A Delivery of Macramé

My sister's twice the criminal I am. She didn't see the flashes that I saw, but she knew what I was up to and she didn't try to stop me—or tell anyone who would try to stop me. So when I stuffed all the death that would fit into some mushroom caps it was as though she held them steady for me while I scooped in the yummy cheese-and-arsenic paste.

"Ronnie," she said around that time, "You may think I care more about you than anyone else, but I don't. I just don't want you to hurt anyone. Can't you manage that, at least?" I didn't want to be rude to her, so I said, "Margie, of that one thing I can be sure and, subsequently, so should you: I am not so angry at the world that I would want to harm anyone. You must surely understand I am a harmless timid little kitten of a man, afraid of his own shadow."

And it wasn't so far from the truth: There is always that little voice that tells me I'm not planted firmly on the moral high-ground. I'd listen to it more often, but it seems to talk even when I am grounded ... so what's a man to do? What good is a conscience if it makes me feel guilty equally and constantly, regardless of what I do?

So when a few people started keeling over in the parking lot of the restaurant, vomiting and writhing, I ignored the little voice that said, "You're in it deep now, pal. You've gone over that line and you should pay for it—go confess to someone who cares."

And it's just as well that I didn't listen, since I never got in trouble. The police questioned everyone, of course. Then the restaurant's insurance company later positively grilled everyone a second time, but I was never seriously suspected. Not surprising, since I was a lowly dishwasher with a quiet—but not intense—demeanour. And having my hands immersed in very hot soapy water for an hour after I touched the stuff was enough to foil the test they performed on my hands. Kind of lucky, that, since it hadn't even occurred to me until the moment they started to check. So the "mystery" was never solved, and the whole restaurant was closed permanently, with the survivors of that little adventure suing an enterprise already devoid of income-generating patrons. As far as I know, the battle continues for them, but my own war is long over.

Margaret, of course, knew it was me, but she committed another felony by keeping her silence. Twice guilty to my once. So I ended up with the moral advantage over her. And that is why she harbours me to this day. She mostly cooks, she mostly cleans, and she makes the money that keeps us living in her one-bedroom apartment with her taking the bedroom and me taking the couch. But I earned the couch by keeping knowledge of both of her crimes to myself. An uneasy truce, you could say.

One thing that she wouldn't tolerate, though, was the presence of any of my friends in her home. She hated them all, "with a passion," as they say, and so anytime I met one of them, it was in their home or some neutral location. It seemed a small concession to give her, and so I did.

In the case of Robin, it was almost a shame, though. I think that she would have liked him. Or at least seen the value in him. But, as it was, all I knew is that when I came home from my Excursions Extreme, there was a note on the table next to her recently-used breakfast bowl.

"i don't like it at all[it said], but you can have the car for the day, but i'm fucked if i'm letting you bring home some ex-con, so find somewhere else to go, and remember i need the car tomorrow!"

And, you know, even with her approval, the first meeting in over a year would still have had to be made at the exit gate of the Endlane Minimum Security Prison an hour and a half drive from town, since that is where Robin was. When I arrived at the gate—just a chain-link fence, really (these "prisons" were designed for the honourable among the dishonourable)—he was already waiting for me, sitting on a concrete block reading a pocket-book.

When he saw me, he tossed down his hand-rolled cigarette with his small rough hands and stood up. At 5 feet 9, he was a lot less imposing than you'd expect from a criminal ("an ex-con" now, I reminded myself) ... but under his jeans and sweater I could see his small frame was more muscular than when he went inside. Building muscles must have been a way to bring freedom to oneself. Freedom through intimidation? Or through the anticipation of intimidation?

"Ronnie!" he cried out. "Thanks for coming, man!"

"No problem," I said, getting out of the car. "Been waiting long?"

"Hah hah hah! Good one!"

I hadn't meant it as a joke, but said nothing to correct his misinterpretation.

"I wasn't sure you'd remember to come."

This surprised me greatly. "But I promised."

"Yeah, you promised 18 months ago ... people forget sometimes."

"Like when?"

"Can you unlock the trunk? I need to get this bag inside."

There was a garbage bag filled almost to overflowing with some sort of soft material. I looked it over, but without opening it I could not tell what it contained.

"That's all my macramé stuff," he offered, answering my unasked question.

"Macramé."

"That's right. I got pretty good at it near the end; I made some pot-holders, a whole bunch of napkins ... um ... even a couple of pairs of socks. C'mon, give me a hand here ..."

And, once I thought about it on the road away from the prison, I realised there was nothing at all unusual about it. I figured that macramé was probably just another quiet expression of freedom that prisoners used to pass the time. Robin at first seemed somewhat overactive in the car, but I knew that was just his excitement at being out. Otherwise, he was exactly as I remembered him before and during the trial. So his macramé escape was a good one; the prison time had left him untouched.

"Look at this," he said holding a letter out for me to take.

I took it and skimmed over it as I drove. It was a letter in a woman's handwriting to "Robbie", and she talked about his leaving prison and how she was looking forward to it. It included sexual details that made me blush a little. Was this a girlfriend of Robin's? How did he meet her? I ignored the flashes; I might have to pay for it later.

"Robin, who is this woman?"

"Can you believe it, man? This chick wrote me in prison out of the blue. Just sent me a letter!"

"Did you advertise or something?"

"No! She just sent me a letter!"

I was uncertain about this. How would she even know he existed? "And so you two have been writing letters to each other since?"

"Fuckin' right, man. She even sent me a picture. Here."

He held up a photograph. It was a young woman, early twenties, Asian, sort of pretty in a youthful way. Sad eyes.

"I wanted to send her a picture of me back, but ... well ... take a look at me, and I didn't have one anyway.

"She looks young."

"Ellen's twenty-one, man. By the way, she's the person that all the macramé is for."

"Hmm ... " I let my words go unsaid and instead handed the letter back to him.

"So, um ..." He suddenly seemed a little hesitant. "Could you drive me to Boddington? She lives there," —he waved an envelope in the air so I could see the return address— "and, um, I was hoping to meet her as soon as I got out."

I thought about it for a moment. Boddington wasn't far, half a day's drive. The change of scenery might do me some good. "All right, man. We can cut across to highway 27 a couple of klicks down the road from here."

"Right on, man! Thanks!"

I maintained my silence, but didn't mind at all. A change of plans ... A journey!

As soon as we got onto the highway headed North to Boddington, Robin settled down and soon got lost in his pocket book again while I drove. As for me: I watched the scenery and the sunlight. I looked at the faces of people in the cars as they passed us. I spotted some birds and envied their freedom to fly, but hated them for having it.

I even caught a glimpse through the trees at one point of something large, furry, and dark. A bear? That was an animal I could respect without envying. A bear lived the way he wanted; his only concerns were how to get the food he needed and where to find a nice big robust female bear to share his genes with. It was a good honest life, I decided. But maybe it wasn't a bear at all. Maybe just a big dog, or perhaps an oddly-shaped tree. I almost laughed: Maybe it was sasquatch!

I looked over at Robin as he continued to read. Prison must make one a speed-reader, I decided; he seemed to spend just a few seconds on each page. Soon his book would be finished. In fact, soon we would be in Boddington. A sad ending to such a short driving trip.

So I pulled over and stopped the car. Robin looked up.

"What's wrong, man?"

"Flat tire."

"Huh? I don't think so ... I didn't ..."

I was already getting out of the car and so didn't hear his last words. I walked to the back of the car and slid my key into the trunk lock and opened it. Robin arrived at my elbow looking confused.

I checked the highway North and South. Nobody.

My fingers reached under the big soft bag of macramé and found the tire-iron, and then the tire iron found the top of Robin's head before he could do more than slightly flinch. Then, already with his lights out, he stood there for a few more moments while I hit him over the head again ... and again. And once he was down, another couple of times for the sake of completeness, though I was certain he was already dead.

Even a small man is tough to move, I decided, as I dragged his body off the shoulder, through the ditch, and into the underbrush. Another twenty feet, and his clothes were so caught up in brambles and bushes that I gave up. He was far enough away, anyway, I decided. Despite the severity of the situation, I couldn't help but whisper, "A free dinner for you, Mr. Bear." It would have been undignified to giggle, so I repressed that urge.

And then it was back onto the highway to complete the journey to Boddington. I finished my journey in silence, but there was definitely something bothersome about losing Robin so quickly again. It was hard to keep remembering that I would never be able to see him again—no matter how many months or years I waited. It made the remainder of my drive into the region of farms both sad and lonely.

At the exit to Boddington, I turned off the highway and was immediately among farmhouses, long stretches of fields, and random outbuildings. A lonely place for a young Asian girl. What was her name? Ellen? How the hell did she end up here? I pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road I was on, turned off the engine, and looked at the return address on the envelope containing her letter. Probably an easy place to find, I decided; I could probably find it in under five minutes.

But I sat in the car for a few moments longer and listened to the sounds of the wind coming through the open windows of the car, the sound of a tractor somewhere in the distance (I couldn't see it, though) and the sounds of a dog's bark and something scurrying through the growing stalks in the field in response. Rural paradise for some folks.

In time, I restarted the car and turned onto the road. Boddington was one of those two-street towns that contained a single stoplight. You could drive East and West along store fronts and bars, or North and South among houses. It was a quiet and remote offshoot of the North-South street that I found the address. No cars, no lights on or other signs of life in the house.

The house itself was a sad little one-story affair with a white exterior stained yellow by the sun in places and brown by dust in others. The front yard was marked off by a old fence, but in the yard itself the grass was brown and dying. No care and attention had been paid this lawn in a long time. In behind the house there was just hard-packed dirt surrounded by another fence. Beyond that was some scrub brush that extended to the horizon. Desolate. Dying.

It made me shiver, despite the warmth of the day. Even as I parked the car and got out to face down the demons that this house undoubtedly would contain, my fears grew, not receded. I told the truth when I said I was a timid man, afraid of his own shadow—even when the shadow he cast was small and innocuous and on someone else.

I stood in front of the door for a few moments, reluctant to raise the ghosts inside. But I soon realized that there was, more than likely, nobody home, and so the disturbance I would raise by knocking would be minimal. I smiled: if there is nobody home to hear your knocking, do you really shake the sanctity of the solitude? So I finally knocked.

Nothing, but still I waited a moment or two. And as I turned to walk back to Margie's car the door opened. I turned back and there was Ellen. She eyed me curiously, almost frightened—certainly nervously. But she also had an openness in her stance; she didn't cower behind the door, and though her head was lowered slightly, she still managed to point her chin at me.

"R-Robbie ... ?"

"Ellen!"

Her eyes widened, her face brightened, her mouth flowered into a wide grin, and she stepped right up to me and hugged me! I was so stunned that I needed a couple of seconds to even remember to return her hug.

"I knew it would be you! Today was the day and you promised to get a ride here if you could! Oh Robbie, it is so good to see you after all these months! You have no idea how ..." She let the words stop there.

I lowered my hands to her hips. She made a noise somewhere between a giggle and shriek, then twisted out of my embrace before backing up to the sill. The grin remained, and her eyes were every bit as pleased to see me ... but still she stood in the doorway at arm's length. I looked at her and decided to smile back--why wouldn't I? And then I realised that she had been tense because, with my smile, her body relaxed a little. I made a mental note to be more observant of others' body tension in the future.

"Won't you come in?"

"I'd be pleased to," I said, "And let me tell you how great a pleasure it is to finally meet you."

"Oh! Nice to meet you too," she said, rather quietly and sweetly. I checked her eyes, but there was no mockery.

Inside and led to the living room, I needed a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. But when they finally did, I could see the new clean furniture, not particularly expensive, but somewhat stylish and definitely functional. I saw a small television and a bookcase with a few books in an Asian language, and down a hallway, I could see a clean kitchen with neatly-stacked dishes and new fresh white appliances.

She watched me as I examined the inside of the house, then said, "As you can see, my parents like perfect order. I hate it, don't you?"

I worried this was a test, so I said, vaguely, "I think you already know how I feel about it."

She jumped in quickly and nervously, "Of course! I remember all your words in your letters!" There was a short pause, then she said, "Oh, Robbie, it is so great to see you here, finally, standing in my house." She held her hands together in front of her, and I could see her working the fingernail of one of her fingers with the other hand.

"Won't you sit here?" she asked, indicating a large off-white chair with straight, precise lines. I moved to sit in the chair, brushing past her slightly. She did not shy away from me.

She slowly turned around, looking at all the items meticulously laid out on shelves and other surfaces. Her eyes lighted upon a photograph on a low endtable and she quickly stepped over to it and picked it up. She returned to stand in front of me and handed the picture to me.

"This is a picture of me when I was a small girl. I had been in Canada only a few weeks." I looked at the picture and it was a child—practically still a baby—standing next to a seated woman. "That woman is my mom."

"You were a cute child, Ellen." I put the photo down onto the coffee table. She quickly grabbed it and put it back where she had first got it from. I noticed that she spent a few seconds getting it adjusted to just the right spot and facing just the right way.

Then she started looking around the living room again. She spotted a piece of wood on a high shelf of the bookcase beside her, and she reached up and took it down. Again, she brought it to me.

"This is driftwood. It looks like a bird, doesn't it? I found it when we lived in Vancouver," she said. "I was still a little girl, but I loved it there ... " she stopped for a moment and I could see a deep sadness—a loneliness—come into her eyes. "I love the beach. I mean, I know my dad had to move around a lot for work, and I don't mind Boddington, but I wish ... well, Vancouver was the first place I remember, and the beach was the first place I ever played ..." She stopped again.

I said, "It seems like a quiet town. A lot of opportunities to go hiking."

She said nothing, but took the driftwood back from me as I handed it to her. She spent the same amount of time arranging it on the shelf as she did the photograph.

"Why don't you sit down too?" I said, trying to interrupt her next search for something to show me.

She looked slightly startled, but soon recovered and walked quickly to the sofa next to my chair. She sat down turned slightly so that she could face me.

"Did you have any trouble getting here?"

"No, none at all. I was able to borrow the car."

"Oh ... I wondered ... I thought your friend might come too."

I didn't say anything.

"Do you ... Will you stay long?"

"No, I can't stay too long."

"I understand." She started kneading one of her fingers with the other hand. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just leaned back and tried to make myself as comfortable as possible in the chair I was in.

I watched her, and she seemed to be considering something. Not wanting to disturb her, I just sat, waited, and watched.

Finally, she spoke: "You haven't asked about my web cam."

I didn't know what that was. "I thought you'd mention it when you wanted."

"Um ... but you kept saying you wanted to see it, so let me show it to you." She stood up, so I struggled out of my chair too, and followed her halfway down another hall to a door—obviously the door to her bedroom. She opened the door and walked in to her room, but I hesitated, savouring that sweet moment of her acceptance. Then I drew a deep breath and stepped through.

She was already facing her computer screen, and I could see she was in her element. Everything in this small bedroom fit around her like a cocoon. As she typed on the keyboard in front of her, I had a chance to observe her room some more. A small bed, a desk (where she was currently seated) and a night-table. All available surfaces were covered. It was not exactly messy, but it was certainly cluttered. There were little teddy bears and small trinkets—ornate little jewelry boxes and postcards. A poster on the wall of some pretty-looking man-boy clutching a microphone. The night-stand had some bottles and jars of creams and powders, but no makeup or perfume that I could see. On the floor beside the bed was a small stack of books, all English titles, and all romance novels. Her desk, which contained the computer, also had stacks of disks, and more books. Behind her chair was her bed, both in a direct line from the small camera above her computer monitor.

"Nice -um- comfy lair you have here, Ellen." I tried to make my voice as warm and friendly as possible.

She turned to me with a sorrow and longing—a profound pain that betrayed years of loneliness. "Robbie, there's nobody on right now. They all logged off because I left my room to greet you. Look at this." She indicated something on the screen. I bent down to read it over her shoulder. It said, "tired waiting for u 2 come back sa..went 2 talk 2 ann".

"That's my screen name: 'sa' or 'Sweet Angel'," she said. I could hear from her voice that she was close to tears. "But nobody wants to talk to 'Sweet Angel' right now."

"Know thyself," I said.

"What?"

"You are the Sweet Angel. You 'know thyself'.

"Oh ..." She didn't appear to understand, but I let it go. I walked to her tiny window to look outside. The dirt of the back yard.

There was a "bong" noise from the computer speakers and the light on the camera came on. Suddenly she started typing furiously.

She giggled and said, "He wants me to take my blouse off." She typed some more.

"Will you?"

"Huh? Oh! Um ... I don't know yet." More typing.

I started to come around to stand behind her, but she barked out, "No! No! Stay where you are!" So, out of curiosity, I stood still, but watched her as she continued to type messages to other people. As curious as I was, I also wanted to respect the line of vision of the camera. Maybe it was for the better anyhow. There were two more "bong" sounds just a few seconds apart.

She typed a particularly long message and waited for a reply. "They were just waiting somewhere else for me. Now that I'm back they are coming back too."

I didn't quite know what she was talking about, so I just said, "Uh-huh."

She continued this way for perhaps five minutes more, when she suddenly climbed off the chair and onto the bed. She lay on the bed with her feet toward the camera.

Her expression held an almost rapturous look. She very slowly unbuckled her belt in a dramatic and exaggerated way—so as to ensure the camera could pick up the motion. With a joyful look in her eyes she played with the belt end, for a few seconds, then sat up briefly to read what was on the computer screen. Then she lay back again with a generous and indulgent smile, and unzipped her pants with more large, slow movements.

The show that she was putting on was so much for the camera and so little for me that I decided to remind her that I was still there.

"Foolish," I said.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and jumped off the bed and stood on the floor. She quickly zipped up her pants and buckled her belt again. She reached over the computer and pressed a button on the camera. The light went out and she sat down and stared at the screen as messages appeared and scrolled up and up. I guessed what they were saying, though, I noticed, that she made no move to reply to them; she just sat and read.

After a few minutes they stopped appearing.

"Gone ..." she finally said. This time she really was crying, and she couldn't look at me.

I put one hand on the back of her neck. She stiffened but did not move away.

"It's foolish," I said, and brought up my other hand to the front of her neck. Her eyes widened and she began to struggle, but I held firm. She clawed at my hands first, and then reached for my face, but I was too strong for her. I held her for her computer and webcam. For her letters to prisoners. For all the trouble in her life and in mine. For Robin, whom I was beginning to miss.

"By the way," I said, "It's 'Robin', not 'Robbie' ... but I'm not even him anyway."

And then the terror and regret in her eyes ... changed. She suddenly knew my lie. It was the moment that something deep inside of me was waiting for. A veritable fireworks show appeared and I could no longer see her reddening face and fluttering eyelids.

I had to listen to the lights this time ... I just had to. So I released Ellen's neck from my grip. She fell over forward to the floor, weakened by a lack of air to the lungs and blood to the brain, but she still made a mad scramble for the door. I stood aside so that she could pass me—which she did—and, instead sat in the chair that she had just occupied.

I looked at the screen; the last message said, "its cruel 2 tease a man like that..if u wont be nice 2 daddy than daddy will spank u." I scowled at the message but realised I was probably no better. Suddenly I remembered that I had to get away from there as quickly as possible.

So I returned to Margie's car and got in. Ellen was nowhere to be seen, but I figured I'd done enough to her already.

I began to drive away when I suddenly remembered: I stopped the car and got out. I opened the trunk and got out the bag of Robin's macramé.

"Here you go, Ellen," I whispered as I placed the bag on the front porch. And because I couldn't help myself I added, "Maybe 'Robbie' made a scarf for you!"

Then I got back in the car and quickly drove away.

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