by Leesa Dean
I knocked on Pete’s window. He parted the curtains, eyed my tank top and panties.
“Nice try, kid.” He closed the curtains.
No choice but to get dressed and go to the Esso. I browsed for a while, enjoying the refrigerated air, and I stole a bag of ice on the way out. By morning, I was hugging the waterlogged remains under a tree, wondering how much longer I could survive. That’s when I saw Bernard, the bottle man without his bottle bag, wandering around shirtless. I barely recognized him in daylight. His torso was a litany of old sailor tattoos. A thick paste collected at the corners of his mouth and lines of perspiration marked his neck. He looked at me and said, “Il ne te reste pas beaucoup de temps.”
I understood what he meant—time was running out.
I had the Tremblay list in my hand, dog-eared and full of handwritten notes. I passed it to Bernard. “Help me,” I said.
He took the paper and stared. Even his wrists were sweating. Whatever drugs he’d taken were vigorously circulating through his body. The list sailed out of his hand and fell on the grass.
“Il ne te reste pas beaucoup de temps,” he repeated before walking away.
I picked up the list. One of Bernard’s thumbprints had marked the address 13, 2E AVENUE in Verdun. I hadn’t been there yet and no one ever answered when I called. Thirteen—it was August 13th—surely a sign? I put the list in my pocket and ran to Sherbrooke metro station. The man in the booth counted my loose change and handed me a map. He circled the stop I needed: De l’Église, on the green line. Only then did I realize how little I’d seen of the city all summer.
From De l’Église station, I walked down Wellington Street. Cafés doubled as doughnut shops and men in track pants had loud conversations on shabby terrasses. In between bargain stores and shoe warehouses, there were bistros with expensive entrées. Something about the neighbourhood felt fake. People looked as if they should either be on game shows or in the hospital. I followed Wellington up to 2e Avenue, a street overrun by garage sales with ugly trinkets and outdated electronics. A gift for my mother, I thought, picking up an antique dinner bell. “Touche pas!” a hag screamed from the doorstep. I put down the bell and kept walking. As I counted down the addresses, people stared out windows through translucent curtains blown wild by oscillating fans. They all seemed to look right through me.
Apartment 13 was on the ground floor. The curtains were closed so I decided to sit on the curb and wait. Snippets of conversation sailed from nearby balconies, too fast for me to understand. Questions I asked myself: What would life have been like here? Would I have been a French person? Would my name still be Katie? It wasn’t long before I heard a door open behind me. A voice said, “Petite puce, dépêche-toi!” I didn’t need to see the woman. There was no way she was my mother. Her voice sounded too young, too carefree.
For the rest of August I scoured the city, visiting one Tremblay after another. On Rose-de-Lima she was black, on Sherbrooke she was in her sixties. The M. Tremblay at Cadillac was a man; so was the one on Bourbonnière. It was Marie-Claude who lived on Pie-IX and Marie-France on Hutchison. Day after day, I crossed addresses off the list until there were no Tremblays left to find. Then it was September.
PETE HAD TO leave on Labour Day—something about joining a travelling freak show and needing to see a man in Chicago about it. The night before his departure, after he went to bed, I sat in my car and cut myself, something I hadn’t done in years. The streetlight’s reflection came straight through the windshield and I put a pillow over my head to block it. Still, the all-night buses fluming on Park Avenue and a man screaming “I’ve been fucked by Christ!” kept me awake until dawn.
In the morning, I helped Pete ferry things down from the roof. I dismantled the small table where we’d eaten dinner and played cards while Pete brought down the garden a bucket at a time. Most of the plants had dried out or been picked clean.
“Take the peas,” he said. They were still going strong.
“Let me kiss you,” I said.
“Fine. But no tongue.”
I held his face against mine as long as I could.
“Cheater!”
Before he left, he placed his pageboy cap on my head.
“You look beautiful,” he said, adjusting it.
I stood beside the pea plant and watched him drive away. Then I sat under a tree and cried. The skies were steel-wool grey that morning and the wind scooped garbage and flung it around the park. An empty chip bag flew by and I thought, My life is trash. I tried going for a walk but everything reminded me of Pete—the dépanneur where we bought beer, the smoked-meat place where we shared a sandwich whenever Pete made extra money, the corner where I’d first heard his banjo. I knew I couldn’t stay in Montreal by myself, but I didn’t want to go back to Esterhazy. It wasn’t home. I needed money, though, and I knew exactly how to get it there because I knew all the wrong people. I unlocked the car and sat in the passenger seat, head against the steering wheel. That’s when I noticed a paper on the dashboard: Pete’s phone number. WAIT A FEW YEARS, he wrote. WE’LL MAKE UP FOR LOST TIME.
I’d gambled all my cassettes away to Pete, so I made up hobo songs as I drove west through the city. With the sun in the rear-view mirror, I said goodbye to the parking space that had been my home and the dumpsters that had kept me alive. The skyline faded behind me and the sign at the border said AU REVOIR.
“Goodbye, Tremblays,” I said, thinking of all 164 of them. “Goodbye, unknown mother.”
The day passed; Ontario passed. I stole coffee at gas stations and drank until I felt I might explode from anxiety. Every town brought me closer to Esterhazy, the group home, the life I’d hoped to leave behind. I unfolded my Tremblay list and scanned it at the side of the road. Had I given up too soon? What if someone had misunderstood? It wasn’t too late to go back. Another possibility—maybe I had called her. Maybe my own mother had heard my story and said, no. Sorry.
I pulled over a few times to nap but mostly drove for two days. By Wednesday, the land was all range roads and prairie fields once again. Farmhouses flickered in and out of focus and canola smeared the ground like bright fingerpaint. I crossed the border between Manitoba and Saskatchewan, marked only by a wooden sign. When the gas gauge dipped below the fill line, I realized I had no money left to fill the tank. The light came on and I coasted into the nearest village. Pete’s hat was on the dashboard—his power radiated through every fibre. I put it on and studied my reflection. Orphan-like, yes, but Pete was right. I looked beautiful.
I ate a few peas, shell and all, while I thought about what to do. Eventually, I decided I should at least get out of the car. Across the parking lot, there was a family restaurant. I walked over, wishing my pockets weren’t empty. The sandwich board boasted of homemade pies and my mouth started to water in a bad way. I opened the door and stood in the entrance, admiring the red leather banquet seats and ice cream machine. The people inside looked so nice, they made me want to stay.
MONTERRICO
LEIGH AND JUSTIN MET AT the airport after taking the SkyTrain from opposite directions through a torrent of frozen rain. They hadn’t seen each other in six months.
“Hola, señorita,” Justin said, handing her the ticket. During the flight, he talked nonstop about everything that had happened since the summer while she listened and nodded politely. Afterwards, they boarded an old school bus that trawled down a pockmarked highway, en route to Guatemala’s coastal lowlands. Justin made up nonsense lyrics to go with the stomping tuba music blasting from a radio duct-taped to the dashboard. He danced in his chair and tried to get Leigh to join. She wouldn’t. No one sat near them unless they had to.
“Bet they’re afraid they’ll catch gringo,” Justin said.
Monterrico was the last stop on the route. They arrived late at night. Justin was already standing in the aisle, cigarette pack in hand, before the bus reached a full stop. He elbowed his way to the door, chanting “Disculpe! Disculpe!” Leigh sighed and collected every
thing he’d left behind—his iPod, a magazine, snacks he’d bought from a child in the airport parking lot. She was the last to leave the bus.
“Wanna drag?” Justin asked, offering his cigarette.
“I quit.”
“Really? When?”
“After we broke up.”
“Good girl,” he said, blowing smoke in her face.
“Fuck off,” Leigh said, slapping the cigarette out of his hand. Justin laughed.
They waited beside the bus for their luggage. On the roof, the driver manoeuvred through webs of twine and lowered down suitcases, a box of watermelons, a crate of unruly chickens, and a smashed-up motorcycle. It took three men and a pulley system to successfully lower the motorcycle. Once on the ground, the owner strapped the chickens to the back and pushed the bike away. One by one, people collected their bags and disappeared into the night.
“What now?” Leigh asked.
Justin shrugged. They walked down the street, past boarded windows and locked gates. Nothing seemed to be going on anywhere. Eventually they spotted a sign that said SERVICIOS PARA TURISTAS. On the porch, a flit of moths charged and receded from a naked bulb. A boy sat alone at a table inside the hut. Leigh guessed he was seven or eight years old; Justin thought younger. The boy pushed a toy car with a pencil until it crashed off the table, then he crouched on the floor and drove it up the leg.
“Hola,” Justin said through the screen door.
The boy looked up.
“We’re looking for somewhere to camp,” Leigh said, making a tent shape with her hands.
The child put the toy in his pocket and motioned for Leigh and Justin to follow him. They meandered through side streets until the roads turned to sand. In courtyards, dying coals glowed orange in firepits. A dog with knotted fur lay on the road, either sleeping or dead. Finally, the boy stopped and unlatched a gate. Justin did a sweep with his flashlight—an outdoor kitchen and a small hut. Pots and pans with scorched bottoms hung from rusty nails by the sink. A fish carcass lay nearby, black with flies.
“There’s no camping on the beach?” Leigh asked.
The boy shook his head.
“How much for the night?” Justin asked. “Cuánto cuesta?”
The boy shrugged. “No sé.”
Justin scowled. “This little fucker’s gonna try and hose us. Cuánto cuesta?” he repeated.
The boy pointed to the hut. “Mi padre,” he said. His father was sleeping.
“Let it go,” Leigh said. “I’m tired.”
“Fine. But we’re not paying more than thirty quetzals, that’s for damn sure.”
Leigh held the flashlight while Justin set up their tent. A NEST FOR THE LOVEBIRDS, his mother had written in the Christmas card. He snapped the poles into place and drove the pegs into the ground. Once the tent was set up, he lit another cigarette.
“Be there in a sec,” he told her.
Leigh could feel his eyes on her ass as she crawled through the vestibule. There was still trail mix in the tent seams from when they’d last gone camping together. She laughed, remembering how angry he’d been when he caught her snacking in the tent. “Bears, Leigh,” he’d said. “Jesus.”
After he finished his cigarette, Justin entered the tent and took off his shirt. He’d lost weight, though he’d always been thin. Cross-legged, nozzle in mouth, he blew until his mattress was taut. Afterwards, he took off his pants and lay on top of his sleeping bag. Leigh turned so she wouldn’t have to see him. The smell of Old Spice deodorant wafted from his armpits and it reminded her of the night they met, when Leigh had been out at a bar on Commercial Drive and heard him crowing to a group of friends about selling a painting for ten thousand dollars. He was dressed in black, but not in a morose way.
“You,” she said, leaning across the table. “Come over here.”
“No,” he said. His friends laughed. Leigh turned away, embarrassed.
Five minutes later, the waitress brought her a drink.
“From the man in black,” she said.
That night, Justin stayed at her apartment. She fell asleep in the crook of his Old Spice scented arm and they spent the whole next day together, walking around Commercial Drive like they owned it. The process of moving in together happened quickly, organically, and there was talk of marriage early on.
After they broke up, Leigh deconstructed the relationship from every possible angle but could never pinpoint when, exactly, he’d fallen out of love with her. There were no signs. He just woke up one morning and started packing.
“It’s not you,” he said. “It’s relationships.”
By noon, he had his clothes in garbage bags. She watched him spiral down the stairs and hail a cab in the street. His energy lingered in the apartment for a long time. She kept finding things—his socks in her drawer, a stick of cinnamon gum in the couch cushions. Sometimes at night, she hallucinated his off-key singing, the sound of a paintbrush.
When he called on Christmas Day, they hadn’t spoken in months.
“Didn’t I tell you to leave me alone?” she said.
“What? Leigh! Hear me out!”
She sat cross-legged on the floor, twirling the phone cord as he explained the tickets to Guatemala, a combined Christmas and anniversary gift. He’d bought them during a seat sale right before he dumped her. They were nonrefundable.
“Obviously circumstances have changed,” Leigh said before hanging up.
He called back immediately.
“Come on! Don’t be a spoilsport.”
In the end, it was a word that changed her mind: spoilsport. What nerve he had.
THE NEXT MORNING, Leigh woke up early, roused by the shock of warm weather. A radio blared in the courtyard. “Dios, iglesia!” cried an evangelist. “Mi salvador!” a crowd shouted back. Justin pawed in Leigh’s direction, mumbled something incoherent, and went back to sleep.
Leigh sat up and looked out the tent window. A middle-aged man stood in the courtyard, wearing only underwear. He tipped a red bucket over his head, closing his eyes as the water splashed against his body and soaked the dirt below. When he refilled the bucket, a cloud of flies rose from the sink. Water spilled over the rim as he pulled the band of his underwear and lathered in a slow, circular motion. Leigh moved from the window so he wouldn’t notice her watching. Beside her, Justin continued to sleep. When they were still a couple, Leigh often awoke with an errant strand of his hair in her mouth. “Men shouldn’t have long hair,” she’d often teased. “Especially at your age.” He was twenty-six. She would be twenty-nine that summer.
Salt and sandalwood—that’s how it tasted.
Justin eventually rolled over and opened his eyes. “Good morning, señorita,” he said to Leigh. He lit a cigarette in the vestibule and lay on his stomach as he smoked, exposing the thin, stretched backside of his underwear.
Leigh tossed him a pair of shorts. He put them on and went looking for the property owner to settle camping fees. The man from the courtyard was now dressed in jeans and a collared shirt. Justin sauntered over and shook his hand. The man sized up Justin’s hair and naked chest while they circled each other, practising the ancient art of negotiation. Justin stood his ground until the man agreed to his price.
“Dude wanted thirty-five quetzals but I got him down to twenty-five!” he said as they walked into town. He’d bargained lower than four dollars a night.
“Cheapskate,” Leigh said.
They meandered through side streets, retracing their route from the night before. In courtyards, laundry hung from makeshift lines and children in school uniforms stared as they passed. “Gringa,” one said, pointing at Leigh’s blonde hair. “No,” Justin corrected. “Canadiense.” At the only store they could find, Leigh filled a bag with fruit. Justin rooted through the fridge, looking for cold beer. It was all warm. He uncapped two bottles outside the store and handed one to Leigh.
“Cheers,” he said.
Leigh took a long sip. The alcohol went straight to her head and made eve
rything sharp and strange. A bus trawled down the road while a man hung out the side door, shouting “Guate! Guate!” He seemed like a character in a play. The bus, bright green and blue, had cursive lettering on the side that said JESUS GUIA MI CAMINO.
“Hey,” Justin pointed down the road. The sign from the night before: SERVICIOS PARA TURISTAS. Leigh hadn’t recognized where they were. The same boy was drinking coffee on the porch.
“Aren’t you too young for coffee?” Leigh asked. His name, she remembered, was Joselito.
“Buddy, come to the beach!” Justin said, giving the child a high-five. “Just for a bit. There aren’t any turistas who need servicios right now, are there?”
“No puedo,” Joselito said.
“Poor kid,” Leigh murmured. Justin gave Joselito another high-five before they left. They walked down the street until the beach came into view. Ten-foot swells rose against a flat blue sky and each break sounded like a string of earthquakes. Jagged black dunes carved by the powerful surf gleamed in the morning sun. At the end of the road, an empty lifeguard chair stood tall, weathered by salt and wind. There were no life preservers along the shore. Justin drained the last of his beer and tossed the bottle aside. He kicked off his sandals and crow-hopped across the burning sand.
“Geronimo!” He charged into the ocean and stood with his fists out, waiting for a wave. Idiot, Leigh thought. She watched a wave crest and curl before pulling Justin’s body underwater. Milky froth hissed and spread across the ocean’s surface. Leigh scanned the water for a head, an arm, anything. Another wave rose against the horizon. Still he didn’t resurface.