Vile Men Read online

  The package of cigarettes lingered in his pocket all day. The cigarettes shifted every time he took a step. Luke thought about the trial he’d put himself through when he’d quit the first time, how terrible it was with two newborns crying all night long. It was bad, but then it got better. He and Anita used to stay up late together, rocking their sons back to sleep. Anita gave Luke his free time. He started jogging. He got in shape. His cough went away.

  Now Luke stood in the rain on his lunch break. He thought about buying the bread the day before, standing in the line-up at the grocery store, his grasp tightening around the loaf. He thought about Andrew and Oliver eating their warped bologna sandwiches. He pulled out the cigarettes, counted the two he’d smoked since he’d first bought the package.

  He knew it was desperation, that two smoked cigarettes didn’t mean he’d relapsed. It was all just a lapse in judgement, and it wasn’t worth having to go through the process of quitting again, not with another baby coming. Anita worked at the same daycare the boys went to, but she would soon be on maternity leave and Luke would have to support them all. He thought about the bills, about the comments Anita sometimes made about someday getting a bigger car, a bigger house, a real house with four bedrooms and a big backyard.

  His heart started to pound. He went to put the cigarettes back in his pocket but his fingers flinched over the cardboard package. His boss, Walter, approached. He nodded at the box.

  “I didn’t know you smoked, Luke,” he said.

  “Not really,” Luke said, shrugging. “I’m just in the process of quitting.”

  “Well, you can’t be doing too well if that’s a new pack,” Walter said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Luke said. His throat tightened and he pulled out a fresh cigarette, needing something to hold onto. He tried to hold it steady between his fingers.

  “Mind if I bum one?” Walter asked. “I’ll be doing you a favour.”

  “No,” Luke said, and he held out the pack.

  Walter took one, pulled out his lighter. “I’ve tried to quit four times, you know? I tried everything. One time my wife dragged me to a hypnosis seminar that promised results. Obviously it was just a crock of shit.” Walter lit the end and took a puff. “It’s all just one slippery slope.”

  He passed Luke the lighter. Luke took it and hesitated. Standing in the cold, in the rain, his body wracked with shivers, he tried to remember what relief once felt like.

  “You okay?” Walter asked.

  Accidents happened. They happened all the time. He thought about the night Anita told him about the baby. He couldn’t hold back the dread and she noticed. She reached for him. She held his face in her hands. She said that life was full of the unexpected, that they were going to make their situation work for them.

  “Luke, you okay?” Walter asked.

  “I’m fine,” Luke said. He brought a cigarette to his lips.

  “Most ex-smokers say that quitting was the hardest thing they’ve ever done,” Walter said.

  “Yeah?” Luke asked, his finger flinching over the wheel of the lighter.

  “Must be nice to actually kick the habit, to never have to buy another pack.”

  Luke stared ahead at the dark smog of pulp mill emissions, thick smog that sailed up and canvassed the overcast sky. His grip tightened around the lighter. He brought it up and lit the end of his cigarette, the nicotine heat seeping deep down into his lungs as he inhaled. He fought hard not to cough in front of Walter, but he did anyway.

  He slipped into a new routine. He smoked on his lunch breaks. He smoked in the car on the way home from work, the window rolled down. He smoked when he couldn’t sleep at night, walking circles around the parking lot. He searched the shadows for the kid on the white bike. He smoked the whole package by the end of the week.

  He took the boys to the park on Sunday. They wanted helicopter rides. They pulled him into the field and jumped and pleaded.

  Andrew said, “Daddy, spin us!”

  Oliver said, “Both of us!”

  When the boys were younger he used to act as a centrifugal force, swinging them one at the time, their trusting grasps clinging tight. He kept them rotating the right distance, kept them from spinning off-kilter. He used to close his eyes and feel the calm of the centre, the air brushing his face, whispering in his ears.

  He spun Andrew first, but the black darkened behind his eyes. He held his breath and grew dizzy. His lungs tightened. His throat burned. His head throbbed.

  He slowed to nothing and Andrew skidded back on the grass and laughed. Oliver pulled at Luke’s shirt, begging for a turn. Luke gasped and fell to his knees and coughed. The boys screamed, their kid shrieks filling his ears.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

  He said, “You guys are too big for this.”

  He gasped for breaths. He wanted a smoke.

  He coughed up phlegm and felt in his pocket, his fingers tightening, curling into his palm, making fists. There was nothing there, just the keys to his car, his house—his home.

  He woke to the sound of Anita’s voice over him, her hand on his chest, his sweat soaking though the sheets again.

  “Luke, you’re practically lying in a puddle.”

  He sat up, the air against his bare chest. “I’m sorry,” he said. He wiped his forehead and climbed out of the covers.

  “Open the window,” she said.

  “I’ll just go for a walk,” he said.

  She reached out. “Come back to bed,” she said. “We’ll lay over the covers.”

  Luke opened the window and pulled the curtain back. He looked over all the stalls in the parking lot, squinting at the shadows at what might have been lurking.

  Nobody was outside.

  Luke told Anita he would meet her and the boys at the grocery store after work, but he took a detour to the 7-11 to buy another pack of cigarettes. He smoked one in the parking lot, breathing deep the calm of the nicotine. The feeling overwhelmed him, and then he looked at his watch.

  He arrived at the grocery store breathless. The screams were the first thing he heard. They were identical screams, irritating and anxiety-inducing. Luke’s lungs ached the closer he got to the cereal aisle, where Anita tried to pry at box from Andrew’s hands. Oliver cried in a collapsed heap on the floor.

  “Boys, I’m not going to buy either cereal if you can’t behave,” she said, putting the box back on the shelf. Andrew screamed and grabbed a new box, and Anita wiped her forehead and sighed.

  Luke coughed as he approached. He pulled at his collar and tried to smell the smoke. His fingers shook, instincts driving him when his wife turned her head.

  “Luke,” she said. “Luke, where were you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Luke said. “I lost track of time.”

  Andrew grabbed at her legs and she bowed her head. “I’m going to lose it,” she said. “The baby’s giving me the worst heartburn and the boys have been with me with me all day.” Her breath quivered. Her shaking fingers wrung tight around her grocery list. “They’re sick of me.”

  Luke’s balled his fist against his chest and tried not to cough. “I’m so sorry, Ani.” He reached out and touched her shoulder.

  “Just take them,” she said, shrugging out of his grasp. “Just take them home and I can finish this.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she said. She put her list in the cart. Luke tried to look at her but she kept her head down. She ran her hand over her stomach and bit at her lip.

  “Okay,” he said.

  He crouched down and picked Oliver off the floor. He grabbed Andrew’s hand and lugged both his sons out of the store. They screamed and thrashed. They beat their kid fists against his flesh. He tried to be a good husband, a good father, but everyone in the grocery store glared at him when he passed.

  Dragging the boys across the parking lot, Luke heard the sound of gears ticking, and he looked up to see the white BMX bike that lingered in his thoughts every night. The kid
was on it, wearing baggy shorts and big headphones. He had no helmet and his long hair flipped behind him in the wind as he weaved his bike between all the cars.

  Luke’s grip tightened, but there was nothing he could do. He drew a breath, his chest burning, heart throbbing, erratic. He crossed the parking lot, holding tight to his son’s hands. He dragged them both to the car like heavy burdens.

  After work, Luke took off his safety helmet in front of the mirror. His usually tousled locks fell flat around his face.

  He’d always been told that he had a great head of hair. He’d cut it shorter over the years, and Anita said that his conservative haircut suited him, that his hair was less distracting, that the short and shellacked style hardened his jawline. Despite her approval, Luke often thought back to the flyaway waves he’d sported when he first met her. He ran his fingers through the matted strands, tired and worn from another day of work.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. He watched his jaw shift as he ground his teeth.

  Bass riffs vibrated through the walls into the late night, each song more obnoxious than the last. Anita rolled onto her back and moaned.

  “I can’t stand those renters,” she said.

  “The guy’s name is Blake Bennett.”

  “That’s a terrible name,” she said. She shifted and rubbed her hand over her chest.

  “Heartburn again?” he asked.

  She nodded and rolled onto her side again, turning her back to him. Her shoulders rose and sank with her deep breaths in the dark. Luke tried to unclench his jaw. He sat up and massaged Anita’s shoulder, but she only responded with a whine of irritation that filled his own chest with tightness and ache. He climbed out of bed and pulled his clothes on. He went downstairs and put on his jacket with the cigarettes in the pocket. They shifted in the package against his heavy steps.

  Luke rang the neighbour’s doorbell and pounded at the door until Blake Bennett answered, wearing a wrinkled graphic shirt and faded plaid pajama pants. The pounding beats sifted out the open door.

  “Yeah?” Blake asked, adjusting his plastic thick-rimmed glasses.

  “Could you turn your music down?” Luke asked.

  “What you got against my music, man?”

  “I don’t have anything against your music,” Luke said. “It’s just too loud. My wife’s pregnant and she can’t sleep, and I have to work in the morning, so—”

  “Easy, man.”

  “I can’t take it easy. Your music’s coming through my wall.”

  “Okay, man.”

  Blake went to close the door, but Luke put his hand out.

  “Look,” Luke said, “I know you probably think that it’s cool to do whatever you want, but your actions do affect other people.”

  Blake Bennett hesitated, his mouth open and gawked. “Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna turn the music down. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

  “And you left your truck unlocked the other night,” Luke added.

  “Oh, really?” Blake asked. “I didn’t even notice. Did you lock it or something?”

  Luke’s throat tightened. “Well, yeah,” he said.

  “That was nice of you, man. I’ll have to remember to lock it next time, I guess.”

  “You probably should,” Luke said.

  Blake Bennett nodded and smiled. He closed the door. The music fell silent, but Luke didn’t feel any sense of accomplishment. He headed back to his front door, his fists clenching, his chest still pounding. He noticed that the kid’s truck was still unlocked. Luke considered taking something from inside, but he dug into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette instead. He smoked it in the shadows and felt better.

  Anita put the dishes away after dinner and Luke helped her clean the table. She handed him a damp rag.

  “I was reading about you sweating at night,” Anita said.

  “It’s nothing, Ani,” Luke said.

  “I read that it might have something to do with low-testosterone levels,” she said.

  “What?”

  She studied him for too long. He had to look away. He looked down at the table, the white heat rings, the scratches. There were new lines, permanent marker lines. He scrubbed at them but he couldn’t get the stains out of the oak.

  “It’s getting worse,” she said. “You sweat practically every night.”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  He grit his teeth and wiped at the marker lines, black lines, bleeding lines.

  “Luke?” Anita asked.

  He threw the rag down. “What are these goddamn marks on the table?”

  “It’s okay, Luke.” She walked to him, put her arms around his shoulders. She ran her hand down his chest. “The boys were making you cards for Father’s Day,” she said.

  “Well they kind of ruined the table.”

  “You know they didn’t mean it,” she said. “It was my fault. I should have paid more attention.”

  He bit his tongue and sighed. He ran his hand through his limp weak hair.

  She leaned in and kissed his neck. “They got you an air freshener for your car,” she said, laughing. “They said it smells like the pulp mill.”

  Blake Bennett was washing his truck in the driveway when Luke got home from work. Luke pulled the groceries from his car and walked up.

  “You know, you forgot to lock your truck again,” Luke said.

  “I forget all the time,” Blake said. “Half the time I don’t even lock the house when I leave.”

  “Are you serious?” Luke asked. “You know there’s a kid that comes round here to steal shit, right?”

  “What?”

  “I left a slip in your mail box a couple weeks ago.”

  “I don’t remember seeing it, man.” Blake twisted the hose nozzle to the pulse setting. Water beat against the side of the truck.

  “You need to be responsible for your stuff,” Luke said.

  Blake shrugged. “If he goes through my car he’s just gonna steal my CDs or whatever.”

  “Well, if that’s what you want,” Luke said. His pulse throbbed in his neck. He cleared his throat and felt himself reaching for his pack of cigarettes.

  “I don’t really give a shit about my CDs,” the guy said.

  Luke stared. His fingers shook as pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled deep. The burn filled his lungs and he held the cigarette loose between his fingers, the gentle wisps of smoke curling up in the air. Blake didn’t seem to notice, but then Luke turned and saw Joe drive past. Joe waved and did a double take.

  Luke waved, stirring the smoke that swirled around him. His heart pounded hard and heavy in the cage of his chest.

  He worked another day like a good provider, watched over the kids like a good father, helped clean the table like a good husband. He managed to sneak away before bed, managed to have a moment where he breathed in deep and let the smog fill his lungs. He showered at the end of the night and washed the smoke, soaped himself clean so he came out scented like the Old Spice body wash Anita always bought him. He dried his hair, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed beside his wife. She propped herself up beside him. She ran her fingers through his hair.

  “I hope he has your hair,” Anita said. “The boys got my hair. I’d love for a man in the family to carry on your lush head of hair.” She smiled at him, rubbing her stomach.

  “You don’t know it’s a boy,” Luke said.

  “Of course I do,” she said. “Do you doubt me?” She looked up at him. She put her hand on his cheek.

  He wondered what she saw when she looked at him, what she thought of him. He thought about all the times when he’d lie beside her when she was pregnant with the boys. She’d smell the smoke on his clothes, and she’d suggest that maybe things would be better if only he’d quit.

  He swallowed. He could taste the nicotine. He leaned in and kissed her. He smelt her hair, breathed in her skin. He wanted to press his face against her chest and rest his head just for a little while. He drew a breath, drew in the c
oconut milk scent of her, but then she leaned into him. She curled into him, and he wrapped his arms around her and fought not to cling too hard.

  “I love everything about you,” she said.

  Dread filled him, coiled tight and burning in his chest.

  After work, Luke drove to 7-11 and hesitated before getting out of the car. He breathed in deep, breathed in the crisp clean air until its emptiness made him ache for new pack of smokes. He tore off the plastic wrap and opened the package, pulled out the first cigarette and lit it. The first one, but not the last. He leaned his head back against his seat and rolled the window down. He opened his mouth and tried to exhale circles, but he had never been that skilled.

  He tried and tried but the end of the cigarette came too soon.

  He got up early on Saturday morning, covered in sweat again. He went for a jog and came back relieved. The television kept the boys occupied in the living room. Anita brought out the outdoor cushions and took off the cover from the barbeque. Luke joined her on the patio. He offered to help her but she turned away.

  “Heartburn again?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I can smell the smoke on you.”

  He bit his lip, felt his jaw clench tight.

  “That’s what you do when you get up at night,” she said. “I thought I was just being sensitive the first time I smelt it.”

  His shoulders sank with his exhale. “I’m sorry,” he said, gripping at the patio railing. He dug his nails against the chipping paint on the metal. “It just happened. I just slipped.”