Dig

By Terry Doyle

***DANUTA GLEED LITERARY AWARD FINALIST***

***ALISTAIR MACLEOD PRIZE FOR SHORT FICTION FINALIST**

***MARGARET AND JOHN SAVAGE FIRST BOOK AWARD - FICTION FINALIST***

***NEWFOUNDLAND AND LABRADOR BOOK AWARDS FICTION AWARD FINALIST***

***2020 RELIT AWARDS: LONG SHORTLIST***

In twelve dialed-in and exceptionally honed short stories, Terry Doyle presents an enduring assortment of characters channelled through the chain reactions of misfortune and redemption. A construction worker’s future is bound to a feckless and suspicious workmate. A young woman’s burgeoning social activism is constrained by hardship and the desperation of selling puppies online. A wedding guest recognizes a panhandler attending the reception. And a man crafts a concealed weapon with which to carry out his nightly circuit of paltry retribution. Through keen-eyed observation, and with an impressive economy of statement, Doyle conveys these characters over a backdrop of private absurdities and confusions—countering the overbearance of a post-tragic age with grit, irony, and infinitesimal signs of hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Breakwater Books
• Release date: Apr 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781550817607

Terry Doyle

Terry Doyle is a writer from the Goulds, Newfoundland. Winner of the 2017 Percy Janes First Novel Award, and finalist for the 2017 NLCU Fresh Fish Award, his work has appeared in Riddle Fence, Papermill Press, and the Newfoundland Quarterly.

Book preview

KID’S SPECIAL

KID’S SPECIAL

MOTHER told me to think of it as an adventure. Think of the stories you’ll tell. Think of the experience. Father’s contract, she said, was for an indeterminate length. When the plane touched down, I tried my best to get behind her. I was ready and willing to be thrilled. The airport though, was kind of sad. Decay is a word that comes to mind. That’s okay, I thought, just part of the first act. But when we stepped through the doors and into the sideways-whipping rain, into the bone-chilling, wet-down-the-collar-of-your-shirt winds, my playing along came to a halt, and my perma-scowl was born. This was mid-September. Why was it already so cold?

Father hailed a cab and told the driver our new address at 31 Sunset Street. The driver said something but he spoke so quickly I couldn’t catch it. He crammed our luggage into his trunk, but one suitcase had to ride in the backseat with Mother and I. The journey took almost half an hour. We passed miles of stunted evergreens that looked more black than green. Everblacks. The tallest building we passed couldn’t have been more than four storeys.

When the cab finally rolled to a stop we disembarked through Mother’s side onto a gravel shoulder in front of a yellow bungalow. After we extracted our luggage, and Father paid the driver, we hurried into the house and emphatically shut the door behind us.

Inside, I hesitated. My eyes scanned from the porch, where my feet had stopped. The house smelled of disinfectant and…something else. It wasn’t pine, but something similar. It smelled like spruce. Mother gave me a nudge between the shoulders and told me to pick whichever room I liked best.

I chose the one in the basement.

On Monday, Mother brought me to school for my first day. She spoke briefly to the principal then departed. He pointed to a chair for me to sit in and disappeared back into his office.

You must be Kingsley.

I looked up to see a red-haired woman in a floor-length dress and a wool cardigan. My name is Mrs. Butt, she said. Follow me. Mrs. Butt led me through the empty, lockerless hallways and up a flight of stairs to a room marked with the number eleven. Now, she said. I’ll take you in, introduce you to the class, then please take a seat at the empty desk in front.

When the door opened, chaos spilled out—screams, raucous laughter, and a cold breeze from an open window.

Derek! Mrs. Butt boomed. "Get in from that window and close it at once!"

The room fell suddenly quiet and the gaze of twenty-eight grade sevens fixed on yours truly. Mrs. Butt introduced me, but when asked to tell the class a little about myself, I froze.

Well we haven’t got all day, Kingsley. If you don’t have anything to say take a seat.

Which I did. Hearing snickers, and one kid say, What kind of name is that?

At noon I took my lunch pail and followed the swarm of classmates, assuming they would lead me to the cafeteria, but they did not. They flowed through the main entrance by the principal’s office and unfurled, leaving me with no clue which group it might be wisest to follow.

From behind I heard Mrs. Butt’s voice.

They’re all gone for takeout, Kingsley. The cafeteria is down the hall, past the gym.

I wasn’t the only student eating a packed lunch at a long, white table that day, but near enough. I sat alone. At the far end of the same long bench was a girl with black hair. She was eating a tuna sandwich. The smell made me consider moving, but I stayed.

The next day I made sure to get cash from Mother. She was not upset at being relieved the duty of packing my lunches.

Turned out there were plenty of lunchtime options surrounding the school. There was Betty’s Golden Foods, which served deep-fried chicken and chips—the Kid’s Special was two dollars, three with a can of pop. There was a pizza/ice-cream parlour called Dino’s where most of what I considered the tough-looking kids ate. There was a franchised fried-chicken place, for kids who’d been given too much lunch money and hadn’t yet picked up smoking. And there was a butcher shop that sold sub sandwiches, and loose, microwaved Pizza Pockets for a dollar.

At Betty’s Golden Foods, propped against the back wall, was an arcade version of Ninja Gaiden. I recognized the 8-bit soundtrack on my first visit and, having been given five dollars for lunch, I saw an opportunity to break some ice.

The cashier gave me three dollars in quarters and a salty glare. I couldn’t tell if it was because I left her without enough quarters or only because I was new. I popped a dollar into the machine but didn’t need the four credits. I was at level three without having lost a life when the din behind me calmed and I noticed the kids all walking back toward the school. The only attention my gaming skills had garnered was from a boy at least two years younger than me, and so of no value socially.

I abandoned the game and followed the crowd. When I passed Dino’s there were four older boys outside.

Hey, New Kid, got any money? one said.

This was the first time any of the other students had spoken to me directly, and I didn’t sense they intended to take my money. Not forcibly.

Two dollars, I said. Three of the four boys were standing behind a line on the asphalt. The line looked like it’d been drawn with white correction fluid. The fourth boy leaned against the wall.

Ever play Closest To The Wall? one said. His baseball cap was backwards and he seemed to be the only kid in school to wear it like that. I took a step closer.

No, I said.

Here, we’ll show you.

The three, in turn, stepped to the white line and lobbed a quarter toward the wall, where the fourth was leaning. Whichever boy’s coin landed closest to the wall won the game, and the spoils, keeping all thrown coins.

See, it’s easy, he said. Wanna play?

Sure, I said.

The games were quick and sometimes vaguely exciting when two coins would land neck and neck. That was when the fourth boy would step in, acting as neutral arbitrator. I won the third game but after the twelfth I was tapped out. I heard the school bell ring and noticed no urgency in the other boys. When I got back to class, Mrs. Butt was unimpressed with my tardiness, but I didn’t care. I’d made, not exactly friends, but peers, at least. Though we hadn’t exchanged names.

That night I took two quarters from Mother’s purse and laid a strip of tape on the carpet in my room, at about the distance I judged the wall had been. I tossed those quarters all night. The boys at school seemed to favour an underhand lob with minimal spin but I experimented with other strategies too. I tried a side-arm toss, sort of like tossing a Frisbee. I tried a quick overhand strike, like throwing a dart. I tried an underhand with maximum spin, flipping the coin with my thumb right at the release point. But it seemed the boys had it right: the most consistently successful method was the underhand lob.

The next day at lunchtime I went to the butcher and ate a one-dollar Pizza Pocket, leaving me with enough money for eighteen games at least—counting the two quarters from Mother’s purse.

Hey, New Kid’s back. You got money, New Kid?

Yes, I said.

Not for long, said one of the boys, and they all laughed.

The brick wall and asphalt served a different bounce than the carpet in my bedroom, and it took me five or six games to compensate. In the seventh game the boys erupted into whoops when the talkative one landed his quarter on Dino’s window ledge.

A ledger! one cried.

The two other boys tossed their quarters halfheartedly, thinking they had no chance of beating a ledge shot. But I had an idea. I tossed my quarter and aimed for the ledge too—not thinking I’d tie him, but hoping to knock his quarter down off the ledge and then see who was closest to the wall once it fell.

It didn’t work, but the talkative boy, who I’d soon learn was named Kevin, turned his head quickly toward me, in recognition of my intent.

Okay, Kevin said. Enough of this quarter crap. Let’s play for dollars.

And we did. In two games I was tapped out again but I felt at least like I’d risen a little in their estimation, and I was pleased enough with that.

While The Ledger remained the most unbeatable shot in the game, there were, I learned, other shots that also beat the ordinary ones. There was a Leaner, where, somehow, you managed to lean your coin upright against the wall. Some boys tried purposely to achieve this by rolling their coins—tossing them with the narrow sides rolling off index fingers in hope it would roll and settle against the wall. And there was, when available, the Crack Shot. The Crack Shot wasn’t always possible, but at certain sections of the wall there was a gap between the asphalt and the brick, where, if you managed to sink your coin into the crack, only a Ledger could usurp you.

Soon I was holding my own with the other boys. Occasionally I would find myself sitting through afternoon classes trying to prevent my pocketful of change from jingling. Socially though, I’d already plateaued. I wasted no more time trying to impress with my Ninja Gaiden skills, and the Closest To The Wall boys still referred to me as New Kid. I was starting to see the limitations of this experiment. It wouldn’t matter how many games I won. Winning, it seemed, would not make me their friend.

Still,