The muscles of Jake’s neck and shoulders tightened, triggering a slight pulsing sensation that settled above his eyes, the beginning of a tension headache. Already his peripheral vision was blurring. Why was she asking him? It wasn’t like he and Eugene were buddies. “I’m sorry, Darlene. I know how close you and Gene are, but I’m not sure I’m the right person for him at the moment.”
“Well, I’m not. Been down to his place every day to make sure he gets supper. Don’t matter what I say, he just sits on the deck, staring at the river. He may talk to you, though. You know, since you’ve been through it with Maxine.”
That was why. She thought he was some kind of an expert, a Dr. Phil or something. Jake concentrated on the hose reels at the end of the aisle while providing canned responses. “I don’t really know that much. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it yet. Just give him some time.”
Jake hadn’t told a soul that Maxine was dying. They never really mixed much with the neighbours. Besides, it was something he considered a private matter. But someone knew. Things would happen. One day the lawn would be mowed. On other days, casseroles would turn up on the step, in foil containers so he didn’t have to worry about returning dishes. Good casseroles too, plenty of meat with pasta and vegetables. And spices, curry and chili powder that made his house smell lived in when he heated them up. They didn’t go to waste; Jake didn’t believe in letting good food go to waste. He had no idea who repaired the shingles after the storm that knocked out the power for two days. He had only been aware of the darkness and shaving with cold water. By that time Maxine was in the hospital and Jake would leave every morning and return every night like he had put in a long day at work. Lately, these events were seeping into his consciousness, something like cold water into leaky boots. Someone had known about Maxine, but Jake had never figured out who or how they had found out. Eventually, someone else would learn about Eugene. It was what he was waiting for. He developed an incessant curiosity. It was morbid, really; Jake was aware of that. He would frequently stop what he was doing and tilt his head in the direction of Eugene’s place, almost as if expecting something, not sure exactly what. Maybe it could be like the bat signal or perhaps a revelation of some sort, anything that confirmed this fact. Hell, he didn’t care what. He just didn’t like being the only one who knew.
A lime-green Volkswagen pulled up across the road and Elsa MacDonald got out. Her outfit, depicting several Tweety and Sylvester chase scenes, was hard to miss. Wearing cartoon characters with pink runners and the long braid that trailed down her back were only a couple of her endearing qualities.
“Well, if it isn’t Jake Rendell.” She closed the car door and started walking in his direction. “Didn’t know you lived out this way.”
Jake dropped the garden claw and took several long strides to meet her halfway. It didn’t matter what she wore, Elsa was always a welcome sight. “Lived here for eighteen years.”
“That don’t make you a local around here, Jake. You know that.”
“Doesn’t make me a stranger either.”
“True, the neighbours learn to put up with your flaws after eighteen years.” She was smiling and extending her hand to shake his, then pulled him into a hug when he reached for it. “How have you been?”
Jake couldn’t recall the last time someone had hugged him. Well, he could. It was Maxine’s funeral, but he preferred not to remember that particular occasion. “I’ve been fine. I am fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Well, you don’t look like you’re starving.” She held him at arm’s length. “In fact, you may want to add a little salad to your diet. But who am I to talk? It’s not like anyone would want to see me in spandex.”
One of Elsa’s many talents was defusing uncomfortable situations. Jake had watched her do it many times at the hospital. She had a way of taking the edge off. Without her, Jake was sure he wouldn’t have made it through the difficult times. “You making house calls now or taking your comedy act on the road?”
“Well, you could say it’s a bit of both. I have a new position, home care for oncology patients. Gets me out a few days a week and gives me a little air in between.”
Jake lowered his voice. “Then I’m guessing you’re here for Eugene. I ran into his sister at the hardware store.”
Elsa slid her tongue over her top teeth and nodded. “I’ll be seeing him every couple of weeks to start. More later on.”
“He’s taken to sitting out on the deck all night. I don’t sleep that well myself, so I hear him at all hours.”
“Everyone takes it differently, Jake.” She shifted her weight so her body leaned a little to the left. “I really must get going. It’s so good to see you. Now that I know where you live, why don’t I come by early next time and you can make me a coffee?”
Watching her walk away, Tweety and Sylvester crinkling across her back, Jake concluded that Elsa was exactly what he needed. Maybe not the revelation he expected, people around here wouldn’t know who she was. Appearance-wise, she looked like some innocent, over-zealous grandmother. It was something else. He was off the hook. No more feeling guilty about it. Elsa and Darlene could manage Eugene. Elsa could call in the real experts if necessary, and Jake, well, Jake was free to go about his business with a clear conscience.
Bob Dylan, at maximum volume, and the sweet smell of marijuana were drifting downriver. Jake was pulling out the long strands of grass between the fencing and the lilac bush when Hector Hickerson strolled over.
“I wonder what’s got into Gene,” he said.
There was something about Hector that always annoyed Jake. Nothing Jake could put into words. Perhaps it was the way he walked, strutted really, or his know-it-all attitude. Or maybe it was that stupid name. What kind of a parent would give a kid a name like that? He was much younger than Jake, and into gadgets, liked to talk about his BlackBerry and big-screen TV. Hector was one of those people that made Jake glad he and Maxine had never had kids.
Hector jerked his head upwards and sniffed several times. “Can’t you smell that?”
“Sure I can smell it. What about it?”
“Gene never tokes at home. He keeps his business and personal life separate. Everyone knows that.” Hector paused, as if waiting for Jake to comment, then continued. “Gene doesn’t have what most people refer to as a real job. He fixes cars, does a bit of roofing and yard work, all under the table. And he has a thriving weed business. Part-time. He plants the stuff in containers, out on Crown land in the summer. No one knows exactly where. Most likely in places cleared for power lines or burnt by forest fires. I’ll tell you, he’s savvy. Keeps moving it around. The RCMP would love to catch him. You mean that in all the years you’ve been here you didn’t notice how often the cops are at his place?”
It occurred to Jake that there was another reason he disliked Hector. The man was a gossip. “I noticed. I just figured it was none of my business.”
To Jake’s relief, Hector hadn’t thought the conversation through any further and walked away.
The remainder of the afternoon was restless. Sometimes the sun shone with blinding intensity, other times dark clouds muscled their way to the forefront. Jake found himself in the dining room, staring through the glass doors of the china cabinet, trying to remember how many times they’d actually used Maxine’s mother’s antique dishes. He was sure he could count them on one hand. When he turned around, he thought he saw Maxine, behind the shafts of sunlight coming through the window. Dust motes drifted in the air around her. She looked as though she had never been sick, then disappeared a few seconds later when the clouds returned. “What do I do with them?” he said, sweeping his hand back and unintentionally knocking the side of the cabinet. Inside, standing plates rattled and teacups vibrated in saucers.
Outside there were gunshots, five or six, then silence. From the window, Jake saw Einstein race towards the pen and into the safety of his dogho
use. He took two bottles of beer from the fridge and stepped out the back door, carrying them with their necks between his fingers.
Eugene’s house had once been a cottage, but it had been raised over thirty years ago to put in a concrete basement. The yellow siding, coated with grey mildew that resembled a thin layer of bird shit, had to be at least that old. Except for the deck, the rest of the place looked older. So the man did yard work and roofing. Jake never suspected. No doubt Darlene did casseroles. “Here,” he said, climbing the stairs. The .22 leaned against the railing, the box of bullets stowed under Gene’s chair.
Gene took the beer and nodded towards a plastic chair beside him. Jake sat down, opened his bottle and took a sip. They drank quietly, staring at the meandering water. On the far shore, blue jays, voicing their opinions, flitted between the maples. Crows, high up in the spruce trees, argued back. A fish jumped, its body mooning them for a second, then disappeared.
“Guess I should have taken the kids fishing,” Gene said a few minutes later.
Jake inhaled, then released his breath, letting it whistle between his teeth. “You know, I don’t claim to be an expert, but maybe you don’t want to spend your time thinking of should haves. Maybe you should just make it happen. Sell your crop and buy them a plane ticket. Spend a couple of weeks with them. Take them fishing if that’s what you want.”
As soon as he said it, he regretted it. What gave him the right to tell Eugene what to do? He’d never told Maxine. God knows he’d wanted to.
It started to rain, beginning slow enough that Jake could identify every drop. The echoing of indents in the river. The burst and roll from the waxed surfaces of leaves. Flicks, followed by whispers of absorption into the ground. Muffled slaps each time one hit the wooden deck. Then it started to pour, drowning the individual drops with the rush of many, running through the gutters to resurrect an odour of dead leaves and mud.
Gene’s long hair fell forward in wet curls that dripped down the side of his face. He raked it back with his fingers. “Took some shots at that tree earlier,” he said, pointing to a large pine between the deck and the river.
Even through the rain, Jake could see that the bark was ripped in several places where the bullets hit. He decided to take a page from Elsa’s book and keep things light. “And I thought you were taking potshots at my dog.”
Gene turned and looked at Jake. His mouth was twisted up on one side in a half grin, half smirk. “I just felt like fucking hitting something.”
Jake was immediately aware of the weight of his drenched clothes, the rigidity of his neck and shoulders, the way his one hand gripped the bottle too tight and the other was clenched into a fist. He placed the bottle on the deck, stood up and reached for Gene’s rifle. “May I?” he said.
Gene nodded, amusement still flickering across his face. He watched Jake load the rifle, surprised that Jake knew how, because it was a skill that Gene figured only a certain type of man acquired. He’d never considered Jake to be that type.
It was a skill that Jake hadn’t exercised since he was a teen, hunting with his father, half a dozen years before he met Maxine. He dropped in the cartridges, noting with satisfaction that Gene used the safety, then adjusted his stance and raised the barrel, tucking the stock comfortably into his shoulder. He chose an old spruce with a thick trunk, branchless for the bottom ten feet, focused on a spot about five feet off the ground and pulled the trigger. Then he pulled it again, and again, and again, each time taking in the crack of the shot, the splintering of bark, the satisfaction that comes with tearing through exterior layers to reveal what’s underneath, shooting until he finished the round.
Christina, After Leotards and Doc Martens
There are bugs in Christina’s cupboard, little brown bugs with crusty exteriors like fleas. But they can’t be fleas. Fleas don’t live in cupboards. Fleas don’t crawl comfortably through Uncle Ben’s converted rice, somehow managing to enter the bag, which had been folded over three times and clipped with a blue plastic clothespin. They don’t glide happily in flakes of rolled oats, waving tiny appendages at their brothers, sisters, and cousins, who are doing the same. Fleas don’t eat people food; they’re bloodsuckers and live on dogs and cats. Christina still has doubts; the only thing she knows for sure is that these bugs are not cockroaches or ants. They are the devil she doesn’t know.
She ponders all this as she scours the shelves with detergent while inhaling a green-apple scent. Maybe she should be using bleach or some sort of spray, but the environment is one of those things she feels guilty about. Her list is long: quality time, perpetually stained toilets, work, sometimes the lack of work, kids, lumpy mashed potatoes, store-bought cookies and now bugs in the cupboard, just to name a few.
For supper, Christina had planned to make rice because it was faster than potatoes and she was running late. She doesn’t make ordinary rice, as everyone finds it pale and uninspiring. Instead she makes yellow rice, coloured and flavoured with a little chicken stock and a lot of curry. Nose-running spicy rice, a family favourite that quickly disappears from pots and plates, a creation she is proud of.
“Pour a cup of rice in the measuring pitcher, please,” she’d asked Sara. Christina now regrets those words. She wishes that she had discovered the vagrants herself and quietly disposed of them when no one was looking.
Her daughter is fifteen and has spent the last two years moving from baggy jeans to bum-hugging skirts, while daring to pass judgment on the rest of the world. According to Melissa’s mother, she also has a boyfriend, a seventeen-year-old string bean with greasy hair, the type of guy who doesn’t look a mother in the eye. Melissa is Sara’s best friend. Her mother and Christina have a pact to share information. Christina caught a glimpse of the bean a few weeks ago when she picked up Sara from the mall. Alarm bells have been going off in her head ever since.
Sara shrieked and dropped the measuring cup as bodies began surfacing in the oblong grains. It landed in the kitchen sink, both creatures and rice scattering across stainless steel. Can they swim? Christina wondered, turning on the tap.
Further investigation revealed the rice, flour, and oats were infested, and the cupboard was crawling. “This is so disgusting,” Sara said. “Don’t you ever clean?” As if it was Christina’s fault, and only Christina’s fault. Sara stormed out of the kitchen with a look of horror on her face.
What Christina considers disgusting are the oven fries she makes to replace the yellow rice.
“Don’t worry, she’ll get over it,” Robert says. Bugs don’t bother him. He is Mr. Boy Scout. Mr. Great Outdoors, the man she used to camp with in tents that spiders loved. They tolerated ants, wasps, horseflies, and mosquitoes in order to catch fish and spy on deer and beaver from their canoe. The kids don’t like camping; the boys long for their video games and Sara mopes, loudly. The tent, damp and mouldy after their last miserable trip, was put at the curb with the garbage two years ago.
At Zellers, Christina fills her cart with plastic containers, in all shapes and sizes, to hold everything from flour to instant onion soup. Her neighbour, Paula Spence, literally runs into her en route to the checkout. Paula looks too coordinated, like she just stepped out of a Sears flyer. Maybe she failed to stop because she was too busy admiring her outfit in the glass doors of the pop cooler.
“Oh, hi,” she offers, as if an apology isn’t necessary when the collision is with someone you know. “Those on sale?”
“No,” Christina says, rubbing her sideswiped hip. “I’ve been cleaning cupboards.”
“I absolutely hate cleaning cupboards.” Paula admits. “I only do it when they get so disgusting that I can’t stand them any longer.”
“Me too,” Christina says, but she has the sinking feeling that Paula’s definition of disgusting doesn’t include bugs.
Sara enters the kitchen after school with contempt further clouding her disposition. “What’s there to eat in th
is place that comes in a sealed package?” She says this looking down, her hair falling forward to hide the appearance of bravado mixed with fear. She is pretending it isn’t directed towards anyone in particular, although her mother is the only other person in the room.
“Well, if you don’t like this restaurant, you can always go eat at Shelby’s in the plaza by Blockbuster Video. According to the paper, there was a problem with mice last year, but I’m sure it’s okay now.” According to Christina’s memory, they had had their own mice problem. Almost every morning between April and November, Robert had emptied and reset the trap hidden behind the furnace. Mice, she thought, whose fault is that?
At dinner, Sara picks through her pasta, leaving anything she can’t identify on the side of her plate. Christina watches the pile grow, knowing it contains tarragon and basil, things Sara has eaten before but doesn’t know the names of.
“How’s business?” Robert asks. He leans forward, intentionally trying to distract her.
“Take a look at my office. It’s much too neat to be productive. I have some package shots to close-crop for Medi-Nourish and I’m expecting the Richardson job sometime next week. These slow days make me restless.”
“You could learn to enjoy your slow times.”
“You could clean,” Sara interjects. Her gaze and her fork continue to dissect the food on her plate.
Everyone stops chewing. Jeremy and Graham, both younger than Sara, stare at Christina. A line has been crossed.
“Go to your room,” Robert says before Christina can reply.
Sara bangs her dishes on the counter and slams her bedroom door. The rest of the meal is silent except for utensils cautiously wearing against plates, and glasses being set down after muted sips. What would Christina say anyway? Would she launch into one of those when-I-was-your-age lectures, or explode in a defensive rage, camouflaged by a rant about how untidy Sara’s bedroom is? She doesn’t know.
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