My breath caught.
“—I know you think she’s out to snag me or something, but it’s not true. She’s lonely, her fiancé works—”
“Her fiancé?” I repeated, looking up at him.
He put his hands on either side of my face. “Her fiancé still lives in Ecuador. He’s working there while she finishes school. Which you would know if you ever sat and had a conversation with her.”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“She’s embarrassed about her English. That’s why she’s so friendly with me. Because she can speak in Spanish.”
“She wears tiny tank tops.”
“I don’t know if you’ve met many Ecuadorians, Mal, but they are not afraid to show off skin in tiny tank tops.” He rested his chin on my head and I curled into the hug. “There really is nothing to worry about. It’s you that I love. Not Camila. Honestly, sometimes I find her a bit annoying. But she’s lonely and missing her home and her fiancé and I feel bad for her. That’s all.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He looked down at me again and I looked up and I knew he wasn’t lying. I knew when he fibbed with me—his eyes twitched and he had trouble keeping a straight face—and this wasn’t it. It was just Dylan being open with me and clearing away the cobwebs. That’s all it was; misunderstandings and suspicions fostered without sunshine or fresh air. He smiled, and I smiled back, and he gave me another squeeze. “Now, seriously, eat the goddamn sandwich and brush your teeth and come to bed.” He paused. “Maybe you can take the day off tomorrow and tell me everything that happened because it sounds like a lot.”
“You have no idea,” I assured him, as he let me go and pushed the sandwich towards me. It was warm, and a little soggy, but it was the best goddamn sandwich I’ve ever eaten in my life.
Dylan went around the apartment, carefully blowing out candles, the scent dissipating until all that was left was the breeze blowing through the windows. There was a glow outside, the first inkling wash of dawn. It really was the next morning; Friday. Chewing thoughtfully, I debated just staying up. I mean, in three hours I’d need to leave for the office.
Normally first thing in the AM we’d do a post-presentation meeting to discuss questions we couldn’t answer the day before, or where materials needed to be improved. But there was no guarantee the power would be back on or subway service would be resumed. And my manager John was off at his cottage anyway.
A pigeon landed on the patio, near the windowsill. It stared at me with its tilted head and unblinking eyes. I crept forward, and left it balled up bits of damp crust on the white-painted ledge. It pecked at them hesitantly, then with more vigour, while cooing at me, fluffing its wing feathers with a dry rustling sound before flying away.
I decided to take the day off.
I think I deserve it.
20.
Dylan
The sunshine is bright in the windows when you wake up, creeping towards the bed across the parquet floor. You rub your eyes and yawn and stretch, and then roll over; the other side of the bed is empty, and from the feel of the sheets, has been for a while.
You get up. Mallory’s clothes from yesterday are still in a pile in the bathroom; you step over and around them to pee and brush your teeth.
As you turn the corner to the living room, you’re greeted with that greatest of smells: fresh coffee. Mallory’s at the stove, just pouring the heated kettle into the french press. “Morning,” she says, cheerfully. She’s still in her Sunday morning sundress, her hair in bedhead peaks and demented curls, oddly adorable. She holds up the kettle. “I officially agree that having a gas stove is a good thing in case of a power out.”
You have your coffee on the patio, also part of the Sunday morning routine. But it isn’t Sunday, it’s Friday, and it’s eleven a.m., and you call your boss from the kitchen landline but there’s no answer and no voicemail.
Mallory leans back against the patio table, her poor feet up on the wooden railing, soaking in the sunshine and fresh air. She looks like she’s had to walk over glass. But she smiles when she sees you leaning against the doorjamb, and stretches out arms for you to join her.
“I’m really, really sorry I missed our dinner last night,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee as you sit down beside her. “And all the festivities. And made you worry.”
She didn’t make you worry, she made you frustrated, but that’s not worth debating. Instead you put an arm around her and give her a kiss. It’s enough that she’s apologizing. “I’m sorry you had such a miserable time yesterday. I can make lamb another time.”
She sighs. “It’s okay, I know you don’t like it.”
But you smile. “It’s good with the right sauce.”
She looks at you quizzically. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She hmms thoughtfully, taking another sip, and wincing. There’s no milk, it’s too bitter for her, but she still drinks it. She sighs. “And I’m sorry that I accused you of fooling around with Camila.”
You weren’t expecting that admission; she’d never said it out loud last night, only implied it. You’re not sure what to say. Because the truth was, while you sat in that candle-lit living room with your neighbour, you had entertained the notion, if only briefly. But now in the bright sunlight, out on your own little patio with the person you love most, you know it was only tiredness and frustration playing with your emotions.
Mallory’s waiting for you to say something, but you still don’t know what. So you take a bigger sip of coffee, looking at her over the edge of the mug. Something about that makes her smile and she looks away.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing, really. Or maybe everything.” She reaches into her sundress pockets and pulls out what looks like a taxi chit printed in the blue-gray lines of a carbon copy. She hands it to you and you flatten out the wrinkles so you can make out the logo and the tiny print that says:
FLEET FOOT TAXIS
D. G. Fahrenheit, CEO
“Mallory, just use your words.”
You look up at her, surprised.
She’s grinning behind her own cup of coffee, enjoying the astonishment on your face. “Sometimes,” she says, still smirking, “the universe sends you a message that you can’t possibly misinterpret.”
You still don’t know what to say. Eventually what finds its way out of your mouth is a strangled: “What happened yesterday?”
“Oh, it’s a long story,” she replies, breezily, wiggling her bandaged toes. You recognize her tone. She’s settling into her storytelling mode, and when she looks at you it’s with real affection and love. “But for all that happened, I really do think it has a happy ending.”
End.
Acknowledgements
On August 14, 2003, I was hanging out with my friend Jane. She was teaching me to make pork & leek dumplings when the power went out. We didn't think much of it, and carried on. Once it was apparent power wasn't coming back on any time soon, we cooked the dumplings in pots on her family's backyard barbeque, and traded with some neighbours over the fence. Later that evening, trying to find relief from the sweltering heat, we went for a stroll and wandered into Mel Lastman Square, finding dozens of families picnicking, relaxing, their kids playing in the fountain. I didn't know then that the scene would become a story seed nearly fifteen years later. So thank you, Jane, for both the dumpling recipe and the memories. (Jane is also the one who spied the full moon through the trees and thought the streetlights had come back on. That really happened—as did me not realizing cell phones did not work like landlines did during a power outage. I still have my little Nokia.)
Along the journey from Scarborough to Etobicoke writing to publishing Blackout Odyssey, I've had a lot of help: from my community of Rejectarinos, who urged me to keep submitting after the rejections rolled in, to my early beta-readers Claire & Deborah, who dug in deep to the many Toronto references or accompanied me on walks to make sure I remembered the locales I mention
ed. There's Erin & Laura, who beta-read and also supplied details, memories, commentary, and allowed me to vent endlessly when publishing got the better of me, and the faces Marc & Liane, who listened to the venting and joined me in shaking fists in publishing's general direction, sending gifs of consolation and/or victory, the sign of True Frands. Alan beta-read, listened patiently, AND helped me make the cover better, so he gets his own line. Thanks to all of you.
Grace & Lydia: beta-readers since we were all teenagers, listening to me typing away on my 386 and model-M. Thank you for keeping me going all these decades.
And finally, one big thank you to my cutie, Lilithe Bowman, without whom this novel would not have been possible. Either in time and space to write or slogging through the slush ranks or patience during my endless bouncing between WRITING HIGHS and submitting lows. Lil, you're the best.
Victoria Feistner is a writer, a graphic designer, and an artisan in equal parts, although some of those parts are more equal than others. Writing speculative fiction for over twenty years, and finishing her first novel at age 18, she has been published in Salt&Syntax, Speculative North, and GigaNotoSaurus, among other magazines and anthologies. Victoria spent the ’03 blackout cooking pork dumplings on a propane barbeque and wandering North York in search of a cool breeze. She still lives in Toronto with her partner and two jerks cats; more of her work can be found at victoriafeistner.com.
Blackout Odyssey Page 16