Craig Davidson - Cataract City

“Hey, Bruiser. We got to go home.”

Dunk kicked harder. Bruiser’s foot barely moved. His boot could have been filled with concrete. Dunk pulled back the tent flap. His nose wrinkled. “He must’ve puked.”

Bruiser lay on top of his sleeping bag. His hands were covered in raccoon blood; it had dried and split, making his skin look like lizard scales. Dunk crawled inside the tent. I tried to grab him but he was already halfway in.

The smell was the same as when my dad had found our neighbour’s cat under our porch, eaten by beetles. “That would gag a maggot,” he’d said. Sunlight streamed through the tent’s metal eyelets, picking up the dust above Mahoney’s chest. His skin pale through the rips in his clothing. Quite suddenly I realized how still things were. Nothing but our own timid movements and the floating dust.

“Bruiser,” Dunk said softly. “Hey … you awake?”

My knee knocked into Bruiser’s leg. It was hard, like a mannequin leg. I pulled away, spine pressed against the tent’s canvas. Mahoney’s fingers were curled back in defiance of their bones. They reminded me of the Wicked Witch’s shoes in The Wizard of Oz . I thought Mahoney might be taking a long breath. I held mine until my heart thudded at my temples. When I let it out he still hadn’t taken a breath of his own.

Dunk leaned over him.

“Bruiser?” Shouting it: “ Bruiser! ”

Mahoney’s face was the colour of the moulding clay we used in art class. His eyes were wide open, his eyeballs milky, snaky with burst vessels. White stuff that looked like dried shaving cream was crusted at the sides of his mouth. There was something the matter with his face. His upper teeth were ejected past his lips, connected to a strip of dingy pink plastic.

“Dentures,” Dunk said quietly. “My grandpa wears them too. When he goes to bed he puts them in a glass of buttermilk.”

Dunk pressed his thumb to Mahoney’s teeth and tried to push them into his mouth. They wouldn’t go. He pulled on Mahoney’s chin until his mouth opened a bit. The sound was like a rubber band snapping. His dentures fell back into his mouth with a terrible slunk , the sound of an un-oiled drawer sliding shut.

Dunk pushed Bruiser Mahoney’s dentures back under his lips and tried to pinch them gently together. But his teeth were too big for his mouth. Either they had grown — which was impossible, right? — or his skin had shrunk.

“Is he …?”

“I think so, yeah,” Dunk said.

My heart was a wounded bird flapping inside my chest. I wanted to scream but the sound was locked up somewhere under my lungs.

“Should we close his eyes, Owe?”

“Is that what you do?”

Dunk nodded. “So the soul can go to heaven.”

You think that’s where it’s going? I almost asked.

Dunk put two fingertips on Mahoney’s eyelids and pulled them down. When he let go they rolled back up like window shades. One of Mahoney’s eyes pointed towards his nose as if the muscles behind it had given up, letting the eyeball roll towards the lowest point on his face. It made him look comical and stupid.

“Fuck,” said Dunk.

Outside the tent I wept. I wept because a man I’d idolized without really knowing him — it dawned on me that maybe this was the only way you ever really could idolize anybody — was gone and I was miserable because he’d died overnight, alone, in an army surplus tent with his boots on. And I wept because Dunk and I were in the middle of a big nowhere now. I wept because the only person who could have got us out of this was dead, his eyeball lazing into the centre of his face, and he’d left two dumb scared kids a million miles from anywhere.

Dunk opened the van door and sat in the driver’s seat. He gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles went white, then punched it. The horn made a low blatt .

“Should we bury him?” he said.

I wiped scalding tears off my cheeks. It was the most serious question I’d ever had to answer. “We don’t have a shovel.”

Dunk nodded; he’d already registered that fact.

After some thinking, I said: “Could we burn him? That’s what Bovine’s dad does at the funeral parlour. There’s a big oven down in the basement, Bovine says. The coffins go in on a conveyor belt. His dad sweeps the ashes into a metal vase.”

“A vase?”

“I guess, like you’re supposed to put it in your living room. Over the fireplace?”

“Where you hang stockings at Christmas?” Dunk said.

It was weird. I didn’t tell Dunk that Bovine also told me that sometimes his father pried the gold fillings out of a dead person’s teeth before putting the body in the oven. He gave the gold to the next-of-kin, who usually melted it down, Bovine said, turning it into earrings or doo-dads on a charm bracelet. People were weird about death. Looking at Bruiser Mahoney’s boots sticking out of the tent, I could see why.

“How would we burn him?” Dunk said.

“We could stuff sticks inside the tent and light it.”

“What about the sparks? They could fly off and set the woods on fire.”

“We could build a ring of rocks around the tent.”

Dunk touched his lip to his nose, considering it. “Would it get hot enough to turn him into ashes? Last summer we had a cookout along the river and my brother dropped his hot dog in the fire. In the morning it was a shrivelled black stick, like charcoal.”

I pictured Bruiser Mahoney the same way: the meat cooked black on his bones, his body laid out like a stick figure. What would we do then? Snap his limbs over our knees — I imagined each break sending up a puff of sparkling black dust — and stack Bruiser Mahoney in our arms? We’d have to carry him out of the forest like firewood.

Dunk climbed out of the van and walked to the tent.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting some things,” he said.

He rummaged inside the tent. The points of his elbows strained against the canvas. Was he rolling Mahoney over? Rooting through the dead man’s pockets? A series of loud pops, like shots from a cap gun, fired quickly. I wondered if it was the trapped air popping between the knobs of Mahoney’s spinal cord.

That sound opened a hidden trap door in my head and quite suddenly I was staring at my own body in a coffin, my face propped up by a shiny satin pillow. I lay in a parlour with stained-glass windows; “Nearer, My God, to Thee” was playing. My father and mother were there, plus a few of my teachers and some aunts and uncles I hardly ever saw. My face was yellow from that chemical they pump into your veins to replace your blood — the same stuff our science teacher used to preserve dissected frogs. Stitches circled my head; the undertaker had brushed my bangs down to cover them, but not totally. I wondered if they had taken my brain out and if so, why? Maybe evil aliens had stolen it, like the ones in that television show Dunk and I watched late one night: Invasion of the Brain Snatchers . If my brain was gone, what was inside my head now? Packing peanuts like the ones that Dad’s hi-fi equipment had come in? Some balled-up pages out of the Niagara Falls Pennysaver ?

Staring at my own dead face didn’t fill me with horror or sadness or much of anything, probably because I couldn’t really imagine being dead. The whole scene felt like a joke — and then my dad began to bawl hysterically, soaking a platter of cucumber sandwiches with his tears, and the daydream fell apart.

Dunk came out of the tent with Mahoney’s gun and knife and laid them on the driver’s seat.

“Want a piece of gum?”

“Where did you get it?” I asked.

“You want it or not?”

We chewed gum. Dunk pulled the van’s key out of his pocket and slid it into the ignition. The motor went whirr-whirr-whirr . Dunk popped the hood — it shocked me that he knew how — and peered into the engine compartment.