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  Blood Sports

  “Eden Robinson writes with the violent beauty of a seasoned knifefighter.… In her hands, language is a weapon.… Blood Sports is a harrowing, compulsive read.… This is the sort of book that should come with a warning label.”

  –National Post

  “Blood Sports is very good: exciting, unexpected and clever.”

  –Georgia Straight

  “Eden Robinson writes some of the most disturbing fiction that Canadian literature has ever seen.”

  – Quill & Quire

  “Startlingly original and highly emotionally engaging.”

  Winnipeg Free Press

  “In print, Robinson is Poe on smack: dark, disturbing and frequently bloody.”

  –CBC Arts Online

  “A stomach-turning sucker punch of a read [from] a very talented risk taker.”

  –NOW magazine

  “Blood Sports is the novel that Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club) would write if his talents were in any way commensurate with his hype.… [A] slowly unravelled, bloody fairy tale of how the networks of friends and family meant to sustain us can terrorize us instead.”

  –The Tyee

  BOOKS BY EDEN ROBINSON

  Traplines (1996)

  Monkey Beach (2000)

  Blood Sports (2006)

  Copyright © 2006 by Eden Robinson

  Cloth edition published 2006

  First Emblem Editions publication 2007

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Robinson, Eden

  Blood sports / Eden Robinson.

  eISBN: 978-1-55199-156-6

  I. Title.

  PS8585.O35143B56 2007 C813′.54 C2006-906707-4

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

  The epigraph on this page is taken from “Burn Man on a Texas Porch,” a story in the collection 19 Knives by Mark Anthony Jarman.

  Copyright © Mark Anthony Jarman. Used by permission of House of Anansi Press, 110 Spadina Ave., Suite 801, Toronto, ON, M5V 2K4.

  The lyrics on this page are from “Sunshine On My Shoulders.” Words by John Denver Music by John Denver, Mike Taylor and Dick Kniss

  Copyright © 1971; Renewed 1999 Cherry Lane Music Publishing Company, Inc.

  (ASCAP), Dimensional Music Of 1091 (ASCAP), Anna Kate Deutschendorf, Zachary Deutschendorf and Jesse Belle Denver for the U.S.A.

  All Rights for Dimensional Music Of 1091, Anna Kate Deutschendorf and Zachary Deutschendorf Administered by Cherry Lane Music Publishing Company, Inc. (ASCAP)

  All Rights for Jesse Belle Denver Administered by WB Music Corp. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved

  SERIES EDITOR: ELLEN SELIGMAN

  Series logo design: Brian Bean

  EMBLEM EDITIONS

  McClelland & Stewart Ltd.

  75 Sherbourne Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  M5A 2P9

  www.mcclelland.com/emblem

  v3.1

  Hate is everything they said it would be and it waits for you like an airbag.

  – Mark Anthony Jarman,

  from 19 Knives

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  AURA

  1st BLOOD

  JAG

  2nd BLOOD

  ROLL

  SURRENDER

  3rd BLOOD

  PENANCE

  4th BLOOD

  Discussion Questions for Reading Groups

  About the Author

  Hi Mel,

  If you’re not eighteen yet, I want you to put this letter down right now. Okay? There’s a whole bunch of shit you don’t need to deal with until you’re ready. Your mom (I call her Paulie, even though she hates it. Try it, and you’ll get her Popeye squint) and I talked it over. We agreed not to put the heavy on you because we’re trying not to fuck your head up too bad.

  You probably won’t be Melody when you read this. I’m wondering what Paulie will change your name to. Paulie was stuck on Anastasia, after the princess, but I thought no one would be able to spell it and you’d get tagged with Stacy or Staz or anything but your real name. My top choice was Sarah, but Paulie thought that was going to bite you in the ass in school when you met up with the hundred other Sarahs in your class. We went through a whole bunch of baby-name books, and couldn’t agree on a single name. Paulie’s picks were too fancy and she thought mine were dull. Her words in the operating room: “If you fucking stick my girl with Jennifer while I’m under, I will rip your nuts off.”

  Paulie wanted an all-natural birth at home. Her friends here are into hippie shit like giving birth in wading pools and eating the placenta. Besides, she hates hospitals, doesn’t think they’re clean enough and hated the thought of you in a germ-factory. I’m not a big fan of hospitals myself, so we were all set to have you enter the world at home (no pool or placenta though). But things got hairy, and Ella, the midwife, called an ambulance. Paulie kept saying she’d spent enough of her life wasted and didn’t want any shit, but she ended up having every drug in the book. I’m sure when she’s mad she tells you what a pain you were to deliver.

  Paulie exploded when they put the tent around her belly because she wanted to watch you coming, even if they were going to cut you out. Is your mom all ladylike now? Ha. I bet she is. You wouldn’t believe the things that came out of her mouth, but they put the tent up anyway and she asked me to videotape everything so she could watch it later. I saw the first incision and said, “Can’t do it, Paulie.”

  The midwife wouldn’t videotape, but she said she’d describe everything to Paulie. Ella is this tiny fireball, a Filipina in her mid-forties, and she had to hop to peek over. I went and found her a stool and then waited in the hallway because there was no way I could listen to that. I walked down to the vending machine and got a coffee. So I missed your grand entrance. But we have a tape of everything up to that point, even the ambulance ride. I’m sure Paulie’s made you watch it by now. I stapled Ella’s business card to the back of this page, so you can look her up if you want.

  I could hear you crying. You were loud as an opera singer. I could hear you all the way down the hall. Sad fact: Your dad is a big old weenie. I got a head rush and had to sit down. When I finally got my rear in gear, the nurse and midwife were checking you out, cleaning you up and swaddling you in the corner. The surgeon was finishing up your mom. She was pretty wiped. We’d been awake for three days by then.

  When Paulie asked Ella if she should nurse, Ella laid you on her and you latched just like that. No problemo. All the shit going down and you took it in stride. Your mom’s smile, all proud of you.

  “Come around here, you’ve got to see this,” Paulie said. “It’s like she’s mainlining.”

  The nurse beside her stiffened. We’d had to disclose about Paulie being in Narcotics Anonymous. I think we freaked some of the staff. The whole week we were in the hospital, they acted like we were going to break out
the rigs and turn our room into a shooting gallery.

  I never got the deal with newborns. You were bald but hairy, red and wrinkled like any other newborn, and I’m sorry, Mel, but man, that is not a good look on you. You were sucking at Paulina’s boob like there was no tomorrow, your eyes screwed tight in ecstasy.

  Before she left, Ella made sure we had a six-pack of supplement. She showed me how to pour it into this plastic cup about the size of those ketchup cups they have at McDonald’s. You were sleeping, and Ella said I was going to have to feed you and change your diapers because Paulie was against the wall.

  When you have kids, you’ll know what that first night is like. You were intense, babe. Jonesing for the boob-juice, as Paulie would say. I tried to tilt the cup slowly into your mouth but it got all over your face and down your neck. A nurse came running when you started freaking out. Once you were screaming, I dumped the formula down your throat and you choked it back. Oh boy, were you mad. You had this “Fuck you, you cunt” look that your mom gets when she’s in a pissy mood. I guess I was pretty punchy, because I started laughing. You were just too cute. You and your fuck-you look. Only a couple hours in the world, and you were already giving it attitude.

  Paulie phoned her family to ask them to come check you out, but they were like, yeah, whatever. When Paulie was eight months pregnant, we realized we didn’t have enough money for all the shit we needed. She dressed up all careful, and I dressed up all careful and we tried to go to them, and they were like, give it up. Let some nice couple adopt your kid. Junkies shouldn’t raise kids. A whole bunch of shit like that, but with swearing and screaming. Paulie thought that once they saw we were serious, once they saw how cute you were, they’d come around.

  Your mom’s parents hated my guts from the get-go, so I can’t say I was surprised or disappointed. If you go and talk to them, they’re going to bad-mouth your mom. I know it. I’ve listened to enough of their crap. Let me tell you something: there’s no one more sanctimonious than a dry drunk. It wasn’t like they were saints, you know? But Paulie was their first addict, and they thought she was lower than them because they were just alcoholics.

  The first time Paulie relapsed, her dad was like: “I knew you wouldn’t last, you slutty piece of shit.”

  That’s when your mom and I got together, after she got out of rehab. She wanted to make amends, admit to another human being.

  How much has Paulie told you? I wish I knew. It’s hard to write it down because it’s all grown-up shit. You’ve been gone a few days now. Your mom and I decided that this was the best way to deal with things. Maybe it isn’t, you know? We can’t think of anything else to do, Mel.

  I respect your mom. Yeah, she’d relapsed a couple of times, but that’s the way it goes, you know? In the movies, everyone who goes straight stays straight. It’s all “Oh, I will never touch that evil stuff again” and then whatever actor is playing a junkie will look all soppy and pleased, and end credits, happily ever after. But it takes time to realize how deep the hooks go. You never believe how hard they’ve sunk in until you try pulling them out. The first time you clean up, you feel immortal, untouchable. You get cocky. You want to test it out, ride that dragon one last time. Or you realize that your life is still in the crapper anyway and cleaning up hasn’t done fuck all. You hate yourself and everyone agrees that you are worth hating.

  I don’t know where your other Gran and Granpa are these days. Eugene and Chrissy Bauer, if you want to look them up. Eugene went MIA when I was two. Chrissy phones it in. You’re going to have to do the heavy lifting to keep a relationship with her going. I’m not trying to discourage you from meeting them, but be warned they’re big talkers. Their promises are sugar-covered shit.

  I don’t want you to think I’m not around because I don’t care, Mel. Okay? Lots of things happened that had nothing to do with you. Daddy’s knee-deep in a mess and has to dig himself out. Paulie and I agreed that it would be safer if you guys went away. Wherever you are, I’m thinking of you.

  Bad news on the genetic front: my side of the family has never swum in the cool gene pool. I don’t think they’ve even dipped their toes in it. Have you ever seen that televangelist who wears silver lamé muumuus on late-night TV? You know, the one who believes that God is an alien who will ride a comet to earth to kick-start the Apocalypse? He’s a great-uncle of yours, sweetie, and our only claim to fame.

  Your eczema is from our side of the family. Two of your aunts and a couple of your cousins have adult onset diabetes. The uncles mostly get Alzheimer’s in their late sixties. I’m the only one with epilepsy, so the doctors don’t think it’s genetic, but that’s their best guess.

  It’s not that scary, though. I don’t even think about it most days. I’ll run you through it. Put your palms on your temples. Okay? Cover the tops of your ears with your thumbs and your index fingers. Cup your head with your fingers. Your temporal lobes are patches of squiggly grey matter underneath your hands. Daddy has what they used to call temporal-lobe epilepsy, but now they call my type of epilepsy partial seizures secondarily generalized. They’ll probably call it something else by the time you read this. They change the name every time they find out something new.

  When Daddy freezes up, that first seizure is called an aura. Not the New-Age you-must-be-angry-because-you-have-a-lot-of-red-in-your-halo aura, but a sensory seizure. When it starts, I feel it in my stomach, like I’m seasick. Then it changes. You know that feeling you get after you’ve watched a scary movie late at night, alone, and you know no one’s in the house with you. It’s just your imagination but you can’t stop being scared anyway. That’s how that seizure feels.

  The second seizure starts right after the first one, but I’m not awake for it. When you think of an epileptic attack, I’m sure you think of people falling down and convulsing. It’s over in a few minutes, and Daddy wakes up tired, sore, and confused.

  For a while, Daddy was self-medicating with pot. All those NA meetings rub off on you though, and Daddy realized he’d been over-medicating, and got himself down to two hoots, twice a day. Don’t go overboard when you’re trying pot, Mel. It’s right up there with watching too much TV: a whole whack of your life passes you by, and you don’t realize it until you stop. You get stuck in this zone not quite in the real world.

  Your mom and I were always careful. Condoms and spermicide. Condoms every single time. You must have really wanted to be born, Mel. Paulie almost had a heart attack when she learned she was pregnant, and we started going to every NA meeting East Van had to offer. That was our life for two weeks: eat, shit, NA, eat, shit, NA, sleep. Wake up, eat, shit, NA. If there wasn’t a NA meeting open, we went to AA. Paulie wasn’t using when you were conceived, but she was shaky. She was at that point when she could have slipped over. And by then we both knew how easy it was to slip.

  Jazz was Paulie’s sponsor. They talked long and hard. Paulie just didn’t say, fuck it, I’ll have this kid. She thought about you. Everyone on The Drive who ever went to NA knew about you when you were the size of a cocktail shrimp because she’d fucking talk to everyone.

  When Paulie makes up her mind, then it is game over. She took out every book in the library that said anything about being a mom. She badgered her way into parenting courses with waiting lists the length of your arm. She’d corner these new parents and quiz them until they got this glazed look, filled with the fear of God because this woman would not let go.

  We were both scared shitless because we didn’t think we were good enough for you, Mel. But we wanted you. You were the biggest risk we ever took. You were the only good thing to come out of a lot of bad.

  22 JUNE 1998

  The waiting room of Wal-Mart’s photography studio had all the charm of a bus depot. Tom held Melody in his lap. The other parents were uniformly grubby, but their children sported starched name brands as they tore through the sticky selection of toys. Melody squirmed as she watched the children, lifting the hem of her dress to gum the lace. Tom brushed her h
air to the side. Soft and white blond, it sprouted from her head like dandelion fluff.

  Paulina wandered back with the promised McDonald’s fries and, alas, the dreaded paint swatches.

  Mel bounced excitedly at the sight of the fries. “Uh! Uh! Uh!”

  “Just one,” Paulie said, handing her a crisp, dark one, Mel’s favourite kind of fry.

  Paulie sat in the orange plastic chair one over from Tom, spreading the swatches out on the chair between them. Today’s Sesame Street will be brought to you by the colour yellow, Tom thought, and every frigging shade of it imaginable. Mel slouched against him, her hair tickling his stubble. She gnawed contentedly.

  “I’m leaning toward Lemon Zing,” Paulie said. “With a Washday White trim. What do you think?”

  “Which one’s Lemon Zing?”

  Paulie set it apart from the others. “I know it’s a little darker than,” shuffle, shuffle, “Prairie Snow, but the living room is so bright, maybe we should go with,” shuffle, shuffle, “Summer Wheat.”

  “Uh! Uh! Uh!”

  Paulie absently handed Mel another fry before Mel went ballistic.

  “Lemon Zing reminds me of those Easter egg–shaped cookies my mom used to get half price.”

  Paulie stopped playing with the swatches to eyeball him, making sure he wasn’t poking fun.

  “You know,” Tom said. “The ones with the crunchy icing. You only get them at Easter.”

  “Do you like the colour or don’t you?”

  “I like it.”

  “Hmm.” Paulie scowled. “If we go with Lemon Zing in the living room and the hallway –” And she was off. He watched her mouth moving, her lips chapped and red. She used to wear cotton-candy-pink lipstick, or, when she was feeling dangerous, dark, dark red.

  Looking around the room, Tom realized they looked as time-warped as the other parents. His plaid shirt with the grey thermal underwear poking through the holes, his shaggy hair, and ragged sneakers all screamed grunge, a look that had died four years ago with Kurt Cobain. Paulie dressed like she did in high school. Biker chick. Tight black jeans tucked into knee-high shit kickers and a low-cut Metallica tank top. She hadn’t dyed her hair since she got pregnant, so from her ears down, her hair was frazzled strawberry blond. Her roots were light brown.