Monoceros

by Suzette Mayr

  His grampa’s palm clamped to Ginger’s forehead that night in October. Ginger zipped open his backpack. Biology test next week. His index finger on the diagram of a bisected human heart. His cellphone purred. Another text from Furey. He clicked the text open. Never knew how easy, how normal, this could be.

  Gretta

  Your cunt falls out and all you have now is a battered locket. You think it might be eighteen-carat gold.

  Vase after vase of flowers — some cadmium yellow, some ultramarine rose, some so zinc white they poke their thorns inside you, all the colours pure— on a table in this room.

  You lie on your stomach on the couch, hearing the smell of the mars venetian red wood table polish, a low shriek of nails raking your eyeballs. The locket a large seed in your hand. So clear and cool, so lacking in doubt or blur.

  You remember holding your son’s hand one afternoon, you can’t remember when anymore, and even though you rarely pray you tried to pray to make him different. Why God, because who is this God who transforms your son into a homosexual and then takes him away, what kind of sadistic asshole can this God be, what have you done to deserve these punishments, why does He torture you and laugh at you this way. You would like to forget about this God entirely, you would like to splash layer after layer of Drano on Him and dissolve Him down the drain, but your mind creeps toward Him every time, like ivy, like mould, like a cockroach who’s eaten her way under a baseboard through the wall. Your jaws are tired from the chomping, your mouth dry from licking and chewing plaster. You want to taste the promised fruit. You want to push the fruit back into your womb.

  And your son let you hold his hand. While you made him promise that he wasn’t.

  The blues, his colour in death, in the couch fabric flash bright and clawing.

  You lurched around the blue grass carpet at the internment. Your hands fanning underwater, mottled coral, that obscene hole in the ground. Your fingernails cerulean blue.

  Saturday

  Max

  The time on the giant digital clock in front of the restaurant reads 70:12 p.m. Max pulls back his sleeve so he can see the fluorescent hands glowing on his watch: 12:45 p.m. The dead boy’s principal and his head guidance counsellor scoop up lentils and beef with torn bits of injera between their fingers. Max’s beer carbonates in front of him. He can feel his temper carbonating too, Walter refusing to come to the house, demanding they meet over lunch here in public. He drinks from his glass of water; the ice cubes bump against his lips. He would like to gnash an ice cube, but that would electrocute his teeth. He wipes his fingers on his napkin, glances at the door in the dim restaurant every time it swings open.

  The restaurant is a fifteen-minute walk away from their house, in the direction opposite their school. Their house a fortyfive minute drive from the school on a good day. Still a risk because teachers, staff and parents from St. Aloysius shop and eat all over the city. When he goes out with Walter he is always naked, they are always in someone’s crosshairs no matter what, even though Walter usually knows how to be discreet, and once upon a time even seemed to enjoy it, their couplehood a naughty, arousing secret. But nowadays, Walter screws up his mouth like an old grandma when Max says they’ll do takeout. Or delivery. — Or invite your badminton friends over for drinks, Max will say. — We don’t need to go to a party with those people.

  — But it’s a Tuesday/Monday/Thursday night, Max, Walter pouts. — We haven’t gone anywhere for two months/two and a half months/four months. Feels like nine years.

  — So what, Max answers. — You’re exaggerating. Walter like a sixteen-year-old girl flouncing into a temper because she’s not allowed to go to a bush party or a rave. Once every three months or so, Max capitulates, but they have to sit at the back of the restaurant, right next to the bathrooms and the repeatedly flushing toilets, so Walter can disappear if necessary.

  Once Max collided into a superintendent in the aisle of an airplane returning from St. John’s, Newfoundland. Once Max waited to buy a loaf of bread in the same grocery store line-up as an English teacher from his school when he and Walter were vacationing in Florida. But this restaurant doesn’t even have a sign, just a menu taped in the window. It could be a hardware store. Five years they’ve been eating here, incognito in Ethiopia.

  Walter refused to meet him at their house.

  Walter hammers food into his mouth, specks catching in the bristles of his goatee. Max nipping at bits, his pinches of food neat. The platter between them a hodge-podge of raw beef, cooked cabbage, lentils in sauce, beets all higgledy piggledy. Max wipes his mouth. Walter scooping handfuls of food into his mouth with his thick brown fingers, the bristly black hairs tufting the backs of his hands, Walter not even done chewing before he scoops in the next handful, Walter’s belly huge, oh, Max can hardly bear how much more there is of Walter, how much more of Walter there isn’t at home with Max in their proper home.

  — Joy tells me you have my picture on your desk, says Max, trying to sound casual, dabbing his napkin at an imaginary drop of sauce on the front of his golf shirt.

  — One I took two years ago when we went hiking, says Walter, chewing. He gives a small burp.

  — I don’t think a photograph is at all necessary, Max stammers.

  — It’s how couples act.

  — But the couple you’re referring to doesn’t act like that. And now you prop my face on your work desk without even asking me. Without telling me. You used to be so discreet. You loved to be discreet.

  Max remembers the horror, the titillation, of being in the same room as Walter at the school back when he and Walter first started dating. Max the new principal chairing a meeting and trying not to look at Walter, trying not to not look at Walter. The edge, the charge, the thrilling, sizzling reunion between Mr. Applegate and Mr. Boyle at the end of the workday back at Max’s house.

  Walter chews on a piece of curried goat meat.

  — You loved to be discreet, repeats Max.

  — I’m tired of it now, says Walter. — I’ve been getting tired of it for a while but I just didn’t know it.

  — You could have at least warned me.

  — It’s not illegal, says Walter, he takes another bite, licks his fingers one at a time, pop pop pop, his fingers gleaming with oil and spit.

  Max draws back from the table, his body tight. — Not illegal, but grounds for termination in a Catholic school.

  — So terminate me. That’ll be an awesome show.

  — This is unprecedented. This harassment is unwarranted.

  — Who’s harassing?

  Half-chewed food tucked inside Walter’s cheeks, slimy across his tongue. Max jolts in his seat.

  — You owe me an explanation, says Max. — For God’s sake, I’ve been worried sick about you. Don’t make me worry like that. How do I know you’re not back at the parks again?

  A toilet flushes, water rushing, sucking.

  — It’s too risky, Max says. Do you know what kind of pressure I’m under at the school? Max leans forward, Walter continuing to chew and scoop, pack his face with food, Max can feel fury and blood flooding his face. — Joy is asking me about our hiking trip. Joy!

  — So Joy said, says Walter. He tears off a piece of injera and scoops up a fingerful of raw beef. A small curl of meat plops into the lentils.

  The old lady from the till pushes and waddles through the bright green, yellow and red cloth in the hallway leading to the bathrooms, wiping her shiny wet hands on her skirt.

  Walter wipes his lips with a paper napkin and clears his throat. Quaffs from his orange juice. He scrapes the crumb of raw meat out of the lentil sauce toward himself. He wipes the pool of lentil with a piece of injera.

  — Why won’t you say anything? Just eating and eating and eating.

  — Okay, says Walter, suddenly stopping his food train. — This food is awesome.

  — Ugh, exhales Max. He fists his napkin into a ball. — The car accident’s going to cost over $4,000, the other person’
s vehicle and my vehicle all together.

  — Bad luck, says Walter. He coughs. Hacks. He sips from his glass of water.

  — I would really appreciate it if you removed my photo from your desk. It’s an unnecessary risk, it’s a foolish thing to do. And unwarranted.

  — Were you drinking when you were driving? Walter asks. He scrapes up the last of the lentils with a spoon and slides the spoon into his mouth. — I guess you were sober, says Walter. — Well, I’m just about done, he says, discreetly burping into his hand. — I’ll ask for the bill.

  — I haven’t finished eating yet. You’ve barely touched the beets even though you ordered them. What a waste of money. I want to order more injera. Remove my picture from your desk. Please. I am asking you. It’s a picture of me. It’s me there on your desk. Where I work. My picture, my job. Please.

  Walter plants his credit card on the corner of the table. — We’ll split the bill. I’ll figure out my share, he says.

  — Are you going to call me? asks Max, his voice low.

  — What for? Walter asks too loudly.

  — Are you going to remove it and stop this attack campaign? I’m not finding this enjoyable, as I think I’ve indicated to you already.

  The waiter refills his water glass, takes away Walter’s credit card.

  — Don’t use your principal voice on me, says Walter.

  — Why have you suddenly turned? When did I become the evil person?

  — We have become the evil people, Max.

  Max’s eyes sting. Walter pushes back his chair, twines his blue-and-white striped scarf around his neck. The snow’s melted, but February is back with its ice winds and mood flurries.

  — I’m really gratified that you decided to come out today, whispers Max.

  Max hops his chair to the right, in Walter’s direction, turning his back to the door of the restaurant, the other diners in their jubilant and romantic twos and threes, the music tooting through the speakers.

  — I’m glad you agreed to meet me for lunch, whispers Max, a little louder. A little.

  Walter buttons his coat. Stands waiting for his card.

  — Ah. Look, says Max. — I should have controlled my temper. The house is a much better place with you in it. That hovel of a condo? That’s not the right place for you. You need our home.

  Walter pulls on his toque, tugs it over his shiny, wide forehead.

  — Look. Why don’t we go back to the house and talk? I don’t think this kind of public place is conducive to proper conversation. Walter, whispers Max furiously, — I love you!

  — Mm hmm.

  Walter stands, dressed and ready to leave. Hands at his sides.

  Max draws back, fingers the edge of the tablecloth. — That response is unkind and unfriendly.

  — Well, if you want me to say something specific, you should ask the right question.

  — Do you feel the same about me?

  — I’m tired of our little Tupperware container life, Max.

  Max’s hands start to shake. — Isn’t there something I can do? Some action I can take?

  A long time, thirty-six full seconds according to Max’s watch, of Walter standing in his toque not answering. — Okay, says Walter. — Come to the bar with me.

  — All right. As long as it isn’t on a school night, all right, says Max. — We don’t live a Tupperware life, Walter. I take offence to your version of our life, he has to add.

  Walter rolls his eyes. — Dance with me at the bar. Can you do that?

  Of course Max can. How hard can it be? He has two feet. He wants to make a joke about dancing and bars and the reason Mennonites don’t dance is because dancing can lead to sex, or no, the reason Mennonites don’t have sex standing up is because it might lead to dancing, but by the time he’s figured out the wording, Walter has already got his credit card back. His signature a series of stabs into the paper.

  — Well then, says Walter. — See you at work, Mr. Applegate.

  He leans forward, his face too close to Max’s for this public space. — Where’s my goodbye kiss? he asks.

  Max grabs a slice of dripping beet with his fingers and stuffs it, whole, into his mouth.

  — I thought so, says Walter.

  — You’re needed at home, Max’s mouth blurts through the beet, but Walter’s already sauntering out the door, scarf pulled up over his nose. Max swallows. His mouth sprouting beet.

  Faraday

  Faraday would like just one Saturday night that isn’t purgatory. She writes about her hypothetical crush in her unicorn journal, about how the crush sends flowers to her (not lilies, she can’t stand lilies, not in any colour), how the crush picks her up from school and drops her off at home, texts her poems and love letters. Her crush makes her music CDs because the crush knows all about good music, but she doesn’t have to be embarrassed about how she sings along to Miley Cyrus on the radio when she and the crush are driving to make out somewhere— Faraday in her black lace, boy-cut underwear. The crush and Faraday have sex — that’s right, Faraday, have sex that isn’t imaginary or pathetically solo— like normal, well-adjusted human beings, at appropriate times and away from other people’s ears and eyes, and the kissing is skilled and dry, without too much tongue (she hates mushy tongue). Faraday’s also excellent and athletic in bed, a natural of course; she knows she’s a good kisser, the one person she’s kissed in her life told her she was a fantastic kisser, but then moved to another province. She’s terrified that if she finally has sex she’ll suck at it, and she doesn’t understand how she’s supposed to learn without first poking around the anatomy to figure out the coordinates. She knows how to make herself orgasm, but she’s just one person and she’s had a lot of practice in spite of her resisting the need as hard as she can. Her teachers teach them about how kidneys and eyeballs function, how Zoroastrians leave their dead to be eaten by vultures, but nothing she can use. Not how to give a good blowjob or get multiple orgasms. What semen or girl-cum truly tastes like. She can’t buy the speeches about abstinence and chastity with her parents fornicating their heads off all over the house, and her own mother told her she had already slept with Dave before she married him. Shirley and Dave had their first serious experience with each other when they were both seventeen.

  — But don’t use me or your father as an example, adds Shirley hurriedly. — If I could, I’d go back and wait until I married your father. Shirley’s hair flat on one side, Dave pretending he isn’t hiding under the covers in their bed. Waiting to do his wife again. No matter how much it damages the children. Her father who tells her that the secret to Sid the Kid Crosby’s attractiveness to young women like her is not that he is a stellar hockey player, but that he has the eyes of a woman. This is her father’s advice for how to find true love.

  Friday and Saturday nights are when Faraday’s body yawns wide open for a unicorn to lay its healing alicorn on the world. As Friday and Saturday nights draw closer, the way they do in their unrelenting cycle every week, the nights for falling in love, Faraday senses her hypothetical crush craving its sugar and caffeine, circling the city closer and closer; the circling agitates her, like period cramps, only a delicious, unquenchable pain. Then she unpacks another box of paper cups, stacks cartons of milk and cream in the Tim Hortons fridge.

  But in the lore, a unicorn will only accept a virgin as its companion, and if this crush ever returns her love, she will surely lose her unicorn chance. Brecken, her psychologist Linus Libby’s receptionist, told her unicorns are patriarchal crap about the sexual fetishizing of teenage girls, and that single horn is just one great big penis stand-in. — Isn’t it obvious? Sorry to break the news to you, Faraday. Then Brecken pressed a button on her phone to alert Linus Libby that Faraday, the wacked-out unicorn girl, was there to see him.

  — It’s not a horn, said Faraday. — It’s called an alicorn!

  But solving Brecken’s ignorance is no consolation. And as Faraday buttons up her brown uniform, draws on the hairnet and viso
r, the crush’s circle tightens so close it almost strangles her, this is how much she wants the crush. To notice her. This is how much the dilemma of losing her unicorn potential crushes her. If only a unicorn would gallop up right now, hooves spidering windshields and denting hoods as it gallops and leaps from car to car lined up in the parking lot and the drive-thru, its alicorn tossing coffee cups out of people’s hands, mending hearts and crumbling doughnuts.

  When she reaches out the drive-thru window to take the money this time, it isn’t her crush, it’s the dead boy.

  — Of course it’s you, says Faraday. — I’ve memorized your routine. And she counts out three pennies, then hands over the large iced cappuccino and a paper-wrapped straw. — Want a Timbit with that?

  She wishes.

  When she reaches out the drive-thru window to take the money this time, it’s Jésus in an old white truck saying, — What the … ? and for once forgetting to neigh. — You work here? asks Jésus.

  — No, says Faraday. — I just like to stand in the window, she says and counts out Jésus’s change, then hands over the large iced cappuccino and a paper-wrapped straw. The first time she’s ever seen Jésus not surrounded by his blood clot of friends, and when Jésus smiles and says, — Thank you, Unicorn Girl, his smile is not so bad at all even though he’s truly an asshole.

  She thinks about what her crush might look like. Long eyelashes of course — if the crush’s face were vaguely animal, she would have no problem with this. Horsey. An excellent, smooth body with nice, toothpaste-smelling breath.

  She calls into the mic, — Welcome to Tim Hortons. How can I help you?

  — A chocolate Timbit, sputters the speaker.

  She waits. Idiot.

  — Will that be all? she asks.

  — Yeah.

  — Fifteen cents at the window, she says. Tool, she thinks.

  Jésus pulls up in his white truck.

  She slides open the window. — Fifteen cents, she says.

  He hands her a nickel and a dime. She hands him his Timbit in a paper bag. Plus three napkins.