Vile Men Read online

  “We don’t have a lot in common,” I say.

  She gives me her printed paragraphs of exposition. They’re sloppily-written, but Zoey’s got such a worn look on her face. She makes me feel tired, makes me feel weak, defeated. I show her all of the photos I’ve scanned from my books. I show her all the photos of Stalin, from youth to General Secretary. She picks up the picture of Stalin carrying Svetlana and she studies it for a few seconds before saying anything.

  “This is his daughter, right?” she asks.

  I nod.

  She looks back at the photo and smirks. “It’s weird to think he was a dad.”

  “Yeah,” I say, taking the picture back, studying Svetlana’s gaze. She looks like she’s telling me something, looks like she wants me to stop.

  I copy text from the books, reciting things I’ve learned. I can’t ignore the obvious things, like how I’m not even really paraphrasing but plagiarizing. Mr. Allen will notice when I cite my sources, so I tell myself to return and rewrite it all later because I’m bored and tired and done, and when I press my face into my hands all I can feel are the creases in my forehead.

  Dad walks past my bedroom. He pokes his head in the door and my heart starts to pound.

  “How’s your project coming along?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Good.” He smiles a middle-aged Joseph Stalin smile and continues down the hall.

  I try to rewrite Zoey’s exposition while the shower whirs in the bathroom, the white noise a distraction. I stare at the photos, black and white and fuzzy. I stare at Stalin, still feeling the static between my legs, feeling the static in my chest, reverberations trickling between my ribs, tickling me inside.

  There’s a knock on the door and I look up and glance at Dad’s face, cleaned and expressionless. He stands in the frame, doesn’t take a step into the room, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. He glances at the wall. Stalin’s gone but his influence isn’t.

  “You coming down for dinner?” Dad asks.

  “In a minute,” I say.

  He doesn’t wait. He shuts the door when he leaves.

  Zoey finally comes to help. She brings a red sheet of poster board and a pad of construction paper. I finish my write-ups on Stalin, struggling to add extra information on his tyrannical middle-aged existence. I print them out but she doesn’t read them over. She doesn’t seem to notice how short my paragraphs are. She doesn’t pay attention to the large font. She cuts them out, keen with her scissors.

  I start printing out new pages, large bold quotes to keep as a distraction, to use as filler.

  “One death is a tragedy, the death of millions is statistic,” Zoey says, smiling. “I love this quote so much.” The scissors make metallic scratches in my ears, white noise that makes me think about getting clean.

  “It used to scare me,” I say.

  She hands me the quote. “Why the hell would it scare you?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. It was the way my dad used to read it, I guess.”

  She picks up the young Stalin photo and admires it before cutting it out. She works slowly, lets the blades sear the white edges from the picture.

  “I’d so do him,” she fawns. “It’d be nice if there were more pictures of him in his twenties. I mean, if I could, I’d make the whole project about him in his twenties because he robbed banks and did a bunch of other badass stuff.”

  “Yeah,” I say, redirecting my attention to the footsteps in the hall.

  “I mean, seriously,” she says, flipping the photo so I can look at it. “Wouldn’t you let him do all sorts of stuff to you?”

  My mouth opens and my heated exhale dries the saliva on my tongue.

  She positions the photo in the centre of the poster, making it the real focal point, his face overpowering all the haunting quotes, all the truths Dad told me.

  “It’s kind of plain-looking,” Zoey says.

  “It’s because we didn’t do enough research,” I say, my breath heavy.

  “Well, what do we do?” she asks. “I thought you said we were totally going to get an A on this.”

  “I did as much as I could,” I say. “I’ve researched this to death and I’ve done like, practically all of the work.”

  “What?” Zoey asks.

  I look at her and hesitate. “This just, this always happens,” I say. “I do all this work on a project where I’m supposed to be working with other people. It’s exhausting.”

  She drops the scissors. “It’s not my fault I haven’t been able to come over,” she says. “My mom’s been such a raging bitch all week. She wouldn’t let me out. I really tried, okay?” She withdraws, sitting back, pulling her agenda into her lap.

  “Well,” I say. “I don’t know; we could try decorating it. I mean, you draw all the time. You could draw something.”

  Zoey’s expression changes. She leans forward and tears off a piece of red paper. “We could do some cut-outs, different symbols and stuff, like that hammer, or the curved blade thing Stalin used.”

  “It’s a sickle,” I say.

  “Whatever,” she says. “I just don’t want to fail, okay? My mom will freak if I fail another class.”

  At night, Mom and Dad don’t argue. I can hear them talking through the wall and I cup my hand over my ear, straining to hear their conversation.

  For the first time their voices are too quiet to understand, hushed white noise from the other room.

  We get a c.

  The poster gets hung in the hallway, but Mr. Allen’s note on the board is too much to leave exposed: Nice artistic effort, but you seem to have focused more on Stalin’s early years than on his significance in WWII.

  Dad picks me up from school. I toss the poster in the back seat, but he turns his head to glance at bold red grade. The apple bobs hard in his throat. His fingers tense around the gear shift as he puts the car in drive.

  “I thought you would have done better,” he says.

  “I know,” I say, buckling myself in. “I never do all that well with group projects.”

  “You were distracted,” he says, putting the car into gear.

  I swallow, feeling my grasp tighten around my seatbelt, adjusting it over the pounding in my chest. Breathing in, all I can smell is oil and grime.

  “You don’t get C’s, Peyton,” he says, eyes on the road, staring with such intensity it’s like he’s not even looking at anything at all. His fingers turn white, grasping the wheel. “I taught you to know better. You’re a smart girl, Peyton.”

  “Dad, I tried.”

  “You’re a smart girl,” he says again, his voice raised.

  “It’s not my fault!” I burst. “Zoey barely helped at all. She made me do all the research…”

  “I taught you all about Joseph Stalin!”

  The light ahead changes; he steps on the brake, tires screeching. The seat belt digs into my chest, preventing me from lurching forward as the car halts over the line. I’m held back against my seat, unable to breathe.

  Dad grabs for my wrist but I snatch it away, still finding myself caught in his stare.

  “He was a terrible man, Peyton. Joseph Stalin was a terrible man.”

  It’s hard to breathe, the air snatched out of me. My lip twitches, muscles forcing a frown. Blinking, I push my head back against the headrest, letting my gaze stray to the green light. Dad continues to stare, his influence infecting my lungs with a burning ache, making me feel like I’ve been holding my breath forever.

  Cars behind us start honking.

  Dad swallows. He shakes his head and adjusts his grasp over the wheel before he turns his focus back to the road.

  “I should have expected it,” he says. His voice sounds tight in his throat. “You had to grow up eventually,” he says.

  I lean my head against the window and my fingers tighten around the door handle. I wish I could just open it and jump out.

  They argue again, only this time it’s Dad’s voice that’s backed with emo
tion.

  I send a text to Zoey, my fingers shaking when I tell her that my parents are fighting, that they’re talking about me.

  She responds within the minute, her text reading, omg, that sucks. Then she sends another that reads, keep calm and think about stalin, followed by another text that reads, LOL!

  I set my phone down but then it vibrates again, another message from Zoey that reads, btw, my mom was totally stoked about the C!

  I tear down Joseph after school the next day. I take down Earnest and Wilfred and Johannes. I crumple up Nathan and Leon. I pull Lewis off the wall and toss him with the rest into the trash. Behind each picture is a pristine patch of lilac paint, a slightly darker shade than the one I thought my walls were all this time.

  I don’t do my homework.

  Lying back, I stare at the vacant wall with no fantasies. I lay there until my Dad knocks on the door. He pauses when he notices the emptiness behind me.

  “Dinner’s ready,” he says. He doesn’t wait for me. He turns and goes downstairs.

  Zoey sits beside me in class. She taps her anarchy pen on the desk. “Look,” she says, “I know you, like, did most of the work, but I’d totally try to help more if you want to be my partner for the next project.”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Hey, look,” she says. She opens her agenda and she shows me the Stalin picture that she’s taped inside. She’s drawn a heart around his face. “Cool, hey?”

  I look at Joseph. Heat fills me again. All the terrible things Dad told me about Joseph don’t matter. It’s the look on Joseph’s face that matters. It’s full of lust. It’s full of desire. It’s all I can do to look away.

  PLOT POINTS

  Denouement:

  Your new apartment has hardwood floors and brown walls. You can’t help but think it looks like the inside of a coffin.

  What really sold you was the kitchen. The layout

  was functional.

  You move the table by the door, put your keys in the bowl. You turn the deadbolt, but it’s not like you ever have to worry about her stumbling in. You’re supposed to be able to breathe now, but you can’t.

  Behind you is all your past life bullshit crammed into cardboard boxes.

  You’ll have to unpack it all eventually.

  Resolution:

  She was the one who filed for divorce.

  She came out of the bedroom in her dark makeup and her short black dress. She slid the papers in front of you and said, “Just sign them. I don’t care.”

  You couldn’t find a pen. You looked everywhere. You tore through all the drawers and you left them all open. The kitchen always looked like shit anyway.

  You made a drink instead. You ended up playing with two magnets you picked off the fridge. You pried them apart and put them together. You tried to touch the same poles together but all you felt was the pressure working between your hands. You kept trying to connect the magnets, but the weight built in your chest, climbed up the back of your throat and behind your eyes.

  You remembered you still had a pen in your shirt pocket and you finally shed the burden.

  You finally gave up.

  Falling Action—2:

  She confessed a lot of things the night she took all those pills.

  She said, “I’ve fucked plenty of guys.”

  She said, “I’m not even attracted to you anymore.”

  She said, “Sometimes I feel like the only way to get away from you is to kill myself.”

  You wanted to leave but you forced her to drink the ipecac. She’d forever be a tangle of mania and depression. You just wanted to be a good husband, so you held your breath and tried to deal.

  Falling Action—1:

  She refused to look at you. She kept the bedroom door locked. You didn’t want to break it open. There were so many dents from all the times you’d hit it before. You pressed your ear to the door and heard nothing. For a moment you wondered if she’d gone through with it.

  You said, “Liz?”

  She said, “Fuck you, Trevor.”

  You thought about buying her an ice pack or maybe flowers. Your entire body was sore with heat and anxiety. It made you wonder if that was what she felt like all the time.

  Your knuckles ached, and you wondered how long they would.

  Climax:

  The blood on her face matched her shirt.

  She’d sucked all your patience, always coming home late at night. You didn’t really care who she’d been with, but you were tired and angry and you needed something to blame her for. You called her a cunt, a bitch, a whore.

  You said, “It’s the truth. It’s the fucking truth.”

  She pulled the glasses out of the cupboards. There wasn’t much left to break in the kitchen but she always found something to throw at you. She was always angrier than you.

  You couldn’t breathe anymore.

  You made a fist.

  Rising Action—3:

  You probably should have forced her to see a doctor. You read stories on the Internet about other couples with demolished homes. Somehow they managed to limit the damage. You knew you’d never have that dream kitchen you both wanted. All you really cared about was a kitchen that didn’t have dents on all the cabinet doors.

  Renovations were a lot of work, though.

  You were exhausted enough already.

  Rising Action—2:

  She missed too much work and she lost her job. She cried and apologized. She said she’d get herself together and find a new job, but you told her to give herself a break.

  You said, “It’s okay.”

  She fit perfectly in your arms, her warmth soothing your chest. She was easier to deal with when her face was white and her eyes were puffy. She never looked for a job, though. She spent weeks cooped up in the house. The bills piled up and she started getting restless again.

  You came home from work and asked, “How are you feeling today?”

  She said, “Stop pestering me, Trevor.”

  She rolled her eyes and went to the bedroom. She put on makeup. She put on a black dress you’d never seen before. She took her purse.

  You asked, “Where are you going?”

  She said, “I’m so fucking tired of you.”

  She grew tired of things so quickly.

  Rising Action—1:

  You bought new plates. She pretended like you were filling your wedding registry, going through the aisles, smiling, looking like she did when you met her.

  She picked up a plate with sky blue trim and birds on the edge.

  She said, “Don’t you love this?”

  She loved the new plates more than the previous set, but in the back of your head you wondered how soon it would be before you had to replace them.

  Inciting Incident:

  She wanted the house because of the kitchen. It was the first house you both looked at, but she fell in love with the granite counters and the birch cabinets and the island bar. She said, “Trevor, I can see myself here.”

  Three months later she agonized over Christmas. She barely slept. She spent her nights obsessing over the decorations and the dinner.

  You told her, “It’s just a turkey, Liz.”

  She didn’t believe you. She’d invited her mother and everything had to be perfect. It snowed on Christmas Eve. The phone rang early next morning. Her mother didn’t want to risk the drive into town.

  Lizzie’s shoulders sank. Her fingers tightened and threw the phone across the room. Her chest heaved and she shoved all the plates off the kitchen island. She yelled about how exhausted she was. She said, “It’s ruined. It’s fucking ruined.”

  All you did was stare.

  She met your gaze and hesitated. You didn’t know what to say. She started crying. She fled to the bedroom and locked the door. Her cries echoed while you surveyed the damage in the kitchen. There was a dent on one of the cabinets where she’d thrown the phone.

  Exposition:

  One of the service clerks
came into your office and told you there was a woman sampling strawberries in the produce aisle. She wasn’t who you expected, a pretty blonde with a softened gaze. Her lips were a gentle shade of pink.

  You asked, “Are you alright?”

  She said, “No.” She put the box of strawberries down and tried to leave.

  You grabbed the box and went after her. You said, “You really should buy them.”

  She asked, “Why?”

  You hesitated. You said, “Because they’re delicious.”

  She smiled then. She laughed. She bought the strawberries. You should have left her alone then. Still you felt a pressure pulling you to her. You wanted to see her smile forever.

  CAT CALLS

  The girl is on the Skytrain again. Her red raincoat always pulls my gaze. She smiles through the window. Today her dark hair’s tied back. Her lashes are curled and her eyes are lined in black, catty. My fingers tighten around the handle of my briefcase. I swallow before I board.

  “You’re wearing those pants again,” she calls. “I always thought they defined your package real nice.”

  The other passengers look up. They look at her and then at me, at my black pressed slacks. My throat tightens. My gaze drops to the floor and I take a seat. I set my briefcase over my lap.

  “Why don’t you sit over here?” the girl asks.

  The train starts, its moan filling my ears. It always sounds like a ghost getting off. I lean back against my seat and stare out the window as the train passes through the city and the rain. Then the bells chime and the speaker announces the next stop.

  The next station is New Westminster.