by Leesa Dean
David waited by the cliff for Alison. He would always wait for her, that she knew. Before she joined him, she looked back at the hotel one last time. Maybe her panties were still trapped in the sheets.
THE FOUR BRADLEYS
LIZZY
Tonight is Rock ’n’ Roll night at the Legion so I get to hang out with Dad and the band. They call themselves the Four Bradleys, but I think that’s silly because our last name is Bradley and the bass player’s first name is Bradley, but the other two are Jimmy and Dave. I asked Dad what’s up with that and he said, “That’s a very good question, Lizzy. It’s something we do in the music industry. Basically,” he said, “we’re just like the Ramones.” I have no idea what he’s even talking about!
Candace is supposed to help me get ready for the big night but instead she’s moping in her room wearing really short shorts. They make Dad crazy! He’s told her a million times, “Candace, you are not allowed to wear those shorts,” and “Candace, your mother would not approve.” Today he said, “Candace, you are insufferable,” because she wouldn’t eat dinner. Dad made KD and hot dogs—and salad too—but Candace said she’s doing a fast to raise money for charity. When Dad asked which one, she said, “I don’t know, all of them.” Then I heard her eating chips in her room.
I’m going to wear one of Mom’s dresses tonight, the blue one with the droopy sleeves and a pink flower on the front. Candace says it makes me look like an orphan but I don’t care. It still smells like Mom and it makes me look like a princess. At least that’s what Vern says. He’s Dad’s friend and he sits with me while Dad’s onstage. Sometimes Barb comes, too. That’s Charlene’s Mom. Charlene is my BFF. Barb’s only got one leg but she’s still pretty cool and she can dance just as good as someone with two legs. When me and Vern dance, Mom’s dress wobbles as I spin and spin and it makes me feel like an island surrounded by waves!
I’m a real good dancer, like Mom. She used to be a ballerina. I asked her over and over if I could pretty please wear the shoes just once and she said no way José but I kept asking until she finally said yes. Boy, was that a joke. I couldn’t even stand up! Mom laughed so hard she sounded like a choking horse, but she promised I could take real dance classes once she was back from Afghanistan. I can’t wait!
CANDACE
Tonight’s Rock ’n’ Roll night at the Legion but I’m not going. It used to be fun, but now it’s just depressing. Me and Mom used to sit together and make jokes about Dad’s band, the Four Bradleys. They’re just a bar band, but the way Dad struts around the stage, you’d think they were the Rolling Stones or something. Mom and I used to play this game where we’d clap extra loud for all the worst songs. Once, she took some plastic flowers out of a vase and threw them at the stage. “Bravo!” she shouted. “Encore!” God, that was funny. People thought she was being serious.
Everyone is still shocked about what happened. Last week, Brad the bass player had a breakdown. Most of the time I don’t mind Brad. He’s kind of a cool guy and he’s usually pretty funny, but not last week. We were playing pool together. After I sunk the eight ball, I called him a sucker and gave him a punch in the arm just like Mom used to do. I thought he’d laugh, but he started to cry in a bad way. Poor Brad.
When she said she was going to Afghanistan, I was so confused. It’s not like she’s in the army or anything. Her plan was to volunteer at a pottery studio for women who’d lost their husbands in the war. On March 15th, my birthday, she should have come home. If she’d have flown back on time, she’d still be alive. Instead, she decided to stay an extra month. On the 19th, she went to the mountains to dig clay, and while she was out there, a rock came loose and hit her in the head. At least that’s what Dad said. But I keep wondering, how big was the rock? Didn’t she hear it? Was it really a rock or did something bad happen and no one’s telling the truth? I’m thinking terrorists. Gunshots. Blood on the ground.
No one wants to talk about what happened. Sometimes Lizzy says she misses Mom, but that’s about it. No one’s asking questions as far as I can tell, or maybe everyone’s asking questions. How would I know? I’ve tried talking to Dad, but whenever I bring up the subject, he raises a hand and says, “Don’t.”
She called home the day before she died. There was a lot of noise in the background and the line kept breaking up. It sounded like she was calling from a million miles away. “I won’t be home for your birthday,” she shouted. We’d planned a trip to the city—shopping, a hotel, tickets for my favourite band. Even if we rescheduled, I’d miss the concert. I was so mad. “I hate you,” I told her.
The phone cut out right after, or maybe she hung up.
RON
I’ve been thinking a lot about something Brad said after he found out his wife had cancer and couldn’t have kids. We were eating double bacons and fries at Burger Island when his fork snapped in half. He looked at it and said, “This is my life, Ron. A broken fork.” That was a couple years back. Brad kept talking about his disappointing life, and even though I felt sorry for the guy, I couldn’t help but feel smug. My life, I thought, was not a broken fork.
Yeah, right.
In March, I got a phone call from a woman in Turkey who told me my wife was dead. “Dead?” I responded. “Turkey? You must have the wrong guy.” The woman on the phone said, “Listen, sir, we have her passport. Donna Rae Bradley, born in ’62? I’m sorry. She’s been in a parasailing accident.”
Parasailing? She was supposed to be volunteering for some pottery thing in Afghanistan. God. All that crap about how committed she was to her students, how she just couldn’t bear to leave until they finished the course. Was Donna ever in Afghanistan? You know, she went to Mexico for some kind of house-building project before the kids were born.
I wonder if that was a little vacation, too. Okay, fine. There were pictures from Afghanistan on her camera. But there were also pictures of her at the beach, draped all over some beefy jerk.
Things were bad before she left. We weren’t getting along and I kept asking, “What’s the matter?” She’d say, “Nothing,” in that special voice women use. There’s nothing a man can do when a woman gets like that. You just have to hope whatever storm your wife’s in will blow over. We’d talked about counselling and then all of a sudden Donna was going to Afghanistan. Said it’d give her time to think about things. I remember saying, “Things? What things?” But she wasn’t ready to talk. Married fifteen years and she didn’t want to talk. Go figure.
Donna’d been away before, but never that long. The day she left, I dropped Lizzy off at Charlene’s and stayed to chat with Barb. I thought she’d have some advice on single parenting. I’ve known Barb just as long as Donna. We’ve all been running around together since high school, but last year Barb got in a bad accident. She lost a leg and her husband. I don’t envy her one bit, trapped in the car with her dead husband until help came, not to mention the leg. That kind of thing can really throw you for a loop.
Me and Donna looked after Charlene while Barb was in the hospital. Sometimes if Donna was working, I’d go visit. Barb’s a real drinker. It just about killed her, being away from the bottle that long. I’d bring a flask and after a few slugs she’d joke about getting an eye patch and a parrot to go with the leg. Cracked me up every time. I can tell you for certain there’d never been anything between me and Barb. I never thought she was pretty, but she changed after the accident. Everyone agrees: tragedy looks good on her.
So Donna was off in Afghanistan doing arts and crafts and I was alone, trying to manage the kids. Bringing Lizzy to Charlene’s kept me from going crazy. I’d stay for drinks with Barb while the kids watched TV in the other room. It was all fine until one Sunday we had a few too many mimosas and Barb was trying to read my palm. The way she touched me after all those months alone? It didn’t take much to cross the line.
Soon enough, Barb started coming to Rock ’n’ Roll night. It was real nice, having her there. In a way, we felt like family. Things hadn’t been good with Donna for
ages. You know, after the year we both had, Barb and I needed that time together. I haven’t seen her since the funeral, though. She won’t call and she won’t come around. When I bring Lizzy over to play, Charlene tells me her mom’s busy.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
Lately, I’ve been trying to focus on the band to keep my mind off things. We had a lot of fun over the years—me, Donna, the band, everyone we know. When we first started going around together, Donna used to dance up front with the band girlfriends. She was the best of all of them. One night, I pushed her home in a grocery cart while she sang “Hang On Sloopy.” God, was she a beauty.
I want to remember her that way.
The band’s been doing “Oh Donna” every week down at the Legion. That was Brad’s idea, but I can’t anymore. I’m upset and overwhelmed with the kids and I don’t know what’s going on with Barb. I wish she’d at least call. Last week onstage I caught myself looking at the door, hoping she’d come around. It’s enough to drive a man crazy.
LIZZY
It’s just past eight and Dad’s already onstage, making doo-wop sounds with the microphone. Check one-two! Candace wouldn’t come so it’s just me and Vern. He just told me the funniest joke: What do you call a pig who knows karate? A pork chop!
Dad’s a totally different guy up there onstage. People laugh at his jokes and he wears fancy clothes. Tonight, he’s wearing a leather coat he bought off the Indians. The band plays lots of Beach Boys stuff and they always play “Sea Cruise.” Dad really gets into it. He does the oooh-eee, oooh-eee baby! just like the real singer. He takes the microphone off the stand and walks around going oooh-eee to all the ladies. They just love my dad. They turn red and toss their hair every time he comes by. Sometimes Dad holds out the microphone and gets them to sing along. You should hear some of those old buzzards try and croak a tune!
The last song of the night is always “Oh Donna,” the one from the La Bamba movie. Dad does this thing where he gets them to turn down the lights; then he clears his throat, and says in a very special voice, “As many of you know, I recently lost my wife in Afghanistan. This song is for her.” When Dad starts to sing, the room gets real quiet. Nobody says anything until he’s done.
Dad always looks at the pool tables by the back door while he sings and I know he’s looking for Mom. Sometimes I look, too. Mom liked to play pool. I keep hoping I’ll see her there, lining up for the shot. It could happen, you know.
CANDACE
Dad and Lizzy finally left. They tried to guilt me into going tonight, but I told them I feel dizzy from all the fasting. “I don’t like the sounds of that,” Dad said. “I’m fine,” I insisted. “It’s for the children in Africa. Mom would be proud, don’t you think?” He left me alone as soon as I mentioned her.
I like having the house to myself. Without Lizzy and Dad around, I can feel Mom’s presence. The stove is still crusted with sauce from the last time she made pasta and one of her grocery lists is on the fridge—milk, eggs, Cheerios, juice. She usually forgot the juice. Her spare purse is beside the magazine rack, but there’s not much in it. Just some keys that don’t fit any of our locks. We’ve been trying to figure out what they’re for, but nobody knows.
I had a dream about her last night. She was sitting on a wooden dock, wearing her favourite blue dress. The sun was low in the sky and a fishing boat rocked on the waves. “Come,” she said, patting beside her. I buried my face in her sleeve like I did when I was young and told her I was sorry for what I’d said on the phone. She just smiled and said, “I was a teenager too, you know.”
In the dream, she told me she was in a place called Pochutla. I remember that name. It’s where she went to build houses before she had us kids. She used to talk about it a lot. And guess what? Right beside Pochutla, there’s a town called Port Angel. No wonder she seemed happy in the dream. She’s probably in heaven.
BRADLEY
A letter came in the mail not long after Ron told me what happened. There was a picture in there of a mosque, bright turquoise, effervescent in the sunlight. Donna sat on the front steps with her legs folded to one side—the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. In the letter, she said she was going to leave Ron. I think she was serious this time.
I never loved a woman the way I loved Donna. Not even my wife. I keep thinking about the two of us in my apartment, the one above the country bar on George Street, how we’d make love while she was supposed to be at school. She was my favourite.
The worst mistake I ever made was losing her. I drank too much, flirted with other women. Eventually, she went off with Ron. I could barely hold myself together at their wedding. God, was she something in that dress. It should have been me up there. Eventually I found myself a nice girl in town and we got married, too. What else could a man do? Ron was in the wedding party, and Donna sat in the front row. It took everything I had not to look at her when I said I do.
Ten years later, we all went camping at Mineral Lake. Donna was pregnant with Lizzy and Candace was in second grade. Early in the day, Ron picked a fight with Donna. I saw her behind the outhouse afterwards and asked if she was okay. “No,” she said. I held her in my arms while she cried. That night, she asked me to collect firewood with her. Everyone else stayed at the camp, including my wife. Dave played “I Am the Walrus” on his beat-up six-string while Ron yelled Coocoocachoo coocoocachoo! We stumbled through the trees until we couldn’t see the fire no more and then Donna pushed me up against a tree. “Kiss me, kiss me like you used to,” she said. She had her fingers in my hair and tugged at my belt and I remember thinking, God, this is it.
Then she changed her mind.
Jimmy got married later that year. Donna was one of the bridesmaids, all dressed in blue, even more beautiful than at her own wedding. I followed her into the bathroom that night and said, “Finish what you started, young lady.”
It’s been months and I still can’t imagine my life without her. I want to be there for Ron—I do—but I don’t feel right about everything that’s happened. I’m thinking I should quit the band, maybe leave town. Go down south or something. And those kids. Lizzy’s been wearing Donna’s clothes to the Legion, and Candace . . . well, she looks like an exact—and I mean exact—replica of Donna at sixteen. I just want to take her in my arms.
The last evening I spent with Donna was at the old racetrack. It was just the two of us by the sagging bleachers and faded billboards. We put a blanket in the middle where the grass had gone wild and pretended we were on a beach in Mexico. Afterwards, I lay with my hand on her belly and wished to God we could’ve had children together.
PROVERBS
A MY PACES THE LENGTH OF the airport’s pickup area, on the lookout for a woman named Sharon. She checks her watch—9:27 PM. Either Sharon’s late or Amy’s given her the wrong flight information, which is possible given her scattered tendencies of late. There’s one other person outside—a man with a tight grip on his suitcase, wearing the anxious look of someone who’s been forgotten. When he lights a cigarette, Amy considers asking for one. It might take the edge off. But once she gets a look at his face, she won’t go near him.
It can’t be the man she’s thinking of, but the similarities are enough to keep her away. She drops her backpack on the furthest bench where a local teenager has scratched RURAL TORTURE into the paint. Amy keeps her head down and pretends to read, willing herself not to look at the man’s clean-shaven face, his salt-and-pepper hair. Before long, a rusted Hyundai pulls up beside her. The driver is not a woman named Sharon. It’s a man in a Hawaiian shirt who tells her to get in the car.
“Who are you?” Amy asks.
“Your new boss.”
“Where’s Sharon?”
“She’s gone.” He takes her backpack and puts it in the trunk.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s gone. Left yesterday morning. Sometimes she does this. She might be back, might not. You still get your job, though, no worries there.”
There are rolling papers on the dashboard and the car smells like weed. They coast out of the parking lot, passing the man who still waits with his suitcase. Along the road to Kelowna, wide canopied trees dot the landscape, still fruitless so early in the season. Night air hisses through a crack in the windshield as they drive. Paul talks over it, giving Amy the rundown on places to see and things to do in the city. He lists what they grow on the farm and explains what kind of work Amy will do for the summer.
“I’m not sure if Sharon told you,” Paul says, “but you’ll be sharing a cabin with this girl named Michelle. She’s been here about a month now. Don’t worry, she’s fine. Ain’t nothing wrong with her. She just talks a lot.”
“Oh,” Amy says, caught off guard yet again. What she wanted for the summer was a place to think and be alone. She wanted to be far from Toronto, and the job posting had asked for someone willing to work and live in an isolated environment. In their email exchanges, Sharon had seemed like the kind of person who would leave her alone. Had she known she’d be working for some guy in a Hawaiian shirt and living with some girl, she might not have taken the job.
Paul flicks the turn signal and pulls into a rutted driveway. A wide veranda laced by dark foliage spans the front of the house. “Home sweet home,” Paul says, except Amy’s home will be a small cabin pushed against the far edge of the property. Eight by ten, no electricity. Perfect if there wasn’t some girl named Michelle already living in it.
Paul hands Amy a flashlight and explains how to get to the cabin. Amy follows a dirt trail past a chicken coop and a few sheds. Acres of newly planted crops, still damp from the sprinklers, create a checkerboard pattern all the way to the fence. From across the field, the cabin looks like a child’s playhouse. It’s too tall and skinny, like something you might buy in a catalogue.
Amy opens the door quietly, pointing the flashlight at the ground. “Up here,” an eager voice says. Michelle’s long hair tumbles from the loft and brushes against the ladder. Amy’s backpack shifts awkwardly as she climbs, holding the rails tight. Michelle offers Amy her hand, but she doesn’t take it. It would only throw her off balance. She arrives at the top of the stairs and realizes she can’t stand up straight. The roof is too low.