Flight

by Darren Hynes

  A door opens down the hall. She turns to see Jeremy in his Spiderman pajamas, heading for the bathroom, his hair stuck up. He tries the door, but it’s locked.

  “Your father’s in there,” she says softly, so as not to wake Lynette. He twists the handle again, crosses his legs and then bends forward at the waist.

  “Use the one downstairs.”

  He turns to look at her. Shakes his head.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  For a moment she thinks he might wait it out up here, but then he approaches her, his feet slapping against the hardwood.

  She leads him to the door of the basement at the far end of the foyer. He’s right behind her. Like she’s done hundreds of times, she pulls and lifts simultaneously to get the door open, then waits at the top of the stairs, staring down into the dark, dampness filling her nostrils. The chain for the light dangles near the bottom of the stairs so they’ll have to walk down into blackness.

  Jeremy looks afraid when she turns around, on the verge of changing his mind, she thinks. He’s bouncing at the knees.

  “Come on then,” she says.

  The first stair is even colder than the kitchen floor. The second one groans when she allows it to take her weight. By the third, she realizes that Jeremy is not behind her. She turns around to see him still standing at the threshold, his hands bracing the door’s frame.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she says, “I’m here.” It occurs to her how futile those words are. She’s always been here, and yet Jeremy’s still been afraid, he and Lynette both. What has she ever really done to protect him, she wonders? Sure she’s sent him to his room, but could he not still hear the yelling and banging and twisting of bodies? Sometimes, she thinks, it’s worse not being able to see.

  “Hold my hand,” she says, extending hers to him.

  He hesitates before taking it, his grip so tight that, for a moment, she doesn’t know if she can bear it. She waits for him to take the steps down to her. Side by side now, he nearly as tall as she is, nothing but the whites of his eyes in the murk.

  “We’ll go down together,” she tells him. To guide them, she places her free hand on the railing, her fingertips gliding downward and keeping pace with their footfalls.

  His palm is sweating. Does whenever he’s nervous or excited or… afraid too, she guesses.

  Step six, seven, and eight. Straining wood and musty air. Their steps in sync, their shoulders nearly touching. Nine, ten, and eleven. There’s a final step, but it’s better to pull the chain for the light from here, not so much of a stretch upwards. She waits for him to do it. He pulls so hard that she thinks the chain has come away in his hand. It’s still intact though when she looks.

  They’re awash in light now, so blinding they have to shield their eyes.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she says.

  He lets go of her hand and runs toward the bathroom.

  She watches him flick the light switch and then go inside, slamming the door. Listens to him lifting the seat, then his steady stream.

  Finally she takes the last step down and stands for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, the floor as cold as an ice rink, goosebumps on her arms and legs.

  Even though the majority of Kent’s tools are in the garage, he still keeps a mini-workstation here, pressed against the wall, not far from the washer and dryer. There’s a wooden table with a toolbox on top; glue gun and handsaw hanging from brass hooks, an open ratchet set near an assortment of screwdrivers and wrenches; a tan work belt, not a loop or a pocket empty, as if he’d just taken it off that second; and a map of Newfoundland attached to the wall, multi-coloured thumbtacks marking each cove or town he’s visited over the years for either work or pleasure.

  She walks towards the table, surprised to hear her son still peeing. Once there, she looks underneath, lifts the tarp that’s covering everything and sees what she wants behind a never-used humidifier: suitcases. More than any family needs as far as she’s concerned, but that’s Kent – never content with just enough. She rummages through to find the two she’ll need for tomorrow, so that she doesn’t waste time looking. Lightheaded for a second. Tomorrow. It doesn’t seem real somehow. Can you wait too long for something, she wonders, so that you doubt it will ever come? But she’s here though, right? Tomorrow. It can’t not happen now. All waiting comes to an end eventually.

  “What are you doing?”

  His voice startles her so much that she nearly falls in amongst the suitcases. She crawls out bum first, then turns around, sitting back on her haunches, looking up at him.

  He’s in boxers and an undershirt, hair combed back and freshly shaven, a mug of coffee in his right hand, its wisps of steam swirling.

  “What?” she says.

  “What were you looking for?”

  She looks around like she’s lost something. “Where’s Jeremy?”

  “He’s upstairs, where else?”

  “He was peeing.”

  “Now he’s done. He’s upstairs.”

  How could she not have heard him flush the toilet, push open the door, then walk back up the steps?

  “Well?” Kent says.

  She stares down at his feet, knows that he’s in the vicinity of the loose floorboard, perhaps right on top of it. Nothing but thin wood separating his toes from the plane tickets and the old Adidas sock stuffed with twenties and tens and fives. Although she’s positive that she’d fitted the board firmly back in place the last time, a part of her wonders now if perhaps a corner or an edge might be sticking up just enough for a bottom of a foot, with all its nerve endings, to take notice.

  “Emily – ”

  “Suitcases.”

  “What?”

  “For our St. John’s trip.”

  He takes a few steps closer.

  “I can’t decide which two,” she says.

  He helps her up. “What odds.”

  They stand there for a moment.

  “Do you want me to bring them up for you?” Kent says.

  She shakes her head. “Enjoy your coffee before work.”

  He pulls her towards him. “Have one with me.”

  “Okay.”

  They walk across the floor. At the bottom of the stairs, she asks, “How is it, by the way? The coffee?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bit strong.”

  He takes her hand and then – not needing to stand on the first step to reach the chain – turns off the light. They walk up the stairs, Emily a half step behind him.

  2

  SHE KISSES LYNETTE’S CHEEK AND THEN watches her little girl walk toward the main entrance of the school. At the doors, Lynette waves.

  Emily waves back.

  Jeremy’s one of a circle of boys playing Hacky Sack in the courtyard. They’re using the tops and backs of feet, knees, chests, even their foreheads to keep the little pouch in the air.

  She stands there watching for a minute, her sweater buttoned to the top, her arms wrapped around herself to keep out the wind. Though she’s constantly tucking her hair behind her ears, it keeps fluttering out to dance in front of her eyes.

  The first bell goes and kids start scattering, but Jeremy stays where he is, taunting those who walk away. Another boy beside him, after the second bell, makes to move, but Jeremy grabs him by the shoulder and shouts something that Emily can’t make out. Whatever it is, it’s enough to make the smaller boy stay longer.

  She wonders if he’s even aware of her presence. If he cares at all that she stands watching every morning before going off to work. Slipping away from her, he is. Each day bringing more distance between them, an ever-widening gully that she worries might be impassable some day. She knows that he blames her when Kent gets mad. It’s the look he gives her afterwards when he sees his daddy in the rocking chair, or sitting at the kitchen table with his face in his hands, shoulders bouncing. No matter that she’s the one on the floor, the one cut and bruised. Torn clothes and hair out of its pon
ytail. Skin beneath her nails and the taste of his sweat on her tongue. “You’ve made him cry,” Jeremy will say.

  The few boys left in the schoolyard – Jeremy included – walk reluctantly towards the main entrance after the third bell, each of them already dreaming of recess, Emily thinks.

  She watches until the last of them goes in then turns around, tucking her chin into the top of her sweater in preparation for the walk to work headlong into the wind. She manages only a few steps before a car pulls up to the curb, its tires screeching as it comes to a stop. A child pops out – Rodney, Myles and Irene’s boy. Jeremy’s age but half his size. He runs past her without saying hello, his school bag unzipped and his shirt hanging outside his trousers. His hair stuck up, and a half-eaten slice of toast in his hand, blueberry jam on top, she thinks.

  Myles sees her through the passenger side window.

  Emily waves, walks towards the car.

  Myles gets out, flicks his cigarette into the air, then comes around the car’s front to meet her. “How am I supposed to know what time it starts,” he says. “I’m usually at work by now.” He lifts the bill of his Toronto Maple Leafs cap in order to kiss her cheek without poking out her eye.

  His facial hair is coarse against her skin.

  She wonders if worry carries an odour, and if so, could that be what she smells on his clothes, on his breath. “Congratulations on your new baby.”

  His eyes are red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Or from too much of it. He readjusts his hat, looks past her. “Thanks for the flowers.”

  “Flowers?”

  “Yeah. Irene loved the vase. Going to put it in the centre of the kitchen table when she comes home, she says. Thank Kent too, will ya?”

  “Of course,” she says, wondering why her husband would not have mentioned he’d sent flowers.

  Myles slips his hands into his jean pockets and then stares down at his work boots. “She’s better at this stuff, anyhow.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Getting the young one to school. That sort of thing.”

  “How is she?”

  “Done nothing but sleep since she had him.”

  “It’s tiring work.”

  He nods, staring off into the distance.

  “What’s his name?”

  “The jury’s still out on that one,” he says, his gaze going back to her. “She likes Daniel, but I’d prefer Carl… after my ol’ man, you know.”

  “I like Daniel,” she says.

  “Most do.”

  Another school bell.

  “Irene told me that she came to see you the other day.”

  Emily nods.

  “She shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not your fault what’s going on. Kent’s neither. He’s been relentless against that government crowd since all this started.” He pauses before saying, “It’s a shame what happened to him the other night. Youngsters they were, a few too many in them. We put them in their place pretty quick.”

  The wind grows stronger.

  Exhaust spews from his still-idling car.

  The “Ode to Newfoundland,” the school’s morning anthem, plays in the background, faint children’s voices singing along. She imagines Lynette with her hand on her heart, singing louder than the rest of her classmates; Jeremy just mouthing the words, poking his finger into the back of the boy in front of him.

  “Has Kent heard anything else? About whether or not they’re going to keep the plant going? Not that it matters to me.”

  It feels like a first date suddenly, stuck facing each other with nothing in common, nothing to say. “No, he hasn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not the only one, right?”

  In the silence she tries looking at her watch without him noticing. Then she says, “I hear you might be going to Fort McMurray?”

  “The missus would like me to.”

  “Lots of work there, no?”

  “Oh yes, there’s work.”

  She imagines him in a crowded bunkhouse, prostrate on a bed that, despite his being exhausted, he can’t find any comfort in, a picture of his family on the night table beside the lamp. A world away from all that he’s accustomed to.

  That will be her, it occurs to her, tomorrow night. Lying beneath bed sheets that smell nothing of home. Lynette and Jeremy’s deep breathing coming from either side of her.

  She realizes that Myles is staring right at her. “Did you say something?”

  “Never mind.” He pulls the bill of his cap down even farther.

  “Sorry if I seem distracted.”

  He cocks his head. “A lot to be distracted about.”

  “I suppose.”

  “What with the whole place on the verge of becoming a ghost town and everything.”

  “It won’t come to that.”

  “Don’t be so sure. It’s happened before, and in places a lot better off than this one here.”

  She looks at her watch again, making more of a show of it this time. “I should be getting to work.”

  “Let me drive you.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I like the walk.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay, then.” He bends down to kiss her cheek again.

  She thinks now that the aroma of worry smells a lot like rum.

  “Say hello from me to that husband of yours.”

  Out of politeness, she waits for him to get back in his car. She starts walking when he puts the car in gear.

  “Be careful the gale doesn’t blow you away,” he says through his rolled-down window.

  “I will,” she says, raising a palm.

  She watches him drive to the end of Trinity Street and then make a left onto Glover, disappearing from view.

  3

  TERRY LEANS ACROSS HIS DESK and slips the envelope into her hand.

  She folds it and goes to put it in her pocket.

  “Look at it,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Just look.”

  She opens it and peers inside. Glances at him. “It’s more than usual.”

  He sits back, a proud look on his face. “Consider it a token of my appreciation.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Didn’t I? You’re long overdue, I’d say.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  There’s another piece of paper in her pocket, she realizes, upon shoving in the cheque. She pulls it out and nearly loses her breath. It’s the old electric bill, her travel itinerary written on the back, the confirmation number of her flight in bold across the top. How could she have forgotten that she’d put it there?

  “Something wrong?” Terry asks.

  She shakes her head and puts the bill back in her pocket, thinking how easily it might have been discovered. Jeremy going through her pockets for loose change every other day though she tells him not to. Easiest thing in the world for it to fall onto her bedroom floor as she’s changing into something more comfortable. Kent reaching down to pick it up on his way to the closet. Reservations for three. No return date.

  “Want a coffee?” Terry points to the fresh pot on the other side of the room.

  She shakes her head. “Had some already this morning.”

  The office is cleaner, she thinks, dusted and papers stacked. An air freshener’s hanging somewhere. Terry’s got his shirt buttoned up too far, practically cutting off the circulation in his neck. How many times has she told him to unclasp a few, let his chest hairs breathe? He smells different. Whatever cologne it is, he’s splashed too much on.

  “Shouldn’t you be opening up?” she says.

  “In a second.”

  She stands. “I’m going to get my till ready – ”

  “Hang on,” he says. “Sit a minute longer.”

  She sits down. Unclips her nametag and then reattaches it a little fa
rther to the left, below her breast. Pushes up the hair tie that’s keeping her ponytail in place.

  “Heather won’t be coming in,” he says finally.

  Probably one too many drinks at her show last night, Emily thinks. “Is she sick?”

  Terry shakes his head.

  “Her mother okay?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  She leans forward. “What then?”

  He half stands in order to press the lever that raises his seat, then sits back down, looking at her, not looking at her.

  “What, Terry?”

  “I had to let her go. I’m sorry, I know how much you two liked each other.” Terry looks away. Fiddles with the pens and pencils in the white mug.

  “Why would you do that?” Emily says.

  Terry doesn’t answer.

  “What’d she do?”

  “What didn’t she do more like it.”

  “Does this have anything to do with her coming over to my house yesterday?”

  “No, although she shouldn’t have left the store without telling me. I’m down in my office filling out an order and she just walks out. What a state things were in by the time I came back up. Sonya Cooke screaming at me that Heather had overcharged her forty dollars, and Mike Rowe’s two boys in the back stuffing caramels inside their jackets.”

  “But it’s your fault she left in the first place.”

  “How’s it my fault?”

  “Because of what you told her, that’s what. She came to check on me. Make sure everything was all right.”

  He pauses for a second, then says, “That was good of her, I know.”

  “So why’d you fire her then?”

  “Because of what happened later on.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Just her waltzing back in like she didn’t have a care in the world, that’s what. She snatches a pack of Crunchets off the rack then – and not the small pack either, the big pack. Rips them open and starts eating them right in front of me, brazen enough to lick the cheese off her fingers and everything.”