One Good Thing

by Rebecca Hendry

  There are books stacked in the corners, on the ceiling-high bookshelves, spilling off the side tables. There are even some piled on the overstuffed green sofa. “Wow. You read a lot.”

  Jane is in the small kitchen rustling around. “Yes, I guess so. That’s mostly all I do.” She laughs. “Read and write.”

  She comes back to Delilah and holds out a plastic sandwich bag full of white sugar. “This enough?”

  Delilah nods. An image comes back to her from the summer as she takes the bag with her mittened hand. City Jane crawling out of Will’s tent that pink dawn at Lonesome Point. The look she had given Delilah, that sad look. How she had crossed her arms across her chest while she said good morning.

  “Are you coming later for sure?” Delilah asks.

  “Not for sure. I have some work to do.”

  “On Christmas?”

  “I can always find work to do. But I might come by, we’ll see. I already had dinner.” She points toward her small table against the wall by the bookshelf.

  Delilah can see a plate with what looks like the remnants of Kraft Dinner and toast. There’s an open can of pineapple sitting by a stack of papers. “Lots of people will be there,” Delilah says. “Red and Maggie and Bear and Chris and the twins and Jethro and Mary Ellen. And Will.”

  She’s hoping for something, a smile or a glimmer in Jane’s eyes, but Jane looks past her to the door. “You should probably get back before your dad starts to worry.”

  “Okay. But . . . are you . . . are you and Will . . . like, is he your boyfriend?” Delilah says it before she can stop herself. She has been wondering for months. They don’t act like they’re together when they’re out at dinners and parties, but she has seen them whispering to each other in corners and sometimes they leave together.

  City Jane seems frozen for a second and then says, “No. No. We’re just . . . special friends. Good friends,” she corrects herself. She seems uncomfortable.

  “Don’t you like him that way?”

  City Jane laughs and hugs herself as though she’s suddenly cold. “Delilah, sometimes adults have . . . strange relationships. Sometimes people have been hurt and that makes things . . . complicated.”

  Delilah nods. She knows this. She can tell Jane doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Thanks for the sugar.”

  “Any time.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you later.” Delilah opens the door to the front porch.

  “Maybe, sweetie. You have a good night.”

  Delilah hears the door close behind her as she steps carefully down the snowy stairs and back out into the blackness.

  “EVERY FUCKING TIME!” BEAR howls, slapping his cards on the plywood table with his meaty hand. The table shudders and slides on the sawhorses like it’s done the last five times he did it.

  Jones and Delilah look at each other. There is a rowdy game of poker happening at the other end of the table closer to the wood stove. Delilah reaches over to mop up the wine that spilled in front of her. She doesn’t know whose it is. Dishes with turkey bones and congealed gravy have been pushed aside, napkins left soaking up spilled beer on the flannel sheet. The twins are climbing on the couch, shrieking, chocolate from the Pot of Gold someone brought smeared over their faces and in their hair.

  Most of the adults have been playing poker and arguing about the Berger report, which has been a much-discussed topic at all the get-togethers for months now. Marianne Faithfull is playing on Mac’s record player, that warbling, throaty voice that gets under Delilah’s skin and makes her squirm. The women, Maggie and Mary Ellen and Louise, are in the kitchen as Maggie says, “Trying to make a dent in the disaster Mac has left in there.” Dusty, Louise’s kid, didn’t come. Louise said she flew him out to Alberta to be with her parents for the holidays. She looks a little too comfortable in the shack tonight, Delilah has noticed. Like it’s her party too. Going to the kitchen for extra cups. Telling people where to find clean dishcloths. She even got up and refilled a chip bowl once.

  Delilah and Jones could hide out in her room with her comics and her radio, but it’s just getting good out there, so they stay put. Jones has snuck some Jack Daniels into both their pops, a tiny splash when the adults had their noses buried in the cards. A slow warm feeling spreads through Delilah as she takes small sips.

  “All right, all right, enough of this political bullshit, hand over your fucking pennies,” Bear bellows, and the others shove their piles toward him, swearing and laughing. Mac looks happy for the first time in weeks. He catches her eye and winks, his hair a wild mess, sweat beading his forehead. He’s wearing his red Christmas T-shirt, and the other men have brushed their hair and put on clean shirts too, though Bear is wearing his work suspenders over an undershirt that barely covers his belly.

  Outside the living room window, there are icicles that hang down the entire distance from the eaves to the ground, but the wood stove is glowing red around the top and there are so many people in the tiny shack that Delilah feels like they are cooking in a strange, simmering stew.

  “Should we clean up?” Jones asks, pointing at the stacks of plates, the cigarette butts put out in the ice cream.

  Delilah shakes her head. “Maybe later.”

  “What should we do?”

  She shrugs and takes a sip of her drink. It’s disgusting. The whiskey makes her pop taste rotten.

  “Delilah!” Maggie calls from the kitchen door. “Come!” She has a dishtowel over her shoulder, her dress is a crazy swirl of colours that falls to her feet. “You too, my Jonesy! Mary Ellen has something for you.” She beckons them and they get up awkwardly, barely able to squeeze between the wall and the table.

  Mary Ellen is sitting at the small table in the kitchen. She has two packages in her lap, wrapped in paper with snowmen printed on it. She beams when she sees them. They stand side by side, Jones holding his drink.

  “She has a gift for you, isn’t this so lovely?” Maggie says.

  Louise slides past them to join the men. Delilah can hear her laughing and wonders if she’s hanging over Mac like she was earlier, letting her arm brush his at the table while they ate, touching his shoulder when he was talking to her. It’s so obvious. Any idiot would be able to see what she was doing.

  “Presents,” Mary Ellen says solemnly. She hands one to Delilah just as the front door opens and a hail of voices calls out, “Well, well, it’s William! Mr. Bilodeau!”

  Will is here.

  Mary Ellen doesn’t hand Jones his present yet. She is waiting for Delilah to open hers. She mimes tearing open an imaginary gift and nods encouragingly. Delilah peels off the tape and opens the paper. It’s a pair of leather mitts with intricate beaded pink flowers. There is soft brown fur around the cuffs. They are so beautiful Delilah forgets to breathe for a second. “For me?” she says, even though she knows this is a stupid question. They must have taken Mary Ellen hours and hours.

  “Yes, you! Keep you warm,” Mary Ellen says.

  Maggie is looking over Delilah’s shoulder. She clucks her approval. “Oh my, so beautiful. So beautiful, Mary Ellen.”

  Delilah puts them on and they come up to above her wrists. The insides are lined with fur. They feel like warm silk on her hands. “Thank you,” she says. Hot tears are stinging her eyes, but she isn’t sure why. She leans down and hugs Mary Ellen, who pats her back like a baby. She imagines her sitting in her rocking chair making these for her, for hours, thinking about Delilah and wanting her to be warm. Jones reaches out a hand to see and she shows him.

  “What are they made of?” Maggie asks.

  “Caribou,” Mary Ellen says, as if it should be obvious.

  “The fur?”

  “That’s beaver. Soft fur for her. Keep her warm.” Mary Ellen points at Jones. “You now.” She hands him his package.

  Jones pulls the paper apart. It’s a pair of leather gloves almost identical to Delilah’s, except hers are mittens, and his flowers are bright blue and green instead of pink. “Thanks,” he says, bea
ming as he turns them over in his hands.

  “Try ’em on,” Will says from the doorway.

  They all turn to see him towering there, his head almost level with the top of the frame. He’s wearing his fringed jacket and clean jeans but he looks haggard and raw. Delilah feels a little red flag waving inside her.

  “You gotta try ’em on, Jonesy.” Will’s slurring.

  Jones pulls the gloves on and holds up his hands for them to see.

  Mary Ellen claps with excitement.

  “Man’s gloves,” Will says. “Big man now, that’s you.”

  Delilah is now at full attention, watching Will closely, her mittens still on her hands.

  Maggie clears her throat and says, “Will, you look hungry. I will get you food. You want some food? Mac cooked a meal fit for kings and queens here.”

  “Nah, not hungry,” Will says. He turns back to the living room and Delilah sees him stumble and catch himself on the door jamb. He’s drunk. No doubt about it. She looks at Jones and he raises his eyebrows. They follow Will to the other room.

  Will claps his hands together. “Okay, what you folks up to here? Having us a poker game? Deal me in, big man.” He takes off his jacket and sits beside Jethro, almost tipping the small folding chair.

  Delilah feels like she’s watching a train veer off the tracks in slow motion. She is afraid to know what terrible thing made him show up like this on Christmas. Jethro is murmuring to him, but Will swats at him like a fly.

  Mac is sitting across from him. “You okay there, buddy?”

  Will laughs, a terrible, humourless laugh. “I’m your buddy now, eh? I’m your big buddy now?”

  “Hey, hey,” Bear growls. “It’s Christmas, man, take it easy. Kids here.” The chocolate-smeared twins are standing on the couch staring at Will. One of them is wearing only her red tights, her dress tossed to the floor as the room heated up.

  Will looks at the twins. Blinks. There’s a long silence in the room. Then he laughs. “Okay, how about I take it easy. Good idea, I’ll take it easy.”

  He starts to root clumsily through the pocket of his jacket. Delilah wants to help him because everything in the room is suspended and his fingers aren’t working. But she doesn’t move from her vigil beside Jones. He is playing with his new gloves, turning them over between his fingers.

  Will pulls out his tobacco and rolls a smoke. Jethro goes to the door and gets his jacket. He pulls it on, then walks over to Will.

  “Let’s get on home, brother,” he says quietly. Jethro tries to guide Will from his chair, but Will is slumped forward, spilling tobacco onto his lap. He gives up on rolling his cigarette and sits with his head in his hands.

  Jethro goes to the kitchen and calls for Mary Ellen. “Thanks for the hospitality. We’ll be going now,” he says when he comes back in the room. Mary Ellen is by his side. He stops behind Will. “Let’s go.”

  Will rises unsteadily. “All right, I guess I know when I’m not wanted,” he says. “I gotta go anyway, I got shit to do.” He starts to head toward the door, a stumbling giant. His leg catches the edge of the plywood table and it scrapes along the sawhorse, plates sliding sideways.

  Jethro follows him to the door, Mary Ellen shuffling behind. “You’re not going anywhere like this, brother. You got big plans? They can wait till tomorrow. We’re walking home now.”

  Will starts to fumble with the door. Red and Mac come around the table. Delilah can see a look passing between them. Jones pulls her back, and Bear pushes past them to meet Mac and Red at the door. They pull Will back by the shoulders and he tries to shrug them off, furious.

  “You get your fucking hands off me! I got shit to take care of!”

  Bear holds his arms behind his back while Red tries to talk sense to Will. “Settle down, my man, you can’t go out there right now. Too cold. You’ll freeze those big balls right off.”

  Will looks bewildered, trapped, his eyes darting from Mac to Red and over to Jethro. Bear is still holding his arms behind him. The rest stand around him like bodyguards. Chris has gathered his girls and is getting their snow boots on. The women stand in the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Got shit to do,” Will says, but he relaxes in Bear’s grip, and Bear releases him. He stumbles over the tangle of boots and tips forward. His hair has come loose from its ponytail and hangs in strings around his face.

  Maggie pulls at Jones and Delilah. “Come back,” she whispers. “Come back here.” They stand against the wall while she goes back to the kitchen.

  Something is breaking in Delilah’s chest, a small wave cresting. “Will,” she calls.

  Jones grabs her arm. He wants her to be quiet. Everyone turns to her from their positions by the door. Will slowly turns to look at her, his hair in his face.

  “Stay,” she says. “It’s a party, right? Just stay.”

  Maggie whisks through the crowd with a mug. She hands it to Will, who takes it unsteadily.

  “Come, chéri,” she says, pulling his arm gently. “Come to the kitchen and have some of Mac’s cake and drink your coffee. Come, come. It’s okay. It’s all right.”

  Bear scratches his bald head and says, “Well, I for one ain’t leaving until I win all your goddamned pennies.”

  Will looks around and then follows Maggie. He doesn’t look at Delilah as he passes.

  AN HOUR LATER JONES is asleep on her bed with an astronomy book he borrowed from Will on his chest. Delilah is curled on the other side of the bed, slowly drifting off in her nest of sleeping bags.

  Red comes in through the blanket door. He stoops in the doorway and whispers, “Hey there, sorry to wake you. Jonesy Boy there needs to come on home now.”

  “Is everyone gone?” she asks. She wants to sit up, but her arms and legs are like lead.

  He nods. “Everyone but Will and Louise. Hey, sleepyhead! Come on, kiddo.”

  Jones doesn’t even flinch. Delilah reaches over and shakes his shoulder lightly, and his eyes fly open. He blinks at her.

  “Your dad,” she says.

  He looks past her and registers his father standing there. He gets up awkwardly, his striped rugby shirt rumpled, and leaves without saying goodbye, still half-asleep.

  Red waves at her. “Night, Delilah.”

  Delilah lies on her back and stares at the ceiling for a minute. Jones has left a boy-sized impression in the bed beside her. She reaches over to the spot where he had been lying and feels its warmth before rolling over and getting up.

  Her dad is in the kitchen scrubbing out the turkey pan. He has a red bandana tied around his forehead to keep his hair back. Louise is sitting at the kitchen table packing food into margarine containers.

  “Hi Delilah,” she says, smiling, her long nails polished and pink as she separates the containers and lays them out.

  Delilah ignores her.

  Mac turns. “Hey, jeez, Lila, it’s three in the morning. Thought you were sleeping. You need something?”

  “Is Will still here?”

  Her dad is quiet a minute, sloshing suds in the pan. There are countless empty beer bottles lined up on the counter. “Yeah, he’s on the back porch, smoking. Maybe just . . . just go to bed. He’s had a rough night.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s okay. Just go to bed.” Mac turns the dripping pan upside down on the counter and dries his hands. He smiles at her. “That’s what I’m gonna do.”

  She glances at Louise, who keeps her head down as she dishes the potatoes into a container. She goes back to her room and picks up a sleeping bag from her bed, pulls on two pairs of wool socks and her wool hat, then wraps the sleeping bag around her shoulders and walks back through the kitchen to the back door.

  “Lila,” her dad says. But he doesn’t try to stop her.

  “Go to bed,” she calls over her shoulder. “If you’re tired.”

  She braces herself and opens the door. She has to take a couple of breaths for her lungs to adjust to the assault of cold. It’s so dark it takes a sec
ond before she can find the glow of Will’s cigarette. He’s sitting at the edge of the small porch, his legs dangling. He turns when the door closes. “Hey there, kid.”

  He sounds like himself again. She sits beside him. There is nothing out there but the towering rock beside them and the dark air. There are no lights on that she can see, just the black, craggy shapes of spindly trees on Joliffe in the far distance. It’s a clear night, and the sky is star-filled.

  “Hey,” she says. “Seen any aurora?”

  “Little bit earlier. Died down now.”

  She pulls the sleeping bag all the way up to her chin and folds her legs under her for more warmth.

  “You should go in. Too cold out here for you.”

  “I’m fine,” she says. Her lips have turned to ice. They can barely make the sounds.

  “If you say so,” he says. He takes a drag.

  They sit in silence for a few moments. Delilah watches the stars. She can’t hear a single sound. She strains to hear a dog bark or an engine start, anything.

  “Will?”

  “Mmm?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She waits so long for him to answer she almost gives up and goes back inside. But then he takes another drag. “She’s not coming.”

  She’s momentarily puzzled, but then remembers. “Clementine?” She is greeted by more silence. “You mean for Christmas?”

  “No, kid. I don’t mean for Christmas.”

  “Oh. Ever? Why not?”

  He laughs, but not like he thinks anything is funny. “Million-dollar question.”

  “Can you go see her?”

  He looks at her now, and she can see a hardness in his eyes that turns her belly cold. “No, kid,” he says.

  She decides to drop it for now. He won’t tell her the parts she wants to know, anyway. All the whys. “Jones was reading your book,” she says. “It says there’s a storm on Jupiter. Do you know about it?”

  He flicks his ash and the glow burns brighter. “Yeah. The storm that never dies.”

  “What is it?”