by Méira Cook
I was crying for that poor child who had travelled so far from home in order to be shunted off to an unmarked grave in some neglected corner of a municipal cemetery. And I was crying for her mother who would never see her child again, and for your mother who would never see her child again either. I was crying for Imee and all the mothers who had lost their children in the thousand ways it is possible to lose a child. I was crying for Sams and Lazar, the children I’d begun misplacing when they were born so that I would grow accustomed to the pain of finally losing them. I was crying for Father Michael and his huge hands stacked on the table in front of me, and the battered briefcase at his feet, and the brolly outside the door, his foreign defence against the snow. I was crying for the formality of his black suit that had travelled for a day and a night and then half again another day, collecting neither crumb nor crease to mar its matte perfection.
And I was crying because in my rage I had destroyed your computer and trashed your files. I’d given away your clothes and your chair, your effects, and locked the door to your office. Then I buried you and refused to mourn you and salted the earth in the wake of your passing. How many ways back to you had I destroyed? Just one stray email and I would have discovered your little scheme, your great surprise, but I was Maggie to the end: a woman scorned, a scold. I had long ago chosen the hill on which I meant to die.
I cried until I had cried myself out, until I was all out of tears. And then, as if to prove my infinite capacity for self-delusion, I began to weep in earnest because the splinter of glass that had lodged in my heart all year was melting, the anger draining from me like pus from a wound so that my sadness could run clear again. I was crying for you, Max, my lost love, my darling.
All this time Father Michael sat perfectly still until at some perfectly judged moment in the midst of my grief he stood up and went to pour me a glass of water. When he opened the refrigerator the light spilled out, abrupt and yellow, into the dark kitchen. He exclaimed softly to himself. I turned and saw him standing in the square of frigid yellow light, his face gilded, his expression, finally, aghast. He wasn’t gazing into the open fridge but at the small magnetic photo frame affixed to its door. I saw that he had travelled all this way, a day and a night and then half again another day, to find Pat Ngunga and what he’d found was what he must have suspected all along: that she was long gone, snatched out of the world so swiftly that there was nothing left to mark her place. All that remained was a blurred face inside a magnetic photo frame on a refrigerator door in a dark kitchen.
In a house, in a city, in a country far from home.
He pocketed the photo in its frame and stood there, his hand on the refrigerator door, for what seemed hours.
And again.
Father Michael declined to partake of the famous Binder hospitality package although I offered him the spare bed in Lazar’s room or the whole damn room if he preferred. Lazar can sleep on the couch, I told him. For goodness sake, he’s only fifteen years old. He asked if Lazar was my youngest son and if he was conscientious at his studies and diligent at his chores. In short was he a fine young man?
I said — back to my old rubber-ball self — “Well, he’s certainly two of those things.”
But Father Michael, man of the Cloth God, only pressed his lips into the thin line between spare the rod and suffer the little children.
“Our children,” he began, then stopped. He opened his hand as if the answer might be written in the lines of his palm but seemed to lose his way and instead sat staring at his empty hand. When I asked him where he planned to go, he said that the Catholic priest at the Diocese of Saint Boniface had offered his guest room. Then he held up that battered black briefcase and damned if he didn’t shake it proudly.
“You certainly travel light,” I said.
“I travel with God,” he replied.
I was about to crack wise on the subject of the Lord’s fabled ability to provide toiletries and clean underwear, not to mention 120-volt electrical adaptors to facilitate his servant’s shaving requirements, but for once stifled myself so that we parted on good terms.
“God speed,” he said, tapping the manila envelope and making the sign of the cross between us. He called a cab and walked out into the snowy night — straight-backed, umbrella held high — leaving me sitting at the table amid the detritus of our untouched meal. The Cheez Whiz and sweet pickle sandwich I’d made him had begun to shrivel at the edges and the cola I’d poured had fizzed out in a thin but constant stream of rising bubbles until only a glass of warm, flat, syrupy liquid remained. Luckily the cold pizza in its grease-spackled box looked exactly the same, proving that some things remain constant even if they are the ugliest and least appetizing things of all.
I heard the washing machine in the basement rumble to a halt. A moment later, Lazar bounded up the stairs and banged into his room, slamming the door. I knew he was in there for the duration, doing who knows what and how and why and with the assistance of which pornographic web site. I wished him God speed. A little later I heard Sams stir and then he, too, was gone, banging the front door behind him.
Bang! Bang! Both my sons were bullets shot into the ether, the Neverland where even lost boys eventually grow up, stealthily and in their sleep. I had so much to tell our sons about their father who had never betrayed us and the girl called Pat who was meant to have been their adopted sister and my fortieth birthday gift. But for the moment I sat at the kitchen table thinking about, of all things, that damn soup a couple of months back and a hundred years ago. The truth was I still felt bad about the soup. How it had bubbled up and into my life, spilling over into all the people I’d failed and the infinite ways I’d failed them. How it had boiled away into a terrible sludge of betrayal and mess. Lost sons, lost ideals, misplaced butter beans — the whole crumbling bouillon cube of longing and regret. And Pat, the androgynous World Vision child, and Lazar the ravenous hunger artist, and Sams and Sams and Sams.
And you, especially you.
Goodnight, my darling. Don’t let the smoke get in your eyes.
Once more.
I opened Father Michael’s envelope and a sheaf of papers tied with dirty string fell out. They were all letters, dated over the course of the past year, and sent c/o World Vision Canada to Nakonde District, Muchinga Province, Zambia.
Area Development Programme
Nakonde, Muchinga Province
c/o World Vision Zambia
Dear Pat Ngunga,
How ya doin’ bro? I got your address from the back of the last progress report you sent us where it also said that “Communication from sponsorship families is welcome.” That’s what we are, I guess. Your friendly sponsorship family. Which makes you and me half-brothers, in a way. Intense. They don’t give an email address, though, so I hope this gets to you.
First off, cool brochure! Your village looks awesome, especially with the addition of the Muyumbana Rural Health Centre and, hey, props on your first polio, measles, and tetanus shots. Mr. Isikananganda sure looks like a guy who knows his way around the farm and Mr. Kanyanga’s new piggery — also a righteous sight. Who’s the preacher dude outside Saint Mary’s Catholic Church? Talk about American Gothic! Although in his case I guess you’d have to say Zambian Goth (joke).1
Sorry about the floods, and all the crops being washed away last year, and the rise in malaria casualties and so on. Bummer.
Okay. If there’s anything you want to know about us, feel free to ask (or write, ha ha). We’re just an ordinary family — mom, dad, couple of kids — nothing special, no disasters. Although the truth is I wish I had a sister. I have an older brother and he’s righteous, you can ask anybody. I mean he’s the sort of dude who helps you with pre-cal and buys you beer from the Drake Hotel drive-thru and would totally have your back if you were his younger brother. Which I am, so.
Anyway, I was reading that you have four siblings only it doesn’t
say what kind. But it stands to reason that one of them must be a girl. So what I was thinking, bro, is that you could get your sister to like write to us. Snapchat or texting would be great, or even email (see enclosed co-ordinates). But, you know, letters are also good. Just a short letter, say:
Dear Binder Family, I am well and hope that you are well too. I am a girl and enjoy playing with dolls and skipping rope. I eat soft foods like custard and porridge, and my favourite colour is pink. Some day I hope to grow breasts. With good wishes, sister of Pat, [fill in the name].
Much obliged, dude.
Solicitations from your half-brother,
Lazar Binder
1. On account of he’s fitted out in black, not his alternative taste in music, which obviously I don’t know anything about.
* * *
Area Development Programme
Nakonde, Muchinga Province
c/o World Vision Zambia
Dear Pat,
Haven’t heard from you yet, bro, so I thought I’d drop you a line to say Fulumira msanga. Intense, right? If you really want to know, I used Google Translate (TM), but with your “fair to excellent grade” in Eng Lang Studs I reckon we should just keep chatting in Eng. The thing is, I was wondering about that sister of yours — how she’s doing, does she still like puppies and custard, has she written to my mom yet?
I was going to say no hurry, but actually I’ve given up lying so what I’m saying is please tell your sister to hurry up and write to my mom. She needs one small good thing in her life, like the story says, and it doesn’t need to be cake, believe me.1 What I’m thinking now is that one small good girl might be enough because she’s always wanted one.
The not-lying thing is sort of an experiment. My dad loved a good story so he didn’t mind what he called the conveyance required to get there (lies), and my mom said it depended what colour and what size and why (white lies, small in scope, social necessity), and my gran said you need look no further than your namesake for a truly accomplished liar, my boy.2 Oh yeah, and Imee, who used to be my nanny (do you have those?) said keep spitting into the wind, boy, and you’ll end up with a wet face, and when I asked her what that meant she sighed and said: Spit downwind, child.
Only Sams (that’s my real bro, bro), Sams can’t lie, which has something to do with what’s wrong with him. Everyone else I know lies big time and so far no one’s pants have caught on fire and no one’s nose has grown an inch a second, so.
If your sister writes soon I’ll fill her in on the details of how my not-lying is going.
I remain, your affectionate half-bro,
Lazar Binder
1. Have you read any stories by R. Carver in Eng Lang Studs? I totally recommend the dude. He wrote this story called “A Small Good Thing,” which if you haven’t already read it is about this little kid who dies. No spoiler alert, it happens right in the beginning. After that there’s a lot of bad stuff, followed by even worse stuff, and then the ending which is the small good thing that the writer is trying to tell you about all along. Totally kickass.
2. Lazarus, she meant. Who rose from the dead or some crazy shit like that, excuse my Eng. That’s who I was named after but no one’s allowed to call me anything but Lazar and the kids at school think it’s got something to do with light rays and death stars. So, yeah, I can see how that Lazarus character was some weird truth-bender.
* * *
Area Development Programme
Nakonde, Muchinga Province
c/o World Vision Zambia
Hey, Pat my man,
I get it, dude. Your sister isn’t going to write to us. Hope it wasn’t anything I said. I thought I’d keep writing to you, though, if you don’t mind. I don’t have too many people to talk to and at least you listen. Well, I’m guessing you do. And also because I think I might have given the wrong impression about my mother.
The thing you have to know about her is that her heart beats faster than your average mom-type person and her brain fires quicker than a Google search engine and all the time there’s this voice in her head going, Now! Now! Now! Well, that’s what my dad used to say anyway. She slams books and phones and doors, can’t help herself, and she jiggles keys, and drums her fingernails, and taps her feet. God help us when she gets her hands on a pen with a clicker. Your mother is an emphatic woman, my dad would say with honest to goodness admiration, but when he was young Sams would put his hands over his ears whenever he saw her coming. Which absolutely slayed my mom because Sams is her Achilles heel.
Sams has these episodes which I won’t go into except to say that sometimes he doesn’t go to bed for days and other times he doesn’t get out of bed for days. No biggie, either way. Just doesn’t feel like it. There’s other stuff and it gets a bit complicated diagnosis-wise. Basically, no one can agree with what’s wrong with my brother although everyone agrees that something is.1 Luckily my mom doesn’t believe in labels, except in the way of washing instructions for clothing (which she ignores) and expiration dates on dairy products (likewise). But just try to slap an age restriction on a movie or the Surgeon General’s warning on a box of cigarettes and you’ll hear all about it. I mean they do anyway, I’m just saying.
See, if Sams came with a label it would read “Handle With Care” or “Delicate Cycle.” There was this time when he was in high school, he just lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling for like a week. His mouth was moving as if he was talking, but no sounds were coming out, and anyway there was no one there to hear the sounds he wasn’t making. Man, it was freaky. The first morning we found him like that my mom totally panicked.
Kid’s got a temperature of 107 degrees, I heard her tell Miss Frölinger, the school secretary.
I could hear the gasp of horror through the phone.
Meanwhile my mom was elaborating: Yeah, yeah. Sopping. I’ve had to wring out the boy’s pajamas three times already. God, and the sheets!
There was a garble of concern from the phone and my mom rolled her eyes and flung her wristwatch at me. Move it, she was saying, because I still had to go to school, no question. So I ducked into the kitchen and yanked the Pop-Tarts out of the freezer where we’ve had to keep them since Sams’s last major freak-out, on account of the colour (pink) and the smell (pink chemicals). From the sound of things, voices and static and my mom’s escalating lies — bird flu, dengue fever, Lyme disease — Frölinger was working herself into a state of epic terror and my mom was muttering less is more, less is more under her breath which is what my dad always told her was the way to go, little white lies–wise.2
I mean my mom tries, she really does, and what she tries about, she once told me, is not making the same mistake twice. Which means making different mistakes all the time, Lazar, she laughed. But if you really want to know, she sucks at avoiding the same old mistakes although she’s actually quite good at finding new ones to make too.
Yet the thing that persuades you to forgive her is how bad she always feels afterward. There she was banging the phone on her forehead and pretending to shoot herself in the head.
No big deal, Mom, I said, but I was already late and all the time I was picturing that stupid yellow school bus grinding up the street until it stopped outside our house, the doors whomping open and like waves of anger pouring out.
Céline! I could hear the driver yell. Oh Cé—li—ine! Get in here, you great big beautiful doll.3
You need a good breakfast in you if you’re going to skedaddle, my mom said, beginning to hum. The hum always put the fear of God in me although it was meant to be a happy sound. The sound of my mom trying to decide what meal to make, what recipe to follow, what havoc to wreak upon whatever innocent family member had wandered into her kitchen.4 So to stop the craziness, I stuffed a couple of Pop-Tarts in the toaster and said I’d better get going if that was the plan, what with all the Lyme disease that was going around.
All
this time she kept darting into Sams’s room and taking his temperature and his pulse and telling me not to worry, Laz. Don’t worry, kiddo, she kept saying. I’ve got this. But she was talking so fast that her words swerved into one long skid.
Quit it, Mom, I said eventually.
So then she sat down at the kitchen table and watched me while I tried to stuff down a couple of Pop-Tarts, which wasn’t as easy as you’d think. It’s not that I don’t like love my mom or whatever. I mean I remember all the usual stuff — swings and birthday cake and, you know, soccer games — but you have to remember she has a lot on her plate with Sams. I guess when you get right down to it, that’s where we have the most in common, my mom and me. Looking out for Sams.5+6
Your pen pal,
L. B.
1. His latest dude is the best, though. His name is Dr. Raj and he really likes my brother. He says Sams is who he is, not what’s wrong with him. I know, total Popeye, right?
2. On the other hand, my dad’s favourite saying is the more, the more, which means the more there is, the more there’ll be. The more there is for one, the more there’ll be for all. Crazy, huh? You’d think that only good things have happened to my dad, that he lived a life of abundance and happiness. Which maybe he did. I mean it’s not the kind of thing you discuss with your old man, is it? “How’s the abundance going, Dad?” “Pretty good, pretty good. Ample to profuse, kiddo.”
3. Why does he call me Céline (for Céline “my voice will go on” Dion) you might ask? ’Cause we’re both rich and skinny, famous multi-millionaire singers? Yeah, or girls, more likely.
4. It’s like when you wake up in the middle of January and it’s bright and shiny and glittery outdoors. Disco ball weather. I mean anyone who doesn’t live on the Prairies would be like, wow, what a great day! Yeah, right. Sunny means thirty below and don’t try to lick a pole, dude. Don’t eat the yellow snow or suck on those frozen brown pellets either. And that’s the kind of hum it was.