by Casey Plett
“Yeah. Like my Opa’s dad. Or Henry’s dad. My great-grandfather. Or whatever.”
“Aw, he was a hoot,” he said. He took a long pull on his beer and leaned back in his chair.
Yes, Wendy thought.
“Kinda jealous when it came to his wife, which was weird.”
“Why weird?”
He shrugged. “People didn’t really bone each other’s wives in those days. Well, people did, but it wasn’t even something you’d imply. I dunno if that makes any sense. You know, it would just be improper to even joke about any flavour of it. Maybe like—” he gestured up and down his daughter’s body, “your shit. I’m trying to say it wouldn’t be on people’s radar. Plus there’s Biblical connotations with jealousy. Anyway, it was always a little awkward. Why?”
“Don’t know much about the guy. Grandpa never talked about his dad.”
Ben scratched his stubble. Her father had such a leathery face. “He was very religious,” he finally said. “The jealousy thing was more a quirk. He was humble for the most part. I guess like most men around there, that time. He was quiet. Funny when you didn’t expect it. Smart, but—couldn’t do anything about it. By the time the church okay’d doing shit besides farming, he was just too old. I think he always wanted to go to school.” He remembered something and raised a finger. “He was afraid of money. He couldn’t deal with having the stuff. Some’d argue there’s something to be said for that, though I disagree. He died in ’83. And my dad and him got close just before then. Your Opa was always next door.”
Ben remembered something else and nodded up and down. “It was a big deal that he gave the land to my uncle Peter. Should have seen my mum blow her lid about it. Because the gravel companies got interested in our land—oh, probably ’80, ’81. You know my grandpa made over a million dollars in those last few years before he died? And he gave it all, and I mean all, to fuckin’ MCC. He kept like a fraction, barely anything. There was almost nothing for us when he kicked it. A lot of people didn’t like that. Self included, honestly. I think he figured my uncle Peter would split it up. Though that’s definitely not how it ended up working out. Who knows. He died, the will said what it said, my grandma didn’t know anything. Like I said, Grandpa was afraid of money. He didn’t want to have to deal with it.”
“I had no idea.”
“My dad wasn’t miffed about it,” said Ben. “He was in the thick of this weird religious period around that time.” His brow went dark. “Sometimes I wonder if maybe he was egging my grandpa on, saying leave him out of it, don’t give anything to his family, not him. Wouldn’t have been out of character.”
“What do you mean?”
“You probably would’ve had a better childhood if my dad thought to fight for his piece, for one. I hold something against him for that.” He finished his beer. “I gotta go to the bathroom.” He got up and Wendy stretched her cheeks with her hands, and for a few minutes her eyes didn’t focus on anything.
“I ordered you another beer, pardon the assumption,” Wendy said when he returned.
“Hi, have we met? I’m your dad.”
“Cheers.”
“So, anyway,” he sat down again, “as I was saying, before my grandfather died, my dad became very, very religious.. And my parents were always religious, but they were never fanatics. You know? That wasn’t them. They were just godly. I like to think of them like that,” he mused, nodding. “They were just good people. I know you and my mum had issues with your whole transgendering thing—but for the most part, they were just good. They never had the heart to be too extreme. They were never like my brothers, y’know? My brothers go to church and they’re Christians, but they’re not godly. My folks were godly.
“Except, like I said, there was this weird period with my dad. I think he was scared of losing my grandpa. Losing-losing him, like he wasn’t going to heaven. You know,” he said, settling back against his chair, “you were brought up differently, Wendy. When you were a Christian, all you heard was ‘Just accept Jesus into your heart,’ and that was it—you’re a Christian, and you’re ready for heaven.”
“It wasn’t all like that,” Wendy said.
“Yes, it was. You have no idea what I grew up with,” Ben said sharply. “You got nothing like what we got. Back then, nothing guaranteed you salvation. My grandfather would say that. ‘If I am admitted into heaven, it is only through the Grace of God.’ He said it a lot before he died. I think that was part of my dad getting all fiery for Christ. No—fiery isn’t the right word. Actually, maybe the opposite. He withdrew more. He spent a lot of time at the pits, and he spent a lot of time with his dad. Took him to his appointments in the city. It even bugged my mom. Once I was home for a bit, and she said, ‘Well, am I crazy or should Dad be spending more time at the house?’ In some ways, he was just being a good son, I guess. I sure wasn’t that good to either of my parents.”
Ben’s eyes got big and sad. He scratched his stubble again. “Anyway. My dad did speak to us less, and when he did it was always about Jesus. Not in an unkind way. Or even a judgmental way. But whatever you said, it came back with God wrapped around it. You know how there are some people like that, right? With anything, not just God. Everything you say to a person comes back with a certain tinge?”
“Yeah,” Wendy said. “Yeah, I do.”
Ben coughed deeply from his chest. “I wasn’t the easiest kid to raise, and I was kinda fucking off from the church ’round that point, and you know, my dad didn’t know how to handle that. He was just never a lay-down-the-hammer kind of guy, he just couldn’t do it. Even when he punished us, I don’t think he took joy in it. My mom was always the tougher one. You probably figured that out when you lived with them.”
“I didn’t really live with them …”
“You basically did,” he muttered. “Anyway, it was strange. He became almost ghostly for a few years. Church, work, his dad—that was it. He came back to us more after Grandpa died.”
“This is in the early eighties you said.”
“Yes. ’81, ’82. My grandpa died in ’83. You came shortly after, of course.”
“Did he ever leave for a while?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he ever skip town or—?”
“Oh, God no!” said Ben. “No, he never stopped providing, never stopped working; he was always there. He was always a good dad.” Ben trailed off and picked at the label on a bottle. “He was always around. I didn’t appreciate that like I should have.”
“It’s okay,” Wendy said soothingly. “We all have stuff like that. And that’s wonderful of him.”
“It was.”
The waitress came by with their food and they ate. Her dad was lost in thought.
“There was this one weird thing,” he said. “I was downtown one night at a bar after classes.” He coughed again and made hacking noises. “Just having a beer with my buddies. And then he walked in. Your Opa walked in the door of a bar.”
“Oh my God, what bar?” said Wendy.
“The Windsor.”
“Oh—”
“Well, every bar was probably all the same to him. I don’t think he was a fuckin’ closet blues fan or anything. But yeah. And he didn’t see me. He talked to the bartender, and then he left.”
“Ever find out what happened?”
“Too scared to ask him. All I know? Bartender said he’d been looking for someone who didn’t work there anymore.”
“Weird.”
“It was,” said Ben. He hack-coughed again. “Jesus.” He hit himself on the chest and a button on his shirt came undone. He was wearing purple flannel.
“Okay, here’s a question. Did Opa ever drink at all? Maybe in secret?” Wendy said.
He shook his head. “I never saw him drink in my life. It’s not impossible, I guess, but it wouldn’t make sense. He didn’t have bodily weaknesses. That I saw. Unlike, uh …” He put on a face that Wendy couldn’t decipher. “Unlike other members of his family.”
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“Well, that’s kind of admirable,” she said cheerily.
He shook his head. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
She laughed and pulled again on her beer. Wendy appreciated the soft steady slide of getting drunk on beer. Like slowly clicking down the volume on a TV show.
She checked her phone in the washroom. A text from Raina inviting her out with her girlfriend and—
Ernie: Sorry it’s been a few days. I had a good time with u. I’m busy for a while but let’s hang out next week?
She smiled big and touched her legs together. Cool heat flooded her stomach and through the rest of her body.
You give up too easy, she thought softly to herself. She hadn’t opened it and triggered the read receipt yet. So she would wait till tomorrow to text him back. Because—well, because. And in the meantime, oh, did she take delight in knowing, okay, so she’d see him again, she’d see him at least once. She really did like him.
Do it right this time, she thought. Go for dinner. Tuck in big before you have a few. Wear something classy.
She had a fatalism about this stuff—guys, dating—she had to fight. She fell too easily into fatalism, period. (There was a reason she avoided the Internet as much as she did.) How could men ever love her? She would never be loved, and now she thought, No. She thought, Do it right. She even set a reminder in her phone. 12:30 p.m.: Ernie. Do it right, love.
“It was like,” her dad said, a non-sequitur later in the night, both of them drunk and family talk long spiralled away, “when I was living with my mom a few years back—you remember that.”
“Yup.”
“Yeah, you were living on Spence by our old place. Anyway, I was living with her and she said, ‘I think you need to go see a therapist, I think you’re depressed.’ And I was like, ‘Dude, I’m forty-five years old and living with my mother. Of course I’m depressed.’ She didn’t appreciate that.”
He sat back and twisted around to look for the waitress. She wasn’t there. Ben looked at Wendy intensely. “You’ve always had pretty eyes,” he said suddenly. “That’s the one thing that’s never changed about you. I never understood how your mother and I made someone with such pretty grey eyes.”
Her dad wasn’t up for a night of it, so around ten, feeling pleasant and warm, beer-drunk and hazy, she walked through the Village and bought a mickey of vodka, then headed over the bridge and lazily snaked north and west, sloshing through the ocean of puddles, idly sipping, not wanting to go home, feeling lingering and peaceful. There were apartment buildings and houses and the constant far-off rush of cars and beams of light from Osborne and Portage and Broadway and Sherbrook. It was the time of night when everyone was walking around, people everywhere, night people. It was so strangely warm, she even had her coat open and let the air cool her. Everything was clear. On Furby a hook of flesh wrapped around her arm and suddenly her body was being tugged to the side. The guy said, Oh shit oh shit oh, you’re beautiful, oh I’m gonna fuck you. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. He was carrying a plastic bag with his other hand and talking incredibly fast. He was short, older, bits of grey hair. Wendy didn’t feel scared. She said, No, sweetie, no. The guy said, Ohhhh, I’m gonna fuck you. He pulled on her arm, trying to lead her somewhere, but it didn’t feel that hard. He was short enough that she could put her chin on his head. He was wearing a navy blue button-up paisley shirt. She said, I’m sorry, honey, I’m not going to do that. She kept walking. He didn’t let go. No no no no. I’m gonna fuck you. He sounded excited like he couldn’t control anything. She wasn’t afraid, but she instantly had the perfect lie and said, No, honey, I’m a working girl! And I charge money, and I’m very expensive. He steered her to a street behind the building and said Ohhhhhhhh, okay, I’ll pay, I’ll pay, okay okay okay. She said, I’m hundreds of dollars! I need four hundred dollars to do anything! He said, Okay, okay. I’ll get the money. She was drunk. She was so, so drunk. She was guided so easily. She tried to get away from him, but he was stronger than he looked. Okay. She would wait until he tried to get the money and then turn him down again and really say no and leave. They were sitting on the back stoop of a building. She didn’t realize they’d come here. She wondered if she could just talk to him. Maybe he was nice. The paint on the stoop was thick, globular, like bubbled oil. She acted nice and realized she really could just talk with him. She drank some of his beer. He took her hand and put it on his penis, which was out, she then saw. He put her hand over his dick and kept going. Mechanically she jerked him off, her brain barely catching up to what her body was doing. His face was twitching and convulsing as if electrified, as if he’d seen God. He dove with his hand for her cunt, and she swatted it away even as she was still jerking him off. Let me … your pussy, he moaned. NO! she said. She was foggy. Nothing except for that dive with his hand was registering as it was actually happening. She finally said, Hey, I need money! Her brain lifted her hand away. You told me you would give me money. I need my fucking money. He fumbled into his pocket for his wallet and desperately, while looking away in what strangely and momentarily looked like shame, held out a small fold of blue bills—five, maybe six of them. She snatched it and put it in her pocket. She thought to stand up and walk back to the street, but his hand was pulling her back again. He still seemed harmless. Wendy did not feel like her life was in danger. Everything in her head was swimming and submerged and operating so slowly and confusing, but she did not feel her life was in danger. She should get up. She should leave. He looked fearful and apprehensive, a look she recognized, and she said, You’re nice. Her hand was sticky. She didn’t realize he’d come. It was thinner and clearer than she’d ever seen, like coconut water. He looked down and up. Frightened. She leaned down, put her lips to his cock, and gave it a small, sweet peck. His come tasted like nothing. She sat back up and his face had wonder on it. He said, That was really nice of you. Automatically she said, Well, you’re nice. She took his beer and drank as much of it as she could, and then something steady and animal propelled her to her feet. I have to go. He said, Stay! Stay, as he pulled his pants up. She walked back to Furby, her nerves exploding, and her brain and skin were evaporating. She was having trouble thinking in words or sentences. She drained the finger of vodka still in the mickey and heard him talking, but he wasn’t closer to her, and the lights of Portage were close now. There was the Good Will. She was close to home, but she walked in and ordered a double. She drank it in seconds and ordered another. That one she drank at a regular pace. She saw the bartender and the other customers, kids her age, some younger, looking at her and trying not to look at her. She didn’t see anyone she knew, and they all looked so far away, blinking, distant constellations of other humans. She said to no one, How are you that old? Then she woke up in her bed with a headache. She was wearing the same dress, and her coat was on the floor. The sun was up.
10
Raina was walking her girlfriend out the door when Wendy went into the kitchen. She was hammered. Not hungover, not still vaguely drunk—hammered.
“Hey!” said Wendy.
“Good morning. Or good noon, I suppose,” Raina smirked. “And how are you?”
Wendy laughed and put her hand around the coffee pot and leaned into the cabinet. “I …” She didn’t know what to say and she could barely stand. Wendy tried to articulate what’d happened last night to Raina, but half-formed words evaporated inside her.
Raina looked up at Wendy’s mouth moving with no sound. A bemused expression came over the shorter girl’s face, like, Oh you.
Wendy realized the clock said noon.
It was Tuesday, she worked at one.
And Raina had her evening shift.
That was why they were both here.
“Work. We have to go to work,” Wendy said.
“I have some leftover coffee upstairs,” said Raina. “If you like. Genevieve didn’t drink hers.”
“Please, yes,” she said feebly, sinking to the floor. Raina chuckled and went upstairs.
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nbsp; Raina sat on the lone chair in the kitchen, reaching down to stroke Wendy’s hair. “Rough night,” said Raina.
Wendy tried words again.
Then she sipped the coffee, shaking her head. She breathed in and out, letting the microwaved liquid warm her. Raina nodded and continued to stroke her hair and said, “Beautiful girl.”
Wendy made a noise of gratitude and tried to say something again, but it was very, very difficult to do so.
Raina said, “I get it, my dear,” and started another pot in the machine. Wendy drank deeply from her cup and Raina went upstairs as the coffee burbled.
Wendy’s worst hangover in months began in her first hour of work, but she chatted and was friendly with customers all day and helped her manager do the schedule. “Do you want an extra shift?” he asked her. “We have someone leaving. I might be able to give one to you.”
“I heard someone was leaving,” said Wendy. “That hope did cross my mind.” He laughed. He said she was funny. Wendy was at thirty-two hours a week. “Anywhere it works,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
Then she asked, “Do you want to come to the mall with me on lunch?” She was so relieved when he said yes. They crossed the street in the dark together to the food court. She laughed when he blew root beer onto her face with a straw. Her phone still patiently bannered the hours-old reminder TXT ERNIE 12:30 P.M.
On her way back to the store, she texted him: Hello. Yes. I would definitely like to see you again wearing something classier than a raccoon costume. Tell me a day please. Dinner?
After her shift, she texted Raina: You home tonight? and got an instant response: Covering at work. Home in two hours. Just me tonight Wendy-burger, all yours.
Okay <3
She put down her phone and stared into the lit void of the parking lot.
Wendy got off the bus at Sherbrook with her phone in her gloved hand and waited for the light to change. A guy and an older woman stood on the curb with her, breath bright with streetlight.