by Lisa Hannett
It takes hours for Dot to blow the thing up, one shallow puff after another, but she’s got time. The snow has stopped, the clouds wandering. By her feet, the pool is black and still, its silver stars shining. When the mattress is finally firm, Dot is light-headed. Her arms shake as she slides it into the water. Then she has to sit, right there in the muck, and take a breather before climbing on. The plastic seams are sharp with age; they bite into her hands as she clings, pushing off without getting wet. Floating on outer space.
Afraid to paddle, Dot lets the breeze take her where it wants. Ear pressed to the scalloped pillow, she listens to sounds amplified by water and air. Ripples thrumming beneath her. Wavelets flapping. Bullfrogs croaking. Electricity crackling from shore to shore. At dusk, she looks up as Jim Bluinn’s pickup roars past. She watches the headlights shrink from bonfires to sparks, then lowers her head back down. The temperature has dropped with the sun, but Dot’s been cold so long it makes no difference. Arms tucked in close, she shuts her eyes and listens hard.
There, she imagines, recognising the smooth rhythm. There, the in and out of Ted’s medal-winning stroke.
It will get better, Dot tells herself, shivering, holding her breath. Waiting for him to come find her.
Snowglobes
Jimmy didn’t want children, never had. janie knew that when she married him. She also knew he wasn’t the type to change his mind. Not when it mattered. He’s loyal, Janie’s best friend, Annabelle, had said, when they were both sophomores and Jimmy was in senior year. He’s a goddamn Saint Bernard.
All through high school, Jimmy played hockey; defence, eighteenth man on the team. Ready to fill in whenever coach needed, but in four years he racked up maybe half a day’s ice time. Janie didn’t care. She went to his games anyway, just to see him riding the bench. He pretended he didn’t notice her and Annabelle sitting in the bleachers; gossiping, giggling, whispers hanging in the fog of their breath. Wearing zippered miniskirts, sleeveless blouses, beaded necklaces and elbow-length fishnet gloves. All in white, the both of them, with oversized bows in their frosted hair. Like Madonna. Like a Virgin. Even with his eyes on the rink, Jimmy noticed.
* * *
When Annabelle died--black ice on the overpass, low visibility; the counsellor assured them it was nobody’s fault--Jimmy came to the funeral. Throughout the service he’d held Janie’s hand, squeezed her fingers until they were bloodless and cold. Janie had squeezed back. She hadn’t cried while the priest mumbled prayers, then spoke too quickly, clipping his words during the requiem as if speeding through Mass would make his Latin sound more natural. Every other girl in the class sobbed shamelessly, though, double-thick layers of mascara gobbing down their flushed faces. Janie’s cheeks had remained cool, her makeup frozen in place. She looked hideous when she cried. Her eyes puffed like blowfish, her nose swelled and reddened, her lips doubled in size. For hours afterwards she’d taste salt. No, it wouldn’t do to cry. Not with Jimmy by her side. She’d weep herself ugly later, behind closed doors. Annabelle wouldn’t mind.
“Coffins should be white and smooth,” she’d said, as her best friend’s heavy oak box lowered into the ground. “Like time capsules, perfect and hard. You know, to keep out the worms.”
Jimmy rubbed her palm with his broad thumb and said nothing. So much grief had thickened his tongue. Though mesmerised by death, he could see still see Janie. He watched her blushing from the corner of his eye.
* * *
A week later, Jimmy pinned an orchid on Janie’s floor-length black dress and took her to prom. In the stretch limo, she’d imagined Annabelle sitting across from the mini bar, wearing skin-tight leggings and matching bolero jacket, a babydoll tunic in peaches ’n’ cream lace. “You look awesome,” Janie said, after Jimmy had stepped out of the car. Annabelle had winked, and shooed her away.
Janie smiled all evening. She’d danced until she was sweaty, then wished that she hadn’t: Jimmy’s hands had slid on her bare shoulder blades when he’d pulled her in for a kiss. Their heads had collided. Her bony nose connected with Jimmy’s left eye. He’d squinted for the rest of the night, tears leaking from beneath his lashes. I guess that’s it then, she’d thought, watching the disco lights colour his teardrops gold, blue, orange. She didn’t even have a tissue to offer.
They hadn’t been crowned King and Queen, far from it. Jimmy looked like a Saint Bernard, Annabelle said so herself. And Janie wasn’t even so pretty as that.
* * *
Janie had studied English literature at university. Shakespeare, Milton, Donne. Four years later, an Honours degree under her belt, she got a job as a receptionist. She worked at an office filled with cubicles, grey boxes carpeted from floor to ceiling, like cells for the criminally insane. The company distributed white goods. To commemorate her tenth year of service, the owners gave Janie a new fridge and a standalone freezer. She would’ve preferred a raise.
Jimmy took accounting, graduated early, then fast-tracked to become a CA. He wore suits at work, track pants at home. On weekends he played pickup hockey with a bunch of guys from the firm. He took Janie to the movies, to corporate functions, to conferences out of town. Sometimes she’d wait for him at his hotel, surprise him with slinky lingerie and sex in the middle of the day. She’d stopped taking the pill, but Jimmy would always pull out. He loved her, he’d said. He loved her body. He’d pretend to impale his eye on her nose, just to make her laugh. It would be the two of them together, or nothing, he’d said. There would be no children.
* * *
She’d bought her first snowglobe when they eloped to Acapulco, a cheap plastic dome with a photo of her and Jimmy inside. She’d been so slender then, fit and taut and tanned from a week in the sun. She nearly disappeared between the overinflated muscles of Jimmy’s arms. As a wedding gown, she’d borrowed a spaghetti-strap sundress, and her husband was dressed in cream. They’d both worn mischievous expressions when the shutter snapped; Janie more than anyone loved a good secret.
For weeks she carried the globe around in her purse, and snuck glimpses whenever she could. It didn’t bother her that there was no snow in Mexico. The flakes were confetti, as far as she was concerned, celebrating their marriage. A perfect moment of happiness, caught in a bubble of water.
* * *
Janie got fatter and fatter after that, but it didn’t lead to maternity leave.
“It’s love,” joked her boss, patting his own flat abs. He was confidently gay, and so thin you could practically see through him. Every day he’d flit from cubicle to cubicle, flirting with staff of both sexes, telling them about his wild trips to Greece. Freckled and tiny as he was, no-one ever took him seriously. No-one ever felt truly harassed. He smoked too much and puffed when he walked. He’d bulked up to a size 0 since meeting his boyfriend.
“It’s love,” he repeated, pinching the taut flesh at his hips, seeing love handles where there were none. “It shows that you’re happy.”
Janie soon grew so happy she could no longer fit into regular-sized clothes.
* * *
They upgraded from an apartment on the outskirts of town to a two-storey house in the city. Maple trees lined the streets and in each driveway were parked shiny new cars, four-wheel drives, convertibles that could only be driven in summer. Their place was modest, four bedrooms, two W/Cs--one with a claw-foot tub. Janie loved few things more than wallowing in the bath, books stacked on the tiles, bottles of vodka within easy reach. She’d be in there for ages. Hours and hours, until the water went cold and she’d have to drain some of it, refill it in a scalding rush. Drain and refill, drain and refill, she’d keep everything submerged until the chill left her bones.
Jimmy would chuckle to hear her splashing around in there for so long. He expected the room to be waterlogged after one of Janie’s marathon baths, but she always left the place spic-and-span. Once he found a thin smear of blood on the rim of the tub. Only once.
“Cheap razors,” Janie said, her arms wrapped around a bundle of
clean towels. “Never buying them again.”
She smelled like baby powder when Jimmy kissed her cheek. Her skin was a violent shade of red, and shrivelled as a newborn’s.
* * *
Slimming foundation garments filled Janie’s wardrobe. Underwear that stretched up to her breasts and extended down to her knees. Janie contemplated corsets but couldn’t afford them. Instead she wore loose dresses with empire waistlines. Low-necked shirts that would accentuate her cleavage. At work, her friends said she looked beautiful. Her boss continued to flirt. But weeks would pass, great deserts of time, in which Jimmy was too tired, he said, to touch her. When he spooned her at night, as he still often did, she’d move his arm so it wouldn’t drape across the drooping roll of her belly. And when they had sex, he’d take her from behind, most vigorously after several tumblers of scotch.
* * *
Jimmy brought his wife presents, little surprise gifts, just because. Bouquets from the grocery store. Figs dipped in dark chocolate. Curry his personal assistant, Annie, had made. Texan barbecue crackers. Bottles of sparkling red wine. Simple pleasures, and sweet. Treats they shared together after a busy day at work. Jimmy filled up, Janie filled out.
* * *
They shopped at Price Club, and later, Costco. Janie always bought in bulk. Saran wrap on rolls so large you could wrap a Rottweiler, if he’d stay still long enough, until the black of his fur looked pale grey--and still there’d be plastic left to cover baked goods for the freezer. Cotton balls in great rectangular bags that could smother a small child if they were mistaken for pillows. Garbage bags sturdy enough to wrap a whole tree in full bloom, to trap the leaves on its branches come autumn. Egyptian cotton towels, all white, twenty bucks for a baker’s dozen. Bleach in industrial-sized bottles. Linens will last for years with enough bleach, Janie knew. All stains easily erased, towels and sheets returned to the cupboard pristine. Without a spot of colour on them.
* * *
She named their son Ariel after the sprite in Shakespeare’s Tempest. Immediately, she shortened it to Ari because baby boys should not be confused with little mermaids. Babies cannot breathe underwater, nor can they sing with lobsters.
* * *
When Ari was grown, he’d wear running shorts with white piping around the waistband and legs. They’d have built-in mesh jocks, so he could race around the house without flapping about. The shorts would be blue, his t-shirt sparkling white, like the blizzards inside her snowglobes. She’d bought one a year since Ari was born, seven in all, at gift shops all over the world. Paris, London, Québec City, Niagara Falls, New York, Vancouver, L.A. Jimmy consulted and Janie went with him. They travelled business class. Jimmy could afford it, and the seats could better accommodate Janie’s girth. Hong Kong was next on their list.
Some days Ari’s irises were clear blue, like his father’s, others they were soil brown like Janie’s. Hazel, she thought, was the way to describe their colour--their shifting, inconstant hue. Occasionally they were almost purple. She was sure they’d darkened over time. She stopped looking closely at his face, after a while. Unsettled by the shadows she saw there.
She named her daughter Hazel, since the girl suffered the same ocular affliction. For Hazel, she bought glass paperweights.
* * *
For a while Janie contemplated changing her name to Jade. It was a much more exciting name. Sexy. Daring. More like the Cheries and Krystals and Desirées in the magazines she’d found in Jimmy’s sock drawer. It might turn him on, she thought, if he closed his eyes and called her Jade. He might not even need the scotch to get going. And she still wasn’t taking the pill, so who knew what might happen ... But it was the end of financial year, and Jimmy was in no mood for games. What he wanted was Janie. He wanted the woman he’d married.
* * *
Hazel wasn’t looking well. Ari was much more robust, but even he was beginning to sag. Janie, on the other hand, was healthier than ever. She earned a promotion (PA to the CEO) because of her dedication, her unblemished record of service. But when her babies started falling apart, she did what any mother would do: she called in sick. She stayed home and looked after the pair of them. They weren’t rowdy. They suffered in silence. Perhaps they’re dehydrating, she thought. Perhaps they need sugar. So she’d bake until the freezer was topped-up with brownies, butter tarts, scones. All the while she’d listen to old Leonard Cohen singles and scratched Simon and Garfunkel LPs. Hazel would like those ones best, Janie thought. The little girl actually vibrated at the singers’ deep voices, their carefully chosen phrases. She rattled. She practically hummed. Meanwhile Janie imagined herself as Suzanne, or as the girl who read Emily Dickinson while Paul Simon read Robert Frost. She wanted to be Cecilia for an afternoon. She wanted another baby.
Nobody’s perfect, she thought, phoning in to book the rest of the week off.
* * *
On their fifteenth anniversary, Jimmy and Janie holidayed in the Dominican Republic. Seven days and six nights, a package deal at half price because it wasn’t yet full winter. Janie wore sarongs to cover her stretchmarks, billowing gypsy blouses to cover her bloated torso. A broad-brimmed straw hat kept the pregnancy mask from darkening on her forehead. Plastered in zinc and sunscreen, Janie looked as pale as ever. She could’ve painted herself up like a clown, red nose and all, and Jimmy wouldn’t have noticed.
Jimmy’s arms had deflated over the years, but his butt still looked good in a swimsuit. She peeled it off him, straight out of the pool, and reminded him why he was lucky to have her. Eight months along, she wasn’t up for sex; but her tongue always made Jimmy squirm, and when she swallowed instead of spat the sheer joy on his face guaranteed Janie another few months as a married woman.
He bought her a crystal globe in Santo Domingo. Palm trees and a surfer dude bobbed in waves of sparkles instead of snow. Shards of colour swirled, clutched in Janie’s palm--too much colour. It didn’t match her set, all ice blues and frost whites. It looked wrong.
“Cheer up,” Jimmy said, mistaking the source of her frown, seeing reluctance to go home writ large on her face. “We’ve still got two more days in paradise.”
She forced a laugh and said he was right. But tucked comfortably beneath the soft sheets of a king-sized bed, in a luxury bungalow looking over the Caribbean Sea, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind raced. Had she turned off the gas before they left? Had she locked the back door? What if there was a blackout? A full freezer defrosted, and everything spoiled. They hadn’t hired a house-sitter--no need, Janie thought, it’s only a week--and they didn’t own any pets. Her stomach churned. The baby stirred in her gut, all elbows and knees. She stayed awake until dawn, hoping Ari and Hazel were all right. Hoping no-one would find them alone.
* * *
Outside it was snowing. The city muffled under a blanket of white, sparks of ice catching in the beams of streetlights, the world unsteady beneath Janie’s plump feet. We’ve been shaken, she thought, laughing, then gasped as another contraction wracked her body.
“Be good, be quiet,” she told her children in the kitchen. She shifted a few boxes of brownies in the freezer, dug a hard square from one container, stuffed it into her mouth. Warmed, the cake went soft on her tongue. She drizzled melted icing onto her fingertip, smeared it across plastic wrap, revealing the babies’ compressed lips. “Hush now,” she said, wiping the frost from their nostrils.
“Christmas party starts at eight,” Jimmy called from the living room. “You nearly ready? We need to go to the liquor store, and pick Annie up on the way. She’s clueless when it comes to directions.”
“We’ve got tons of time,” she replied. Janie’s water had broken after lunch, and everyone knew third births were the quickest. “Give me an hour or two and I’ll be a knockout.”
“Ha ha,” said Jimmy, flicking on the TV.
“Ha ha,” said Janie.
The baby kicked at her ribs, pressed its head hard against her cervix, let her know it was time. Let her know it was now or neve
r.
“Mamma needs to take a bath, my darlings.” Janie chucked Ari on the chin, tweaked Hazel’s nose. She ate the last of the brownies, clearing a space in the freezer. “I know you’re excited--I am too! But I’ll be back soon, all pretty in my dress. And then you can meet your new little brother or sister.”
“Hush, hush,” she whispered, closing the heavy white lid. “Enough chatter. We don’t want to disturb daddy.”
Blues Eater
Tub never makes house calls. folk know where to find him: beached, as always, on the brown striped sofa-bed in his one-man trailer, parked at the farthest end of Mama’s long drive. Armed with cans of corn relish, plates of butter tarts, rhubarb pies, heat-sealed jars of gooseberry jam, his callers stop in at Mama and Gene’s place first. Without knocking or ringing the bell, they wait on the stoop until she joins them. Trod on so often, the timber planks are worn and tired, whining at the lightest step; Mama hears folk skulking out there long before she opens the front door. When she does, they skip the small talk. Voices quiet--softer than the whoosh of Gene’s CPAP machine in the living room, hosing life into his tar-clogged lungs--these visitors ask after Tub.