Franny nodded her head. Exactly, she said. That’s it exactly.
He continued, So I’ve been working on the power of then. Now there’s a concept to wrap your head around. I find it much more satisfying.
Pima walked past Franny and stood in front of Richard, who was now leaning against the doorway. She wrapped her long arms around his chest and looked up into his eyes and told him, You think you’re funny, but you’re really infuriating.
What? he said, holding his hands up. What did I say?
This morning, before Franny left for lunch at Ogden Point, Richard said, I feel more comfortable in your bed than I ever have with Pima. Even after four years. They were curled together, Franny in the front, one of Richard’s arms loosely folded over her waist. As he spoke, she played a game with the skin on his elbow. You can pinch the skin there. It’s so tough, there aren’t many nerves. You can squeeze someone’s elbow skin as hard as you can and they might not even feel it at all. She focused on the bit of skin she held between her fingers and he said, I loved Pima, it’s true. But we were never able to look after each other. It was never like this.
Franny wanted to bite the skin to see how far she could go before he would feel it. She told him, Pima invited me to lunch today. I’m going to go meet her right now and see what she has to say. Franny thought it would be better if she said that Pima was the one who extended the invitation. It was only a twist on the truth, and he didn’t need to know absolutely every detail about everything she did. Isn’t a healthy relationship based on autonomy, and respect for each other’s privacy?
Richard said, Franny, I have to tell you something.
Franny took a breath. Okay, tell me, she said.
I think I washed something of yours I shouldn’t have.
Franny turned around to face him, rotating her hips as she twisted herself under the sheets. Did he even hear what she’d said? She put her hand on his shoulder. His grey T-shirt felt coarse against the palm of her hand. Richard never used dryer sheets. When he did the laundry, the clothes crackled with static and hard edges. What was it? she asked.
A shirt, he said. A really pretty shirt.
Let me see it, she said. Did it shrink?
He pulled out a small, puckered piece of turquoise silk from under his pillow. It had been a beautiful blouse, cut on the bias so it flared slightly at the waist. Olive green lace around the deep neckline. A friend brought it back from Milan for her birthday last year. It was the size of a napkin now.
Oh no, Franny sighed. That one.
I thought it was in the pile, he said. I just took the pile.
It’s okay, she said.
Let me make it up to you. He dropped it onto the floor and pulled her into his chest. His shirt smelled hot and clean and it was rough against her skin.
You should learn to use fabric softener, she told him.
He brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her. I’m a man, he said. Men don’t soften things. He sat up and straddled her in the bed. He pulled the sheet sideways over her chest so she wouldn’t be cold. Good morning, he said.
I have to get ready, Franny said. I slept too long. You have to let me out of this bed.
Am I holding you here against your will? His hands raised in surrender.
She saw a dark spray of underarm hair through his open sleeve. His chest pressed tight against the fabric of his T-shirt. Pinned underneath Richard’s thighs, Franny relaxed. It was just a blouse, after all.
You make me feel like a complete person, she said. It’s hard to leave you.
Then don’t, he said. He brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it. With a purposeful look, like he was about to rub a stain out, he slipped his thumb between her legs. He moved it slowly inside. She could tell by the way he was watching her that he knew he had her. His eyes were thick and bright.
That’s it, he said. That’s right. Yes. He took out his thumb and bent down and pushed his head under the sheet and began to lick her in broad strokes. She thought of Pima. She shouldn’t have thought of Pima, but she couldn’t help it. She thought, He has licked Pima in this very same way. He has said to Pima, That’s it, yes, and he’s felt her move her thin brown hips in bed against his face and mouth until her whole body started to shake and she made sounds just like she’s making now. That morning, it felt like Richard had his head between her legs. It felt like a tongue and two fingers. It was like the thought of Pima could turn Richard from a lover into a man who is just licking.
The breeze becomes a gust of wind and the cold air brings goosebumps to Franny’s skin, a rash of cold pinpricks. Since this morning with Richard, her skin has become hypersensitive. She can sense the slightest change in temperature and humidity from the way the hairs on top of her wrist react to a breeze. She feels the atmosphere flicker electrically within her. It is not unlike fear.
Pima watches the divers on the point. She wants something from Franny.
I dare you, Fran.
Franny looks at Pima’s profile in the sun. Her pink head scarf has tightened her features like a tourniquet, the edge of her nose sharp. Shadows make little pools under her eyes. She looks tired, or ill. Another wave flips in Franny’s stomach and she recognizes the feeling as something primeval, but she doesn’t want to name it. Pima’s hand rests on the table, the cigarette a single straight line rising out between two fingers like a smokestack.
Come on. I’ve always wanted to get my diver’s certificate, Pima says. I dare you to do it with me.
Franny shakes her head. No, she says.
Come on.
Franny’s not good in the water, and Pima knows this. Franny snorkelled once in Hawaii last year. She was there writing a piece on a raw food restaurant on the Big Island. After one lunch, she wrote in her notebook: Luscious lasagna, tomatoes tender and cool, basil so fresh the flavour startles you. She wrote, Strawberry and mango pie, sweet pink, makes your tongue sensitive and hesitant, celebratory. She wrote, This is what it is like to swallow life. That afternoon, she tried snorkelling. She was buzzing from all the living nutrients in her system. She rented the mask and fins from a girl with orange lipstick who worked the front desk at the hotel. It was all she could do to keep her face in the water. The fish were fluorescent, darting, frightened. Her heart shouted in her ears and throat. Each time she lifted her head, she was farther from shore and would paddle to get in closer. There were yellow striped fish and white-looking ones with long pointed noses, their whole body in line with their nose. She inhaled ocean at one point. Came back to shore spluttering, feeling transparent.
There’s that thing where you can go crazy if you go too deep, Franny says.
We won’t go too deep.
The bends. I think it’s called the bends. I’m terrified of the water anyway.
I can get us a great deal on the gear. I know a girl. She could loan you her suit.
You aren’t listening to me, Franny says. Why would you even ask me this?
This is how we grow as humans, Pima says. We face our fears.
The waitress skips out to the van. She fiddles with the door handle, tugging at it until it opens. She pushes against the German shepherd to make room for herself. Franny watches the man with the dreadlocks to see if he will kiss her. Is he in love with the waitress? Do they have a satisfying, stimulating sex life? Does she ever think of someone else when he’s making love to her? The dog is in the way, wagging his tail in front of his face, so Franny can’t see anything.
Pima balances the cigarette between her long fingers. She flicks her thumb, sending ashes into the air. Franny fishes out the slice of lemon from the bottom of her cup and puts it in her mouth, sucks the tea out of it.
You tell Richard, Pima begins.
The tip of her cigarette disintegrates into ash. Franny flattens the lemon pulp with her tongue and chews it, rolls bits of bitter rind around the back of her mouth.
Then Pima says, Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I asked for this.
The breakwater is now empty s
ave for a twisted black cloth, or maybe a shoe—it’s hard to tell from where they’re sitting. The van pulls out of the parking lot with a ripping sound, gravel under the tires.
It’s late, Pima says. I have to do some things. She slides her handbag off the back of her chair and hooks it onto her shoulder, a brown lozenge of leather fastened with a pewter buckle. Good luck with Richard.
Franny tells her, We never meant to do anything that would hurt you.
Pima points a finger at her. That’s so sweet, she says. You’re saying we already.
Franny watches the way Pima moves. Her purse hovers at her side as if it’s the curve of her waist that holds it in place, as though the straps are merely decorative. The way her arm hangs from her collarbone is mesmerizing. Pima’s arms are suspended weightlessly from her shoulders at two perfect ninety-degree angles. She thought that Pima was moving tightly before, but now Franny marvels at such a delicate connection, the clasp of shoulder blade to collarbone fine and precise.
Wait, Franny says.
Pima stops. She turns around.
Franny stands up. She can’t think of what it was she wanted to say.
You’re perfect, she says.
Oh—how unfortunate for it to come out that way! She moves closer to Pima and tries again.
What I meant is, I want us to be friends.
Pima looks her up and down and says, You are a piece of work.
Franny takes Pima’s hand. It’s a formal gesture. Aware of how absurd she looks, but unable to stop herself, trying to do it as gracefully as she can, she presses her face into Pima’s hand. She slides her face down until her lips meet Pima’s fingertips. She resists the urge to put them in her mouth. They smell like cigarette smoke.
When she looks up, she sees Pima’s face moving closer to her own and Franny thinks Pima is going to spit in her face. What she does is this: Pima kisses her on the mouth. It’s a hot, persistent kiss and it tastes dry, her smoky breath mixed with rose-flavoured lip balm and the bitter press of coffee.
There, says Pima. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?
Franny stares at her.
God, you’re such a coward, says Pima.
When Franny gets home, the door is unlocked. She pushes it open but feels afraid to go inside. It feels like a plum is lodged in the base of her throat. The paint is peeling all around the door frame. Flakes of dark brown curl and crack into an archipelago she’s never noticed before. She realizes that she’s tense: she jumps when she hears a screen door shut behind her. It’s just the neighbour, with a yellow cloth in his hand. He smiles at Franny, waving the cloth like a flag. In his driveway there’s a bucket full of suds and a sponge lying in a puddle. He’s been washing his bicycles. He has three of them—two mountain bikes and a racing bike with curved handles.
Are you waiting for somebody? he asks her.
I was just looking at the door frame, Franny says. I think it needs to be repainted.
It’s that ocean air, he says. You gotta love it.
When she goes inside, Franny finds Richard in the kitchen peeling prawns. He rinses his hands under the faucet before hugging her. His arms make a cold-water belt around her waist, but his neck is warm when she leans into it. He smells like salt and fish.
I’m taking the tails off, he tells her. I know you like them better that way.
That’s not very gourmet, she says. Not very Food and Wine.
I didn’t know if you wanted red or white, he says.
I’ll open the wine, she says. You keep doing what you’re doing.
She finds a bottle of red in the cupboard next to the sink. A bowl on the counter is filled with a pile of prawns that look like jelly, the colour of bruises.
How was it? he asks.
She’s angry, Franny says. She told me that you’ve always been unfaithful and that you’ll probably cheat on me.
He peels two prawns before saying anything. Then he says, Pima can be judgmental. Did you tell her about us? I mean, getting married.
No, she says. I thought you could tell her that.
She uses the point of a paring knife to slice the black shrink wrap that’s around the bottle neck and peels the rest off with her fingers. She’s going to take diving lessons, Franny tells him.
Pima’s been saying that for years.
I might do it with her.
Franny puts the bottle neck under the lever and pushes. Richard scoops the prawn shells out of the sink with his hand and throws them into a plastic bag. He turns around to face her, drying his hands on his jeans.
Are you serious?
Why not? she asks him.
I thought you hated water, he says. He takes the wine bottle from her hands now that she’s opened it. He pours her a glass. Then it’s like he’s talking to himself. He says, Never mind. I think it’s great. Of course, you two are friends, you do things together. That’s great.
Franny’s eyes follow the dark streaks up and down his thighs from where he wiped his hands. I never said that I hated water, she says. Then, We’re going to have to eat something else with the prawns. I’ll make a salad.
He bows and hands her the wineglass. As you wish, he says.
Something chirps near his waist. His cellphone. He reaches for his side with one hand, as though he’s wearing a holster, and pulls the silver phone out. His eyes narrow at the little screen in his hand. He recognizes the number and looks up and says, Sorry, Fran, I have to take this.
He leaves her in the kitchen. Hello, he says. The hydraulic pull of the screen door separates them. The last thing she hears him say is, It’s you. Yes, yes, no, it’s fine. How are you?
Franny stands in the kitchen smelling ocean from the sink. There are prawn legs that Richard has missed stuck to the edge of the sink and part of one shell, pale blue, curled in the drain. The raw prawns in the bowl look like they’re melting into each other. They don’t even look like they used to be alive. They could be anything.
One Thousand
Wax Buddhas
I’ve tried to think how it started, since you keep asking. It was right after the Island Daze craft sale, the day Stu and Olivia came for dinner. The cat had diarrhea. I knew it was my fault, I knew I’d given her the wrong kind of food, which is exactly why I was so pissed when I found the soft spread hardening on the mat by the door. You know how that is—I was mad because I could have prevented it. Story of my life.
You fed her Cat Chow, Robin said. You know she’s allergic to it and you gave it to her anyway. Robin’s light brown eyes had that glassy look. Sticky, like maple syrup.
I’m sorry, I told her, I thought it wouldn’t hurt her if I just gave it to her once. And it was all they had.
She just looked at me with holes where her pupils should be, as if to say: Typical.
I couldn’t think of anything else to tell her, which I suppose is typical. I’m that guy, I know I am. I have no sense of subtlety or social delicacy. I make Robin roll her eyes and throw up her hands. Had I believed her when she told me about the allergy to chicken protein? Yes. Did I think one bag of Cat Chow was going to make the cat sick? No.
I’m sorry, I said. How can I make this better?
Robin said in a papery voice, Keane, the cat will get over it. I just hate cleaning it up.
I’ll clean it, I told her. It came out angrily, which is not how I meant it.
You clean it, then, she said. I’m going to work. Her voice was thin.
Work was about a hundred feet away, in a studio out back. We made candles there. We were coming to the end of our countdown for the season—Christmas orders start in August, believe it or not—and there was only one more week before they would all be polished, packed into boxes and swaddled with plastic wrap onto wooden pallets, and shoved into a transport truck and driven west to Toronto for the first round of shows. We were going to meet them there later. We always flew with WestJet because Robin didn’t trust Air Canada.
Not only is candle wax heavy—it’s delicate. I wrap every
single candle in four layers, like it’s glass, so it won’t get nicked during shipping. First I give it a close skin of tissue paper, then a sheath of bubble wrap, then a sleeve of newspaper, and only then do I slide it into a cardboard box. I put about fifteen boxes on a pallet. I seal the boxes with packing tape and wrap everything onto the pallet with stretches of plastic, and then I just cross my fingers that the guys at Manitoulin Transport don’t stick their forklifts into the boxes like they did two years ago. Stabbed the wax right through the box, ruined a day’s sales. Nine candles per layer times four layers equals thirty-six candles at twenty-five dollars apiece equals nine hundred dollars per box. My mind works in equations. I can’t help it—I get it from my father, a produce man, who worked for Loblaws when I was growing up. Remember those William Shatner commercials? By gosh, the price is right.
Every summer, we book a craft table at the community centre for the Island Daze Celebrations. That’s Daze spelled with a z. Candles aren’t the only export for this island, if you catch my driftwood. There are events for everybody: a cardboard boat regatta, a craft sale, a pie-eating contest, a prize for the best salalberry jam. On the last night, a local band plays the community hall. The music is usually good. Everyone gets a chance to shake and flap around on the dance floor.
Robin worked the sale this year. I stayed home to finish our numbers for that day. It was a Thursday. We were only slightly behind on production at that point— still doing well, considering it was only early July. But we had invited Stu and Olivia for dinner on Friday, which would mean lower numbers. And we were both planning to take Saturday night off, which was Robin’s birthday. I was working overtime to make up for it.
When she got home, Robin told me what happened. The postal clerk, Maryanne, was giving away balloons to the kids. The balloons were blue, green and white, the same colours as our community flag. Ocean, forest and sky.
We had piles of balloons, Robin said. We were mauled by the kids.
They were helium balloons? I asked.
Tons of them, she said. One kid asked, Can I have the last white one? Then another kid yanked it out of my hand right in front of him. It was madness. Then they started sucking it and squeaking at each other. The sound of all of those little voices around me. God.
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