I wanted to tell him to shove the paper where the sun don’t shine. I wanted to get up and leave, and never think about the note again. But the truth was my eyes were filling up with tears because it was my birthday, and my mom had sent me a letter.

  “Drop it on the table,” I rasped.

  He did.

  “Now, go away.”

  He hesitated, and I know he wanted to use the note to connect with me, maybe get a little on the side. He was a man, after all.

  My face stiffened into a granite-like expression. The climbing strains of the song led up to his defeat. He sighed and trudged back to his bar stool.

  I watched him, making sure he didn’t turn back. The other men in the room cast the man-boy sympathetic looks as he returned to his side of the bar.

  The creased, yellow foolscap note had landed on the Pope’s picture, creating a tent above his nose. Cautiously, I extended my nails towards it. Touching the edge of the fold with a timid fingertip, I hesitated.

  My heart was bursting with hope. Hope that my mom had come through. My hand started to shake, causing my finger to tap against the letter.

  What would she have to say to me, anyway? Happy Birthday? Birthdays weren’t celebrated in my house. Hell, they were mourned. Every year I turned older, my mother lost a little more of her mind. It was as if my aging drove her into a freak-out of religious zeal.

  A burst of mocking laughter from across the room drew my mind from the hurtful memories.

  At the bar, a fat-handed guy wearing a red plaid Muskoka dinner jacket leaned back on his elbows and spoke loudly enough for me to hear.

  “That’s not how you bag an ice queen, pup.”

  He was speaking to my dejected cast-off, but his red-rimmed eyes were boring into mine from across the room. His accent gave him away as American.

  “You gotta let her think she’s in control. Let her believe she’s the boss,” he said.

  I never took my eyes from him as I picked up the note, folded it carefully, and shoved it into my jean pocket.

  A few of the other men murmured in agreement. Then the American’s beer was up, and he was sucking on the bottle to wet his lips for his next blasphemy. Unwrapping a fat finger from his beer bottle, he pointed up at a faded portrait of Queen Victoria hanging crookedly on the wood paneling above the bar.

  “See that bitch?”

  Queen Vic looked regally down her nose at the late afternoon drunks in the room.

  His friend joined in with a mocking tone, “Careful Donald, Canadians still kiss up to the Monarchy.”

  Donald stumbled as he slipped off the stool and pushed his fat belly out into the open space between the tables and the bar seats.

  I pushed my right foot up onto my toes to release the uneasy energy that was building inside of me.

  “Bossiest bitch queen that ever lived, that one.” He sauntered over to the cheap framed print and stood beneath it. “But we showed you royal bastards. You thought us Bostonians were toasting your tax-sucking rule with that backwater you call tea.”

  His friend laughed nervously.

  I decided I should also get Donald’s scent.

  He left Queen Victoria’s regal contemplation and sauntered none-too-steadily in my direction. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened as he squinted at me with intent.

  I stopped shaking my leg, flattening my foot against the floor in case I had to stand up quickly.

  “These ice queens, they’re just dying to melt. All ya gotta do is burn a little hole in their tender parts.”

  I needed to draw Donald a bit closer if I was going to sniff him without being noticed, and I knew exactly what would egg him on.

  I raised one eyebrow, “Well if it isn’t Yankie Doodle Dandy come to preach the American way.”

  “If it wasn’t for America, there wouldn’t be a Canada you cu….”

  “Whoa!” Donald’s friend interjected, with a nervous laugh. “I think we’re done here. Time to head out, Bud.”

  Man-boy stood up, took a step forward and then one back, his eyes riveted on the backs of the men.

  “Oh no,” I said, “Please don’t go. I’d love to hear more about that War in 1812 you lost.”

  Donald’s face mottled up with reddish blotches, and I released a little bravado on a fake chuckle. A chair scraped against the floor as another man in the room tossed down a few bills and walked out. Somebody whistled the Spaghetti Western notes to a showdown, whoo-ah whoo whoo wha.

  Donald stepped forward until his thighs touched my table. Then he banged his beer down onto the newspaper I’d been reading. My shredded nerves betrayed me, causing me to jump. He leaned over until I could see the chicken pox scar on his crooked nose.

  “You ain’t no different than us.” The hot words filled the air between us.

  “How so?” I opened my eyes wide and turned my head to the side as if I was interested in what he had to say.

  The table skittered forward away from the pressure of his legs, and he quickly flattened his hand on the table top to steady himself. A smile twitched at the corner of my mouth as the clueless fool smeared his paw print trail around.

  Man-boy took three more slow steps my way, and the bartender stepped out from behind the bar.

  “You’re livin’ in the 51st State, bitch. You just don’t know it, yet.”

  I heard the scratch of falling dirt as my Upper Canada Loyalist ancestors rolled over in their graves.

  I spoke softly, “My people came from the Southern Colonies with nothing but tar and feathers on their backs.” I gave him a little smile. “They walked all the way to Canada to get away from buffoons like you, Donald.”

  “Why you…” Donny-boy tried to walk through the table to get to me, but his friend grabbed the collar of his jacket and held him steady.

  I stayed seated even though every inch of my skin was screaming for me to stand up and defend myself.

  “Time for you boys to move on.”

  The bartender looked calm, standing beside Man-boy who was white as a sheet.

  “We’re going, we’re going,” his friend tried to say over Donald swearing at me.

  They banged rudely into Man-boy on their way out.

  He said, “Sorry,” automatically and then pressed his lips together to stop any more culturally-triggered apologies.

  The door shut behind them.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I conceded.

  “You all right?” The bartender gave me a squinty-eyed look, running his hand down his long moustache.

  I tried to soften the tension in my face, “It’s Queen Victoria I’m worried about. Now everybody thinks she’s responsible for the Boston Tea Party.”

  The bartender blew some air out though his nose in appreciation of my joke. The excitement was over, and the Albion’s homey normality set in. The bartender went back to polishing glasses in the late afternoon sun streaming through the window above the door. The other customers went back to staring dejectedly into their foamy beers, and Queen Victoria continued to survey the Colonies with her heavy-lidded gaze.

  Except Man-boy. He was standing at the end of the table gazing wistfully at me, waiting for a reward for his gallant, if failed, attempts to intervene on my behalf. An impulse to crush his self-esteem, to make him pay for being the same gender as Donald, tempted me.

  But that was my bad side, and I wanted to stop listening to my bad impulses. My psychiatrist, Dr. Casbus said I shouldn’t be cruel to others, no matter how much I’ve been hurt.

  “Thanks for having my back,” I offered, generously.

  He grinned and put his hand on the chair beside me, making me immediately regret playing nice. I quickly hooked my biker boot around the rung and held the chair from being pulled away from the table.

  His eyes clouded over. “Does this mean I won’t get a chance to burn a hole in your tender parts?”

  I let loose a bark of a laugh, surprised at his boosted confidence. “Pretty much”.

  Man-boy wasn’t the only one who’d changed from the exchange. I was jacked up with a purpose, and Donald kept flashing in my mind as the mark.

  I’d had weird impulses before. It was all part of my ‘crazy’. Tonight, it seemed to be in overdrive. I wanted to race out the door and hunt Donald down and finish what we’d started. My hand brushed the pocket of my jacket, fingering the reassuring bulge of my Rambo commando knife. The idea of a fight set my heart racing, and I had to shut my mouth to avoid panting aloud in anticipation.

  CHAPTER 2: THE LURE OF DONALD

  ~

  I MIGHT HAVE LOOKED A little subdued after the ruckus, for my head was down, a riot of blonde curls shielding my face.

  The truth was, I was studying the spot where Donald had laid his meaty paw. Despite my resolution to be good, I couldn’t help feeling tempted by his big, greasy handprint. I had to touch it.

  Dragging the back of my hand along the varnished tabletop, the cracks in my knuckles picked up the American’s oily smear like little skin shovels.

  It would take just one sniff of my hand, and Donald’s scent would be imprinted on my mind, forever. It was a heady thought, but I forced myself not to inhale. Not yet. I would keep his scent nestled there, in between the dry folds of my skin, in case I decided he and I needed to get up close and personal.

  Prolonging the excitement reminded me of a long-ago Christmas and a forgotten present I had discovered under the tree the next morning. That kind of gift can make the feeling of Christmas last forever, if you can just resist opening it.

  I used my left hand to raise my beer, which was almost empty, same as my pockets, but not my future. Now, thanks to Donald, my future showed promise. He was only one sniff away. Maybe he had gone to the King Eddie to continue drinking. No, no, a man like him would turn left and head to the Chooch to watch women shed their clothes for his disdain. Yes, that was the man who was Donald.

  The jukebox clicked as it changed records, and Cindi Lauper screeched her song “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”. The notes startled me out of my inner conversation. I had been disconnected from reality, and now was worried I had been talking out loud about what I would do to the American.

  A glance at the other drinkers reassured me I had kept my thoughts to myself. The show was over. I needed to stop obsessing.

  During my counselling treatments, Dr. Casbus had told me obsessing was not healthy. So instead of mentally tracking Donald in my mind, I thought about turning eighteen, and how I was going to change my life.

  It had been five years since I’d started working with the good Doctor on my crazy impulses. I mean I’d always tried to act normal, but now, with the doc helping me understand my mental state, I knew what I was up against. And, it wasn’t pretty. If anything, sometimes I seemed worse, but the drinking kept most of my weirdness tamped down.

  Donald popped into my head again.

  I randomly thought of pineapples and dropped my right hand onto my lap to make sure I didn’t accidently raise it to my face. Once I got his scent it would be ten times as hard not to rush out the door, turn my face to the wind, and wait for his unmistakable odor to lead me to him.

  The ability to track was what I called my sixth sense and it was freaky. I didn’t use it… well maybe I had stalked a few guys in the past, but really, I didn’t ‘track’ people. Besides, Dr. Casbus had said it was all part of my delusions. He said I couldn’t track.

  Only I could. It would take me all of ten minutes to find Donald, if he was walking. If he’d gotten into a car, it would take me longer. I’d still be able to connect him to the scent of whatever tires rolled his getaway vehicle down the road. It would just be a longer walk.

  My eyes were drawn back to my hand that was now resting on the table. The cracks in my knuckle undulated like Hawaiian grass skirts, welcoming me to lean over and press my nose against my skin. The more I considered just letting go and taking a sniff, the more excited I got.

  Shaking free of the temptation, I said out loud, “This is nuts”.

  I wasn’t the only one surprised by my outburst.

  The bartender raised one bushy eyebrow. I resisted the urge to wipe away the drop of sweat that was rolling down my temple. Looking beyond the bartender, my eyes locked onto the counter at the spot where Donald had been leaning.

  A shiver of anticipation coursed through my body. I was bent on having a go—a hard-hitting, bloodletting sexy, thrilling all-out fight. I could feel it heating up my breasts, streaming through my veins, burning in my crotch. The possibility of a dangerous encounter egged on my wildly thumping heart.

  I jumped up, knocking the table with my knees. It rocked and a few heads turned.

  “You’re cut off,” someone said amid laughs, while I steadied my beer.

  Weaving my way in between the empty tables, I slipped through the open doorway that led to the other section of the bar where the washroom was. My legs felt stiff, and with each step, it seemed I was slowing down, each stride shorter, until I was moving with a wooden-legged gait. Thankfully, no one sat on this side of the bar to witness my bizarre movements.

  I half fell into the washroom. The door hit the wall and bounced back at my face. I put my hand up to stop it before I was struck, and there it was—my scent-slathered knuckle right in front of my nose. I stopped breathing.

  I pushed away from the impulse to snort Donald, staggered to the sink and leaned against the counter. The rusty faucet was cold and damp beneath my hand. It screeched out a complaint as I twisted it.

  The water rushed out of the lime-plugged tap, gushing all over the stained counter. Drops sprayed my jeans, plastering the rough material to my skin. I slapped at the soap dispenser. It was empty.

  “Shit!”

  My mind betrayed me, telling me it was an omen, convincing me I was meant to have Donald, not wash him down the drain.

  My arm played dead, resting heavily against my side. I had a close relationship with the muscles that locked the elbow and the shoulder, knew them intimately after living with my mother. But, I wasn’t working these muscles. I was only in control of half of my body and the other half seemed to have a mind of its own.

  Staying alert, in case Donald’s scent slyly delivered itself to my nostrils, I grabbed my right wrist and tried to force my hand under the water. It was like grabbing a stranger by the arm.

  After the initial shock, I went back to tugging with effort. A quick twist forced my right shoulder over the sink. At the first touch of the water on my fingertips, the resistance in my arm let go and my shoulder slumped.

  I scrubbed my knuckle until it was red and sore and then rubbed both hands under the rushing water to be sure the essence of Donald was washed down the drain and into the sewage system where it belonged.

  Shutting off the tap, I leaned my forehead against the glass. It felt cool on my feverish skin.

  “What the hell.” My breath fogged the mirror.

  I pulled back to look at my reflection. My face was flushed under my tan, my cheeks glowing from the excitement as if I’d just been wrestling. But who had I been fighting against?

  The permanent frown line between my winged eyebrows deepened as I looked closer.

  “What is going on with you?” I asked myself.

  Buried in the reflection of my brown, almond-shaped eyes a shadow flickered. I blinked and it was gone.

  Turning my arm to the side, I watched with relief as, this time my arm responded, doing as I wanted. Digging a paper towel out of the rusty metal holder, I scrubbed at my knuckle again, just in case.

  For the first time in a long time, I needed someone to talk to. But who could I trust with a secret so damning it could be used to put me away?

  I was struck with a sentimental yearning for my mom. I embraced it for a moment, before brushing it roughly away.

  If I were to tell my mother what had just happened, she would blame me for tempting Satan, and she would prescribe days of Bible reading and prayer for atonement. She was the last person I needed to talk to.

  But that didn’t mean I couldn’t read her note, which was still tucked snuggly in my pocket. I slipped the paper out and slowly unfolded it in front of the mirror. My mom’s 1950s penmanship flowed across the wrinkled paper with a grace and beauty her disturbed mind could never possess.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I whispered at my reflection, chewing my lip in indecision.

  The letter was typical. No “Dear Rachel” at the top, or another term of endearment, just her getting down to business.

  I have dreaded this day, since you were born…

  Any sentimental feelings I might have felt were shattered by my hostile reaction.

  “Happy f’ing birthday,” I mumbled, then kept reading.

  I know you curse me, I know you do not want to heed my words, but you must. For now, in your eighteenth year, you are ripe, ripe for the legion who wait to…

  “Yada yada, blah blah,” I skipped past the biblical quotes and paranoid bullshit.

  You will be tempted to celebrate.

  “No thanks to you.”

  But you must adorn yourself in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety. They will come from across the sea to walk among you. They will seek you out, tempt you with the evil ways of the City of Babel. They will seek to raise the familiar within you.

  “Or we might get drunk and have a much better time than you’re having in your straightjacket, Mom.”

  Regard them not, for they will defile you.

  You must show restraint. You must be attentive. You must resist the lure of whoredom for the daughters will not be forgiven.

  “Omigod!” I rolled my eyes and quickly skimmed the rest, longing to find one word of motherly love, like maybe “I’m proud of you” or “I’m sorry I strangled you, and then left you to raise yourself”.

  I was ready to crumple it up and walk away from my mother’s ‘love’, but the word “darling” caught my hungry heart.

  Remember your lessons, my darling. Remember Job. Now is the time of your trial. Remember God said unto Satan, “Behold, he is in thine hand; but save his life”. God will not protect you. He will offer you up, but you must resist. Use the strength I have given you when Satan smites you with sore boils from the sole of your foot unto your crown...

 

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