by Stan Rogal
“You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”
“All because they’re hungry. Why didn’t they just ask? We’d’ve fed ‘em, fer chrissakes. Didn’t they know that? Why didn’t they know that?”
“There was more going on, don’t forget.”
“Yeah.”
“Police went to the house. Their dad, dead, what? Several weeks they figured? Place a mess. Filthy. Bugs everywhere. Rats. Imagine them living like that. In fear. How were you going to fix all that?”
“Doesn’t make it any easier.” He takes a sip from his mug and makes a face. “Coffee’s cold.”
His wife grabs the pot then stops herself. She hangs there until she has her husband’s attention.
“What?”
“I spoke with Jenny this morning.”
“Yeah? And?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. Doctor said it was unusual so soon, though not unheard of. Jenny joked. Said maybe she was one of those women, y’know? Gets pregnant if a man even looks at her crooked.” She smiles and lowers her eyes.
“Otherwise?”
“Not sure. We still haven’t visited. I think, maybe …”
The man stares down at the floor. A shudder ripples his body.
“You cold?”
“No.” He sighs. “Not cold. It’s something else. Didn’t want to tell you. That boy. That boy. I can’t help it. He scares me. He scares the living Jesus out of me. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Since the time he gave me that look all those years ago, I’ve been scared of him. Not of anything he did. What he might do. What he’s capable of doing.”
“Like what? What are you afraid he’ll do?”
“I don’t know.”
The woman places a hand on his and gently squeezes.
“There, there,” she says. “There, there.”
Jenny’s in the middle of the small bedroom. There’s hardly space to move, enclosed as she is by two cribs, a playpen, a small bed where she often lies down to breast feed the twins, a change table littered with new and used diapers, new and used baby wipes, various creams, ointments and powders, a tipped trash can, a second upright trash can and a laundry basket both filled to bursting. Another table displays several miniature photographs of Jenny and the girls, taken by Warren and mounted in ornate frames. A shelving unit is stuffed with odds and ends. The floor is covered with toys, children’s books, pieces of clothing, sheets and blankets, tins and bottles, either full, partially full or empty. She stares vacantly at the one wall that contains a single square window. A slatted blind is pulled closed. It doesn’t matter. She knows there’s nothing to see except darkness anyway as the sunlight is effectively blocked by the neighbouring brick wall.
Maybe she’s been standing this way for five minutes, maybe five hours, there’s no way to tell for sure.
She wears a man’s checked shirt. It’s food-stained, loose, rolled at the sleeves, untucked with the bottom few buttons undone. Her jeans are baggy with the legs rolled to her ankles. She’s barefoot. Her hair is matted, her eyes are red and teary, her cheeks are flushed, her nose is raw from blowing. Her round bare belly hangs out from the shirt and spills over her belt. She breathes in short jerky gasps. A damp Kleenex twists and shreds between the fingers of one agitated hand.
One of the twins cries from her crib and Jenny’s head snaps alert. A small sound of surprise emits from her throat and the Kleenex drops to the floor. She bends to one side and lifts the baby into the air. The baby stretches her mouth open, squints her eyes and howls.
“It’s OK, baby, I’m here. Mommy’s here. It’s OK. Don’t cry.” She bounces the child gently in her arms. “You’ll wake your sister.” Rather than soothe, the remark seems to incite the child. She takes a deep breath and releases a piercing scream that not only sends a shudder through Jenny’s body, it rouses the sister who thrashes about in her crib and screams to high heaven.
Jenny transfers the first child to one shoulder and uses a practiced move to scoop the second child and support her against the other shoulder. The girls kick and squirm. They howl in unison, one in each of Jenny’s ears.
“There, there,” she says. “Are you hungry? Huh? Is that it? Shall I feed you? You wanna be fed, is that it? OK. OK. Just stop screaming, please. Please, stop screaming. I can’t think when you both scream like that.” She bounces them. They clench their tiny hands. They slap and beat at her chest, neck and face; pull at her hair and ears. They refuse to stop or even slow down. “Do you want the light out, huh? Is it too bright in here? Is that it? You want mommy to turn out the lights?”
Jenny pushes past the furniture, stumbles through debris, inches her way to the door and flips the light switch. The room goes to semi-darkness. The babies don’t flinch. If anything they get louder, more restless.
“OK. OK. Mommy will feed you. Just, please, please, be quiet.” She eases toward the small bed, peels the two off her chest, lays them on the mattress where they continue to flail, kick and howl like a pair of demons.
“Look,” she says. “See? Mommy’s getting ready to feed you.”
Jenny unbuttons her shirt, slips it off and tosses it at the foot of the bed. She does the same with her bra. She cups her breasts with her hands and jiggles her nipples in the girls’ direction.
“Is this what you want, huh?” She looks down at her breasts. “Oh my God.” Her voice trembles. “Is this it? Is this what I’ve become?” She pinches milk from her nipples. “Is this what I am?”
She drops her hands and rubs her belly. She slowly undoes her belt, unzips her jeans, bends at the waist and slides the pants down her thighs. She straightens, lifts one foot then the other and kicks the jeans to one side. She stands naked, as if transfixed. She runs three fingers through her pubic hair, pulls at her labia, parts the lips and feels for her clitoris. She stops, raises her fingers to eye level and rubs the tips together.
Dry, she thinks. Dry.
She claps her hands around her ears to try and drown out the noise of the girls. It’s no good. She clenches her eyes and screws up her face. She takes a deep breath, opens her mouth and screams right along with them. Her knees give way and she crumples to the floor. She sobs and cries. Her screams choke to muffled moans and whimpers. She crawls backward through the clutter, past the cribs until the soles of her feet bump against the playpen. She twists her body, climbs her hands up two wooden bars, grabs the top rail, tips the playpen and pulls it over top of her. She presses her body into one corner of the cage, snatches the edge of a pink blanket, drags it close and buries her head beneath it. Her eyes squeeze shut as she feels the walls close in around her. She continues to gasp and whimper like a trapped, wounded animal. The babies continue to howl in the background.
Warren barely breaks stride as he saunters from the sidewalk onto the paving stones that lead to the front porch. He ascends the three steps, crosses the wooden boards, and enters the house.
“Jenny!” he calls. “Jenny?”
He takes the stairs to the second floor two at a time. When he comes back down, his pace has slowed considerably. He hits each step in turn, flat-footed. There’s a slight smile on his face and he whistles an unrecognizable tune under his breath. He winds his way to the kitchen and sits at the table. He holds two blue ribbons in his hands which he ravels and unravels and tugs and stretches between his fingers. They’re the same two ribbons Jenny had used to tie her hair for their wedding.
He lays the ribbons on the table alongside a pile of newsprint flyers, a pair of scissors, a roll of tape, and goes to the basement. He returns holding an exact smallscale replica of their house, which he’s constructed using cardboard and balsa wood. He drops the model next to the ribbons and searches out a suitable-sized box in the pantry. Finding one, he places it on the table with the rest of the materials. He picks up the model and gazes at it appreciatively. He leans his eye closer to study the second floor master bedroom. In the glass window squares he’s pasted a photo of
Jenny in her wedding dress, blankly staring out, smiling, her hair tightly tied with blue ribbons.
Warren places the model gently inside the box and uses wadded newsprint as padding to keep it from getting damaged in transit. He closes the box and tapes down the seams. Using a black magic marker from his shirt pocket, he prints a name and address in the centre of the box: that of Jenny’s parents in Saskatchewan.
Dear mom and dad …, he whispers, and chuckles.
He doesn’t bother to supply a return address. They’ll know who it’s from before they even open it, he reckons.
As insurance, he grabs the ends of the tangled blue ribbons and dangles them in the air. He notices some strands of Jenny’s hair knotted in places and leaves them, for effect. Otherwise, he does his best to flatten the ribbons by dragging them between the tips of his thumb and index finger. Somewhat satisfied, he winds the ribbons taut around the box. He ties a knot at the top and uses the excess length to fashion a pretty bow by curling the ends with the scissor blade’s edge. He lifts the package in front of his face to admire his handiwork.
He checks the time on his cell and figures he can just make it before closing. He hurries outside, heads to the nearest post office, sends the package on its way and returns home. He cracks himself a beer and takes a hard, cold look around.
“What a mess,” he says, more or less to himself. “What a pig sty.”
He empties his beer over the kitchen table and bounces the bottle across the floor. He turns, and goes to the foot of the stairs.
“Jenny,” he calls softly. “Jenny? It’s me.” There’s no response. He taps at the step riser with the toe of his work shoe. “I’m coming up. Jenny? I’m coming up the stairs. Is that OK?”
He grabs the railing and hauls himself upward. Each stair creaks beneath his weight.
The funeral was a small affair, with a handful of friends and relatives returned to the house for refreshments and conversation. Jenny is in close conversation with her mother. Warren stands nearby, within earshot, drinking a Coke.
“I don’t understand, mom. How he could do this. Was anything troubling him? Did you notice anything wrong?”
“Not really, dear. I mean, he’d been quieter recently, more reclusive. If that was even possible. You know your father. He was never much for talking. Or sharing his feelings.”
“Had anything happened recently? Anything that might have upset him?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“And you found him.”
“Yes. His body was hanging from a rope in the barn.”
“It must’ve been horrible for you.”
Jenny’s mother rocks her head and wipes a tear from her eye with the back of a hand.
“And the police didn’t find anything unusual?”
“You mean signs of foul play? No. Though, there was one thing …” She takes a breath and blows her nose in a Kleenex. “It seems he made a small fire in the barn and burned something. The police don’t know what. Apparently he must’ve taken his time, and was very thorough in making sure that, whatever it was, it was completely reduced to ashes.”
“That’s odd,” Jenny says. “I wonder what it was, and why he would do such a thing?”
“Did he leave a note?” Warren asks, over Jenny’s shoulder. “They say suicides often leave a note.”
“No. There was nothing like that.”
“So, nothing he said, no hint, no explanation whatsoever?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s all very mysterious.” She looks from Warren to Jenny. “But, again … your father.”
“Uh-huh. Do you think maybe he was depressed about something? He could’ve been and you wouldn’t even know. I didn’t know.”
“You?”
“Yes. I thought it was because I couldn’t handle being a mother. I couldn’t do anything. I was a wreck, the house was a wreck. And poor Warren …” She takes his hand in her hers and draws him closer. “Then, when we got the news about dad, he decided to take matters into his hands. He pretty much dragged me to the doctor kicking and screaming. Turns out I was going through post-partum depression. Who’d’ve thought?”
“And now?”
“Half the battle is knowing. I’m on medication, and that seems to help. Meanwhile, Warren is my prince. Once we found out, he went through the house like a white tornado. Cleaned and scrubbed every room, top to bottom, so that it’s spotless. Now, he’s planning to put a bed and bathroom in the basement. You’ll be able to come and visit if you want. Or stay, if you like. If you find the farm is too much for you.”
“It sounds lovely. I’ll think about it. I wouldn’t want to impose.” She looks at Warren.
“No problem, we’d like that. Of course, we’re still in the planning stages. And there’ll be the new baby to think about.” Warren puts his arm around Jenny’s shoulder and gives her a squeeze.
“Yes, that’s true. Well, I should see to my other guests. It’s so nice you could come, really. And bring the twins. They’re adorable.” She begins to walk away, and stops. “Oh, I just remembered, there was one other thing that was unusual.”
“What was that?” Warren asks.
“He had a scrap of thin blue ribbon wound around one wrist. I’m sure I don’t know what that was all about, or where he would’ve gotten it. He wasn’t one for wearing that sort of thing. Adornments. Well …” She shrugs and smiles. “Look at the pair of you, so in love. It’s wonderful.”
She leaves to go and mingle with the rest of the group. Jenny slips her arm around Warren’s waist and leans her head on his chest. She places her other hand on her round belly.
“The baby’s kicking,” she says. “Feel.”
The pair gaze into each other’s eyes and smile.
THE MISSING PERSON’S TALE
In which a woman’s search for freedom takes her on a road fraught with danger and unexpected twists and turns, ending ultimately with a sort of redemption.
It’s a hot, dry summer day. Reuben manoeuvres the truck slow and easy alongside the highway. Tires churn a lazy dust cloud from the stone and gravel shoulder. No need to rush. He doesn’t clock out for another four hours and what he’s looking for isn’t about to go anywhere. Stay focused, that’s the key. First indication is the dark swoop and flap of crows gathered in the distance. A murder of crows, Reuben thinks. What it’s called. Perversely poetic, given the circumstances. Like a wake of buzzards or an ostentation of peacocks. A skulk of foxes. A nuisance of cats. Funny. He pulls up beside, applies the brakes, shifts into park, steps out of the cab. The crows fire a sidelong glare then it’s back to business: Tear into the bloodied entrails. The prey, a fat raccoon, appears reasonably whole and in still-decent shape, despite the spill of guts. Unusual on the highway. The victims are generally struck during the night then continue to be run over repeatedly by further passing vehicles. By the time Reuben discovers them, they’re a tread-worn pulpy mess. Different story if they bounce off to the shoulder or land in the grass beyond. This guy was close enough to the asphalt’s edge that he managed to escape suffering too much damage. Apart from death, of course.
Meanwhile, the crows.
Reuben slips into a pair of work gloves and hauls a wide flat shovel from two hooks screwed to the wood slat side of the truck bed. He approaches the carcass, checks for traffic, bangs the end of the shovel against the asphalt, waves an arm and whistles through his teeth. The crows lift off. Reuben settles a corner of the shovel under one end of the animal and with a practiced hand slides and twists it onto the flat face, into the air and onto the truck in one slick motion. He divides the bed right and left, separates the general splatter from the more intact casualties.
He returns the shovel to its hooks, the gloves to a back pocket, jumps in the truck and grinds onto the highway. A portable CD player sits on the seat beside him. He grooves to Neil Young’s Cinnamon Girl, rocks his shoulders, beats the steering wheel with his fingers. Doesn’t take long before he spots what looks like the body of a dee
r nestled in the gravel ditch. He noses the truck to a stop, gets out, makes a quick inspection. It’s a buck, all right, and judging by its eight-inch antler spread, about eighteen months old. Reuben also estimates it weighs in the neighbourhood of 130-140 pounds. There’s no sign of blood anywhere on the hide. Probably hit hard and died of a broken neck. Reuben squats and strokes the animal’s rib cage. Beautiful creature, he thinks. A rotten shame. Nothing to be done, though. He grabs two ankles with one hand, two with the other, gives a grunt, pushes up with his legs and swings the deer around his neck. He stands there and takes a breath in through the nose and out through the mouth.
Reuben strikes an impressive sight posed there, the buck folded around his neck. He’s in his early thirties, about six feet tall, muscular with strong arms and hands. He sports a close-cropped beard, has brown skin, hazel eyes, roman nose and lanky black hair that falls from under his ball cap down to his collar.
He walks to the rear of the truck, spins and allows the buck to slide onto the bed. He reaches in, tucks his hands under the animal’s ribs and rolls it further to the front to make room. There were bound to be other unfortunates before his shift ended.
He wipes the dust from his hands onto his jeans and withdraws a cigarette pack from a shirt pocket. He taps a roll-your-own from the box, lights up with a silver Zippo, sucks short puffs and inhales deeply, allowing the smoke to settle in his lungs. He blows out through pursed lips and repeats the process. Done with the joint, he flicks the roach, pulls a thermos from a lunch box and pours himself a coffee. He leans his body on the driver’s door, one knee bent, the foot lifted off the ground, the boot heel grinding the paint. Through the open window, he listens to Neil wail: “Everybody knows this is nowhere.” He drinks his coffee.
A clash of bucks, he thinks.
A fesnyng of ferrets.