No Good Asking

by Fran Kimmel

  “You shouldn’t have waited,” his dad said as he shook the snow off his shoulders and hung his coat in the front closet.

  “You might have called.” His mom was mad at his dad again. She’d been weird all week. Who knew why?

  “No fish and chips?” his grandpa asked for the fourth time. His place was beside Daniel, across from his mom and Sammy. He had his napkin tucked into the buttonhole of his faded shirt like a flag and poked it with his thumb.

  “Not tonight, Walter,” his mom said again. “Tonight, we’re having chicken.”

  “Not tonight, Walter,” Sammy repeated. “Tonight, we’re having chicken.”

  Sammy was an excellent impersonator. His mom used to call him on it—find your own words, Sammy—but she hadn’t got after him lately.

  “Smells good.” His dad stomped across the kitchen in his sock feet and kissed Mom on the top of her head. She didn’t let on she noticed, just stared straight ahead.

  “Hey, slugger,” his dad said as he tousled Sammy’s hair. Sammy flinched.

  “He hates it when you do that,” his mom said.

  “Yeah, well, that makes two of us,” his dad muttered.

  Daniel stared at his brother. Sammy never did talk much, but you knew he was out of sorts when his hands got going, and they seemed to be going all the time these days, like right now, his fork zigzagging at lightning speed between his fingers and his thumb.

  “Can I eat downstairs?” Daniel asked.

  “You can eat with the rest of us like a civilized person,” his dad said, folding into his usual spot in the only chair with arms.

  His mom’s fingers curled into fists. “Just say grace. Please.”

  His dad bowed his head, and his mom squeezed her eyes shut and thumped on her forehead. Daniel counted the taps. She’d been pounding on her head a lot, like she was knocking on a door that nobody would answer. Sammy rolled his fists in tight circles.

  As soon as his dad said amen, his mom scooped peas and potatoes onto Sammy’s plate and then cut his chicken into tiny pieces as bowls were passed around the table.

  “Where’s the chips,” his grandpa said, his finger stuck in his button hole, napkin floating to the floor beside Thorn, who rolled over and lay on it like a pillow.

  “We’re not having chips tonight,” his mom said.

  “We’re not having chips tonight,” Sammy repeated.

  “Use your fork, Sammy. Look at me. That’s right, your fork, not your fingers.”

  “I want my chips.”

  “Give it a rest, Walter,” his dad said. “This chicken’s great, Ellie.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “You didn’t need to wait,” his dad said.

  “That’s right, Eric. And Danny could have carried his plate down to the basement, never to be seen again, and Sammy could have launched his potatoes off his spoon, and your father could have . . .” His mom looked across the table at Grandpa, who’d found the rocks in his pocket and was now stacking them into a pyramid beside his plate.

  Daniel shovelled bites, fast as he could. He was grounded because of his stupid accident and had no place to go except his room. Any place was better than this. He’d texted Melissa ten times today and left three phone messages, and she hadn’t answered one. He’d phoned Matt too, who lived across the street from Melissa, begging him to go over and talk to her, but Matt was useless with girls and said no way, definitely not.

  Before they moved into his grandparents’ old farmhouse last January, they never stayed long enough in any one place for him to have a girlfriend. Melissa was his first, and she was so hot, he could hardly hate it here. Not entirely. But it had seemed like a better place back when he was a kid.

  Juice dribbled down his grandpa’s chin, and he gave it a swipe with the back of his hand.

  “I’m supposed to get a napkin,” he yelled.

  “I gave you a napkin,” his mom said. “Check your lap.”

  “Tell me about your day, Ellie.” His dad leaned toward her.

  “My day was fine.”

  “Can I be excused?” Daniel asked his mother. He could go a few more rounds in his bedroom tonight. He had worked up to repetitions of twelve—biceps curls, chest press, triceps extensions—any more would do nothing to build bulk, and that’s what he needed.

  “You can stay right here, Dan,” his dad said.

  “But I’m done.”

  “And we’re not. Your mother put a lot of effort into making this dinner, and you can spend more than two minutes at this table enjoying it.”

  Just one big happy family. They ate in silence after that.

  Finally, his dad turned to his mom. “You didn’t go to town, did you? I couldn’t remember if you had any appointments today.”

  Grandpa Walter had a specialist for each one of his body parts. Daniel looked at his mom, who didn’t say anything. He wanted to chime in for her: Actually we didn’t leave the house today, thanks so much for asking. We stayed here and rotted. But he kept the thought to himself.

  Sammy choked. He was an excellent choker.

  “Slow down there, slugger,” his dad said.

  His mom patted Sammy’s back, which made him give his wild hair a single sharp yank. Then she poured him more milk.

  “Ellie?”

  “We didn’t go anywhere today. We stayed put. In this house. All of us.”

  “Just as well. Roads were brutal. The worst this week. It’s good you didn’t have to go out in that. Just a quiet day, then?”

  Any quieter and we’d be dead.

  His grandpa leaned his hands onto the table, trying to stand. “Can’t even get a napkin in this house.”

  His mom sighed. “Danny, please help your grandfather.”

  Daniel reached down and yanked the corner of the napkin until it tugged free from under Thorn, dog hair raining everywhere, and then he placed it on his grandpa’s lap. Thorn humphed and stretched and flopped back to where he was.

  “So, what did you get up to?”

  This line of questioning was getting his dad nowhere.

  “Look around,” his mom said.

  His dad looked up at his mom, as if he wasn’t sure what he might say that was right. Welcome to my world, Daniel thought.

  Then his mom answered, but more softly this time. “I wanted to have the house decorated by now.”

  “We can do it tomorrow. Right, slugger?”

  Sammy was making binoculars with his hands, studying the ceiling.

  “You promised to get the tree today.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Something came up,” his dad said. “I’ll get you your tree.”

  Daniel would go crazy with one more night grounded in this house. “How long am I stuck here?”

  “Until we’re finished,” his dad said.

  “Max wants me to go to play video games.” Daniel hadn’t spoken to Max, but Max never had much going on.

  His mom said, “Not my tree. Our tree.”

  “Max’s mom says she’s got something for us. I think she made us shortbread cookies or something. I told him I’d ask.”

  Ellie reached toward Sammy and put her hand over his to keep it still. “Families across North America manage to find and decorate a tree before Christmas. I don’t know why it’s so hard for ours.”

  “So, can I?” Daniel asked. Both his parents stared at him. He sat up straighter and tried to look credible.

  “What do you think?” his dad asked.

  “I dunno. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “You’re grounded.”

  “Yeah, I know that, but Mrs. Peterson got a present for us and it’d be rude to not go get it. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I’ll be home by eleven. Okay, ten.”

  His dad put his fork down and crossed his arms. “Is this where I’m supposed
to remind you that you cracked up your grandpa’s truck?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose. That’s why it’s called an accident.”

  His mom sighed. “You’re not grounded because you had an accident.” She hadn’t eaten a bite, just pushed her potatoes around her plate. “You’re grounded because you took your grandpa’s truck out in the first place. You snuck out of the house in the middle of the night for a joyride. You could have been killed.”

  “A little engine dust never hurt anything,” his grandpa piped in, piling rocks back into his pocket. “Got a rattling under the hood. Gonna take a look tomorrow.”

  Grandpa Walter was long past his driving days. They ended years ago, when Grandma sent him out for flour and he came home with cornflakes and somebody else’s truck. When Daniel got his learner’s permit, exactly six weeks ago to the day, his parents told him the truck would be his when he got his licence. Before his pileup with the tree, it was in mint condition—a 1974 Chevy Custom Deluxe 10. Now it was squeezed between the other wrecks down at PoPow’s Auto Wrecking and Towing.

  “It’s not like I stole it,” Daniel said. When Grandma was around, she kept the keys locked in the cupboard with the liquor. Grandpa would climb in behind the wheel often enough, but he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. “You told me it was mine.”

  “Don’t feign stupid, Danny,” Ellie said. “Yours once you got your licence. You broke the law by taking it out on your own. How do you think this makes your father look? A sergeant who can’t keep track of his fourteen-year-old.”

  “He’s not a sergeant anymore, Mom.”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Can someone please tell me what’s happened to the pie?” his grandpa yelled, waving his arm.

  His dad took a long drink of water and stared at him. His mom sighed. “There’s no pie tonight, Walter.”

  “It was one stupid mistake,” Daniel said.

  “And look how that turned out,” his dad said.

  “So I’m stuck here for the rest of my life?”

  “Five more days,” his dad said. “We discussed this, Dan.”

  “Dinner’s over.” His mom stood, whisking bowls and plates and cutlery from the table and slamming them on the kitchen counter. Sammy stood too and headed to his pile of Lego in the living room.

  “Now can I be excused?” Daniel mumbled.

  “You want out?” His father slapped his hand on the table. “We’ll go out.”

  “Yeah,” Daniel said, not trusting this sudden turn. “So you’ll drive me?”

  “We’ll drive out to Gerry’s place. You can help me get the tree.”

  “Tonight?” his mom said, like he was crazy.

  “Why not?”

  She stood in front of the kitchen sink and turned on the water. “Gerry’s not going to want you traipsing through his land tonight. You can’t chop down a tree in the dark.”

  “We’ll take the lantern. It will be an adventure.”

  “You’ll chop off a finger. If you don’t freeze to death first.”

  “It’s like minus two hundred,” Daniel said.

  “I’ll get you the tree, Ellie. Tonight. And Dan will help.”

  “No, thanks.” Daniel backed away from the table, ready to hightail it to the basement.

  His dad stood. “Nonnegotiable, Dan.”

  Grandpa Walter now sat alone at the table.

  “Mom!” Daniel yelled. She wouldn’t look at him.

  “Get your gear on. You got five minutes.”

  “You’re insane.” His mom stormed down the hall, water still running. His dad looked like he wanted to go after her, but he went to the sink instead and cranked the tap off so hard it squealed.

  —

  Eric had dropped the girl off at Wilson’s not four hours before. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since. Daniel was slumped sullenly beside him as he backed down the driveway. He should never have brought him.

  “You warm enough?”

  Daniel faked a suffocating choke, whipped off his toque and threw it in the back.

  When Eric got to the road, he let the car idle, his headlights casting an eerie glow into the trees. Nothing could adapt to this weather, white wrapped close all around on this godforsaken night.

  Daniel said, “In case you’re having a stroke or something, I’d like to point out that we’re not moving.”

  “We’re going to make a quick stop first,” Eric said. “Then we’ll go to Gerry’s and get your mother her tree.”

  “Our tree,” Daniel mimicked. “Families all over North America manage to get a damn tree.”

  Eric snapped, “Don’t make fun of her, Dan. It’s Christmas. She’s having a rough go.”

  “Ya think? What’s the big deal anyway? It’s a stupid tree. Who cares?”

  “Your mom does.”

  Daniel smacked his lips. “She’s totally lost it, you know. Although you wouldn’t ’cause you’re never around.”

  Maybe Dan was right. Maybe Ellie had really lost it this time.

  “You haven’t exactly made it easy for her,” Eric said. He should never have agreed to move his family back here. This is what he’d given up his career for?

  “So it’s my fault?” Daniel thumped his head against the headrest.

  He’d been a handful these past weeks, but Ellie was not his fault. “We’re going to do this for her, Dan. And make it nice.”

  “We’re not going anywhere. What’s the holdup? Why are we just sitting here?”

  Maybe his family was a sorry mess, but the Nyland virus had a chance to cure itself. Christmas would be over soon. Ellie could get back on track. Dan could lose the attitude, if only to get his driving privileges back. Sammy could make some friends at school, boys who saw past his differences. And Walter, well, Walter couldn’t live forever.

  But this girl. This Hannah. He might as well have marked her door with a red X. There was a plague inside that house. Eric could smell it mouldering on Wilson’s pressed shirt.

  “Dad?”

  “Sorry. We’re stopping in at Wilson’s place. Just for a minute.”

  Daniel perked up. “Wilson’s? You mean the guy across the road? How come?”

  He’d make up some bogus excuse for stopping by, see Hannah for himself, find her safe and sound and tucked in bed, and then he’d drop this thing. God knows he didn’t need another kid in his head. He didn’t need any more excuses to escape his own children.

  Daniel said, “I thought you hated that guy.”

  “I never said that.”

  Daniel pressed forward against his seat belt and squinted into the night as Eric pulled the car into Wilson’s place.

  “You forgot to signal,” Daniel pointed out.

  No, Eric should definitely not have brought Dan with him. “There’s a girl living here.”

  “A girl?” Daniel looked out at the white wasteland beyond the road. “Out here? No way. How old is she?”

  “She’s eleven.”

  Wilson’s sign was camouflaged in snow, unreadable. There were no lights from the house to guide the way.

  Daniel sucked in his breath. “This place is creepy when you get up close. Not much going on at this house.”

  Eric hoped that was true. He pulled in beside Wilson’s car, which hadn’t moved, and made a mental note of the time: 6:47 p.m.

  “You stay here,” Eric said, easing open his door, a frigid gust rushing in. “I’ll leave the car running. I won’t be long.”

  “Why can’t I come in?”

  “I don’t know what I’ll find here.”

  Daniel unbuckled his seat belt and leaned toward his father. “Don’t you need back up?”

  “You watch too much TV. I’ll be right back.”

  The feeble trail Wilson had shovelled to his door had filled
in since Eric had last been there. He struggled through snow to the top of his boots to get to the porch. Disoriented by the deafening quiet, he took a deep breath before banging on the door, which surprisingly gave. Eric looked down to see the silver latch had frozen solid, crusted with snow, no longer able to keep out winter. Eric shoved the door, stepped into the glassed-in porch, opened the inside door, and entered the overheated living room, planting his legs wide. He heard nothing except for the grandfather clock’s ticking and that voice in the back of his head, telling him to be on guard.

  “Wilson,” he yelled.

  There was movement in the centre of the living room, not ten feet away. Eric steadily circled toward the sound to get a better look: Wilson sprawled across the couch, hair askew, one arm dragging on the floor, the other hiding his face. His pressed shirt, now rumpled and untucked, had a long brownish stain down the front. A bourbon bottle, three-quarters empty, sat on the coffee table’s stained doily. The booze smell was foul. Eric felt sickened by it—a little boy’s queasiness, Walter sprawled out in front of him from back in the day.

  “Wilson,” he yelled again, yanking on the floor lamp’s tassel beside Wilson’s head. Wilson tried to pull himself up some imaginary rope, arms flailing, and then fell back down again.

  Eric leaned in close and gave Wilson’s shoulder a sharp tug. “Wilson!”

  Wilson blinked several times under the light, trying to focus. “Eric. Get outta my house.” Wilson smacked his lips, batting his arm, missing Eric. “Get outta my house.”

  Eric brought his face to within inches of Wilson’s, drawing sour air through his nose. “You’re drunk.”

  Wilson closed his eyes again. “It’s Chrissas.”

  “Where’s Hannah?”

  “No law ’gainst drinkin’ at Chrissas.”

  Eric wanted to squeeze Wilson’s red neck. “Where’s Hannah?”

  Wilson’s lips curled into a sick smile. “That’s my bisiss.”

  Eric called loudly, “Hannah! It’s Eric Nyland. I just need to talk to you for a minute.”

  He listened for movement above him. Nothing. No sign of the girl. No sign of the cat.

  “Hannah!”

  The damn ticking was impossibly loud. He left Wilson to wallow on the couch, gulping air in his drunken stupor. His feet took him to the window. Pushing back the lace curtain, he saw nothing amiss, just Dan’s silhouette, head down in the front seat of the car where he left him. He willed his son to stay put—to stay warm and safe and occupied with his cell phone.