He heard someone approaching, and twisted, saw Angie coming through the woods behind him. When she reached the grass she flicked off her sandals, plunked down beside him, and slid her feet into the water. She drew in a sudden breath at the chill, then edged closer to Toby, hooked one white ankle behind his.
“How did I know I’d find you here?”
“You could smell me?” His jeans were smeared with blood from the fish he and Terry had cleaned on the stage.
She laughed, nudged him. “You is ripe, I give you that.”
He gripped her hand, felt the tiny stab of her ring on his palm. A square green stone, a bright yellow band. Something from Wilda’s store. At first he was concerned about giving his girlfriend a used ring, but Wilda insisted that jewelry wasn’t the same as people. It didn’t hold on to history. Toby gave the ring to Angie at Christmastime last year—they were watching television in her basement apartment, and he had hidden the box at the bottom of the popcorn bowl. With Angie’s father and brother gone, her sister lost and wandering in Toronto, and her mother living somewhere in Cape Breton, he wanted her to know that she’d never be alone. He wanted her to have that promise.
“How’s it going with Mrs. Verge?”
“I don’t know. Alright, I guess.”
During the winter, Mrs. Verge had moved into a spare room. Terry came over and painted it bright yellow, brought a mattress, a night table, a lamp, and a few boxes in the back of his truck. Toby’s father had claimed he was reluctant to have Mrs. Verge move in, but when he began complaining of curious aches, a dry cough no one actually heard, everyone agreed it would be easier to have her close by. After her first night, the aches disappeared, and his father never again mentioned a cough. Not a week later, Toby had walked in on the two of them, sitting side by side reading, shoulders touching, and unless he was mistaken the air had more charge than what he’d expected.
“Three’s getting to be a crowd.”
“Yeah?”
“I think Father’s trying to oust me.”
“I doubt that.”
“He said I needs to start thinking about my future. Think about where I’s going.”
“Going?”
“I idn’t going far.”
“Far like distance, or far like becoming a big honcho type far?”
He reached up, removed her glasses. She had pretty eyes, green with perfect flecks of yellow, and he liked to see them without the distraction of those thick lenses. He slowly cleaned the smudges using the inside of his T-shirt. “I don’t know. I idn’t good at nothing.”
She grabbed her glasses, pressed them onto her face. “Will you stop saying that? It idn’t true.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“No, Toby. It idn’t. You’re very good at some stuff.”
“Tell me one thing, Angie. One thing that counts.” He was joking now, prodding her for a moment of adoration.
She paused.
“Told you so.”
Pouting. “I was thinking about how to word it.”
“I’m only pulling your leg, Ange. I’m happy without being a big brain or running the whole province. I don’t want much.”
“No, really. I want to say it. You’re, you’re,” she gripped his chin, turned his face to hers, “you’re like good dirt.”
“I’m what?” Blinking.
“Good dirt. Good soil. Stuff grows right in you, you don’t need to go searching for it.”
“Stuff.”
“Yeah, like, like love.” She blushed, but continued. “You’re good at that, Toby Trench. You’re good at being kind. Not many can say that.”
Toby lifted his feet out of the water, watched them drip, the water spatter. He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “Oh, c’mon. Good try though, darlin’.”
“But it counts. It really do. And if you don’t believe me, you deserves a good crack on the ear.”
He lay back on the grass, put his arm over his eyes. “Not too hard, I hopes.”
“You’ll find out.” Angie got to her feet, then leaned out over the stream, let her hand strike the surface of the water, a cold spray shooting up over his body.
“Hey!”
“Hey, yourself,” she said, and slipped into her rubber sandals. “I got to go.”
“Where to?”
“The Verge boy. They wants me to watch him for a bit.”
“Oh, yeah.”
She bent, kissed him upside-down on the forehead. “You coming?”
“No, I’m just going to think a while.”
“Think or dwell?”
“I don’t dwell, Ange.”
“See you later?”
“Ween’s home for the weekend, so we’re going to knock around for a bit.”
“Alright.”
“But after that I’ll see you. Whether you likes it or not.”
“I likes it,” she replied, her voice soft and girly.
He felt a quick pinch on his ear, a little shake, and then he heard her walking back along the path, wet feet squeaking against rubber, the crunch of dried leaves, a few snapping twigs. He didn’t understand why she walked all that way just to spend a few moments with him. He didn’t understand, but he didn’t question it either. Even though he was only nineteen, and he never claimed to know much, he had already learned that love was a peculiar thing. Something you couldn’t bottle or drown. He’d seen it mount a bus, stretch down long highways, weather years without snapping. He’d hauled it over a snowy road, wrapped its feet in nubby blankets, and coaxed it back to life. For as long as he could remember, he’d felt the steady weight of it on his young shoulders, and the undeniable warmth of it in his stomach. He’d watched as it spied, moaned, lashed out, choked, and destroyed. And when hope was lost, he had discovered it again, healthy and blooming in that space between him and Angie. An empty sort of space where love did not belong.
Somewhere above him, he heard crying, and he opened his eyes, squinted. High in the air, a large black bird with its wings outstretched drifted across the blue sky. It made a neat loop, turned, and coasted back in the opposite direction. Toby cupped one hand to his forehead, and with his other he reached upwards, fingers stretched, tracing the bird’s graceful path. Side to side, higher and higher, it soared. Toby followed the bird, so sure and steady on its path, gliding, looping, until it disappeared into the brightness of the sun.
Acknowledgements
I WOULD LIKE to thank the Ontario Arts Council for funding this project. Thank-you to both my agent, Hilary McMahon, and Chris Labonté at Douglas & McIntyre for believing in me and my simple story. Thank-you to Barbara Berson, my editor, for her wisdom, her patience, and her caring. I am grateful to my early readers: Nancy Lundrigan, Ann Diakiw, Aniko Biber, and Randy Drover. Also, thank-you to my twin nephews, Robert and Colin Morgan, for sharing parts of their lives. I am indebted to my dear friend Nathalie Kavianpour for helping me at every turn. And finally, a thank-you to my husband and children for their encouragement and their sweetness.
NICOLE LUNDRIGAN is the author of three critically acclaimed novels: Unraveling Arva, Thaw, and The Seary Line. She grew up in Newfoundland and now lives in Ontario with her family.
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