by K. D. Miller
*
After school, Mary stashes her stuff at home, grabs her keys, and heads next door. She crosses her arms against the early October breeze. Should have kept her coat on.
She climbs the porch steps and taps on the door. Waits. Wishes again that Len would agree to leave his side door open so she could just poke her head in and call hello. Be able to get inside if she didn’t hear anything. But no. Len likes to maintain that little bit of distance. It must have been hard enough for him, last year, when he asked her to touch base with him once a day. It’s for Sister’s sake. She’s the one I’m worried about. In case I have a fall or something. Can’t get up. Who would look after her? Not as if she can pick up the phone and dial 911.
Mary is just starting to wonder if she should knock again when the door cracks open. Len looks terrible—shrunken and pale. Eyes red.
“Hi, Len. Just me, as usual. You and Sister okay?”
“Oh. Yes. Mary.” He sounds as if he’s just remembering something long forgotten. “Of course it’s you. So it must be four-thirty.”
“Len, how are you doing? You look a little—”
“Fine! I—we’re fine. Both of us.”
“Okay. That’s good.” Usually, he invites her in. Usually, she declines. But it’s part of the ritual. Not today, it seems. “Hey, don’t forget about Sunday.” All she gets is a blank stare. “Thanksgiving dinner? I’m cooking us up a turkey.” God. He really is out of it.
“Oh! Yes. Of course. Thank you.”
“Just drop over around five.”
The old man nods, then all but closes the door in her face. No. Not like him at all.
As she walks back to her house, she decides not to tell him about her name showing up on that list. He’s too frail these days for her to dump her problems on. There was a time when she would have sat on his couch, Sister’s head in her lap, and spilled the whole thing. Taken comfort in the posture he would have adopted for listening—elbows on his knees, good ear cocked in her direction, eyes on the rug. And then it would have been her turn to listen as he paraphrased what she had said, minus the emotion. All right. As I understand it, this Mountie contacted you because it’s procedure. Duty to inform, as he said. And the fact that your name showed up on this—United Cyber Caliphate? That what it’s called? This list? It doesn’t mean you’re in any actual danger. If you were, the feds would be doing more than just telling people about it. So it’s nothing to do with you personally. And if it was me, I’d put it out of my mind. Get on with my life. Hell. You could step off the curb and get hit by a bus—God forbid—tomorrow. So what are you going to do about that? Hide under the bed? Never go outside?
And he would be right, of course. But she’s not sure that she would be convinced. That she wouldn’t still feel as if there were a bullseye on her back. Or as if she carried some infectious disease. Typhoid Mary. Especially when she was around the kids.
Once home, Mary heats up some chili. Pulls some pita out of the freezer and puts it in the microwave. Len really is slowing down, from the looks of it. Every morning for years, when she did her morning walk before work through the waterfowl park, she’d find him and Sister already there, taking a break on one of the boardwalk benches. But the old dog never even leaves the backyard now.
As she carries her plate and bowl to the dining room table she glances at the wall calendar. It’s the seventh. She’s been too distracted all day to think about that. Now she can’t ignore the odd feeling it always gives her in the pit of her stomach. Not nausea. That’s for the mornings. No, this is more tingly. Anticipation. Or dread. She’s never done hard drugs, never been hooked on anything. Maybe this is how it feels. Hating and wanting at the same time.
She always calls on the seventh. Never on the first or the middle or the end of the month. Nothing that would be too easy to notice. And she always picks a different time of day. Last month, it was early, before she left for work. So this time it should be—
She eats quickly. Rinses her plates and stacks them in the dishwasher. Takes a few deep breaths to calm herself before picking up her phone and thumbing the Toronto number.
“Hello?”
He’s always home. No matter when she calls.
“Hello?”
How many times has it been now? Hasn’t he started to notice a pattern?
“Who is calling, please?”
She breathes through her nose with her mouth slightly open. The most silent breath you can take. Hears a sigh. Then a click. Then the dial tone.
Her heart is pounding. One of these times he’s going to call back. She’s been counting on him hanging on to that antique red dial phone he plugs into the wall as a conversation piece. He uses his cell for anything real. But the old phone can still take calls. So that’s the number she uses. If he ever decides to get a new landline, something with call display—
She doesn’t know what she would do if he ever said, Mary? Honey? Is that you? Would she just hang up? Or would she say, Hi, Dad. I’ve been targeted by terrorists. And I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant. What’s new with you?
*
He’s put on his heaviest coat. Boots too. More than he needs for the night’s chill. But the weight will help—
He descends his porch steps carefully, hanging on to the rail, leading with his cane. Would have been easier to come out the side door. But it seemed more fitting to use the front. And he still has on his suit and tie.
As he taps past Mary’s house he sees lights on in the living room—one of them blue and flickering. She must be watching TV. Why doesn’t somebody just marry her? Lovely girl. Seems lonely. He left a letter addressed to her on the kitchen table. Left both the front and side doors unlocked.
There are lights on the boardwalk, but it’s still pretty dim. Deserted, too. He’s never been here this late. The water on either side is pitch black. Don’t think about it.
He leans on his cane. Lands heavily on one knee. Eases the other down. Sets his cane off to the side and gets on all fours. Lies down on his stomach. Rolls carefully onto his back. Is he close enough? He reaches out to the right. Feels the rough edge of the board.
The cold might do it. If not, the coat and boots will fill and pull him down.
Don’t think. Just roll. On the count of three.
One. Two—
*
The second Mary sits up in bed, a wave of nausea drives her back down under the covers. It’s Saturday. Thank God she doesn’t have to work. But there is so much she does have to do. Should have done by now. Gotten to a pharmacy. Peed on a stick. Learned what she already knows. Made a decision.
She buries her face in her pillow, willing her stomach to settle down. She hasn’t actually vomited yet. Once that starts, if it starts, if she allows it to start, how will she handle a class? She can’t keep running out on a bunch of four- and five-year-olds to throw up. And what about Dave? Will she have to lawyer up? Get some kind of support from him? Or could he duck out of it because she lied to him about being on the pill? Maybe even turn around and sue her?
It’s all such a mess. And her house is a mess. And she needs groceries. And she wants her mother.
The last time she saw her, her mother gave her a cold once-over and said, “You look just like my daughter.”
“I am your daughter.”
“Oh no. My daughter’s dead.”
“Mom—”
“Don’t you call me that. My name is Caroline. And my daughter is dead. That’s why I’m here. They put you in here when your children have died.”
Carefully, Mary sits up. The nausea is gone. For now. She goes into the bathroom and urinates, thinking again about what she has to pick up from the pharmacy. Will she be able to find it on the shelves without having to ask? And will the cashier please, please not be the teenaged kid of somebody she knows? Guess what I rang up for Mary Somers today, Mom.
In the kitchen she puts the kettle on for herbal tea. She can usually get that down, with dry toast. Then, if she’s up to it, she’ll clean the house. That always cheers her up afterwards, to have everything neat, smelling fresh. She takes after her father that way.
Her father. How long ago did she stop talking to him? Long enough that she has to work a bit to remember why.
She couldn’t forgive him for giving up. Putting her mother in an institution—a place full of people who slumped and drooled. She hated the way he had resigned himself. Could not accept his acceptance.
The kettle starts to whistle. She pours hot water over her chamomile tea bag, thinking about that cockamamie scheme she found on the internet. She must have been in a real state. How could she have let herself be taken in by it? Some so-called American doctor who claimed he could cure dementia, no matter how advanced. For a price, of course.
What finally broke it for her was her father’s utter calm. What he said when she was pushing him to go for that so-called miracle cure. And the way he said it. “Mary. You have an education. Consider the source.” Use your head, in other words.
She carries her tea into the living room and puts it on the coffee table. Pulls her bathrobe closed. Opens the front door to retrieve the paper.
There is a man on her porch. His fist is raised.
*
“Hey, buddy. You don’t want to do that.”
Curtis had run and managed to catch the old guy in a bear hug just as he was about to roll off the edge.
“I did, actually,” Len said into his shoulder.
“Yeah, well, it’s not going to happen.”
They lay together like lovers on the boardwalk until Len was still.
“Okay. If I let you go, do you promise to—” He almost said behave. But the guy could be his father. After a pause, he felt Len nod. Loosened his grip. “Come on, then. I’ll help you up. Take your time. That’s right. I’ve got you. Get a leg under. Now the other one. Good. This your stick? Where do you live? I’ll see you home.”
“I’m sorry,” Len said, once he was on his feet. “I don’t know what came over me. And I’m so ashamed of myself.”
Same thing Curtis said at his inquest all those years ago. Meant it, too. Not that it made any difference. “Let’s just get you home,” he said now. “Cold out here.”
But the old man braced himself with his cane. Held his hand out. “I’m Len Sparks.”
Well, howdy do. Come here often? “Curtis Maye.” They shook.
“I just want you to know one thing, Mr. Maye.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not—irrational. It’s just. I had my dog put down today. Sounds like a pretty poor excuse now. But at the time …”
Curtis shrugged. “Doesn’t take much, sometimes.”
“You from these parts, Mr. Maye?”
So now we’re going to have a conversation. As if nothing has just happened. Okay. “I grew up in Moncton. My folks moved to Sackville when I was going to Carleton.” Part of the script he worked up while he was waiting to be released. Normal-sounding small talk. “After I graduated I worked in Ottawa for a while. Then Kingston. Moved here six months ago. I live with my mother over on Salem. She’s—” A big part of my parole ticket. “She’s at an age when she can use my help.”
“Well, she’s lucky to have a son like you.”
I wish you’d never been born. Last thing his father ever said to him. “Hey, you’re starting to shake. Can we get you home?”
“I’m on Bridge Street. Not far.”
When they got to his house, Curtis lent his arm up the porch steps. Insisted on seeing the old man safely inside. “I need to change,” Len said, keeping his coat on. “I had—a bit of an accident.”
“I don’t wonder. You do what you need to do. I’ll just hang around until I’m sure you’re okay. Then I’ll split.”
“Please don’t call anyone. Please.”
“I won’t.”
He glanced at his watch while the old man mounted the stairs, one step at a time. He’d told his mother he was working late. The library closed at nine. She would expect him home soon after that. If she got back from her church service and he wasn’t there, she might do some damned fool thing like call his parole officer. I was just so worried, dear.
While Len was upstairs, Curtis looked around a bit. There was a sealed envelope propped against a napkin holder on the kitchen table. PLEASE DELIVER TO MARY SOMERS. Then a Bridge Street address. Nearby. Next door, even? He’d check. Pay a visit tomorrow morning. Let this Mary Somers know she should maybe keep an eye on her neighbour.
Len was coming back downstairs. He had changed into pyjamas and a bathrobe and slippers. It made him look oddly boyish.
“Mr. Maye, I owe you an apology. I ruined your evening walk. Actually, I owe you more than that.” He reached into the pocket of his robe. Pulled out a wad of bills.
“No,” Curtis said. “I don’t want anything.” But he couldn’t take his eyes off the money.
“Please. I insist. When you get to be my age you don’t have as much use for this stuff.”
By the time he was home, Curtis had almost stopped feeling like a shit for taking the old man’s cash.
*
“So you thought I was some kind of terrorist.” Been called worse.
Curtis is perched now on Mary Somers’s couch, sipping coffee from a mug with a cartoon of a cat on it. He’d like to lean back, but there are about a dozen little pillows behind him that seem to have been arranged just so. His mother’s living room is like that. Tiny useless tables everywhere. Doilies. Bits of china and glass all over everything. If he breathes, he knocks something over.
Mary is curled up in the one chair that looks comfortable, sipping tea. Once they’d established who each other was, and what he was doing there, she offered him some. He caught a whiff of it and said no thanks, so she said, “You more a coffee man?” He snuck a look at the back of her as she headed to the kitchen. Bit of flesh on her bones, to judge from the hug of the bathrobe. Long, tangled hair the colour of pine.
“Sorry I screamed,” she says now, moving around to get comfortable. Her robe falls a little open, showing him a nice bit of curve. He drops his eyes to his mug. “For long stretches I forget all about being on that stupid list. Then something happens—like opening the door and there you are—and I think I’m going to be murdered.”
Curtis drinks his coffee.
“I’m so glad you were there on the boardwalk last night right when Len … I could tell something was wrong yesterday when I checked in on him. But I never thought he’d—”
“Yeah, well. I’m pretty sure it was a one-off. He’ll be okay. He was just feeling low. Upset about his dog.”
“What about his dog?”
“Had it put down yesterday.”
“Oh no! Sister? He had Sister put to sleep? I loved that old dog!”
“Sorry. Guess I could have broken the news a bit more—”
“It’s okay,” Mary says, dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex. How do women do that, he wonders, watching her. Pull a Kleenex out of thin air? “You couldn’t possibly have known. But damn it. Poor old Len. Sister was all he had.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’d say he has a pretty good neighbour.”
She doesn’t respond. She’s gone all still, and is looking at him strangely. “That’s where I’ve seen you!”
His armpits go cold. When he was released, his name and picture made it into some of the papers.
“You work at the library, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” His heart begins to slow.
“Right. I teach school. I’m in there a lot.” She continues to study him. Maybe wondering why a man his age is doing a teenager’s job.
“It’s just a stopgap for me,” he says. “I’m new in
town. Hoping to set up a business.” Another part of the passing-as-ordinary script he’s worked up.
“Oh yeah? What kind of a business?”
“Carpentry, mostly.” They taught him woodworking inside. “Maybe some electrical, too. Repairs. Installations. Handyman kind of thing. But mostly, I’d work with wood.”
Right. Where’s he going to get the capital to start a business? Even buy tools? Any banks out there loan money to ex-cons? Still, for all it’s bullshit, it’s nice to sit and talk like a normal human being. Nice to have somebody listening to him who thinks he’s a normal human being.
“I should show you my back porch,” Mary says now. “It’s a disaster. I’d love a real deck.”
“Glad to take a look at it. Some time.” He checks his watch. “But I’ll have to head over to the library. Anyway, thanks for the coffee.”
“Well, thank you for coming and telling me about Len. I should hustle too. I’ve got some shopping and cleaning and cooking to do.”
It’s the cue for both of them to get up. But for a second or two they just sit and look at each other.
*
Len is wrestling Sister’s bed into a garbage bag. He thought about donating it to the SPCA, then decided it was too old and worn. Her food and water bowls, her toys, her collar and leash went straight into the trash. Easier that way. And it keeps him from thinking about the damned fool he made of himself last night.
He slept like a baby, then woke up feeling sheepish and relieved, the way he used to after a deserved bawling-out by his father. Strange to think that he could have been dead now. Floating. His body yet to be found. Strange, too, to be the only living thing in the house. That’ll take some getting used to.
The thing about Sister was, she was there. For the last thirteen years. And he has the photographs to prove it. Him and Joan up at the lake, sitting at the picnic table outside the cottage they always rented. Sister down front, dog-grinning into the camera. Christmas morning. Joan sitting at the foot of the decorated tree in her red velvet robe, Sister’s head in her lap.
But in the years since Joan died, it’s been going back farther than that. Farther than can be caught on camera. Sister now inhabits his boyhood memories. She’s there with him, those mornings he was—what? Fourteen? Heading down to the river. Toting the air rifle—couldn’t do much more with it than scare crows—that his father gave him over his mother’s protests. His mother who thanked God every day for the very thing he pretended was itching him crazy—that by the time he was old enough to sign up, the war would likely be over.