North to Benjamin - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Alan Cumyn is the author of several wide-ranging and often wildly different novels. A two-time winner of the Ottawa Book Award, he has also had work shortlisted for the Governor General’s Award, the Giller Prize, and the Trillium Award. He teaches through the Vermont College of Fine Arts and is a past Chair of The Writers’ Union of Canada. He lives in Ontario, Canada.

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North to Benjamin

FLIGHT

IT WAS A SMALL AIRPLANE, and Edgar was small inside it. The airplane throbbed; he throbbed. He was in an aisle seat, with little to see. So he was thinking about Benjamin, the dog he was going to be looking after in the new place, and what conversations they might have. Edgar had never had to care for a dog, but Benjamin sounded like he would be a good friend, just from his name—soft fur, big paws, eyes that would love a boy no matter what.

Edgar’s mother had mentioned Benjamin at the beginning of telling him that they were leaving, as if this were all going to be a big adventure with a lovely dog at the end of it.

Roger, who could be fierce, had cried when he’d heard Edgar’s mother’s plans. Roger used to poke Edgar hard in the chest sometimes with two fingers to get his attention. Probably Roger didn’t mean to hurt him; probably he didn’t know his own strength. And probably he didn’t know about Edgar’s mother, her history, how she would just leave when something no one else could taste turned sour.

Or—when she just got tired, or scared. When something spooked her.

So now, on the airplane, Roger wasn’t there. Yet he had given Edgar a camera. And across from Edgar was a boy who, for a moment early in the flight, had looked as if he too might poke Edgar hard in the chest. So Edgar had pulled his ears back, not wiggled them really, just used his ear muscles to stretch his cheeks flat and make himself still and invisible. He had learned the trick from Roger, from being around him, from not wanting to be noticed.

The tough boy was sleeping now, snuggled up against his mother, who was also sleeping, her long black hair falling against her boy’s cheek. The boy’s mouth was opened slightly. His hair too was beautifully black against the caramel of his skin. And this was the funny thing: now that Edgar had a camera, so much of what he saw looked like it should be a picture.

Edgar’s own mother was staring out the window. Every so often she said, “Edgar!” and he would strain against her and try to see. If he were in his mother’s seat, he would probably capture the snowy white peaks of the mountains he knew were out there. But right now he wanted to take a picture of the sleeping boy.

Edgar stretched down, pulled up his knapsack. One of the zippers was broken, so he used the other. The camera was underneath his underwear and an empty bottle that he hadn’t bothered to fill with water at the airport in Whitehorse that morning. He wished now that he had some water, because they had missed breakfast. It would be good to sip on something and not feel so hungry.

His camera was heavy, a Nikon. Roger had shocked him with the gift. Sometimes Edgar and his mother left in a hurry in the middle of the night, but this had been a cold sort of leaving, in the day, with everything plain. Roger’s cheeks had been wet. He’d been holding himself, but Edgar had known it would not work. When his mother got around to leaving, there was nothing you could do to change her mind.

Edgar knew only what Roger had told him about the camera. In the dim light the flash might go off, and the boy might wake up and come after Edgar. There was a setting you could use if you did not want a flash. But which one was it? Maybe the one just below automatic. The boy snuggled closer into his mother’s hair. He was starting to drool.

Edgar zoomed in a little bit, to get the boy’s face. He pressed the button halfway to focus. Then click. No flash. He opened up the screen to look: blurry.

In low light you had to hold the camera very still. Roger had told him that, too.

Edgar held the camera steadier, even while the airplane shook. Then the boy yawned and opened his eyes. Edgar could not be invisible. He was sitting right across the aisle, pointing a big camera. “Hey!” the boy said, and his mother woke up too.

Edgar clicked. Then he quickly turned off the camera and stuck it back into his bag. He could feel the boy glaring at him. Edgar pulled his ears back again. He became part of the seat.

“Edgar?” his mother said. The airplane began to bounce. Edgar clutched his bag on his lap and shook in his seat, held in by the belt. The other boy clung to his mother, and the flight attendant gripped her seat tighter but did not look alarmed even when the wings shook so much, they seemed to be flapping.

Then the plane was heading down. A little fast? No one else seemed concerned, but Edgar’s mother squeezed his hand so hard, he had to make his own hand soft, soft, almost disappear in her grip, so that it wouldn’t hurt too much.

“Almost there, baby,” she whispered to him in the voice that he liked the most. There were more bounces, but it was over soon, and they were on the ground.

Suddenly everyone crowded into the squashed aisle, so Edgar stayed seated, clutching his bag. The angry boy stood over him, glaring. Finally the line moved and Edgar rose. Cold air rushed in from the open door at the back of the plane.

There were plenty of other boys on the plane, but Edgar was smaller than everyone else, as usual. At the door Edgar braced himself because the flight attendant looked like she wanted to pat his head. But she didn’t. The steps to the ground were metal. Edgar had to fumble in his pockets for his mittens before he held on to the handrail. The cold air felt like a smack in the face. He was careful on the stairs, and did not look around until he was safely on the ground.

Snow-covered hills, bright white. A long empty runway. The terminal looked like a few wooden boxes you might use for now, while you were building a real airport.

The line of passengers stretched out, and then, like an accordion, it bunched up again at the door of the farthest of the boxes. Edgar wasn’t being careful by then, and he ended up standing right behind the angry boy. Edgar expected him to turn, maybe even to pucker his cheeks and spit. Yet the boy did not move. Still, somehow, Edgar felt his legs were not underneath him anymore. He was free and floating and bam! He hit the ground, his hip first, then his elbow.

If this had been the schoolyard—almost any schoolyard—whoever had tripped him would’ve kicked him maybe too, and Edgar would have tried to roll away. But adults were standing all around them. The boy with the caramel skin was just turning around now.

And Edgar’s mother had missed it. “Edgar! Careful. It’s slippery!” she said.

“I know.” Edgar got up. Who had tripped him?

Then from behind: “I saw what you did, Jason!” It was a skinny girl in a parka, with large brown eyes. Who was Jason? Right next to Edgar a tall, blond, strong-looking boy, with an open jacket and no hat or gloves, smirked at the girl.

“That kid was taking pictures of everybody on the plane!” he said. The other boy, whose picture Edgar had taken, didn’t seem angry at all now, just amused.

“Last I heard, it’s not against the law to take pictures,” the girl said.

Then the line moved inside the small, boxy building that was already full of people, families waiting. The girl said directly to Edgar, “Don’t worry about Jason Crumley. He’s a jerk anyway.”

Edgar didn’t know what to say. His neck was roasting. Crumley had...