy asked.

Terry grit his teeth. Wiggy raised his hands in apology.

“What does Cathy say?”

Terry shrugged.

“Jesus,” Wiggy said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Wiggy was silent for several moments before he continued. “This puts me in a difficult position, man. I like Johnny. He’s got that cool ’57 Chev. We went up to Wasaga Beach last summer and I’m telling you, it’s a real babe magnet. Did I tell you about those chicks from the Saulte?

“You told me,” Terry sighed.

Wiggy turned and faced Terry. “We’re buds, man, but Johnny has the Chev and you’ve got to have wheels to get the chicks.” Wiggy continued on for several minutes until he noticed that Terry was glaring at him.

“What?” Wiggy cried.

“You ever heard of loyalty, Wiggy?”

Wiggy nodded. “But chicks come first, right? We agreed to that.”

“Johnny ain’t a chick.”

“But he’s my supply line. He’s like a warehouse for chicks. No explaining it. Johnny and I were talking about going to California. He says the chicks down there are all tanned, and blonde, and beautiful, and they drop their panties if you wink.”

Terry looked at Wiggy. “Johnny is the enemy. He’s trying to steal my girl.” Terry sighed. “Why do I bother with you?” Terry put his arm around Terry’s shoulder. ’Cause we’re buds.” Dacchau

Sam Kelly rapped on the front door several times. He was about to give up when the door opened. Joe Mackenzie wiped the wisps of gray hair that dangled over his eyes back across his bald head. He rubbed his eyes and let the police officer in. A moment later they were in the kitchen. Joe told the detective to take a seat. As Joe prepared some coffee, Sam glanced at the wall papered with clippings, now yellowed and frayed. One article caught his attention. It was about Dacchau, the former German concentration camp. It had been cleaned up to provide temporary housing for displaced persons. How could anyone have lived there? What had the residents told their children?

“Unbelievable, eh?” Joe said, recognizing the article that Sam was reading. Joe set a cup of hot coffee in front of Sam. “I hope you like your coffee black. Out of milk and sugar. Working the afternoon shift and I just didn’t get around to getting in groceries.” Sam nodded. “Black is fine. People actually lived there voluntarily?” Joe nodded. “After the war there were a lot of refugees-Poles, Russi-ans, Germans. There was no other housing. I guess you put up with a lot of things when you’re desperate. Must have been terrible for the kids.

Even if you don’t believe in ghosts the kids probably overheard stories.

You know how kids talk among themselves.”

The detective sipped his coffee. It was too hot. He put it to one side.

“Must be difficult to forget something like that,” he said.

“You know what was the worse thing the Nazis did,” Joe continued,

“next to exterminating all those people? They tried to erase their existence from history, as if all those people had never truly been. I read somewhere that Hitler got his idea for wiping out the Jews, the Gypsies, and the Slavs from the history of the wild West in America. Open up Eastern Europe as a frontier for the Germanic people by making the people there disappear. Isn’t that what we did to the Indian? Imagine Hitler in a cowboy hat and lasso and all those brown shirts on horses singing country and western songs. Sometimes I think there’s another history written in invisible ink that no one ever reads. But you didn’t come here this morning for a history lesson.”

“I came by yesterday afternoon, but there was no one home.” 56

“I was at work,” Joe replied, then corrected himself. “No, I was here.