Because Read online

  BECAUSE

  A LYRIC MEMOIR

  Joshua Mensch

  FOR MY PARENTS AND MY SISTERS

  CONTENTS

  I. DON

  II. BECAUSE THE ROOM WAS MANY

  1989

  1990

  1991

  1992

  1993

  1994

  1996

  1997

  1999

  III. JERICHO

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Adjusting type size may change line breaks. Landscape mode may help to preserve line breaks.

  BECAUSE

  If I had a thousand tongues,

  I could tell a thousand different stories

  and all of them would be true;

  I

  DON

  1.

  Were it not for a cabin

  on Cape Breton Island

  with only mist

  to break the tree-lined

  horizon; were it not

  for the two of us:

  I was twelve

  and together we read

  Homer’s Iliad (not The Odyssey) —

  though mostly Don

  read aloud to me;

  his gorgeous voice,

  his bathrobe slipping off

  his stiff, shiny shins,

  his legs like white

  radish stalks speckled

  with long wiry hairs,

  while outside snow

  hugged the forest

  and a deep fog rose

  around the top of the hills,

  the snow thick and wet,

  ideal for throwing,

  and every once in a while

  the deep silence

  would be interrupted

  by a crack like gunfire

  as another spruce

  snapped under its weight,

  bark shrapnel and rolling

  sound ricocheting

  up the narrow valley

  till it reached our meadow,

  an eight-sided cabin

  with a black stove

  that wrapped us in heat

  and made our knees itch,

  flame-pulsed logs

  lighting our limbs with

  nail-width lines of blood;

  2.

  At night he’d read to me

  from The Tracker,

  a chapter at a time,

  then tell stories

  about his childhood

  in Kansas, the endless

  fields and grinding

  oil wells, floods

  that washed away

  low-lying houses

  and poor people

  with them,

  his father

  whom everyone loved

  but him,

  his fat mother,

  his unhappy sisters;

  he’d read to me

  and tell me

  about my parents

  whom he knew

  at school in Toronto,

  about a woman

  named Carmen

  and the man

  she thought

  was the devil,

  about his wife, Lorna,

  and her head

  full of brains, about

  the small college

  in New Mexico

  where the fun

  ended when

  evil Dean Neidorf

  blew a tumor

  and had everyone fired,

  then sent poison-

  pen letters after them:

  Don, Lorna,

  even my dad, anyone

  who wouldn’t give

  him a blow job;

  3.

  He’d show me

  dirty movies

  to inspire me

  to try harder

  with my body,

  for it was truly

  impressive

  how a guy could shoot

  his wad that far —

  it didn’t matter that

  I didn’t have a wad

  yet but sometimes

  a small pearl

  of clear lube

  appeared at the tip

  and he licked

  it off, because that

  was my accomplishment,

  and even though

  it wasn’t ready yet

  he was proud of me;

  I knew the names

  of animals,

  the silhouettes of birds

  and the sounds

  an engine makes

  when climbing up

  a hill; I could tell

  what gear and how

  far away his truck was

  and had memorised

  the avionic controls

  of the fighter jets

  that patrolled the coast;

  he showed me how

  to fashion a battery

  from a potato,

  how to flood an engine;

  I told him

  the speed of a bullet

  under water,

  the speed of the earth

  around the sun;

  he told me that

  floating in space

  in orbit

  was nothing more

  than endless falling;

  II

  BECAUSE THE ROOM WAS MANY

  Reston, 1989 – Summer

  Because the room is bright,

  sky-lit, painted white

  with a mirrored wall

  and a queen-sized bed;

  because it is July,

  hot, and I am half-

  undressed already;

  because I let him

  undress me the rest of the way, look

  when he tells me to look,

  says look at yourself,

  aren’t you beautiful?;

  because I am disgusted

  by the word beautiful,

  a word for babies and girls,

  a word for sisters,

  for my mother;

  because I dive deep

  into the bed and let it swallow me,

  and then pull him down

  so that it swallows him, too;

  Times Square, 1991 – Fall

  Because the room is small, damp

  cold clinging to our skin

  like the dew on the TV,

  every surface wet

  from the AC; because outside

  the city is cooking

  and we have to keep the television loud

  to drown out

  the air conditioner’s rattle,

  which won’t stop (we won’t stop it)

  and wait for night to fall

  so we can finally go out —

  Times Square lit up, a glittering

  current of bodies

  and glass, where three feet

  in any direction

  gets you lost, so he wants

  to hold my hand,

  which is embarrassing;

  because he uses the word

  kidnapped when I won’t let him

  and says, You don’t know

  what some people are capable of —

  and it’s true, I don’t,

  with Don the night is always

  half-awake, when we sleep

  he wakes me in my dreams;

  North Grant, 1992 – Spring

  Because the room is spare,

  in an annex to the house

  where no one discovers us,

  where no one can hear me

  hold my breath then let it go

  — like a river, like a flood;

  Meat Cove, 1992 – Summer

  Because the room is not a room

  but a tent near the edge

  of a cliff; because the wind won’t stop;

  because we wake up
/>
  in a pile at the bottom of the tent,

  the stakes nearly out,

  the lines taut; because in the dream

  I am having I fail to resist,

  or my resistance turns

  into something else;

  because it’s daybreak, and the birds

  are starting up; because

  the other boys are awake and want

  to go whale watching;

  because breakfasts need to be made

  and someone calls

  his name, so his hand quickens;

  because I come quick

  as his hand, which is a hammer;

  San Cristóbal, 1993 – Spring

  Because the room is high-ceilinged,

  airy and loose, cracked

  paint flaking from high, white-

  washed walls, crumbling

  brick underneath, in one corner

  a pocket of blood-hued

  baby spiders; because I smear

  the wall with their tiny

  bodies and it looks like I cut

  my hand; because the house

  isn’t a house but an old colonial

  hotel in San Cristóbal,

  a single fan rocking gently

  from the centre of the ceiling,

  he lets me sleep, but my fever

  is deep, hallucinatory,

  and before long a doctor is called;

  1989

  Reston, 1989 – Summer

  Because the room is the room

  on the top floor of a house

  in Virginia where we live

  for a year until we move;

  because a guest is there,

  and it’s not my smelly aunt

  but my father’s best friend;

  because I am ten

  and I have no friends;

  because he says

  he wants to be my friend;

  because he invites me

  to come to his camp

  and my parents say yes;

  because we are moving again

  so it’s really convenient

  for everybody;

  because when I talk

  he actually listens

  to what I say;

  because he invites me

  up to his room

  to sit with him

  on the queen-sized bed

  with its light pink spread;

  because the bed

  contains the four of us,

  the two that are here

  and the two in the mirror;

  because we watch ourselves

  being watched by each other

  and he makes it seem

  hilarious; because I tell him

  about the girl I like

  and for once no one laughs;

  because he asks me

  if I want to know

  what a vagina feels like,

  and I suddenly really do;

  because he offers

  to show me, but only

  if I promise not to tell,

  and so I promise, which is easy

  since what he’s offering

  is what I want, or at least

  what I think will be amazing;

  because when it happens

  I am literally amazed;

  because his hand moves faster

  than any hand should move

  it’s like I’m leaving the earth,

  like the earth is not

  a real thing anymore;

  because it’s over

  as soon as it starts,

  and when it burns,

  he tells me this pain is the sharpest

  part of pleasure;

  because you glimpse yourself

  in the mirror,

  sprawled across the lap

  of a bearded man

  whose hands grace your neck,

  your legs, your chest;

  because where there was skin

  now there is rupture,

  and no one can see it but you,

  so your promise

  must be the glue

  that binds this new body

  to the rest of you;

  because dinner is ready

  and it’s time to move;

  because your mother

  is calling you; because your

  father is calling you;

  because it’s time to move;

  Air Atlantic, 1989 – Summer

  Because the room is the cabin

  of a plane that carries

  me to him, clouds falling up

  like rain in reverse

  as the plane descends; because

  the room is an island

  where Don is waiting; because

  the fog is heavy and

  the ground arrives with a bump,

  trees materialising

  out of the mist and the slick

  runway screaming back

  as its engines grind to a halt

  in Sydney, Cape Breton

  Island, a three-hour drive

  from the Margaree Valley

  where Don’s camp nests

  deep in the hills that ring

  the valley floor, a place called

  Forest Glen, far away

  from electricity and cars, parents

  and their rules, where

  boys can run naked and play

  Indian; because for months

  this was all I looked forward to,

  and the fifteen minutes

  it takes the plane to come to a stop

  on the tarmac, the extra five

  to grab my backpack

  and file down the narrow

  aisle to the door, descend the steps

  to the wet asphalt

  and walk the remaining yards

  to the terminal where

  Don waits on an orange seat

  studying a map of the island,

  half a dozen boys slouched

  about him like restless

  dogs, ends in a moment of silence;

  because arrival is always

  accompanied by silence; because

  I am new to this camp

  and the others clearly aren’t;

  because still more

  are coming, which means more

  waiting, more staring

  at my feet, more hands to shake;

  Fishing Cove, 1989 – Summer

  Because the room is the tent that

  I built three times

  to get it right, twisting each pole

  through its proper hoop;

  because I had to carry this

  tent and my own food and

  my own water and my own wet

  clothes twelve kilometres

  through a damp jungle of ferns,

  grass and fiddleheads,

  sinking into the soft moss between

  thickets of black spruce;

  because I actually crapped myself

  along the way and now

  there’s a picture of me holding

  my stained underwear

  on a stick, with G. and M. grinning

  beside me; because this

  is the kind of accident Don finds

  unbearably cute (of course

  I tried to hide it under a bush,

  and of course G. ratted

  me out — whatever you pack in

  you have to pack out);

  because Fishing Cove is gorgeous

  and remote, truly unspoiled;

  because the first thing fifteen boys

  do in an unspoiled place

  is try to spoil it, so we play tag

  loudly and pee in the river

  and bury our trash when Don is

  not looking; because

  I’m finally making friends

  and I want to be the baddest

  of them all, so I throw

  my shitty underwear

  into the fire, where it stinks like a

 
smokey fart; because

  Don wants me to stay with him

  but G. and M. and K.

  and R. want to be with him, too,

  so in the end we pile up

  together; because we find bear prints

  in the mud around our

  campsite the next morning and beg

  Don to let us track it;

  because for the last two weeks

  we’ve been hard at work

  building bows and arrows

  and believe we have

  what it takes to catch a bear;

  because we’re all secretly

  relieved when Don forbids us

  from doing anything

  that could get him sued;

  because this is camp life,

  loud and rowdy and gross,

  and for once, we are free

  to pretend we are not afraid

  of the dark — out here,

  where the stars spread their milk

  across the sky,

  every shadow is a predator,

  but Don always keeps us

  safe by his side;

  Forest Glen, 1989 – Summer

  Because the room is made of wood,

  whole logs stripped and stacked

  and joined to form an octagon;

  because it is an hour’s hike

  from the nearest house; because it’s

  so dark at night my eyes

  can’t adjust no matter how hard

  I try; because we aren’t

  alone — maybe half a dozen boys,

  some my age, most a bit

  older, are passed out on the floor

  in their sleeping bags,

  black lumps to be felt with a foot,

  verified by a snore;

  because the air is thick

  and my heart jumps

  until all I hear is blood;

  because we’ve been playing

  this game for weeks, the game

  in which we play uncovered,

  right in front of everyone,

  but have to be quiet;

  1990

  St. Andrews JHS, 1990 – Fall

  Because the room is not a room

  but a bathroom stall where

  your enemies have installed you

  (or, rather, re-installed

  you) for the fifth day in a row;

  because your stupid nose

  is bleeding like an open faucet

  (it does this randomly)

  and you’ve already clogged the toilet

  with an entire roll

  of toilet paper; because the bowl

  is overflowing now

  and soon there’ll be shrieks

  from the girls doing their

  own hiding in neighbouring stalls;

  because this is the school

  you go to, where you eat lunch

  in the library, where it’s quiet,

  discreetly stuffing down the sandwich

  your father made for you;

  because you can’t stay here forever —

  when the bell rings

  there is still the long hallway,

  its endless rows of lockers;