Prerequisites for Sleep

by Jennifer L. Stone

  Megan takes the orange ball from the dog’s mouth and pitches it into the lake. It bobs to the surface, surrounded by successive rings. Findley jumps in and begins to swim while she picks up more debris. When he returns to shore, his wet fur is weighted into points that hang dripping from his body. He shakes them out before bringing the ball to her. She tosses it again and he swims off to retrieve it. The next time she throws it, it lands further out in the water. Findley looks at it, turns back towards her and lets out a slow whine, his odd eyes searching her for direction.

  “Don’t give me that look. Go get it.” The dog whines again. “Oh, stop it and go get your ball,” she says, turning her back and breaking off the dead stalks of astilbes. Findley paces back and forth, little whimpers escaping from his throat. He raises his front paw and touches Megan on the thigh. “Findley, you’re such a suck.” She picks up a rock and throws it out to where the ball floats in the lake. Findley goes after the rock and returns with the orange sphere in his mouth.

  That’s what John hated, her tough exterior, that and her silence. When he screamed and threw things, she walked away. When he cried in his sleep, she moved to the sofa. She saw him the other day at the mall. He had two children with him. A girl of six who must get all her looks from her mother, and a younger boy with Jamie’s complexion and hair but someone else’s smile. They made small talk while blinking away the echoes of their former lives, then parted with promises to get together they both knew would never be kept.

  Findley occupies himself with the ball at the shoreline, batting it with his paw and pushing it through the mud with his nose. Megan kneels and lifts more brown leaves, holding them in two hands like a mouth of a crane before dropping them into the bucket. Under the pile, several green shoots reach out of the ground. She pauses for a moment to swat the air above her head where she can hear the first blackfly of yet another season.

  Fragile Blue and Creamy White

  Soft green numbers stared at him from the night table. 4:27, they said. The glow from a streetlight seeped through the slats of the blinds, leaving horizontal bands of darkness between. His eyes scanned the room, adjusting to the half-dark, half-light. Looking around, he saw familiar knickknacks nestled with objects he didn’t recognize, furniture that he knew next to pieces that were foreign to him. A strand of silver light settled on the hair of the woman asleep on the next pillow, her breathing creating a nasal rhythm that punctuated the silence. Everything was out of sorts, like a hazy dream, or a foggy reality.

  Thirsty, he lifted the bedclothes with caution and swung his legs to the floor. His left hip ached, a constant reminder of the beach at Dieppe, and he leaned on the night table for support. A pair of slippers partially under the bed were visible in the dim light. He nudged them out with his foot and slipped them on, then shuffled out the bedroom door and up the hall.

  The kitchen glowed with assorted lights, gadgets, and more numbers, this time 4:42. He ran his hand through his hair, which was damp with his perspiration, and looked around, surveying the room with its boxy white appliances and yellow paint. Lace curtains hung on the window above the sink and herb pots sat on the ledge. It all seemed wrong, not the kitchen he remembered.

  He began searching for a glass behind cupboard doors, finding one on the third try, and opened the refrigerator, hoping that it held a jug of ice-cold water like the one in the kitchen he was more familiar with. Thankfully it did. Filling the glass, he gulped it down and poured another, taking it with him to the table that stood next to the bay window overlooking the yard. He sat, leaned on his elbows and rested his forehead in the palms of his hands, closed his eyes and stayed still for a long time.

  The morning light reached across the back garden and into the window, settling on the table and floor. He lifted his head and sipped on the remaining water while scanning the kitchen for something that would help him to orient himself. The confusion and panic stayed, no matter how much he willed them to be gone. His eyes rested on the figure of a jolly chef that hung next to the telephone. Grocery staples: milk, bread, butter, flour, sugar, and eggs were listed down the front of his apron. Little wooden pegs stood in holes at the bottom and could be placed adjacent to each item to mark those to be purchased on the next trip to the store. It was a novelty really, not something anyone used. It had once hung in his mother’s kitchen. He and his brother used to drag a chair across the room to stand on so they could move the pegs into different positions when she wasn’t looking. She always put them back across the bottom when she cleaned up after dinner. Seeing it, he couldn’t help but smile.

  Stepping outside, barely lifting his feet, he made his way down the driveway and up Raymoor Avenue while surveying the neighbourhood, noting any changes in house colours, or additions like sheds and gazebos. He had lived on this street since he was a boy and had never tired of it.

  The big house had always been grey with white gingerbread and railings. As he followed the walkway leading to the front veranda, he noted that the petunias in the garden needed deadheading and the hardy geraniums could use a thinning out. He rang the bell, then waited a minute and rang again. Inside, the chime of a clock marked the half hour. A silhouette moved behind frosted sidelights and the deadbolt shifted to the unlocked position. Finally, he thought, releasing his breath just before looking into the face of the stranger standing beyond the security chain on the partiallyopened door. “Who are you?” he cried, his panic increasing tenfold. “Where’s my mother? Where’s Robina Winslow?”

  “Phillip, is that you? What are you doing out this early in the morning?” The man was middle-aged, with thinning hair, but fit. He stood in bare feet, adjusting a navy robe tied loosely at his waist.

  Turning, Phillip trudged back along the cement path that led to the street, avoiding the cracks between the grey slabs like children do when they play. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. He sat down on the curb, his bent knees rising upwards from the pavement like crests of hills, and tears flowed down his cheeks.

  The sound of the ringing phone startled her, waking her with the feeling that only seconds had passed since she had closed her eyes. Picking up the receiver, she glanced in his direction. His pillow was empty, the bedclothes pulled back.

  “Hello?”

  “Emma, it’s Geoff Chambers.”

  “Yes, Geoff, what can I do for you?” She fingered the night table in search of her glasses, knocking a pencil to the floor before locating them on the other side of her crossword book, then fumbled with one hand to open them and set them in place so she could see the time. Just after six thirty.

  “It’s Phillip. He’s sitting on the curb in front of our house. He came to the door looking for his mother.”

  “Oh, dear, I’ll be right there.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him until you get here.”

  “Thank you, and thank you for calling.”

  She pulled on the pair of elastic-waist pants that she kept near the bed, slipping them up under her cotton nightdress before lifting it over her head. With equal efficiency, she put on her bra and hooked it from behind, then pulled on a shirt and donned a pair of ankle socks and walking shoes.

  The street was empty and still cool from the night. She hurried past the post-war houses at the north end towards the older Victorians that stood stately on the south. These days she was slower and slightly stooped in her gait, unlike in her youth when she had perfect posture and a bounce in her step. Now she often felt old and tired, slow and stooped. Or was it stupid? Yes, there were days that she just felt stupid. On other days she was angry, either with Phillip or herself.

  She saw him in front of the old house, sitting like a lost little boy with his head resting on his arms, which were folded across the tops of his knees. That’s what he was some days, a little boy, sneaking off and hiding from her, or hiding things from her, afraid she was going to steal them. Just yesterday, he put the keys to the shed in the sugar bowl
. It took her hours to find them, and when she did, it was too late to have their grandson mow the lawn.

  “Phillip,” she said, approaching him gently and placing her hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to come home.” He looked so helpless, staring at his slippers, at the wet spots where his tears had washed away the dust. She waved to Geoff, who nodded and closed his door.

  “It’s me, Phillip, Emma, your wife.” She placed one hand under his elbow and the other firmly around his upper arm. “Come on, up you go.” He was heavy and she could do nothing more than guide him.

  “My wife?”

  “Yes, Phillip, we’ve been married over fifty years. Now come on, let’s go home and have a nice breakfast. I’ll make your favourite, blueberry pancakes.”

  “Fifty years,” he murmured, hesitating slightly before beginning to raise himself from the curb.

  Keeping a firm grip on his arm, Emma chose not to respond. She was thinking of that grey January day when she had stood in a borrowed white dress and he’d had a sprig of heather pinned on his uniform; and of her arrival aboard The Queen Mary, pregnant with the twins, only they didn’t know there were two babies at the time; and of his mother’s comments on her advanced size when she stepped off the train and they met her at Union Station. Then there was the drive all the way from downtown Toronto to Markham, which was nothing more than a village; and the dust that flew into her eyes and mouth through the open windows of the old car; and the doubts that overwhelmed her the closer they came, and that didn’t leave until that night when Phillip crawled under the covers of the bed in the small room they shared across the hall from his parents.

  “Sit here and read while I make breakfast,” she said, installing him in his worn recliner and handing him a copy of The Economist that was over a week old.

  He was submissive and took the paper from her hands. She knew his disorientation rendered him helpless, and that he wouldn’t read, just hide behind the newspaper and pretend to be reading. She could tell that he didn’t like the way she looked at him, that he was thinking he would never have married such a woman, one who was serious and stern and told him what to do. It was as if she could read his thoughts through his hollow eyes.

  In the kitchen, the blueberries were washed and draining in the colander. The sun lit the yellow walls in what she had once described as a cheerful manner. “Imagine, another election so soon,” she said, talking as she scooped flour into a measuring cup and levelled the top with a butter knife. “I really don’t think those politicians care one way or another what we think.” She added a second cup of flour to the stainless steel bowl along with a couple of teaspoons of baking powder, some sugar and salt. “It’s supposed to be hot again today. Another one for the tomatoes.” She laughed, adding a little singsong quality to her words. “You know how they love the heat. I’ll be putting up both chili and chow this year. I realized that yesterday when I checked on them. We’re going to have tomatoes coming out our ears.

  “The vegetable garden needs weeding. We could do it this morning before it gets too hot, if you like.” She continued chattering, bringing up additional tidbits gleaned from the news, or making references to the children and their families, all the while stirring the batter with a wooden spoon that was as old as her marriage. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Only 7:20 and already she had checked it four times.

  Gently she folded the berries into the batter, careful not to over-mix and break the fragile blue into the creamy white. Then she scooped four heaping spoonfuls into the electric frying pan. The recipe would make about a dozen pancakes, some for breakfast, some for the freezer. She put the coffee on, keeping her eye on the circles in the pan, waiting for the air bubbles pop.

  “Breakfast is ready,” she called, setting the plates on the table. “I’ve given you three pancakes to start, but there are more if you want.” Two glasses of orange juice followed, carefully set to the right of each plate.

  The comforting smells from the kitchen enticed Phillip and made him eager. Slamming the recliner into the upright position, he bounded to the table and began hoeing into breakfast as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

  Forks and knives against china plates, sips from juice and the occasional clicking of false teeth, the sounds of a silent breakfast between strangers.

  After they finished eating, Emma cleared the plates and poured the coffee. “So, do you feel like weeding the garden today?”

  “No, I feel like visiting my mother.”

  “Oh, Phillip.” She sighed, laying her hand over his. “Your mother has been gone for twenty-three years.”

  “How would you know?” he yelled, shock and anger and hatred crossing his face. He jumped up from the table, knocking over a mug of coffee in the process. The scalding liquid poured over her wrist. “How dare you!” he said, storming down the hall and flinging open the front door, which banged against the stop as he left the house for the second time that morning in his pyjamas.

  Emma turned on the kitchen tap to run cold water on her wrist, deciding she would give him a minute to calm down before going after him. Perhaps she could convince him to take a nap on the daybed in the spare room. If she put on some old music, he might sleep for two or three hours. Perhaps she should call the doctor and begin the arrangements. It takes time for these things, for checkups and waiting lists, for everyone to get used to the idea.

  He was shuffling along the sidewalk, going away from his mother’s old house instead of towards it. She watched and followed him, keeping a distance of several driveways. They passed lawns that were tired and burnt from the August drought, the same lawns their children had played on when everyone on the street knew each other.

  When he turned into the park, she stopped at the entrance, absently rubbing her scalded wrist as she watched him walk past a bench, then turn back and sit down facing the swings. It was early and the playground was quiet. Shadows in shapes of extended triangles reached out towards his slippers. She observed him for a few minutes longer before approaching.

  “Hello, Phillip,” she said, keeping her voice even.

  “There you are.” He was smiling now and looking up at her. “You know, I’ve always liked it here. This place never changes.”

  “Yes,” she said. It’s nice here.” She sat next to him on the bench, careful not to say or do anything that could disrupt his calm state.

  “I brought the twins here once,” he said, “when they were little. Peter wanted to be spun on the swings so I turned him around and around until the chains were tight, then let him go. He got dizzy and threw up. Afterwards he started to cry. I never told you that. Figured you’d say I was being irresponsible. I probably was. We sat here and I held him on my lap for a long time while Anne played. I think he liked that, being held.”

  Emma tucked her arm through Phillip’s and rested her head on his shoulder. He placed his hand on her thigh, stroking it in a reassuring manner. Morning traffic moved through the streets. Insects rose lazily from the grass. Two crows flew overhead. Somewhere a dog barked. “Would you like some breakfast?” she said. “I’ve made your favourite, blueberry pancakes.”

  Acknowledgements

  Earlier versions of many of these stories have appeared in the following publications, to which I am extremely grateful: “Double Exposure,” Riddle Fence, Fall 2013; “Billy,” The Antigonish Review, Fall 2012; “Christina, After Leotards and Doc Martens,” Qwerty, Spring 2011; “Thomas and the Woman,”Grain, Winter 2011, awarded First Place in Grain’s 22nd Annual Short Story Contest; “Chasing Rabbits,” Wascana Review, online 2010; “Beverly Innes,” The Antigonish Review, Winter 2010; “Stepsister,” All Rights Reserved, Fall 2009; “Prerequisites for Sleep,” carte blanche, online, Fall 2009; Canadian Content, seventh edition, 2011; “Knowing,” The Fiddlehead, Summer 2009; “Fragile Blue and Creamy White,” FreeFall, Summer 2009; “A Breath Before the Collision,” Other Voices, Fall 2008.

&n
bsp; I also wish to express my appreciation to all the editors/publishers, whether they published my work or not, who took the time to provide feedback to help make me a better writer.

  About the Author

  Jennifer L. Stone left Nova Scotia for Toronto in 1981. It wasn’t until she returned, seventeen years later, and saw her home province as an outsider, that she was inspired to begin writing. Her fiction has appeared in numerous literary journals including: The Fiddlehead, The Antigonish Review, Grain, Other Voices, FreeFall, carte blanche, All Rights Reserved, The Wascana Review, Qwerty and Riddle Fence. Her short story “Prerequisites for Sleep” was selected by Nelson Education Ltd. to appear in Canadian Content, 7th Edition. In 2010, she was awarded first prize in Grain’s 22nd Annual Short Story Contest. A graduate of Ryerson, York University and The Humber School of Writers, she has worked as a designer of advertising inflatables, a software instructor, and currently earns a living as a graphic designer.