by Nadia Bozak
Mum and Shell trudge past beach towels and bare bodies, sandcastles and transistor radios, coconut lotion sweetening the breeze, until Shell deems them far enough removed from fellow humans that they can set up their own picnic.
“Well, this old thing sure’s coming in handy,” Mum says, spreading out the Goodwill tablecloth.
A girl in a bikini wanders by, drum-tight skin the colour of caramel, sharp diamonds of hip bones catching sun. Shell shrinks up inside her thick clothes and, next to Mum on the tablecloth, tries to sit cross-legged, but her jeans are too tight. They eat sandwiches and cookies from the cooler. Thick, salty waves crash in, brave and vigorous, and then, tired out and mollified, pull gently back again.
Even though her face and neck are white with Banana Boat, Mum drapes the fluorescent green shirt over her head before she heads up the beach, plastic bag in hand, to do some shelling.
“Back in a bit.”
Shell stretches out with The Handmaid’s Tale — Offred’s affair with Nick is pretty hot. Behind her eyes, Shell sees herself as Offred and Nick comes up as Maček, which makes her wish to get back to Somerset soon. Even in winter, Maček wears a leather jacket and high-tops, and his hands are so dry and calloused he doesn’t need gloves.
Mum comes back with her pants rolled to the knee. The splotch of purple veins on the back of her right calf is new. She’s carrying her sturdy lace-ups and her plastic bag is heavy with shells.
“People all the way down have these special rakes for digging.” Mum brushes sand from starfish, sand dollars, lavender mussel shells, and — her prize — a delicate jujube shell the same colour as cranberry juice. And when she’d stooped down for the starfish, all these people came over wanting to see what it was.
“Shelling is serious business here,” she says. “You should go see.”
Shell puts on some more sunscreen and walks down the beach.
“Don’t be too long,” Mum calls out. “We need to get that lamb in.”
She takes off her Docs, ties them together by the laces, and, slinging them over her shoulder, walks the tide line — jeans rolled up like Mum, ball of socks in her pocket. Her bare feet crush into seashell: teeny tiny ones small as her pinky nail, rosy chunks of conch, limbs of starfish. She passes a dozen or so separate shellers wading through the surf, trawling with long-handled nets. One or two, then a third, stoop over and call out — “Sea urchin!” “Blind-eye drill!” “Banded tulip!” — holding up their treasure for all to see.
When her feet are prunes and jean jacket pockets full of the tiniest shells she can find, she sits on a hunk of driftwood and smokes. The sun begins to fall and her tummy rumbles for lamb. Ahead, the shellers have gathered — some twelve or fifteen scattered across the shore, nets and rakes slung over their shoulders. They’re heading home for turkey or goose or whatever, unless they’re Jewish, and Mum said a lot of people in this part of Florida are.
Some yards back, Shell follows them up the beach, eyeing the tidal plain for any dregs they might have overlooked. The tide rolls in and out. There in the wake is a bright red ribbon of seaweed. Shell stoops, catches hold. She pulls, and within the disturbed sand a smooth arc of something pink and nutty bubbles up, just inside the tide mark. It’s only from the Budget Guide that Shell recognizes the long spindled shape of the mighty Junonia.
Flash — she dips down, scooping the shell from the wet sand before the ocean sweeps in to reclaim it. Sleek as a newborn baby, tapered as an acorn, the Juno’s volute’s creamy background is patterned with rows of rusty square dots; the whorl that caps the top begins tight but widens out, meeting, eventually, the smooth cuff of the shell’s outer lip.
Down the beach, Mum is waving the fluorescent green shirt: time to go. But Shell remains grounded, glued to that Sanibel spot. Look — it’s pure luck she holds in her hands: some kind of message, surely. Then, the treasure cradled in her arms, Shell runs up the beach towards Mum, crazy with the sudden feeling that everything is going to be all right.
“Juno! Juno!” Shell calls out like bingo, like jackpot. “Juno’s volute!”
“Shell!” Mum cries back, waving the shirt. The cooler is all packed up, tablecloth folded away. “The lamb!” she cries. “Let’s go!”
The crowd of shellers between Shell and Mum turns to look. Three women break away and walk back towards her. Shell stops. She hugs the shell to her chest, tucking it within the layers of her plaid.
The approaching shellers slip in the wet sand, trailing footprints that the sweeping tide washes away. Because one is really tall and they are all pretty old, she thinks of Dorothy, Blanche, and Rose from that show Mum likes, Golden Girls. As they get close enough, the texture of their orange skin becomes leathery; their tight, pearly lips hold stretched smiles.
“What’d you find?”
Shell, her Docs still slung over her shoulder, steps back as the women surround her.
“We just want a look,” says the tall one — Dorothy. A giant black camera hangs from her neck.
These Golden Girls are in shorts and tank tops, their fallen, wrinkled flesh loosely jiggling. White and silver hair is stark against their tans, as is the twinkle of their jewellery.
Shell shows them the Juno. The women gasp.
“All my life I’ve been searching for one!” says one with lots of makeup — Shell thinks of her as Blanche. She, Blanche, lowers her sunglasses. Her lids are powdered with green and red for Christmas.
“And look, it’s so big!” says the third, who must be Rose.
“You want to hold it?” asks Shell.
Rose takes it first. The rings on her fingers clink as she caresses the smooth surface.
Mum comes up without word or sound. The women stand back, opening the circle to let her in.
“Look what your daughter found,” says Dorothy. She tells Mum all about the Juno. “And it’s so unusual to find one this late in the day.” Can she take a picture?
Mum shrugs. Shell shrugs. Shell holds the Juno away from her, offering it to the camera. But no, Dorothy wants Shell in there. She’s to say cheese.
Snap.
Dorothy winds the film. Now Mum’s to get in. Blanche takes the cooler from Mum and nudges her towards Shell. “Oh, go on,” she coos. She says they are a lovely mother and daughter. And aren’t they smart to leave Dad at home with the turkey. That’s what they all did this fine Christmas Day.
Mum is stiff beside Shell. Shell tries her best not to smile, but the three women tease her — “Oh, come on, honey” — until her face breaks open. Then she feels Mum’s arm around her shoulders and Mum takes a deep breath like she always does before someone takes her picture.
“Cheese!” they say.
Dorothy gets some close-ups of the shell, marvelling again at the size and the sheer luck of finding such a specimen. She says she’ll mail them copies of the pictures, so Mum writes down their home address on the back of a Publix receipt.
“Canada!” Dorothy shows her friends the receipt. Well, then, welcome to Florida. So far from home, and isn’t that quite the souvenir your daughter’s got to take back? And Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, they wave, walking up the beach.
Mum and Shell wait as the three get some distance ahead. Mum rolls the shell between her hands, eyeing the markings. “Gorgeous.” She lifts it to her ear, listening for waves.
Then Shell tucks the smooth, nutty cone back into her jacket.
“Ready?” says Mum.
Shell says yup. Then, wait, no. Though she won’t say it, Mum looks so hot in her turtleneck and jeans and no sun hat thanks to Shell and the left luggage back in Somerset. Shell pulls the Juno from where it comfortably rests against her ribs. With two open hands, she gives the shell to Mum.
“Happy Christmas, Mum,” Shell says, taking the cooler.
Shell calls Dad while the lamb is roasting. She can smell the mea
t out on the patio where she leans with the portable phone.
Valery is making mole chicken for Dad and some friends. He says she is homesick today especially, so the mole helps.
Shell doesn’t ask what place Valery is homesick for. She pretends she knows what mole means and that she isn’t homesick for Christmas morning with Dad — homemade toys and pioneer waffles, down to the pond for a bumpy skate. And Shell pretends Florida is a drag — you should see all the fat people, Dad, and shooting ranges — just like she pretends for Mum that Toronto is too busy and clangy, full of bankers and art snobs, she’d never want to live there.
Valery is mispronouncing Dad’s name in the background. Shell says a final Merry Christmas and clicks off the portable phone.
Mum and Shell watch cable news, pink dinner plates on their laps filled with lamb and potatoes, apple pie on the side. Mum reaches for more wine before Shell polishes it off.
The Juno is on the wicker coffee table, TV reflected in the bony shine.
“Somehow shells always look better in the water,” Shell says. “Rocks too. They’re so bright purple or orange, but as soon as they dry off, it’s just a regular rock.”
Mum picks up the Juno. “This one is different. It’s beautiful wherever it goes.” Mum says it all depends on how you look at it.
“Like how?” says Shell. “It’s just big is all. It was better hidden in the sand.”
“It’s not the shell itself,” Mum says. “It’s a memory now. A whole new thing.”
Mum finishes her wine and goes to bed. Shell turns off a Simon & Simon rerun and gets into the bed beside Mum’s. Somewhere she hears the push and pull of water. Or maybe it is just the dishwasher, rinsing away Christmas.
New Roof
Barb Nutt has a realtor friend, Priscilla. Her candy-apple Mercedes is parked in the driveway behind the brown Datsun, its rear end hanging out across the sidewalk. If Dad were here, he’d make her park on the road. And he’d stand on the porch with his arms crossed while she did it.
Shell hunches over her desk. While Shell was living in the basement, Dad’s mountain ash filled in the view from the window of her old bedroom. It’s her new bedroom now, the smell of fresh Eggshell still in the air. Shell’s fingers are poised on the keys of Mum’s Smith-Corona, salvaged from the garage sale she had with Barb a few weeks ago over at the Nutt place. Shell also saved her life’s favourite books — Alligator Pie, Jacob Two-Two, and all her Judy Blumes — as well as the paper Swiss Chalet hat Kremski gave her when he worked there as a dishwasher. It fits now, though when she’d gone as Kremski for Halloween, it kept falling down over her eyes. For Kremski’s Drum rollie, Dad had painted a pencil stub white and taught her to clench it between her molars, while Mum had rubbed brown oil pastel into Shell’s chin for the shadowy beard. Kremski rode over on his bicycle and Dad had them pose for a picture on the steps. But at school all the princesses and ballerinas asked her what she was supposed to be and “Kremski” came out clunky and ugly.
Priscilla locks the Mercedes and smooths her beige linen pants. Her hair is white gold; a shiny hard-shelled purse is hooked on her arm. She peers up the driveway into the back, a hand on a round hip. Then she steps around to the front, scanning the brickwork and state of the porch. She cranes her neck to take in Shell’s window. Catching her sunglasses as they slide from the perch on her head, the diamonds on her left hand flash.
Shell’s weekly letter to Carla in France is overdue and there’s a lot to type about this time. Like how she can’t believe she’s in grade twelve and neither can she stop thinking about Maček. She hasn’t seen him for a long while. “You know that kid Gil?” Shell types, the Smith-Corona’s stiff o and l sticking. “Well, he said Dan got busted, so Maček is lying low until things settle. Downtown is pretty dry now. Not much for smokables. You would hate it! Sometimes I think maybe you were right, Maček does ‘like’ me, but other times I’m just his buddy, you know? Like maybe if I had a nice long ponytail, then he’d see me as a real girl and not some —”
The doorbell chimes downstairs. Shell freezes at the keys. Then the screen door slams. “So,” Priscilla says when Mum welcomes her in, “Barb tells me you’re an artist.”
Mum clears her throat. “No. Not quite.”
“But you are thinking of listing. Yes?”
Mum goes, “Hmmm,” then laughs a bit. “Well, yes.”
“It’s a big decision.” Priscilla understands that. “But the house does have good bones. And with that garage building out back, it could have a lot of appeal for just the right people.”
Mum explains how they’d made pottery back there. It’s fully wired and there’s a gas line, a feature Priscilla says is “fabulous.” A real selling point.
Mum leads Priscilla through the house — living room, dining room, kitchen, down to the basement, and up again. At the first creak of footsteps on the stairs, Shell releases the letter from the typewriter, smearing the ink, and ducks into her closet. Crouching in the back, among boots and jigsaw puzzles, she pulls a pile of winter coats over her head.
“Ignore the mess,” Mum says as she opens Shell’s door, pushing against the heap of laundry blocking it from within.
“Oh!” Priscilla laughs. “Wow. Someone doesn’t like to clean.”
Mum laughs too. “My daughter assures me there’s some kind of order going on in here.”
Beneath Mum’s wool duffle coat, Shell sweats, rolls her eyes. She rubs one of the coat’s bone toggles, which she’d always thought of as being made from reindeer antler. Dad had said yeah, it’s Rudolph. But what about his shiny nose? “Oh, stop,” Mum would say. “Let her have her fantasies.”
Priscilla’s beige outfit flashes past the crack in the door, then the red and white check of Mum’s blouse. The floorboards creak. Mum and Priscilla are leaning over Shell’s desk, looking out the window.
“South-facing?” asks Priscilla.
“That’s right.”
The closet door opens next — “Plenty of storage room in there” — then closes quickly again. Mum leaves Shell’s bedroom door open when she finally leads Priscilla to the lemon-scented bathroom, counters buffed and toilet lid down. Mum’s back bedroom is last, the good lacy spread on the pioneer bed.
“Anywhere I don’t have to pick weeds or shovel snow,” Mum sighs when Priscilla asks where Mum is thinking of moving.
Well, in that case, she’ll have to let Priscilla show her some condos. “There’s a new development out by the Indian Museum. Close to an excellent high school for your daughter…um…I didn’t catch her name.”
“Shell,” Mum says, leading Priscilla back down the stairs.
When the back door shuts and the house is quiet, Shell sneaks down to the kitchen. Priscilla’s polished purse is just sitting there on the counter. A stack of crisp bills thickens the wallet inside. Shell takes a ten-dollar bill and also helps herself to two king-size Rothmans — tucks one behind each ear — and three Werther’s Original candies. She eats bread and honey while Mum’s and Priscilla’s heads bob in the windows of the studio. They keep pointing up at the ceiling.
Mum leads Priscilla back through the yard, so Shell finishes her sandwich at the top of the stairs. “I like what I see here,” Priscilla coughs from the front hall. “Someone did a good job fixing up the place.” But the ceiling in the studio is full of mould and because of that she doesn’t even need to climb onto the roof to know the shingles need replacing. “I won’t show this house until someone does that work,” she says, rattling her car keys. Oh, and Mum simply must cut down the brush in the back. “Fill in that old pond. Plant a few petunias. It could be pretty.”
Shell is sucking on a Werther’s as the Mercedes pulls out of the drive and disappears up Cashel Street. “Screw you, lady,” she calls out loud enough so Mum can hear.
“P.S.,” Shell types to Carla, “send more of those Gauloises if you can and don’t
forget to be honest about me and Maček. I mean, to think about him, so much, it’s not just nothing, right?”
Mum calls the roofer Priscilla recommended. He comes early, before school, knocks on the back door. Mum is downstairs ironing her skirt, so Shell answers. But only because he saw her through the window, her arm stuck in the Cheerios box, before she could scurry away. Murray is stitched on the breast of his blue work shirt, a clipboard under his hairy arm and a faded anchor tattooed on the back of his wrist.
“Roofer,” he says as Shell opens the door. His eyes dart from Shell’s army boots to red velvet stretchy pants to cowboy shirt to raccoon eyes and pile of crimped hair.
“Hey Mum,” Shell hisses, creeping down the basement stairs towards the smell of steaming cotton. “Roofing guy’s here.”
Murray climbs the extension ladder Shell and Mum had propped against the side of the studio. Mum waits at the bottom, her arms crossed, while Murray paces up one slope and down another, making notes on his clipboard. Shell’s leaning over the sink drinking the milk from her cereal bowl when Mum comes back in. She attaches Murray’s quote to the fridge with a magnet. The shiny ceramic orange says Edison Estate, Fort Myers, FL on the dimpled bottom.
“How much, Mum?”
“Three thousand dollars.” Mum sighs.
“God,” Shell says, rinsing her bowl in the sink. “Guess you can’t sell the house, then. Right?”
Mum frowns and grabs her car keys: Shell is to get a move on. And don’t forget to pack a lunch of some kind. There’s still muffins in the fridge.
The morning is warm, hot even, for it is already June. Mum, then Shell, climbs into the car. “Maybe you can hire some handyman guy to do it cheaper?”
“I was thinking Soren Nutt,” Mum mumbles as she backs out onto Cashel Street. “He’s back from Queen’s and looking for summer work.”
Shell chokes on her gum. “That guy won’t do a good job. Christ, Mum, he’s an ass-wipe for sure.”