by Sam Shelstad
Once home, you remove the sweater and lay it out on your bed. Fetching Doggy Discipline from your bag, you stick the bottom of the book through the sweater’s collar and squint. It looks just like the pretty girl. You lie down beside her and clutch one of her soft sleeves to your chest.
You don’t see the pretty girl at the library anymore but occasionally you pass by her bungalow after work and watch from the bushes. Sometimes she steps outside with her dog, whose behaviour, you notice, is improving with each visit. What she’s up to doesn’t really matter though because everything you need is at home, lying on your bed. Someone you can rely on; someone who won’t move away and leave you all alone; someone to watch movies and laugh and go for walks with. And you don’t mind that you’re obliged to bring your new companion back to the library for renewal every three weeks to avoid late fines. The love of Doggy Discipline may be on loan but you now know this: borrowed happiness is happiness nonetheless.
For Henry
Susanne Beecher looks through the viewfinder at the crowd gathering below. She pans over people on blankets, in collapsible chairs or standing in front of food trucks waiting for elephant ears and ice cream. She zooms in on a fat man wiping his bald head with a napkin, sweaty. Henry’ll get a kick out of this, she thinks.
“Look, my old boyfriend,” she says.
Susanne adores fireworks in Heller Park on Victoria Day. Half the city coming together, sharing the evening. Everyone looking up at the sky, waiting. The smell of fried sugar. The music from the rides all jumbled together. Children running around. Susanne and her husband Henry would go together every year. They’d sit up on a hill adjacent to Heller Park and overlooking the Sage River. A little further away from the festivities, but not too far. It was private and the view was just as good if not better. You had to climb over a plastic fence. Their secret spot. This year, Henry was laid up in the hospital with late-stage lung cancer. End stage is what the doctors said, actually. She tried to convince her husband to come but the nurses said no way, out of the question. Henry deferred to them which was a shame. Of course, his health was the most important thing, his comfort. Still, a shame. Morale was important too. She read an article somewhere about a little boy who went into remission after going outside in his hospital gown for a snowball fight.
Susanne has a plan though. She’s there, alone, with her video camera at their spot on the hill. The same blanket they always used laid out in the grass and her hair done up in a tight bun the way Henry likes it. His favourite red dress. She’ll record the whole thing; capture the fireworks display on tape but not just that: the crowds, the river, everything. Susanne on camera herself. She’ll talk to Henry as if he were there. It’ll feel like he is there.
“All these people,” Susanne says. The camera sweeps over the park. It’s eight o’clock and the sun is fading. “Busier than ever, wouldn’t you say? I’m so glad we have our special spot.”
She lowers the camera to her lap. I should start over, she thinks. That joke about dating the fat man. First of all, it was cruel. The tape is supposed to lift Henry’s spirits, not put people down. But also, the reference to dating other men—inappropriate considering what had happened. A month earlier, when Henry moved to palliative care, he confessed to Susanne that he’d had affairs. Plural. More than one affair. She’d had her suspicions but always put it out of her mind. I’m just being paranoid, she’d think. But it was true, there were other women and she couldn’t do anything about it. It had happened. She couldn’t even be angry with him because he’s dying. Henry wanted her to lash out. Begged her to smack him around, to walk out on him. But she couldn’t; not with him lying in that bed. The affairs were upsetting but it was much more upsetting that he was dying. She had to let it go. It was her duty as his wife to make his final days, however many he has left, as pleasant as possible.
Susanne stops the recording and deletes the file. She starts over. Pans over the crowd again. No old boyfriend jokes this time. Instead, she zooms in on a dog barking at a trash can. She hears the sounds of laughter coming up the hill behind her. People are coming. She turns her head but keeps the camera steadily stationary—it’s a group of teenage boys in hoodies, ball caps and backpacks. Four of them. Rat faces.
“Hey, lady,” the tallest boy says. The others laugh. They hop the plastic fence and sit in the grass behind Susanne. She half-smiles at the tall boy and turns back around.
Perfect, she thinks. Cordoned off by the fence and a line of trees that stretch back into the yard of a daycare, the space at the top of the hill is small and intimate. The size of her living room, if that. The whole energy of the video is ruined. It won’t feel like she’s alone with Henry, the way it should feel, but there’s nothing she can do. She can’t move. This is the spot. She must press on, keep filming.
She hears backpack zippers unzip behind her. The boys are talking about weed or PlayStation, she can’t tell. They all mumble and speak in some kind of teenage code. Someone’s always laughing.
Susanne points her camera at the horizon. The last light of the sun setting behind the buildings downtown.
“The fireworks are starting real soon, honey,” she says. She speaks softly so the boys won’t hear her.
“She’s talking to herself,” a voice says.
“No, she’s talking to honey.”
“Shut up you guys. She’s right there.”
Susanne pauses the video. The boys are ruining her film. Henry won’t want to hear all this. It’ll only make him angry listening to these delinquents talk about his wife. He’ll worry and Henry needs to relax. He has enough unpleasantness to deal with. She needs to say something, she realizes. She clears her throat.
“Excuse me,” Susanne says, turning to the teenagers. Four rat faces look up at once. All teeth and eyes. “I’m sorry to intrude but could you keep your voices down a touch?”
“Sure thing, honey,” the tall one says. He stretches the word “honey” out mockingly. Everyone giggles.
“Thank you,” Susanne says. She feels blood rushing to her cheeks. “I’m sorry to intrude.”
She hits Record again and continues filming the horizon. She can’t hold the camera steady because her hands are shaking. She presses Pause again and takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. She’s missing important footage—the best part of watching fireworks was the build-up, the anticipation—but she’ll have to wait until she’s calm.
The boys are mumbling at a lower volume now. The giggling continues but Susanne can work with that. A little laughter won’t ruin the experience for Henry. She lifts the camera, steadies her hands and presses Record.
She focuses in on the Ferris wheel spinning below the hill. She and Henry went on that same Ferris wheel two years earlier. It wasn’t all that big but she was nervous to get on. Henry had rubbed her shoulders in the queue. It was so romantic. They’d climbed into their seat with the bar on their laps, the ride had started and it was fine. She wasn’t nervous at all because Henry was with her, because he’d rubbed her shoulders. And then, she remembers, Henry had pointed out a woman standing in line for the Gravitron. Said he knew her from work. Susanne can picture the woman now—she had worn a white tank top. Huge breasts. She could see that they were huge from the very top of the Ferris wheel. Was that one of the women Henry had slept with? Susanne thinks. Dear Lord, why do I have that memory? Why hold onto the image of some woman in a tank top?
She can’t think about this right now, she realizes. She needs to stay in the moment. Immerse herself in the experience for Henry. She can deal with these memories later, when Henry’s gone. She takes a breath and smiles. She turns the camera on herself.
“I’m so excited, Henry,” she says and flips a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I love you so much.”
The teenagers erupt. Susanne turns to see them rolling on the ground clutching their sides.
“Oh my God,” the tall one says, barely able to breathe.
“I love you so much, Henry!” another scr
eams through the laughter.
Susanne hits Pause and stands up. Her hands shaking again, she fumbles with the camera but manages to grab the strap before the lens shatters on the ground.
“Please,” she says to the boys who are still on the ground, laughing it up at her expense. “I asked you nicely. I’m trying to make a video for my husband. He’s very sick. We can share this space but can you please be mindful?”
“We’re sorry, miss,” a boy with a horrible moustache says. He is out of breath. “We’ll be quiet. Go ahead with your, uh, video.”
“Thank you,” Susanne says and sits back down. She closes her eyes. She takes slow, deep breaths.
It’s not fair, she thinks. She and Henry always sat up on the hill. No one had ever joined them before. This spot was theirs. Henry wasn’t there in person this time, so maybe she should count herself lucky that they had it to themselves all those years. But maybe it would have been better if the teenagers, those rats, had come up the hill another year when Henry was there too. He would have put them in their place, intimidated them. Henry wasn’t a gladiator by any stretch, but he was big enough. Once when they were eating at Denny’s some college kids in the next booth over were out of control. They were talking too loudly, cursing, telling obscene stories. It was ruining the meal and Henry was fuming. “Let’s just move to another booth,” Susanne had said, but Henry wouldn’t have it. He’d stood up, put his hands down on their table and told them to pipe down. They did. He took control then and he’d have taken control of this situation too if he wasn’t stuck in that awful hospital. Teach these kids some manners.
Now that she thinks of it, why didn’t they just move to another booth? They were seated near the back of the restaurant with Henry facing away from the front entrance. Maybe he was worried one of his side-things would come in to the Denny’s. One of his women. Like the one with the white top and big breasts. Every time she and Henry had gone out to eat, he’d likely scanned the room for her and any other girlfriends. He was probably a nervous wreck whenever they’d left the house together. And there was Susanne, oblivious, thinking they were having fun.
Susanne picks up the camera and resumes filming. She can’t think like this, it’s selfish. Poor Henry is all alone in his tiny room, staring up a TV bolted to the wall, coughing up blood every five minutes and here she is complaining about the past. Speculating. She’ll toughen up and get through this. The boys are quieter now. Still muttering away but the incessant giggling seems to have stopped. Susanne focuses in on a little girl running across the park with sparklers in both hands.
“Look at her go,” she whispers.
She follows the girl as she weaves through the crowd. Henry will love this, she knows. Such a beautiful shot. The little girl perfectly captures the spirit of the evening. She runs past the groups of people huddled by the riverbank and through a sea of canvas chairs. She’s easy to track because of the sparklers.
A large blurry face appears in the camera’s viewfinder taking up the whole screen.
“Hi, honey!” the face says.
Susanne drops the camera and screams. Her heart is pounding in her chest, in her throat. It’s one of the teenagers, the tall one. He’d crept over the fence, walked down the hill until he was out of sight and then snuck up on her, the rat. The little shit. The boys are howling behind her.
“Hey!” Susanne says. She lunges forward on her knees and grabs the tall kid by his sleeve. “You little shit.”
“Calm down,” the boy says. “We’re joking around.”
She smacks him across the face with the back of her hand.
“No,” she says. “You calm down, you rat. I asked you to be quiet. You can’t leave me alone? No?”
Susanne pushes the kid. Shoves him hard. He falls back down the hill a few feet and hits the plastic fence.
“And you!” She turns to the three other boys behind her on the grass. She hears a shrill whistling noise in the distance. The boys look up at her, their faces worried. The whistling noise gets louder and louder. Then a crack across the sky, an explosion. The fireworks. Her whole body is shaking.
“I asked you to be quiet!” She’s not sure if the boys can hear her over the sound of the fireworks. There’s an explosion every few seconds but she lets them have it anyway. “You’re not supposed to be here, you rat kids. This is our spot and you’re goddamn intruding. You little rat intruders. No respect for anyone and you think you can do whatever you damn well please without consequence, without consideration for other people’s feelings. Well, get the fuck off my hill!”
She reaches down and grabs one of the kid’s backpacks in her hands. She tosses it and it almost hits the tall kid in the head who is still lying in shock along the fence she’d pushed him into. She makes for another backpack but the teenagers scoop everything they can into their arms and run off like little rat cowards.
Susanne looks at the kids scurrying away down the hill. The sky is full of colour and smoke. The whistling, screaming, cracking noises of the fireworks continue. No one notices the commotion atop the hill because everyone’s looking up at the fireworks. Susanne’s throat stings. All that shouting. Her hand stings too.
Susanne’s camera is lying on the grass. She kneels down and picks it up. It’s still recording. Would it have captured her yelling over the sound of the fireworks? She isn’t sure. She presses Pause. Then the Stop button. She sits down.
She feels good. Light. Floaty. I came all this way, she thinks. Got all dolled up. She lifts the camera once again and hits Record. She’ll finish the video. Her original idea had been ruined by those damn kids but maybe this is exactly what Henry needs to see. She hopes the audio of her screaming is clear. She wants her husband to hear all of it, every word.
The pauses between explosions are getting longer. Quiet stretches, building anticipation toward the finale.
“Isn’t this beautiful, honey?” Susanne says and turns the camera on herself, smiling. “I just love it here.” She hits Pause, leans back on her elbows and looks up at the sky.
Self-Guided Meditation
I’m sitting in my most comfortable chair by the window that looks out onto the street. A cool breeze trickles in and I am calm. My eyes are closed. My breathing is slow and even and as I settle into this state of quietude and reflection, I begin to drift away.
I have left my attic apartment. I can no longer hear the traffic outside or my elderly landlord’s TV blaring from the room below. The bills piling up on my kitchen table and the divorce papers from Wendy, still unsigned—they don’t exist. I’m on my island.
The temperature on my island is perfect today. It’s always perfect. It’s warm but not too warm. I can walk across the sand without flip-flops and there are no sunburns. I can lay out on the beach all day if I want without the threat of skin cancer. Negative phrases like “skin cancer” don’t make sense on my island—say it and people will look at you funny. No mosquitoes here either. Only butterflies. It’s sunny and quiet and it never rains on my island unless I want it to. I am in control.
Right now, I am alone on my island. I have it all to myself. If I get lonely, however, I simply snap my fingers and a cruise ship will dock nearby. The friendliest people in the world will step off the boat and join me on the beach. They are celebrities, beautiful women and award-winning chefs. The celebrities update me on the latest Hollywood gossip and tell me racy stories. The beautiful women compliment me and then have sex with me. The chefs cook me omelettes. I have sex with the celebrities too, and sometimes even the chefs. And if I feel like being alone again I whistle and the cruise ship returns to pick everyone up.
Wendy isn’t allowed on my island. There’s a special passport you must have to visit my island that only wealthy people can afford. She can’t bang on my beach hut door in the morning, pleading with me to sign the divorce papers. Her lawyer can’t call me—I don’t have a phone here. There’s no need. I have telepathic powers and I can “talk” to whomever I want by think
ing at them. I have my twenty-five-year-old body, which isn’t bad, and my eighteen-year-old hairline. Not bad at all.
Except today, I feel like seeing Wendy. Maybe I miss her. I just don’t want her to look at me with that concerned, pitying stare she sometimes gives me. But this is my island and Wendy can’t give me unwanted looks here. I’m the boss. I teleport a special passport to Wendy and the cruise ship drops her off.
I see Wendy walking down the beach towards me with her bags. She’s smiling. I’m breathing slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. I am calm. Should I be helping Wendy with her luggage? She looks upset.
“I’m coming, Wendy!” I shout to her. “Put those heavy bags down. I’m on my way!”
As I run towards my estranged wife, I trip and spill my mai tai in the sand.
“Look at you,” Wendy sighs. “Still with the mai tais? It’s morning for Christ’s sake. You’re a mess.”
“I’m sorry, Wendy,” I say. “I’ll stop drinking, I promise. I’m ready to change.”
But I’m not sorry. I like mai tais and this is my island. I can drink as much as I want to because there are no consequences to drinking as much as I want to on my island. No hangovers. I don’t call people up from my past at three in the morning and sob into the phone. I don’t drive over to my wife’s new apartment building and set fire to old photo albums in the parking lot—there’s none of that. I can drink all day, mai tai after mai tai, and relax in the sun.