Traplines Read online

  “Canada seems to have an inexhaustible supply of excellent women Writers.… Now, there is another young and striking voice.… Robinson takes us into the underside of family life, from the point of view of the teenagers involved. Her writing is fresh and often harrowing.”

  Observer

  “Simply extraordinary.… Compelling.”

  Blood & Aphorisms

  “These [stories] are human dramas which she narrates in a style that is disarming in its simplicity and brutal in its honesty. Combining pathos with biting humour, each of these beautifully crafted narratives has a sting.… Menacing but brilliantly conceived narrative[s].”

  Independent on Sunday

  “A subtle, brutal, and compelling read.”

  Esther Freud

  “This is a fine book — unflinching, moving and shockingly, bloodily funny. Eden Robinson offers a raw, muscular, urgent new voice: she writes from the heart and the more of that, the better. I look forward to seeing what she’ll do next.”

  A.L. Kennedy

  “Robinson is good, frighteningly good. She is a leader in the pack of young writers willing to take on the nasty underside of human experience, and she does it with unwavering nerve and startling humour. She’ll make you laugh when you know you shouldn’t. She’ll shock you, anger you, tease you. There’s no assuming anything with Robinson; she’ll tickle and slap you with the same hand. You’ll feel the sting of Traplines’ revelations long after you put the book down.”

  Gail Anderson-Dargatz

  “… the Vancouver-based author may well be the first native writer to earn an international reputation …”

  Maclean’s 100 CANADIANS TO WATCH

  “Robinson’s skill as a writer is evident in her ability to craft haunting and, at times, humorous images that resonate throughout the story.… What makes these stories remarkable is the skill with which Robinson draws readers into the grim lives of her characters, snaring us momentarily in their traplines.”

  Canadian Literature 156/ Spring 1998

  “Robinson probes the gritty unpleasant aspects of her culture in an unflinching and honest manner.”

  The Edmonton Journal

  “Remember the name Eden Robinson … a writer of startling promise … [Robinson’s] talent is indisputable … Memorable.… Traplines portrays a world totally bereft of both childhood innocence and adult protection. It is an enclosed yet compelling place, and Robinson gives no quarter in telling of it.”

  Quill & Quire

  “I was not prepared for the forceful way in which Eden Robinson’s four stories … captured my attention and permeated my subconscious … Even weeks later … my mind continued to dwell on … the four stories.”

  The Globe and Mail

  “Expertly rendered”

  The New York Times

  “Traplines is a book whose precision and dramatic force slowly induce in the reader a dry-eyed sense of tragedy. It’s a revelatory work, and a remarkable debut.”

  The Vancouver Sun

  “Prose that grip … right to the final page. Robinson’s writing is remarkably fierce … Her distinctive voice is not plaintive— it howls. Her ear for dialogue … reveals a remarkable talent … She is someone you’d do well not to turn your back on.”

  Georgia Straight

  “A chilling… impressive debut.… Powerful … touching [with] a vein of quirkiness and humour.”

  Macleans

  “Utterly compelling … The four stories comprising Traplines are sketched with a sure hand.… A powerful debut.”

  Word Magazine

  “Remarkable.… The stories she tells are undeniably powerful, and … eerie in their raw portrayal of extremely disturbed human beings.… A Riveting spectacle.”

  The Toronto Star

  “Robinson easily captures the feel of demented small town life.… Robinson’s characters are very strong.… [She] manages to convey a living, breathing character whose journey we share.… She skilfully grounds her tales with obvious Canadian flavour.… ”

  Id Magazine

  “I enjoyed the bold and vivid writing, the directness and the verve.… The stories have life. Hope too. In the midst of danger there are touching scenes.… Add the bit of humour Robinson uses … and these stories about danger in families, about young people trying to save themselves, become irresistible. I can hardly wait for Robinson’s first novel.”

  Kitchener-Waterloo Record

  “Robinson’s skill attracts and holds our attention [with] … prose that is commendable and riveting. And while the landscapes she has established Traplines on are bleak and spare, the same cannot be said of the fertile ground of her talent. Hers is a powerful Canadian voice and we need to hear more of it.”

  Star Phoenix

  Copyright © 1996 by Eden Robinson

  All rights reserved under international and Pan American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House Canada Limited, in 1998. Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, Toronto and simultaneously in the United States by Metropolitan Books, an imprint of Henry Holt and Company Inc., New York, in 1996. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited.

  Canadian in Publication Data

  Robinson, Eden

  Traplines

  eISBN: 978-0-307-36394-7

  I. Title

  PS8585.035T73 1997 C813′.54 C96-931042-0

  PR9199.3.R63T73 1997

  v3.1

  TO JOHN AND WINNIE ROBINSON

  Some people believe that unborn souls

  choose their parents.

  I’m glad I chose such gentle, loving people.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I take full responsibility for these stories but happily admit that a good part of their polish comes from tireless editing by people such as Bill Valgardson, Mark Jarman, Dave Godfrey, Keith Maillard and his advanced novel class, Barb Nickel, Zsuzsie Gardner, Sara Bershtel, Louise Dennys, and especially Riva Hocherman and Denise Bukowski.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  TRAPLINES

  DOGS IN WINTER

  CONTACT SPORTS

  QUEEN OF THE NORTH

  Dad takes the white marten from the trap.

  “Look at that, Will,” he says.

  It is limp in his hands. It hasn’t been dead that long.

  We tramp through the snow to the end of our trapline. Dad whistles. The goner marten is over his shoulder. From here, it looks like Dad is wearing it. There is nothing else in the other traps. We head back to the truck. The snow crunches. This is the best time for trapping, Dad told me a while ago. This is when the animals are hungry.

  Our truck rests by the roadside at an angle. Dad rolls the white marten in a gray canvas cover separate from the others. The marten is flawless, which is rare in these parts. I put my animals beside his and cover them. We get in the truck. Dad turns the radio on and country twang fills the cab. We smell like sweat and oil and pine. Dad hums. I stare out the window. Mrs. Smythe would say the trees here are like the ones on Christmas postcards, tall and heavy with snow. They crowd close to the road. When the wind blows strong enough, the older trees snap and fall on the power lines.

  “Well, there’s our Christmas money,” Dad says, snatching a peek at the rearview mirror.

  I look back. The wind ruffles the canvases that cover the martens. Dad is smiling. He sits back, steering with one hand. He doesn’t even mind when we are passed by three cars. The lines in his face are loose now. He sings along with a woman who left her husband—even that doesn’t make him mad. We have our Christmas money. At least for now, there’ll be no shouting in the house. It will take Mom
and Dad a few days to find something else to fight about.

  The drive home is a long one. Dad changes the radio station twice. I search my brain for something to say but my headache is spreading and I don’t feel like talking. He watches the road, though he keeps stealing looks at the back of the truck. I watch the trees and the cars passing us.

  One of the cars has two women in it. The woman that isn’t driving waves her hands around as she talks. She reminds me of Mrs. Smythe. They are beside us, then ahead of us, then gone.

  Tucca is still as we drive into it. The snow drugs it, makes it lazy. Houses puff cedar smoke and the sweet, sharp smell gets in everyone’s clothes. At school in town, I can close my eyes and tell who’s from the village and who isn’t just by smelling them.

  When we get home, we go straight to the basement. Dad gives me the ratty martens and keeps the good ones. He made me start on squirrels when I was in grade five. He put the knife in my hand, saying, “For Christ’s sake, it’s just a squirrel. It’s dead, you stupid knucklehead. It can’t feel anything.”

  He made the first cut for me. I swallowed, closed my eyes, and lifted the knife.

  “Jesus,” Dad muttered. “Are you a sissy? I got a sissy for a son. Look. It’s just like cutting up a chicken. See? Pretend you’re skinning a chicken.”

  Dad showed me, then put another squirrel in front of me, and we didn’t leave the basement until I got it right.

  Now Dad is skinning the flawless white marten, using his best knife. His tongue is sticking out the corner of his mouth. He straightens up and shakes his skinning hand. I quickly start on the next marten. It’s perfect except for a scar across its back. It was probably in a fight. We won’t get much for the skin. Dad goes back to work. I stop, clench, unclench my hands. They are stiff.

  “Goddamn,” Dad says quietly. I look up, tensing, but Dad starts to smile. He’s finished the marten. It’s ready to be dried and sold. I’ve finished mine too. I look at my hands. They know what to do now without my having to tell them. Dad sings as we go up the creaking stairs. When we get into the hallway I breathe in, smelling fresh baked bread.

  Mom is sprawled in front of the TV. Her apron is smudged with flour and she is licking her fingers. When she sees us, she stops and puts her hands in her apron pockets.

  “Well?” she says.

  Dad grabs her at the waist and whirls her around the living room.

  “Greg! Stop it!” she says, laughing.

  Flour gets on Dad and cedar chips get on Mom. They talk and I leave, sneaking into the kitchen. I swallow three aspirins for my headache, snatch two buns, and go to my room. I stop in the doorway. Eric is there, plugged into his electric guitar. He looks at the buns and pulls out an earphone.

  “Give me one,” he says.

  I throw him the smaller bun, and he finishes it in three bites.

  “The other one,” he says.

  I give him the finger and sit on my bed. I see him thinking about tackling me, but he shrugs and plugs himself back in. I chew on the bun, roll bits of it around in my mouth. It’s still warm, and I wish I had some honey for it or some blueberry jam.

  Eric leaves and comes back with six buns. He wolfs them down, cramming them into his mouth. I stick my fingers in my ears and glare at him. He can’t hear himself eat. He notices me and grins. Opens his mouth so I can see. I pull out a mag and turn the pages.

  Dad comes in. Eric’s jaw clenches. I go into the kitchen, grabbing another bun. Mom smacks my hand. We hear Eric and Dad starting to yell. Mom rolls her eyes and puts three more loaves in the oven.

  “Back later,” I say.

  She nods, frowning at her hands.

  I walk. Think about going to Billy’s house. He is seeing Elaine, though, and is getting weird. He wrote her a poem yesterday. He couldn’t find anything nice to rhyme with “Elaine” so he didn’t finish it.

  “Pain,” Craig said. “Elaine, you pain.”

  “Plain Elaine,” Tony said.

  Billy smacked Tony and they went at it in the snow. Billy gave him a face wash. That ended it, and we let Billy sit on the steps and write in peace.

  “Elaine in the rain,” I say. “Elaine, a flame. Cranes. Danes. Trains. My main Elaine.” I kick at the slush on the ground. Billy is on his own.

  I let my feet take me down the street. It starts to snow, tiny ladybug flakes. It is only four but already getting dark. Streetlights flicker on. No one but me is out walking. Snot in my nose freezes. The air is starting to burn my throat. I turn and head home. Eric and Dad should be tired by now.

  Another postcard picture. The houses lining the street look snug. I hunch into my jacket. In a few weeks, Christmas lights will go up all over the village. Dad will put ours up two weeks before Christmas. We use the same set every year. We’ll get a tree a week later. Mom’ll decorate it. On Christmas Eve, she’ll put our presents under it. Some of the presents will be wrapped in aluminum because she never buys enough wrapping paper. We’ll eat turkey. Mom and Dad will go to a lot of parties and get really drunk. Eric will go to a lot of parties and get really stoned. Maybe this year I will too. Anything would be better than sitting around with Tony and Craig, listening to them gripe.

  I stamp the snow off my sneakers and jeans. I open the door quietly. The TV is on loud. I can tell that it’s a hockey game by the announcer’s voice. I take off my shoes and jacket. The house feels really hot to me after being outside. My face starts to tingle as the skin thaws. I go into the kitchen and take another aspirin.

  The kitchen could use some plants. It gets good light in the winter. Mrs. Smythe has filled her kitchen with plants, hanging the ferns by the window where the cats can’t eat them. The Smythes have pictures all over their walls of places they have been—Europe, Africa, Australia. They’ve been everywhere. They can afford it, she says, because they don’t have kids. They had one, a while ago. On the TV there’s a wallet-sized picture of a dark-haired boy with his front teeth missing. He was their kid but he disappeared. Mrs. Smythe fiddles with the picture a lot.

  Eric tries to sneak up behind me. His socks make a slithering sound on the floor. I duck just in time and hit him in the stomach.

  He doubles over. He has a towel stretched between his hands. His choking game. He punches at me, but I hop out of the way. His fist hits the hot stove. Yelling, he jerks his hand back. I race out of the kitchen and down to the basement. Eric follows me, screaming my name. “Come out, you chicken,” he says. “Come on out and fight.”

  I keep still behind a stack of plywood. Eric has the towel ready. After a while, he goes back upstairs and locks the door behind him.

  I stand. I can’t hear Mom and Dad. They must have gone out to celebrate the big catch. They’ll probably find a party and go on a bender until Monday, when Dad has to go back to work. I’m alone with Eric, but he’ll leave the house around ten. I can stay out of his way until then.

  The basement door bursts open. I scramble under Dad’s tool table. Eric must be stoned. He’s probably been toking up since Mom and Dad left. Pot always makes him mean.

  He laughs. “You baby. You fucking baby.” He doesn’t look for me that hard. He thumps loudly up the stairs, slams the door shut, then tiptoes back down and waits. He must think I’m really stupid.

  We stay like this for a long time. Eric lights up. In a few minutes, the whole basement smells like pot. Dad will be pissed off if the smoke ruins the white marten. I smile, hoping it does. Eric will really get it then.

  “Fuck,” he says and disappears upstairs, not locking the door. I crawl out. My legs are stiff. The pot is making me dizzy.

  The woodstove is cooling. I don’t open it because the hinges squeal. It’ll be freezing down here soon. Breathing fast, I climb the stairs. I crack the door open. There are no lights on except in our bedroom. I pull on my jacket and sneakers. I grab some bread and stuff it in my jacket, then run for the door but Eric is blocking it, leering.

  “Thought you were sneaky, hey,” he says.

  I b
ack into the kitchen. He follows. I wait until he is near before I bend over and ram him. He’s slow because of the pot and slips to the floor. He grabs my ankle, but I kick him in the head and am out the door before he can catch me. I take the steps two at a time. Eric stands on the porch and laughs. I can’t wait until I’m bigger. I’d like to smear him against a wall. Let him see what it feels like. I’d like to smear him so bad.

  I munch on some bread as I head for the exit to the highway. Now the snow is coming down in thick, large flakes that melt when they touch my skin. I stand at the exit and wait.

  I hear One Eye’s beat-up Ford long before I see it. It clunks down the road and stalls when One Eye stops for me.

  “You again. What you doing out here?” he yells at me.

  “Waiting for Princess fucking Di,” I say.

  “Smart mouth. You keep it up and you can stay out there.”

  The back door opens anyway. Snooker and Jim are there. One Eye and Don Wilson are in the front. They all have silver lunch buckets at their feet.

  We get into town and I say, “Could you drop me off here?”

  One Eye looks back, surprised. He has forgotten about me. He frowns. “Where you going this time of night?”

  “Disneyland,” I say.

  “Smart mouth,” he says. “Don’t be like your brother. You stay out of trouble.”

  I laugh. One Eye slows the car and pulls over. It chokes and sputters. I get out and thank him for the ride. One Eye grunts. He pulls away and I walk to Mrs. Smythe’s.

  The first time I saw her house was last spring, when she invited the English class there for a barbecue. The lawn was neat and green and I only saw one dandelion. There were rose bushes in the front and raspberry bushes in the back. I went with Tony and Craig, who got high on the way there. Mrs. Smythe noticed right away. She took them aside and talked to them. They stayed in the poolroom downstairs until the high wore off.