Waiting for the Cyclone

by Leesa Dean

  “Nowhere, really,” she said. “Just to the clubs. It’s not really my scene.”

  “You understand now why I am here where the music is not loud and there is drink and good food,” Alvaro said.

  “Absolutely. Cheers to that,” she said, holding up an invisible bottle. Alvaro laughed and raised his bottle to her empty hand. He signalled for the waitress to bring Leigh a beer.

  “How much longer you will stay in Monterrico?” he asked.

  Leigh sighed. “I don’t know. I’m travelling with my friend, but it’s not going well.”

  Alvaro raised an eyebrow. “I must be honest. I do not like this ‘friend’ you speak of. Each time you say ‘friend,’ you are not happy.”

  “We shouldn’t be travelling together. I knew that before the trip.”

  “But still you came.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s hard to explain why. It seemed like the right decision at the time.”

  Renata, the cook, brought Pacifico and asked Leigh what she wanted to eat. Leigh pointed to the tacos. Alvaro ordered himself another drink and said a few things to Renata. Leigh could tell they were talking about her. Renata eventually collected Alvaro’s empty bottle and walked back to the kitchen.

  Alvaro looked at Leigh, apologetic. “She says you are staying with people who live close to here. Manuel and Maria.” He gestured in the direction of their property. “Renata told me she saw your friend at the beach. He was swimming, how do you say . . . dangerous?”

  “I know,” Leigh said. “My friend is an idiot.”

  “Renata, she is not happy,” Alvaro said. “It is not good to swim like that here. You must know that one of the children of Maria died.”

  “What?”

  “Just one year ago. People here, they are very careful. They are still scared. The waves . . . he broke his neck, the child. He was just twelve years old.”

  Leigh put down her drink. She remembered Joselito by the shore, the way he reacted when the water reached his knees. Had he seen his brother drown? Maria’s face came to her mind, her clenched teeth and anguished eyes as she spoke of the waves. Justin had misunderstood. They both had.

  IN THE MORNING, Leigh woke up alone in the tent. The courtyard was surprisingly quiet. They must be at church, she guessed, realizing it was Sunday. Justin’s belongings were strewn about—clothes, empty cigarette packs, a notebook with nothing written inside. Without fully understanding why, she began to pack his bag. When she was done, she put it outside. Immediately, she felt better. She got dressed and walked to the outhouse. The door to the hut was slightly ajar and she could see a white comb and a spool of ribbon on the dresser. Leigh imagined Maria standing behind her daughters in the morning, tying their braids.

  She sat in the outhouse for a while, thinking. She could go to Guatemala City. Alvaro had invited her. She could also go somewhere alone, maybe find a beach where she could actually swim. Or she could keep travelling with Justin—at least he spoke Spanish.

  As she pondered her options, she heard a commotion in the courtyard.

  “Te lo dije!” A voice cried. It sounded like Maria. “No puede nadar!”

  Leigh pulled up her shorts and went to see what was going on. Joselito was crouched in the kitchen, shielding his face. Maria held a stick in her hand. The end was charred from tending fire the night before. She raised the stick and brought it down hard on Joselito’s shoulders. He screamed when the blow landed.

  “Stop!” Leigh shouted. “Por favor!”

  She positioned herself between Maria and Joselito. His hair was wet from swimming. She could see where his underwear had soaked through his pants.

  “Puta gringa!” Maria shouted. She fastened her grip on the stick and took a swing at Leigh, muscles bulging underneath loose skin. The blow fell on Leigh’s forearm. A bubble of red blood formed where she’d been hit.

  “Stop!” Leigh cried.

  Leigh and Maria stood facing each other with Joselito between them, hands still trying to protect his head. Maria was a mother, protecting her cub. The fear changed her face and made it softer somehow—she was beautiful. Leigh stood with her arms loose at her sides. The blood on her arm formed a meniscus and began to flow. Maria looked at Leigh, eyes narrowed. She dropped the stick and pulled her shirt down to cover her belly. “Vete,” she said before taking Joselito inside. She locked the door behind her.

  LEIGH DISMANTLED THE tent and packed her bag. She left Justin’s backpack by the front gate and walked toward the beach. It was still early, but people were already setting up stands along the shore. In the distance, Leigh heard the bus trawl through town. “Guate!” The man yelled. “Guate!” With her backpack, she weaved through vendors who would spend the day selling beach clothes and mangoes carved like flowers, past men who took down boards from shack windows. Soon, someone would plug in the speakers and techno music would inundate the beach once again. Tourists would speak only of the night before, the lights and action, who slept with who.

  As she neared the end of the beach, Leigh spotted Justin. He was on the lifeguard chair with a beer in his hand and a girl in his lap. She knew exactly what he would say when she arrived—spoilsport.

  GONE TO SEED

  ERIKA HASN’T HEARD FROM VIC since October when she receives his text message—I have something to ask you. Call me? Since his son’s birth, Vic has been mostly unavailable, but in the past six months he’s been fully MIA. She could have called him, sure. But she’s too stubborn for that, and she shouldn’t have to chase after people, especially not Vic. This thing, though. It’s been happening all around her—someone gets pregnant, then poof! The friend is nowhere to be seen.

  She’s walking up Dufferin Street, past the Mexican bakery, when she receives his message. The sweet smell of fried dough lingers in the air as she dials Vic’s number, wondering what prompted him to contact her after so much radio silence.

  “Baldwin!” he says, picking up on the first ring. His voice. There’s a hint of laughter to it, an old familiarity that pains her. Six months apart and he answers the phone like it’s been a day.

  “Where have you been, Vic?” she asks.

  “Oh, you know, changing diapers. Mashing turnips for Lou. That kind of thing. How are you?”

  “You haven’t contacted me in six months, you realize.”

  “That long? No way. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Six. We had a brunch date planned right after Thanksgiving but you cancelled last minute. I haven’t heard from you since. Not even during the holidays. I’m not feeling great about our friendship, Vic. Not at all.”

  “Sorry, sorry, I really should have called sooner. But didn’t I wish you a happy New Year on Facebook?”

  She remembers the message, posted publicly on her wall. A hurtful, impersonal little phrase, wishing her great success and happiness in the year to come. So generic it might’ve come from a fortune cookie. “That doesn’t count,” she tells him.

  Erika hears the beep of a microwave and a muffled sound as Vic retrieves whatever’s in there. “I just got busy,” he says. “I don’t know, I’m not good at managing my time. You know that. Everyone’s mad at me. Seriously. Want a list of the angry mob? Mom’s mad, Nathan’s mad, Phil’s super mad . . .”

  Nathan, she’s certain, is not mad. Neither is Phil. From what she can tell, both men had spent all kinds of time with Vic that winter. Vic’s Facebook account is full of evidence—Vic and Nathan skating at Harbourfront, Vic and Phil at a sports bar in Habs jerseys, Vic and Phil and Nathan posing at a dinner party with their wives and children.

  “Listen,” Vic continues, “I’ll explain everything tomorrow, okay? I have to go to the dentist for a root canal and they’re putting me under. Apparently I can’t leave without a chaperone. I need you to come with me.”

  “Anaesthetized? For teeth?”

  “Yeah. My choice. I don’t want to hear the drilling.”

  “Marie-Eve can’t go with you?”

  “No, she’s in New Brunswi
ck. Lou’s with her.”

  “Anaesthetized? For a root canal?”

  “That’s what the receptionist said.”

  “I can’t believe I haven’t heard from you in so long and this is why you’re calling.”

  “So you’ll come?”

  Erika hesitates, to give Vic the impression of deliberation. “I guess. But I want to see you before the dentist. You have some explaining to do.”

  “Want to meet at the Ship?”

  “That works,” she says. “Hopefully I’ll still recognize you.”

  “Oh, I guarantee you won’t. Fatherhood has rendered me hideous.”

  “Then I’ll bring a paper bag so I don’t have to look at your ugly face.”

  “Sounds good. Can you bring a No Frills bag? I like their logo.”

  “They only have plastic. You might suffocate. I’m mad, but I don’t want you dead.”

  “No. Death would be unfortunate. Please don’t be mad, Baldwin. I’m like this with everyone.”

  “Whatever. See you tomorrow, okay? Don’t be late.”

  After hanging up, Erika goes into the Mexican bakery. It’s a tiny storefront with room for two or three customers at a time, but she’s the only person there today. Usually the churros come in orders of four, but Erika convinces the man to sell her just one. He squeezes the fresh dough directly into a vat of hot oil. It bubbles away for a few minutes as she second-guesses her decision, thinking of all the calories. But after the man fills the hot, crisp dough with dulce de leche, she takes a bite, no longer giving a shit about the calories.

  In the streets, underneath piles of gravel, the remnants of a long and brutal winter remain trapped in the hardened snow. As she continues her walk home, an image of Vic’s face appears in her mind, his Garfield-like features, something fat and cat-like about his cheeks. Those features are what made her first notice him at the laundromat on Milton Street nearly fifteen years ago, when they both lived in the McGill ghetto with all the other Jewish kids from Toronto. His face, she realizes, has been one of the only consistent presences in her adult life. And it wasn’t true at all, what Vic said about being hideous. All his recent photos show him looking better than ever. His face is thinner, his hair is no longer unruly, and he wears age-appropriate clothes. Fatherhood, Erika decides, looks very good on him.

  SHE ARRIVES AT the Ship twenty minutes early the next afternoon, hoping a drink will settle her nerves. She spent the morning trying to write a blog post about a particular restaurant that made her want to quit her job. Just like every other trendy restaurant on Queen West, the menu was full of over-described appetizers that would be boring if there wasn’t something like a squash flower decorating the plate. Moments like that, when she realizes how much time she spends writing things that don’t matter, Erika wonders if she’s made any of the right decisions.

  Walking into the Ship always makes her feel better. There’s something comforting about the old bottles lining the walls and the cross-stitched sailors in frames that makes her feel far from her problems. Erika hasn’t been there for months, mostly because it’s Vic’s neighbourhood and she couldn’t bear the possibility of finding him there, having fun with other people. Moira, the bar’s owner, waves when she realizes the grumpy-looking customer trudging through the door, accompanied by a gust of cold wind, is actually Erika.

  “Love, where ya been hiding?” Moira says. “I thought you’d gone and skipped town!” Moira is one of Erika’s favourite people—she’s nice to everyone, has infinite patience, and refuses to lose her Irish accent even though she’s been in Canada for decades.

  “No, I’m still here. I’ve just been drinking less,” Erika says. She takes off her winter jacket—hopefully she won’t need it much longer—and hangs it on a hook under the counter.

  “Where’s Vic? You two break up or something?” Moira pours her a pint before she can explain that she’s on a diet. Moira would have shushed her anyways and said, Lass, you’re already skin and bones, which isn’t true, but she is compared to Moira. The truth is that Erika quit drinking beer after an incident at work.

  “We’re just friends,” Erika tells Moira. “And Vic’s on his way.”

  The incident happened just after Christmas. “Congratulations!” Faye, a woman in advertising had exclaimed, giving Erika a hug.

  “Thanks?” she’d responded, wondering if she’d received some kind of promotion someone failed to mention.

  “Oh my God,” Faye said. “You are glowing. Absolutely glowing. I bet your man can’t keep his hands off you! That’s how my husband was, just like a dog in heat. Practically sniffing my ass. They just love it, the husbands. They’ll practically maul you at night when all you want to do is sleep. But you can just say, ‘Honey, I’m tired,’ unless you’re one of those pregnant women who wants it all the time. In that case, you’ll have the time of your life!”

  Erika watched Faye continue to speak without picking up any social cues whatsoever and wondered how someone like her managed to keep a job.

  “Actually,” Erika stated at the end of Faye’s soliloquy, “I’m getting an abortion.”

  Faye’s face contorted in ways Erika never imagined possible. Instead of apologizing, she turned and half-ran down the hall. Since then, Faye refuses to even look at Erika, which suits Erika just fine.

  Vic arrives at the Ship right on time, wearing properly fitting jeans and a dress shirt. His hair looks styled as well. Six months away and look at him, Erika thinks, though as he gets closer she can see the outline of a T-shirt underneath, probably for some obscure British punk band. Erika watches him walk through the bar, arms raised in hug position from the moment he sees her.

  “Baldwin!” he says. As soon as he embraces her, she knows she won’t stay mad.

  “You liar,” she scolds. “Shame on you. You look fabulous.”

  Vic shrugs. “Maybe it’s the shirt.”

  “What’s underneath? Operation Ivy?” She knows most of his band T-shirts. In fact, she’d been at many of the shows when he bought them.

  He unbuttons the fancy shirt—Subhumans. She’d bought him that shirt in Montreal one summer, at Foufounes Electriques. Vic’s birthday was the next day and he was too broke to buy it himself, having spent his last ten bucks on Erika’s ticket because he didn’t want to go alone. During the show, he gave the punk kids dirty looks when they openly judged Erika, disapproving of her thick-rimmed glasses and clothes without holes. She could always count on Vic to protect her.

  “Good boy,” she says. “I thought you’d turned all corporate whore.”

  “I’ve been trying to wear dad clothes. It makes Marie-Eve happy. You know that saying? Happy wife, happy life? Totally true.”

  “Not gonna lie, Vic. You’re looking good. A bit corporate whorish, but good.”

  Moira pours Vic a pint and serves him a pickled egg, cuts it in half. What a smile, Erika thinks, watching him bite into the egg. He’s got some kind of paternal glow happening.

  “Seriously,” Vic says. “What have you been up to?”

  “Same old. Well, kind of. I’m going to Georgia next week.”

  “State or country?”

  “State. I’m going to interview a tambourine player. There’s this guy, Christopher Carmichael, who plays for Prince and Beck. He does gymnastics on stage and wears fur coats. I’m considering sleeping with him, if he’s single. Or if he’s not. Where’s Marie-Eve, anyways?”

  “New Brunswick. She’s planting the garden. She wants us to have food when we arrive in July.”

  “You’re still going away for two months? Even with Lou?”

  “Oh yeah. We can’t be in Toronto full time, no way.”

  “Marie-Eve flew all the way out there to plant a garden?”

  “Well, she drove.”

  “Something wrong with the supermarket?”

  “The greens are too expensive, and they’re limited. We want unlimited greens.”

  “You guys are so weird. Who’s going to take care of this ga
rden until July?”

  He shrugs. “Mother Nature.”

  Erika laughs. “Anyone else?”

  “It’ll rain. The garden will take care of itself.”

  “If you say so,” Erika says, thinking of all the dead plants in her apartment. She’s reluctant to throw them out in case they suddenly resurrect with the right watering. When she and Vic lived together, he always took care of the plants. There wasn’t a wilted leaf in the house.

  “She’s bringing a teepee up there, too,” Vic says. “I bought one off the internet.”

  “Why?” Erika asks, imagining a teepee tied to the roof, travelling through Quebec and along the Miramichi.

  “Why not? Marie-Eve’s family had a teepee growing up.”

  “Did she strap it to the car?”

  “No, it’s in a box in the trunk.”

  Of course Vic would buy a teepee off the internet. He had a bit of a shopping problem. In Montreal, things would arrive at least twice a week with postmarks from all over the world. He built shelves and lined them with old typewriters that didn’t work and action figures that weren’t really vintage even if they were advertised that way. He bought ridiculous inventions from SkyMall, like a toaster that left Darth Vader imprinted on the bread. “Jesus,” she’d said to him, “I should cut up your credit cards.”

  Vic takes a small sip of beer. He’s nursing it, trying not to drink too much because of the anaesthesia. What the hell, she thinks. He’s being so responsible. Marie-Eve is ruining him.

  A guy sitting at the end of the bar catches her eye and she realizes they went on a date once, probably two years ago, before she decided she’d rather die alone surrounded by cats than meet men on the internet. The guy had gone on about some start-up company involving bicycles. So many internet dates seemed to revolve around men talking about their start-up companies—she’d begun to wonder if it was a euphemism for unemployment. The best option, she decides, is to pretend she doesn’t recognize him.