Late Breaking

by K. D. Miller

  He would never have admitted it, but he was just as glad to be out of harm’s way. Still, every Saturday morning he took his rifle down to the banks of the St. John. Crouched behind a bush to watch and wait, half-hoping, half-fearing to see the swastika-decaled turret of a submarine breaking the surface.

  And now, when he thinks of those mornings, Sister is by his side. Taking her cue from him. Watching the water.

  He drags the garbage bag out the side door and down to the curb. And here comes Mary. Was she watching for him? Soon as he sees her face, he can tell that she knows what he went and did last night. Tried to do. Doesn’t matter how she found out. This town, secrets blow around on the wind. Her eyes are fierce as she marches toward him, reminding him of his mother. Yes, she knows, all right. And all at once he knows something about her, too.

  He couldn’t put his finger on what it is that makes him so sure. But he’s always been able to tell. His father was a country doctor. Maybe he picked the knack up from him. When he was teaching, once a year or so a high-school girl would get into trouble, as they used to say back then. There’d be a special staff meeting about it, everything very hush-hush. He’d have to bite his lip. Because he already knew. Was it the way they walked? Or a kind of glow about them that came through, for all the worry and shame?

  Oh, Mary, he thinks. Standing his ground. Bracing for a bawling-out.

  *

  Mary pulls a bag of torn-up bread out of the freezer and leaves it on the counter to thaw. Whenever she has a stale end of a loaf, she rips it into small pieces and drops them in the freezer bag. Then, when she needs bread for stuffing, it’s there. Just one of the tricks her mother taught her.

  Her mother. Does she even know it’s Thanksgiving? Will they give her any kind of a decent dinner in that place in Hamilton? What if she drove to Moncton, right now, and took the next flight west? Showed up in her mother’s room. What if her father just happened to be there?

  Pick up the turkey, Mary. Get potatoes, squash, carrots. Pick up the pie. What else?

  Pharmacy.

  No. Do that on Tuesday. Don’t think about it till then.

  She gathers her shopping bag, purse, hat, and gloves. Pulls on her coat. Was that a little reckless, sitting talking to a strange man in just her nightie and robe? Asking him in in the first place? But once she got over the shock of seeing him there on her porch, he seemed—

  Not just familiar. Comfortable. As if she’d known him for ages. It felt right, having him there. She could almost have asked him to hang around and help her while she shopped and cooked and cleaned.

  Len suggesting she invite him for Thanksgiving dinner was a surprise. But then when she thought about it, it gave her that same comfortable of course feeling.

  She hopes he’ll come. It would be nice—the three of them sitting around her table. The lines of a song she teaches her kids each year runs through her mind: They all lived together in a crooked little house.

  *

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Some days. And this one’s a dilly.

  Started with wanting to kill his mother. Again. So he did that good-Samaritan thing, dropping in on Mary Somers to tell her about Len. Hoping to cheer himself up.

  He was expecting a woman around Len’s age. Instead, what he saw was—Ripe. Yes. A ripeness about her. Those sleepy eyes and tangled hair. That waft of bedclothes rising from her whenever she moved.

  Don’t even think about it. Look at you. Ex-con. Did your twenty-five, then ten more getting parole. In your sixties now. Earning chump change at a nothing job. Living with your mother.

  “So, Mom,” he said that morning at breakfast. “You want me to help you get groceries or anything once I’m through work today?” She had been oddly silent about Thanksgiving dinner. Didn’t even have a pumpkin pie baked. When he was a kid, the pies were the first thing she did. He was looking forward to a decent feed on Sunday. His mother didn’t have much of an appetite, and she sometimes forgot that he did.

  “No, that’s all right, dear. We won’t be needing anything.” There was a bit of mischief behind her eyes. I know something you don’t know.

  “What do you mean? It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “Yes. It is. And last night at the special service Pastor Peter issued the most wonderful challenge to us all.”

  He didn’t like the way this was going. They’d been United Church when he was growing up. Then, once he was inside and his father was dead, his mother went a little strange. Switched denominations. Started including phrases like the reign of Christ in her letters. Confessing that she envied the ones in her new congregation who could speak in tongues and faint in the spirit. That one time he went with her to Kingdom Come Pentecostal, a woman next to him kept slamming her hips into the back of the pew in front of her, gasping out “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!” He didn’t know where to look.

  “We are going to fast,” his mother was saying. “As a community. We will gather together on Sunday at Kingdom Come for a day of fasting and prayer, then donate what we would have spent on food to our African mission.”

  “You’re fasting? On Thanksgiving?”

  “You can join in, Curtis! We would love to welcome you to our fold!”

  “Like hell.” He was starting to heat up. He’d better watch it. But shit. His pay cheque went straight into her bank account. She handed him twenty-five bucks every Monday morning. Twenty-five bucks for the week. When she remembered. “Some of that money you’re sending to Africa is mine, you know. And will you get a receipt? Some kind of proof that you’re not just lining Pastor Peter’s pocket?”

  Oh, look at her. She was getting that pinched little look. He had disappointed her. Again. And so it started up—that murmuring little whimper that ate under his skin.

  “All those years … I took the train … all alone … to that place where they searched my bag … and your father would never come …”

  His only visitor. Year after year. They watched each other get old through plexiglass.

  “… to have to see my own son …”

  He wiped his mouth. Threw down his napkin. Got up and left the house.

  Sondra’s got him shelf-reading today. His least favourite job. It’s picky. He has to check every Dewey decimal notation on every single spine—the skinny ones have it stamped on sideways, so he has to bend and twist—and catch any rogues and put them where they belong.

  Sondra hired him through the Second Chance Program. He was lucky, and he knows it. He could have ended up bagging groceries or cleaning toilets. “That’s Sin-Clair,” she said to him his first day when he stuck out a sweaty hand and mispronounced her name. “I’m no saint.”

  No, she isn’t. And she’s really laying it on today. She always lets herself dress down on Saturdays. This week’s jeans are skintight. And that low-cut flowered blouse. Plus her perfume, that manages to creep into every corner of the place.

  She’s curious. Written all over her. Some days like this one, when he could cheerfully blow everything out of the water, he imagines going into her office and saying, Okay, Sondra. Since you want to know. Inside, everything that doesn’t smell like damp concrete smells like shit. And you hear every cell door slam, every whimper, every scream, because there’s not a scrap of rug or curtain to soak up the noise. And yes, the guys lucky enough to have a woman on the outside do get conjugal visits. In the fuck truck, as it’s called. And yes, it hurts like hell to get it up the ass. Anything else you want to know?

  Just read the shelves, Curtis. Wouldn’t be so bad if people would leave books on the tables for him to pick up. But oh, no, they want to help. So they put the fucking things back on the shelves, only in the wrong—

  “Curtis?”

  He looks down. Does a double take.

  “Sorry to interrupt you at work.”

  “No! No, that’s fine. That’s no problem.” She’s wearing a fuzzy little blue hat.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sondra at her desk. Watching the two of them.

  “Um, look, this is really a long shot. Like, you probably have plans. But I’m having Len over tomorrow for turkey with all the trimmings, and we’d both really like it if you could join us. I think Len’s kind of embarrassed. He’d like you to see him under different circumstances.” Curtis is still stuck on trimmings. Stuffing. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Enough to make him believe in God.

  “Anyway, if there’s any chance at all that you’re free—”

  “Yeah! I am. And that’s. That would be. Thank you. Yeah. I could come.”

  “Great. So. See you around five?”

  “Five. Okay. Anything I can bring?” That’s what you say, isn’t it, when you’re asked over for dinner? Anything I can bring. Just like a normal person.

  “How about a bottle of wine?”

  “A bottle of wine.”

  “Yeah. I’m not much of a drinker, so I’m not really sure … Red, maybe? With turkey?”

  “Red.”

  “Unless. Like, if you prefer white—”

  “No! Red. Red’s just fine.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow at five.”

  And the blue fuzzy hat is bobbing away from him out the library door. And he can feel Sondra St. Clair’s eyes on him.

  He turns back to the shelf. Pretends to be reading Dewey decimal notations.

  Bottle of wine. Red.

  May not consume alcohol. One of the conditions. Consume. Nothing about buying a bottle to bring as a gift, though. He could do that. He’ll just have to put his hand over his glass when Mary tilts it his way. Thanks, but I don’t drink. Another line in the script.

  He has Len’s cash in his pocket. And right across Main Street, smack in between this library where he works and the Town Hall / RCMP building where he has to check in every week, is the cutest, sweetest little wine store you’re ever going to see.

  Not that he’s ever been in it. Or ever even looked in the window. Or so much as let himself walk the side of the street that it’s on.

  *

  Grace Morgan Pettingill … twenty-one … only child of the Reverend Dr. Ramsay Pettingill, Dean of Christ Church Cathedral in Ottawa, and his wife Clarissa … musical prodigy … accepted at Juilliard …

  Len wishes he hadn’t booted up. Hadn’t keyed Curtis Maye into the search field. He shuts down his laptop. Takes his cane and goes carefully down the basement steps. He doesn’t often visit the basement any more. No need, since he had the washer and dryer installed in the pantry off the kitchen. But he’s been thinking about his old potting table. And there it is. A bit cobwebby. Clay pots still lined up on the shelf. Fork and trowel hanging on the wall. Gloves folded. And yes, the grow light still clicks on.

  … died of injuries sustained during an attack by ex-boyfriend Curtis Maye …

  It’s been years since he planted or potted anything. Maybe come spring he could have some soil delivered from the gardening centre. Give him something to do. Right, Sister? he almost says, then catches himself.

  … previous drunk-and-disorderly convictions …

  The plants were always his thing, as far as Joan was concerned. Oh, she liked seeing them in the back garden and in the sunroom. But she had no patience for the work, for witnessing the slow growth. So it was up to Len to putter and pot. One year he grew a whole bank of coleus from seedlings in discarded egg cartons. Spooned water each day carefully over each tiny sprout.

  Panicked and fled the scene … Kingston Penitentiary … no chance of parole for twenty-five years …

  One spring, when he was watering the houseplants in the sunroom, he discovered a weed poking up near the rim of one of the pots. Just two leaves on a single stem, like a tiny green propeller. Dandelion, most likely, from a seed that blew in through an open door, or rode in on Sister’s coat. If he didn’t pinch it out by the root right away, it would spread to all the other plants.

  He eased it out with an old spoon and gave it his smallest pot, not much bigger than a thimble. He set it on the high basement window ledge. Then, telling himself that it was foolishness, he tended it the way he did all the other seedlings.

  It grew. One morning a many-petalled yellow head was leaning into a shaft of sun coming through the dirty basement window. Now it was harder to do what he should have done in the first place. The thing could burst into seed any day, and even the faint breeze of his passing would break the tiny parachutes away from the mother plant and send them flying.

  He dropped the dandelion, pot and all, into a garbage bag and tied a knot in the neck. “Sorry,” he heard himself mutter. When he turned to carry the bag outside and tuck it into the can at the curb, he found Sister looking at him with those big, questioning beagle eyes.

  *

  full-bodied … provocative, light and mischievous … deep, dark, delicious … stirs the senses … intense … succulent …

  Christ. He’s trying to pick out a bottle, not get laid. And just about everything has a screw top now. Last time he bought wine, screw tops were for rubbies.

  He’s sweating. Feels as if there’s a spotlight on him. He’s convinced that if he turns around he’ll see Sondra. Or worse, his little prick of a parole officer. Jesus. If he’s going to buy booze, why does it have to be on Thanksgiving weekend, when half the town is in here doing the same thing?

  He gets through the checkout. Slips the bottle into the inside pocket of his coat. Steps out into the sun. Crosses Main. Turns left onto Charlotte. Heads for Salem and home. The whole time, he can feel the bottle bumping against his hip. Once inside the house, where his mother is still making a show of not speaking to him, he manages to smuggle the thing upstairs to his room. Stashes it inside a boot in his closet.

  Five o’clock, Mary said. Twenty-three hours from now.

  *

  She can’t believe what she just did. She’s never called twice in a month, much less twice in a weekend. And it was so close.

  He picked up on the second ring. Did his usual two Hellos. Made a pettish little sound with his mouth, as if he were just about to slam down the receiver.

  And that’s when she drew her breath in. Loud. Even to her it sounded like the kind of breath you draw right before a sob.

  Stupid. Stupid. It’s such a personal thing, breath. Once you’ve lived with someone, once you really know them, you can recognize the way they sneeze or cough. Or breathe.

  He must have heard it. Because he didn’t hang up. Just waited. Absolutely silent. Listening.

  She held her breath as long as she could, then ended the call. First time she’s ever been the first to disconnect.

  *

  Why couldn’t the damned thing at least have a cork in it? He’d bet money that his mother does not possess a corkscrew. All that’s keeping the cap on is that perforated tin ring. How easy would it be to close his hand around the neck of the bottle? Give it the slightest little twist? Hear the crack?

  Tonight the what-ifs won’t leave him alone. Having a bottle stashed behind a flimsy closet door just a few feet from his bed doesn’t help.

  What if he hadn’t taken the job in Campus Admin after he graduated? Or just hadn’t been on counter duty the day when she walked in? She needed to have her transcripts forwarded to that music school in New York. Grace Morgan Pettingill. What a name. “Morgan,” she corrected him, rolling her eyes when he called her Grace.

  What if he had just helped her fill out the forms then let her go back out the door? Put those freckles and that incredibly assured manner of hers out of his mind instead of dreaming up all kinds of unnecessary questions and procedures—anything to keep her at the counter?

  What if he hadn’t bumped into her on campus a week later on his lunch break—okay, he had been deliberately hanging around the arts complex—and asked her to go for a coffee? What if she hadn’t said yes
?

  Fast forward. What if he hadn’t already had the two of them married with kids, in his mind, when he asked her? Would he have handled it better, when she inched away from him in bed and repeated that she was serious about Juilliard? That she intended to live the life of a concert pianist—travelling and performing? Besides, as she’d said before, that wasn’t the only issue. There was also—

  But he didn’t want to hear about his drinking. He was fucking sick and tired of her going on about his drinking.

  Fast forward. His last day as a free man. What if he had given up after he called her a hifalutin elitist bitch and threw her out of his place? Hadn’t spent the next week going over their last conversation in his mind, convincing himself that he should try again, with different words. Better words. What if he hadn’t stopped in for just one drink after work? Just one, to take the edge off. Mellow him down a little before he approached her and had the conversation that he was so sure was going to change her mind. What if he’d known better than to head back to campus, after the fifth or sixth or whatever it was, and wait outside the library where he knew she was studying. Try to talk to her when she came out.

  What if he’d just let her go after she told him he was drunk and to leave her alone? Instead of following her into that laneway she took as a shortcut. Grabbing her by the shoulders. Spinning her around. Trying to shake some sense into her.

  He could what-if his way back to the first drink he ever took. It all leads up to the same thing. One minute, he was one kind of person. The next, he was another. Forever and ever, amen.

  What’s he going to talk about at the dinner table tomorrow? What charming anecdotes does he have to share? When exactly will that look appear on Mary Somers’s face? How soon before she takes that step back that everybody takes, once they figure out where he’s been for over half his life?