River

The Memory

When I was a child I killed someone. It’s a clear childhood memory that's surrounded by a black halo. It is compact and complete, with a beginning, middle, and an end. At times I’ll be somewhere, smell, or see something, that brings me back to that day. I hear screams suffocated by water. Water that is so loud it makes things quiet.

I fool myself into thinking that it is all just a childhood fantasy. But then, I remember the police car up the street from our house. I remember feeling the chill of the river-water in my bones as I sat at the window warming up.

His mother is crying at the door, the cops are adjusting their radios as they saunter up and down the newly paved driveway. They seem slow and lazy; their heads thick and fat, with skin folds popping through their brush cuts. I smell Mom’s dinner creeping through the house, and I am sure the police are going to come over to our place next, and take me away. I will miss dinner, my bed, and my mom kissing me goodnight. I will sleep in jail. I will never get out, or have toys, or Christmas, or TV, ever again. Mom has no idea what is happening across the street.

The cops slowly drive past, and never even look in. To this day every cop car I see still terrifies me. I have eaten a thousand dinners and have never been to jail.

My mother fed me that night and put me to bed early in hopes that I would not catch a cold. She scolded me for getting so wet and dirty, but she never mentioned the river. The river was forbidden, and she was sure I would have never, ever, found myself there. Children died at the river. They fell in and drowned.

The next day after school I stopped by the river. There was a cop there, so I kept my distance. It looked the same as it did the day before. When I got home Mom was on the sofa crying. I dropped my lunchbox and ran over to find out what was wrong, but I already knew.

Simon, the kid that lived up the street in grade three had drowned in the river. My mother was hysterical. She was crying and her mascara had run down her face making her look like a sad clown. She pleaded with me to promise her to never, ever, go to the river. The river was dangerous, little boys and girls fell into the river and drowned. I felt sad for Mom, and tried to comfort her.

I promised her I would never go to the river that night as I ate my frozen chicken meat pie with buttered bread, ketchup, and pepper. She made me my favourite meal, because she loved me so much, and was so glad that I had not died in the river.

After dinner we watched television together. She made me sit with her up on the sofa, not on the floor close to the TV where I liked to sit. She let me stay up later than usual, and when she tucked me into bed she made me promise one more time.

That night, and each night for the next six years, I saw Simon's face sink below the water, and I heard his last gurgling cry as I pushed him down with the broken hockey stick. It was so easy. So terrifyingly easy.

I kept my promise to my mother and never returned to the river.

We moved away two years later, but my memories kept me terrified regardless. Each night I would dream the same dream. Each night I would kill Simon again. I would awake in a sweat and see him settled at the bottom of the river far from the culvert where I had pushed him in; the same place I find my lunchbox. The dream returns to me even today, its clarity remarkable.

The Dream

The sun beams onto the pavement on a mid-march afternoon as I run with the hordes of children to escape in time with the school bell. I hear the trampling of feet and the rattle of thermoses in lunch pails. We move in a quick mass emitting screams of unfettered excitement and zeal. This moment of freedom is euphoric; we breach the surface boundaries of the schoolyard, and dissipated into a realm of momentary independence, the walk home.

Rules flash through my head at light-speed as I run; there is energy to burn. For the next fifteen minutes I can do whatever I want. I can do whatever my fear will let me. The balance of fear and freedom is mine. Every aspect of the world excites and terrifies me.

The first rule is come straight home and don’t go to the river. The second, not talk to strangers or get into anyone’s car. The third is to not get dirty. This rule was the hardest. It was usually only minutes before we all had something to show for our blasts of excitement. Clothes get marked, ripped, or stained long before the day ends. This day I manage to escape unscathed. I flaunt a new red baseball cap that matches my red and blue parka. The hat is perfect, and I love any excuse to wear it. When I get home, I will leave it on until bed time.

The last rule is to remember your lunchbox. This one is usually easy to remember because I make a habit of sneaking toys into it so I can smuggle them to school. Toys are like money when you are a kid. Toys give you status and prestige. Toys are the only thing you own, and control.

The sun is hot, the grass is starting to green up, but the air is still winter-cool. Most kids walk with their coats slung back off of their shoulders, their arms and hands hidden in the extended sleeves, dangling uselessly at their sides. Every few steps we lurch our shoulders and arms forward to keep the coat from falling to the ground. It's a game we play without even knowing it.

The routes home vary depending on if you travel alone or with friends. It is all up to chance as to whom you met during the stampede. Today I was alone. I walked a different way most days to see if things had changed or to find things other kids might have abandoned in yards. It was fair-game in childhood. What you found was yours to keep. Finder’s keepers. Words to live by.

Feeling adventurous, I find myself heading to the river. A surge of forbidden excitement flushes my face as I take a route far off of even my rarest of journeys home. I hear my mother pleading with me to turn away from the temptation, but I figure that by looking from a distance, I was sure to avoid the off-chance of drowning. Besides, how will she ever know? I was just going to be there for a minute.

The route feels strange as I move out of my known safe-zone. The river is not far, and I can smell it soon after I traverse the few blocks before the vast plains of the green belt that contain it.

It is loud, and the temperature of the air cools my face as I move closer. The river is wide and flows swiftly into a large grey culvert that holds up a narrow walking bridge. It stood out blankly in the middle of the greenbelt connecting a bike path that the bigger kids used. I had only heard about this wonder, and was awestruck as it appeared before me. My mother's warnings fade quickly as fantasies and fascinations transform my thinking into a kaleidoscope of possibilities and excitement. Learning and discovering is a drug, and this was pure heroin.

White water churns and boils out of the culvert. It smashes into a rusty mangled chain link fence that crosses the face of the giant pipe, and acts as a screen catching debris that had fallen in upstream. It is a tangle of violent and creepy destruction. A distorted shopping cart lays discarded half-submerged on the opposite side. Strings of plastic, fabric and slime fanning in the blast. A giant cauldron of boiling, freezing water. The power is daunting. The surging water reminds me of the hydro station boxes that are fenced up beside the school; you could feel the power radiating from them. But here the power was open and free. There was no fence to protect you from getting too close.

Drawing nearer, the dampness mists my face and I notice the body of a naked doll trapped in the top of the fence links. I throw a few rocks into the fray to try and loosen it. They sink uselessly. The handle of a large broken hockey stick stands upright in the mud; some other kid's homage to their discovery of this place.

I set my lunchbox down and pull the stick out. The water is close, and I plunge the stick into the river’s girth. The stick twists my wrist forcefully and I almost loose grip of my new found tool.

Frustrated, I slam it against the side of the culvert. The riverbank is soft, and icy water is leaking through the seams of my black sneakers.

Panic strikes me, and I unconsciously back several feet away from the violent water to try and seek higher and drier ground. My toes are frozen and my face is hot with panic and sweat. I continue to back up past my lunch box and decide it is time to get home. My mother's face flashes back into my head. Children have drowned at the river and you should never go there.

I drop the stick and reach forward to get my lunchbox. Just as I have a solid grip of the handle someone pushes me forward into the mud. I fall to my knees and see my hat drop a few feet ahead of me. I reach for it and a foot crushes it into the muck. The white sun and the roar of the river have terrify me, and I scream in panic and desperation. The kid is big. He is big and mean. I have seen him pick on kids before. He is a year older than me, and he lives up the street from my house. His name is Simon. When I see him I always try to hide, or go the other way. He was here at the river, and he was after me.

“Hey kid what are you doing here? Hey kid!? Answer me!”

I just cry and grab my mottled hat and try to clean it. Snot and tears run down my face and I rub mud in my eye. Simon grabs my lunchbox and opens it. He empties the contents out onto the grass and stomps on my uneaten apple. The thermos falls into a puddle nearby. I can see the picture of the Apollo space capsule on its side. It looks like Neil Armstrong has crash-landed a thermos into a swamp. I stand up and assess the damage to my clothes and hat. I am covered in mud and will surly get it when I return home. The big kid is laughing and swearing. He is hard to hear over the river. He has my lunchbox and is getting ready to toss it into the river. As he swings his arm he looks back at me mockingly.

The white water rages and in a strange and comical way he slips and slowly sinks into the white churning icy water. I watch horrified, and see my lunch pail float boat-like down the river. The kid clings to the fence as the water rages over his shoulders and head. Fascinated, I draw nearer and pick up the broken hockey stick for protection. The kid is freezing and he looks small and helpless in front of the giant culvert. The fence has snared him, and the water is driving him down. It is taking all of his strength to keep his head above the rush. His hands are pink and exposed on the rusty fence. The nude doll is caught right beside him, and I want him to reach over and get it for me. As I draw closer I raise the hockey stick at him. He cries and begs me to hold it out so he can grab it.

I raise the hockey stick over my head and swing it down on him as hard as I can. It hits him solidly in the face and then slips off and strikes one of his tiny pink hands. I raise the stick and hit him again and again. Rage flares within me as I watch him helplessly let go of the fence and plunge down below the surface. A few seconds pass and I wait to see if he will emerge. It seems long and I am about to flee when he reappears. His face is white and his eyes distant. As he surfaces he pukes out water and vomit. I watch the current quickly carry it away. He whines eerily, and trembles in shock. He is choking words I can’t understand. He clings weakly to the fence and tries to move towards me, making his way along the fence to the muddy overhang of the riverbank. With an outstretched hand he shakily grasps at the greasy mud just inches from where I stand. Slowly and skillfully I raise the hockey stick and press it spear-like into his shoulder. He tries to weakly grip it, and as he does I slowly push him under. He screams and gurgles as I press him back. He does not re-surface.

I throw the stick into the river and run alongside the riverbank away from the raging tunnel. I fall in the mud, and pick up my thermos and hat. Mom will be furious, and I need to get home. I can see that my lunchbox has settled onto the bank in a quiet pool far from the culvert. I reach it feverishly and as I bend down to pick it up I see the boy silently and slowly pass by below the surface of the river. He lays under the water gazing up at the sky with a surprised expression. His red hair glows around his sculpted face; his mouth open, and full of water. One of the toes of his sneakers breaks the surface as he settles to a stop. Frozen, I stare at him. My lunchbox leaking cold water out onto my pant leg.

The Present

Each dream is exact. Just before I awake I see the boy's expression change as he lies under the water. Our eyes meet and his face distorts from calm to twisted anger. I awake in a sweat, and call out to my mother. I am thirty nine years old, I have a wife and a son, and my mother has been dead for sixteen years. But when the dream allows me to wake, I call for her.

I have often thought of going to see Simon's parents to tell them what happened that day. I see a false hope that their retribution would release me from this curse Simon has over me.

He is buried at the Little Lake Cemetery in Peterborough. The plot and headstone look forgotten and small. I have visited his grave many more times than I have my own mother’s.

Somehow I feel I owe it to him.

The last few times, on the anniversary of that warm April afternoon, I have brought my son with me to the gravesite. He will be five this year.

He doesn’t understand why we go together without Mom, but he knows that the name on the stone is the same as his. Simon.

Some day I will tell him what happened. One day, before I die, I will share my curse with him. My son Simon.

Each day I look at him and see the boy I killed in his eyes.

And each day I remember.

It was so easy. So terrifyingly easy.