Barry Squires, Full Tilt

by Heather Smith

  They spoke at once, all five of them together.

  “Shut up, Barry.”

  She was a month early but healthy as an ox.

  A week later she was home.

  I missed Gord.

  I missed everything about him.

  Saibal came. We stared at her while she slept.

  She had spit bubbles on her lips.

  He said, “It’s not her fault.”

  I said, “I know.”

  I woke up. I’m not sure why. I went down the hall. Shelagh was sitting next to the crib, her hand in the slats.

  “What if it happens again?” she said.

  I sat beside her. “It won’t.”

  She lay her head against the crib rails.

  “Go back to bed, Shelagh,” I said.

  “I can’t.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “You will?”

  I nodded.

  When she was gone, I put my hand through the rails.

  “Hi, Molly.”

  I placed my finger on her palm. She closed her hand around it.

  “Someday, when you’re bigger, I’ll take you out,” I said. “Saibal will come with us. You’ll like him and he’ll like you. That’s how it works. I’ll take you to Caines and up Signal Hill. Someday I’ll take you to the harbor and pretend to dump you in. Don’t worry, you’ll love it. Gord did.”

  I stayed with her till she cried to be nursed. Then I went to the basement. I pulled Gord’s monkey sleepers down from the rafters. I added them to the dirty laundry and dumped the basket into the washing machine. I’d never done laundry before but it was pretty straightforward. I threw in some detergent, turned the dial to normal load, and hit Start. I put on Pius’s hockey skates and worked on my Balance and Stability Training Academy 4 Real Dancers program, or BASTARD for short. When the laundry was done, I took off the skates and pulled the clean clothes into a basket.

  Upstairs, I slipped on my shoes and went out on the back porch. The clothesline screeched through the pulley. I reached into the basket and pinned the items to the line: Dad’s flannel shirt; my underwear with the hole in the arse; Mom’s forget-me-not nightgown; Pius’s hockey jersey; Nan’s frilly shirt; Shelagh’s wonder pants. I bent down and picked up Molly’s sleepers. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow. I don’t know how long she’d been watching. The sky darkened and the wind picked up. I looked to my mother and smiled.

  “It’s some day on clothes.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Saibal Chakraburtty for helping me bring little Saibal into the world. I hope you are proud of your literary child. You should be. He’s a whole lot like you.

  To the Newfoundland actors, writers, comedians, and musicians who I have admired over the years: thank you for inspiring me with your humor, humility, warmth, and wit. Your skillful storytelling astounds me.

  To the two celebrities who make cameo appearances in this book: you, sirs, are scholars and gentlemen. Thank you for (unwittingly) being a part of Barry’s story.

  To my editor, Lynne Missen: thank you for digging deep. Not only do you show me the holes in the story, you help smooth them over once they’re filled in. You are a master.

  To Peter Phillips, Sam Devotta, Vikki VanSickle, and all the fine people at Penguin Random House: thanks, me ol’ trouts. Your enthusiasm and support is much appreciated.

  To my agent, Amy Tompkins: it’s nice to have someone rooting for you. Thanks for always being in my corner.

  Finally, a shout-out to my family back in St. John’s, whose hilarious shenanigans inspired the fictional Squires of York Street. Thanks for being half cracked.

  In memory of Emily Louise Down.

  October 5, 1987–December 20, 1987