“Where? Where will you go?”
“U of T.”
“Toronto?”
“Yes, Beck. That’s the T in U of T. I’m going to Toronto.” Finnegan finally found the door to the bathroom and stood facing Beck.
“Why? Why are you going so far away?” Beck surprised himself with the crack of his own voice. He suddenly remembered Finnegan’s changing voice when they first met. Finnegan in his heavy hockey equipment, barely large enough to stand up. Finnegan crying in the tent. Spooning.
Finnegan was a man now. Standing in the doorway of a dark bathroom. “That way I can be who I am.” Silence between them, save for the boisterous laughter of people outside. Beck suddenly understood. It was who he was too. Beck took a chance and traced Finnegan’s freckles. Finnegan closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Beck’s hands.
“You still bite your fingernails.”
The kiss they shared was brief. Much too brief. It was just long enough of a memory for Beck to form in his palm and place in his pocket like a treasured rock to admire in the future. But it was long enough for Coach Trent to walk in on them. He turned the light on to confirm what he was seeing.
“Get out of my house.”
“Coach—”
“GET OUT!”
A countdown began in Beck’s mind: How long until Coach Trent would tell everyone on the team? How long until his father would find out? How long until Finnegan would leave town?
The next day, Beck’s plan was to drive back to Coach Trent’s house to explain that it was Finnegan who initiated the kiss, that he wasn’t a faggot. He had no idea what was happening. He wasn’t responsible, and what a faggot Finnegan was. How awful it was to have a faggot on our team the entire time. Maybe check with others to see if Finnegan was harassing anyone else. Right, Coach Trent? That would make things right.
The sentences were running through his head while he filled up on gas at the Spector Crossing strip plaza. As the numbers scrolled on the gas pump, Beck looked around, searching for signs that people in town knew. Two teen boys on skateboards were practising their ollies in the parking lot of the plaza. Across the street at McGregor United Church, Pastor James was replacing the letters on the street sign that had been stolen last week. A mother and her small child exited the convenience store with a stash of lottery tickets and a box of smokes and headed towards her minivan. It would be only a matter of time before everyone knew.
Beck watched a blonde, middle-aged woman in duty uniform exit her sedan. The army officer saw Beck looking at her and nodded in his direction. A nice, tight, efficient nod with her nice, tight, efficient chignon, perfectly timed with the ding of the scrolling numbers at Beck’s gas pump. He tapped the nozzle twice and watched her enter the station’s store. Beck followed her. He followed her into the lineup, watching her buy a pack of gum. He followed her as she drove to his high school, parked her car and got out, a pop-up banner under one arm, the other pulling a wheelie case of brochures.
“Can I help you with that?” Beck asked.
The officer smiled. “That would be lovely.” Beck took the banner into his own arms and began walking with her into the school. She propped the front door open and looked at him. “I saw you at the gas station.”
“Oh yeah. Yeah. I saw you too. What are you doing here at Sir John A. Macdonald Collegiate?”
“Career day.”
“I’ve enlisted,” Beck said as he entered the family living room. Peter and Hanna were on the couch, ready to confirm the news around town regarding Finnegan Waters and their only son. Peter said nothing. Hanna said nothing. Beck had managed to avoid a speech about bringing shame upon his family by offering service to his country.
Six weeks later, Beck was in basic training at Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu. He left McGregor’s Bend without any fanfare. No toast goodbye from Coach Trent. While his body bulked up, his mind widened to believe in the collective power of his infantry, in the collective importance of the team. They were one animal now, in step with one another. He was not one man now. He was of many men. And in this collective, he remembered nothing of himself. Through constant drills, he successfully removed the treasured rock of memory from his pocket—a memory of two boys in a tent, a memory of two men found together in a small town—and tossed it like a troublesome pebble found in his shoe.
Time passed. Years passed.
They collectively watched the inauguration footage of a new American president named Colin Pryce, who used words like “animals” to describe illegal migrants and “pussies” to describe women. Medium close-up of his hand to his heart. Wide shots of mass protests. Clips caught on people’s phones of protesters being run over by trucks. People screaming and running in every direction. News reports of mass raids. Photos of a migrant bent over a car, being searched by law enforcement while her small child cries before being taken away. Photos of migrants crowded into an outdoor chain-link cage, looking at the camera. Hot sun on their faces. Families lying on mats along the concrete ground, waiting for deportation.
They collectively watched the new Canadian prime minister, Alan Dunphy, come into power. The pretty boy won by a landslide, partly because of his charisma and good looks, partly because his election campaign used the word “vermin” to describe refugees and “cockroaches” to describe the Disabled on social assistance.
“We need to derail this gravy train and derail it fast!” Dunphy exclaimed over and over again on the campaign trail. “If the Disabled can wheel themselves to the welfare line, they can wheel themselves to a job.”
In the aftermath of the floods, his predecessor, Marshall Pollack, had been too soft to use such words. But Alan Dunphy was no snake in the grass. One of his first actions in office was to establish a Zero Tolerance hotline to report terrorist and suspicious immigration activity. Within days, the hotline was saturated with messages from people snitching on their neighbours: too many Muslims convening in mosques, Black people hosting too many barbecues, Trans folks deceiving everyone around them with their gender identity. While white Canadians rejoiced in righteous indignation, Dunphy enjoyed photo ops near the shores of swollen bodies of water. He filled sandbags while cameras clicked, his handsome grin wide. More photo ops near the charred remains of a home, devastated by yet another wildfire, shaking hands with first responders.
They collectively watched broadcast footage of a newly formed militia in Toronto patrolling flooded city streets in their helmets and leather uniforms. Extreme close-ups of the militia using their steel-toe boots to kick down doors in search of illegal immigrants syphoning resources. Those same resources being distributed among “True Canadians,” who smile and give a thumbs-up to the news cameras. The militia strong-arming protesters demanding equal access to shelter, food and water; the establishing of checkpoints at major intersections. Anchors referring to the militia as “the Boots.” Politicians and pundits referring to the Boots’ actions as “the Renovation” and the populations they seek to correct and control as “the Others.” Boots invading tent cities and evacuating the displaced and homeless. Wide shots of classrooms filled with Others reciting the creed of the Renovation. A photo of one of the children sitting in the lap of a Boot while being read to. Video footage of the leagues of Boots marching in a parade towards City Hall. Cheers. Tiny white children clapping hands, sitting on the shoulders of their parents. Adults holding flags and pointing.