Any Day Now

by Denise Roig

  At some earlier, more forgiving moment, she and Jerome agreed to keep his indiscretions a secret from them. Martine is sorry now because what it looks like is that Mom’s absolutely barking (get that woman some drugs) and Dad’s just a hassled guy.

  “Why do you give him such a hard time?” Steffen asked this morning when Martine slipped on juice Jerome had spilled and failed to wipe from the kitchen floor. She’d slid into the wall, stomped and yelled. Jerome came running, looking really sorry.

  “Get your head out of wherever it is,” she shrieked.

  Afterward, her throat hurt, the boys slunk off to school and Jerome stayed to talk. “I know you’re very, very angry at me. And I know that you might not ever be able to forgive me. And I might have to live with that. And that you might even decide to leave. And that this might be the best thing for you.” Lately Jerome has begun to talk like this. Nothing contradicts. All things exist simultaneously. And and and…

  He picked at a Pop-Tart left on Stef’s plate, crossed his legs — a flash of crotch through the old robe — adjusted his glasses, sprung out from wearing them on his head to read scores, and ran his beautiful (bowing) hand through the greying curls. She’d loved all these details once. Her rumpled music meister.

  “Really, sweetie, if you don’t start talking to Harry, we might as well do something else.” Jerome licked the crumbs from the plate, looked up to smile and shrug. The kitchen, the one they’d spent nearly a year designing and renovating, was absurdly cheery with morning light.

  “You know,” he said, “these things taste pretty good.”

  “You know,” she said, “you have no taste.” She retrieved his plate, knowing it would stay there all day otherwise. “I thought you had a rehearsal this morning.”

  “This is more important,” he said and got up to unzip her slacks.

  He had no rehearsal, it turned out, so coaxing her back to bed was no sacrifice. Dumb body, she thought as she came.

  Now in the parking lot outside Harry’s office, trying to organize what remains of their day, Martine suddenly grabs the shoulder of Jerome’s sweater, a sweater, she realizes, she hasn’t seen before. “Don’t ever do this to me again, do you understand?”

  “We have a lot to work out,” says Jerome, letting her hand stay there. “We both need to disclose more. That’s what Harry says and I agree. And you know, it’s not like I had sex with any of those women to do something to you. It’s my own stuff.”

  “You know what I would like?” she says. She sees Harry walking toward them…no, toward a car. Harry raises a silent hand, but Martine doesn’t let go.

  “Tell me,” says Jerome, eyes weary.

  “I would like to stop selling the notion of fidelity. Come on down and check out our terms: secure woman, happy kids, peaceful home, long-term satisfaction. All you have to do is keep it to yourself. And, by the way, Harry just drove off in a brand new Mercedes.”

  Jerome takes her hand — not to hold it, to remove it, though she doesn’t feel like letting go just yet. “I really want to be in your corner, Martine. But you have to be in your own corner first.”

  “Oh, cut the psycho-babble,” she says, but what she’s hearing is the sober way he’s just said her name.

  In the van, the tears run cold into her turtleneck. It’s November, the beginning of things she doesn’t enjoy: bleak skies, the six-month chill in the bones, Christmas shopping. And the worst thing: Nutcracker.

  Last year, in Jerome’s ninth season as first violinist with the Symphony, the Sugar Plum Fairy had fairly bouréed them into the ground. Bram was in the middle of hockey season (he was good, all his coaches said, which meant they were committed to four nights’ practice a week, six months of the year); Stef was having a hard time adjusting to the new, private school they’d thought would better suit his learning style; Martine was marking like a maniac and dodging her department head who was threatening to fatten her teaching load if she didn’t get that second book published now. And Jerome was out every night at rehearsals. Life bulged at the best of times: a houseful of people doing and doing. They’d made jokes all season about going nuts, cracking up, about Nutcracker being a nuts-cracker, and Jerome had even put forward the idea of not doing it the following year.

  But here they are, two days after their parking-lot confab, at the pre-Nutcracker party with ballet dancers, ballet mavens, even non-glamorous sorts like first violinists swooping down on giant platters of bruschetta and shrimp. It’s an annual gesture of goodwill before the tantrums and crises. Martine knows nearly everybody by now, though each year there’s a new crop of dancers, younger and younger yet. This year’s Sugar Plum and her partner look minuscule, fittingly like dolls come to life. The girl, blonde hair in a severe (but sexy) ponytail, tiny diamonds glinting in her ears and a non-stop smile on her triangular little face — absolutely edible, Martine decides — leans against the baby grand, duly dusted for the night.

  Martine sits in the kitchen talking to Ozzie, who owns a Chrysler dealership and gives megabucks for a program that takes Nutcracker into local schools. “You’ve got kids, so you know what I mean,” he’s saying. “Of course, your kids have you and Jerome. They’re exposed to music and dance and good books. Kids these days…” he shrugs. They’re talking about adolescent enchantment, the lack of it. “Maybe this helps,” Ozzie says.

  Martine has always liked Ozzie, though she’s not sure the obsessed Clara and her prince in white tights and jockstrap are any competition for Yu-Gi-Oh and Mary-Kate and Ashley. Last year, Bram had whined, “Do we have to go? We’ve seen it, like, a gazillion times.” This year Bram is getting out of it because of hockey. And she’s had to release Steffen, too, because she doesn’t have the energy for resistance.

  Ozzie’s being called to say a few words. As she watches him duck bodies and plates to get to the piano, Martine spots Jerome at the piano. Next to him is Sugar Plum. His body is bent toward her, a kind of supplication.

  “Take your time,” Martine tells stressed-out students before an exam. “Don’t forget to breathe.” Well, she has taken her time. She watches Jerome, smiling, nodding. He bounces on his heels, moving as much as an Act One Snowflake. The girl drops her head and he puts his hand on her shoulder, the tell-me-anything older man. A prince.

  Martine walks to them. The girl looks up.

  “Martine!” Jerome says. His face registers not-pleased surprise, but he’s the master of the quick recovery. “Honey, I want you to meet Stephanie Auclair, our Sugar Plum.”

  “Daddy,” says Martine. “Can we go home, please?”

  The girl looks at them. She laughs. Then because they don’t, because they don’t even smile, she backs away.

  Jerome looks at Martine for a long moment. “I’ll get your coat,” he says.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” she says.

  “What’s this about?” he asks in the car. It’s begun to snow. White feathers cover the windshield. The front seat feels frozen under her.

  “Pure EFT,” says Martine. “If you want to be liberated, treat your spouse like an adult. If you would rather stay married, try treating him or her like a child.”

  “You’ve twisted it around,” says Jerome. “We’re supposed to be children together. Don’t come to me as a whiny little girl. Don’t come to me demanding your own way.”

  “I said ‘please.’ I said, ‘Daddy, please,’” Martine says. She’s playing with him still, but it’s not funny now.

  “I can’t even talk to a woman,” says Jerome. “She wasn’t even a woman, for God’s sake. She was a girl, a very sweet girl.”

  “But I’m a girl,” says Martine, and as she says this, she feels her heart breaking.

  “I am not the father here!” Jerome shouts. He hasn’t shouted at her in years — he is not a shouter — and the sound of his anger, of his no longer loving her, is worse than all the confessions.

  Ways of Being

  Village des Valeurs

  Willem had thrown another of his tantrums �
�� “No blue! Red!” — as they packed him off to daycare. “But you don’t have red boots, Willem. You only have blue boots,” Bax had tried to tell their son. They would start out this way, reasonable, rational humans. Not that Willem seemed to notice whether they were calm or raging. When Willem, four and autistic and the cutest thing on two legs, wanted something — red boots, vanilla (not chocolate) pudding, dental floss even though he choked on it, the $60 teddy bear in the store now, the moon, why not the moon? — life stopped. The want machine, Pamela called him. When the wants piled up impossibly, they moved into war mode, with Willem sent to the corner where he screamed and banged his head against both walls, Pamela and Bax checking their watches from the trenches. Fifteen seconds of silence — self-regulation, Dr. Forrest called it — and he’d be set free. Time out. Time out for whom? Pamela sometimes wondered.

  But now here at the stoplight on St. Catherine, which for an instant had turned into the face of Julian Forrest, Willem’s child psychologist — brilliant, browbeating and behavioural all the way — Pamela knew she wasn’t going to any appointment, and certainly not an appointment to discuss the behaviour of the beast behind her. She turned the van around in the middle of the intersection, barely looking both ways first, and flipped off a man at the corner who was watching and shaking his head. The van fishtailed. It was late March. Why was there still ice on the roads?

  “Bad morning,” she told Emily, Willem’s daycare teacher. The kids were in a huddle around Emily and an Arthur book. Willem was no longer thrashing, looked instead like he’d been thrashed, dark under the eyes, sullen.

  “Willem, we missed you!” Emily crowed. “Didn’t we, guys?” The other kids looked uncertain about this, but they made a place for him in the circle anyway. They were sensitized kids, used to Willem’s whims by now. Willem accidentally trod on someone’s finger and there was a yelp.

  “Hope it gets better,” Emily whispered as Pamela backed out of the room and prayed Willem wouldn’t suddenly turn clingy. It was sometimes his way of making up. Emily was young, twenty-two, tops, and her face was sweet with the kind of love Pamela was sure she’d never feel again. She got in the van, drove a block, parked, had a good scream, and after that, contrite, let the tears fall.

  “I’ll never get through to him, never,” Bax had said that morning, as he’d stooped over the boy who had blue boots and wanted red. He’d pushed Willem’s foot in, hard, and Willem had shrieked louder. They didn’t kiss goodbye — not enough emotion left for that — and Pamela had dragged their son down the stairs.

  She let her head drop now against the steering wheel. She could go home. Bax would just be getting out of the shower. She could show up, make some excuse about having gotten the dates wrong for Forrest, whip off her clothes, give him a hand job, give him a blow job. Make him moan. Make him happy. Make him love her again. A strenuous fantasy. She sat on, letting time make it impossible.

  Wasn’t Joanie off from work this week? She could drop over for a rare morning coffee. Joanie always had fabulous coffee and cookies, and Pamela could tell her all about this morning and Joanie would nod and get that poor-darling look on her face and then Pamela would ask about Nathan and his last chemo and they’d sink together — CBC Radio playing its comfort in the background — until they would both have to conclude, hands-down: Life’s a bitch, but what are you going to do?

  Someone was coming toward the car, someone was walking down the middle of the frozen street, someone was walking and waving. Pamela recognized the smile, the hat, but not who they belonged to.

  Now the hat was at her window, the smile was in her face, and Pamela sank the little bit left there was to go. Of all the people in the world God could have chosen to send her, he would send this one on the worst morning of her life so far this week. She tried to get the window down, but the power mechanism had died the week before, the thing going frrrrrp and not moving a smidge. In that moment it seemed as large a heartache as a child who only wanted, rarely gave. Pamela opened the car door.

  “Greetings!” beamed Gunnie, fellow worshipper at St. Augustine’s and certifiable. “Can I have a lift?”

  Pamela wondered if she could put the van into drive and skid off without injuring anyone. “Where are you headed?”

  “Anywhere,” said Gunnie.

  Pamela said a prayer that was more like a threat and reached over to open the other door.

  “I bet you think that’s pretty crazy, don’t you, that I don’t have a destination?” said Gunnie, climbing in. She smelled like something edible. Not a bad smell, but edible.

  “Not really,” said Pamela. “The truth is…” But she didn’t want to get into it with this strange person. She would drive around and drop her off somewhere central, near a Métro, buy her a ticket if necessary, a strip of tickets, get her on her way, because what she didn’t need this morning was another crazy person.

  Gunnie, decked out like an antebellum heroine in her wide-brimmed hats and long, flowered skirts — even in winter — petitioned each Sunday in church for help in her slipping-down life. First it was cancer, then getting evicted, then a fire in the friend’s place where she was staying. Lately, as if all the disasters couldn’t be listed anymore, she’d begun to pray out loud: “Jesus Lord, please remove all my poverties!”

  From the beginning, from the first day Gunnie had walked into St. Augustine’s, she’d fluttered around Willem, waving at him, trying to touch him. “What’s his problem?” she asked. Pamela was used to all varieties of reactions to her son: stares from the less sophisticated, careful concern from the more, and everything in between. The truth was Pamela didn’t much like any of the reactions. She didn’t much like the problem.

  “He’s autistic,” Pamela explained as she tried to talk to the woman, outlandish in her sun hat and too-dark foundation. “Plus he’s hyperactive and has global developmental delays. His speech…” blah, blah, blah. She sounded now, after nearly three years, like a medical précis.

  “You mean he’s retarded,” said Gunnie. “Poor kid.” She tried to stroke Willem’s cheek, but he darted around her.

  Pamela must have answered something as she hurriedly began collecting Willem’s little trucks from the pew and the pieces of pretzel he’d scattered during mass. Maybe she’d said, “That’s not what we call it.” Or, “He’s actually very smart, probably smarter than you.” Pamela didn’t remember now what she’d said, although it was probably something neither exceptionally friendly nor exceptionally brave. Whatever she did say, Gunnie was still standing there in the now-empty church, smiling under her hat, and in no hurry to leave.

  “Have you ever heard of colonics?” she’d asked. “They stick a hose up your ass” — she looked up at the stations of the cross as if in apology — “and pump in a load of nice, hot water. Takes the shit right out of you. Maybe they could help your little boy.”

  Over the next Sundays Pamela learned that it was fatal — even in church, even with God’s endless compassion as her protection — to say to this woman, “Hi, how are you?”

  “Where would you like to go?” Pamela asked again as they reached the stop sign on Monkland Avenue.

  “Tell you in a minute,” said Gunnie, who had closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. “I’m asking Jesus Lord.” Her hat — synthetic orange straw with a fuchsia-print bandana — crumpled around her ears.

  “I like your hat,” said Pamela.

  “I do, too,” said Gunnie. “That’s why I wear it.” Then, as if worried, she sat up straight and looked at Pamela. “But is it appropriate for winter?”

  “Does it keep your head warm?” Be logical, thought Pamela, answer logically. Otherwise, there will be two lunatics driving around in a van with a broken window, nowhere to go, asking Jesus Lord where to take them next.

  She turned right at the stoplight, heading not for the nearest Métro stop, Villa Maria, but the next nearest, Vendôme. She didn’t want Gunnie to feel totally unwelcome. She had it all planned out now: she’d
park on Marlowe, go into the Métro station with Gunnie, get money out of the guichet, do the slightly extravagant thing with the strip of tickets, maybe even buy her a juice and muffin in the station’s little depanneur. The plan made her, in that moment, feel almost good.

  “How’s your boy?” asked Gunnie. And it was gone. Happiness in the last few years was a drive-by experience. What she mostly lived in was a sad/anxious/guilty/mad hum. Anxious like now, mad and guilty like this morning. Sad, like always. Chronic sadness, Joanie called it once, and Pamela had wept at the recognition. Joanie knew about chronic sadness, with Nathan duking it out with a brain tumour, round three.

  “Not so good,” said Pamela.

  “Tell Gunnie about it.”

  They were only a few blocks from the Métro now. It was a wind tunnel on this part of de Maisonneuve, people hurtling through the cold, nearly doubled over. “We had a huge fight with him this morning,” Pamela said, regretting each word as she said it.

  “Fights are never good,” said Gunnie. “Me, I should know. Lord Jesus doesn’t want us fighting.”

  “He’s so obstinate, so stuck,” Pamela said. “He lands somewhere, someplace totally unreasonable, and then we can’t get him back.”

  “Maybe it’s good enough where he is,” said Gunnie.

  “That’s actually not very helpful, Gunnie,” said Pamela, thinking wrong person. Wait till she told Bax about this, but then she remembered that as far as Bax knew, they were at that moment getting cured. She’d never even made it to a phone to call Dr. Forrest’s office with an excuse: We have a dead battery, we have a strep throat, we have a complete failure to cope.