Cracked Pots

by Heather Tucker

  He kicks at the stones. Not a single one frees itself up for throwing. “Your take on people spooks me. I’ve never had an affinity for cats.” He scans the lake, shiny as a dime. “Yet I’m like them in that I’m always clinging to a shore.”

  “Well, you’re lucky then.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Most go a lifetime without ever cluing in that their anchor isn’t chained to them; it’s just something they’re holding onto.”

  “And some don’t get time enough to figure anything out.” He exhales. Frosty breath swirls. “Life is so frighteningly fragile.”

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “At the police station, O’Toole flashed a photograph.”

  “Of Natasha?”

  “An almost skeleton, bent to fit in that small space. Her clothes seemed on. I want that to mean that she wasn’t . . . you know . . .”

  “Raped? It’s horrible enough without.”

  “My sisters, my dad raped them. My dad. My friggin’ dad.”

  Aaron’s glove warms my cheek, gentle like, and I wonder at hands that crush a sweet girl’s neck. Shiver at hands that steal my beautiful sisters’ innocence. He says, “Seems a worse betrayal when it’s the person who’s supposed to care for you.”

  “My dad seemed the nicest person on Earth. He was funny, fun. Smart.” Silver clouds release huge crystalline flakes. With my looking up, they gather on my lashes. “Whoever coaxed Nat onto that roof must’ve been a shimmery soul.”

  Sixteen

  I shelter at Sabina’s from the mourning world. I have quiet tasks, gift-wrapping purchases for the customers and refolding rummaged stock. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.

  Don’t remind me. The mood on the eastbound train will be all ho-ho-ho with porters handing out candy canes to homebound passengers. Christmas morning, Pleasant Cove will open like a holiday card. Boxing Day, there’ll be kitchen parties and Jake’s fiddling would be a little saucy because he woke up beside me. We could’ve gone, Jasper, if Nat’s mom hadn’t asked me to say something at the funeral.

  I look up to Ellis shadowing the doorway. “How’re you doing?”

  “Inert. Unreactive.” I curl gold ribbon into festive tendrils.

  His head bobs, heavy with grief. “That must be very unsettling.”

  “Yeah. When my dad died, Aunties M&N sat me at the wheel, set me turning clay to pots. With Len, an ocean of salt tears kept me afloat. When Grandma and Jory’s baby passed, the sister-house sheltered me. When Uncle Iggy was murdered, all the words he gave me reanimated into poetry.”

  “Uncle Iggy?”

  “Len’s uncle. He put quotes on my lunch bag every day.” I affix a shimmery bow to the gift box. “I’m just so tired and I want to go home.”

  “You should.”

  “But the funeral’s on Saturday.”

  “About that, I know Mrs. Koshkin asked if you could speak on behalf of her classmates. Ah, her dad would prefer, Wendy. They’ve been friends since kindergarten.”

  I’ve likely delivered more funereal words than any other kid on the planet: for Grandma, Len, Iggy, my tiny nephew Jet; even Ermiline Guthrie, a former fosterer, asked me to eulogize Papa Guthrie when he passed. “It should be Wendy.” I dig Natasha’s eulogy from my pocket. “Give this to her. And can you tell Mikey I’ve gone to see my mum?”

  “I’ll give you a lift.”

  “No. I need some shell time.”

  I scurry out the front door, fly to my nest, fumbling with the lock, hand trembling at the injustice of a rotten Appleton living and Natasha gone.

  The phone rings. Rings again. I let it, not wanting to hear anyone say, “It’s not you.” But some people do deserve to live more than others. That’s a fact.

  Seahorses revive in water. I shower, sliding to a sit, and let the steam soak in. I never even wanted to do it.

  Hey, Ari. We’re free to go home now.

  What about Mikey?

  The Dick said to keep him with us. We could catch the overnight to Montreal.

  Yeah, we could.

  When the phone rings again, I untangle my long limbs and answer dripping wet. “Hello?”

  “Oh, good. I caught you. It’s Mina. You still going to see your mum?”

  “Why?”

  “Mikey’s cough is getting worse and his temp’s sky high. Sabina can’t leave the store. I’ll swing by with him so he can get checked at emerg.”

  I hang up, pull on Len’s shirt, and step onto the rusty landing. Oh, friggin’ damn them all to oblivion! Wind whips under the flannel shirt and my hair freezes stiff. The frost-biting pain underfoot is . . . exquisite. It’s not Jasper I hear, but Len. Corka, go back inside and get dressed.

  * * *

  Christmas Eve, Mikey’s fevered body smooshes against me on the pull-out at Sabina’s. All I want for Christmas is Jake’s naked heat beside me and snow falling outside my cedar-scented room.

  “Ari?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Linda said God picks the most beautiful flowers for his garden.”

  “Heard that one when Len died.”

  Mikey’s chest is tight, both from his cough and fear. “Couldn’t He just grow his own?”

  “That’s a necessary wonder.”

  “How long ’til morning?”

  “Soon.”

  “If I could give Alex a present, it’d be to sleep until summer and wake up in Pleasant Cove.”

  “You’re very thoughtful.”

  “He shouldn’t hear ‘Happy Christmas.’ No one should.”

  “Let’s take some baking to Todd and help him with the dogs.”

  He flicks on the light. Gray shadows cloud his porcelain face. “If I could give you any present, it’d be to wake up beside Jake.”

  Seventeen

  After-echoes of the Jarvis choir disappear like sparks from a stirred fire. I’m in the last pew with Mikey between Aaron and me. The primal moans from Nat’s mom and silent racking of her dad are gut-churning. I’ve stood at the end of joy many times. Of all the leavings, this feels the worst.

  When Mikey sags forward, Aaron’s hand opens on his boney back, moving further to bolster me with a gentle squeeze on my shoulder and there it remains, and my belly stirs, then other parts spark. What kind of a girl thinks about sex at a funeral?

  More than you’d think.

  After the amen, I push through the throng to the Dick, arriving at the same moment as the retiring chief of police. He shakes the Dick’s hand like he means it. “Irwin, just want to thank you for your service. Hear you’ve been working ’round the clock.”

  “Just doing my duty, sir.”

  “You’ve earned yourself a holiday.”

  “No, sir. Not ’til we catch this bastard.”

  “Good man.”

  The Dick puffs like a swellfish as Chief Mackey retreats. “I’m gonna make detective over this,” he says to me.

  “What’s the new chief like?”

  “Adamson’s tough. He’s not going to namby-pamby about in the Village. Watch who you’re talking to there. Don’t want your associations coming back to bite me.”

  “Roger that.” That he doesn’t see the maze of bootlegged goods O’Toole has stacked floor to ceiling in crapdom as waiting to kick him in the arse is bewildering.

  “Mikey at Laura’s?”

  “No, he’s here. Um, she, ah, being in a damp apartment didn’t seem wise with his cough.”

  “Right. Good. I’ll be workin’ ’round the clock. Keep him with you.”

  I’m adrift in the sea of mourners. Aaron touches my arm. “Going downstairs?”

  “No. Mr. Koshkin doesn’t need to see me breathing. Can you ask Linda to watch Mikey, then give me a lift to check on Laura? Haven’t been able to get hold of her all week.”<
br />
  “Sure. I’ll let Linda know.”

  “Pilfer some food for her?”

  “Will do. Meet you at the jeep.”

  The universe is kicking up a bitter fuss. In slippery shoes, I sprint to Jennah’s car, dive in, suit up for the arctic blast, and grab the precious hand-me-downs from her for Mikey.

  When we connect at the jeep, Mikey is adhered to Aaron’s side. “Please? I don’t want to stay.”

  “Get in.”

  The streets are busy with people on the trail of a post-Christmas bargain. Aaron says, “Do you feel completely undone?”

  “We all need some knitting time with the Missus. It’s amazing what she stitches together from life’s unravellings.” I turn to Mikey squashed in the jump seat. “There’s warm gear in the bag. Suit up and wait here.”

  It’s a long hard knock on Laura’s door before she opens it a crack. “Hey, Laura. Mikey’s worried about you.”

  She blinks me into focus. “I’ve got the bronchitis.”

  “You up for a hug?”

  “Don’t want Mikey catching anything.” She clutches her housecoat to her throat. “Say, Ari, can you spare a tenner?”

  “Sorry. Banks are closed.” I give her the cake box heaped with sandwiches and squares, returning to the jeep with the Christmas tidings Mikey usually receives. “She’s sick and doesn’t want you to catch it.”

  He escapes into his second-hand toque.

  Aaron asks, “Where to? Back to the church?”

  “Sabin—ah . . . Union Station?”

  “Is there a train?”

  The schedule is etched in me. “Two seventeen.” I count the cash in my wallet.

  “You have enough?”

  “I’m never without escape funds.”

  “Wise.” He half smiles. “Even with travel, you’ll have a few days there to regroup.”

  Jasper spins when I say, “Head east, Aaron West.”

  The dolphin in him leaps that someone can just go without writing a list. At the drop-off he loans me the Hudson’s Bay blanket from over the seat and a bag of trail mix.

  “You’re such a boy scout. Come on, Mikey. We’ve a train to catch.”

  Slowly his dropped chin lifts. “Me? Me, too? I can come?”

  “Just following the Dick’s orders.” His unbelieving hand slips into mine and we run away home.

  It’s the worst of rides. Snow delays, long and many. Flickering lights. Shivery drafts. It’s the best of rides. We sleep, snug under the blanket, reality whited out like the world outside the window. William Walrus joins the run at Montreal. “Wondered what train I’d be finding you on. Late start’s better than none.”

  Mikey says, “We had a funeral.”

  “Aye. A terrible thing.”

  “You know? Was it in the Montreal papers?” I ask.

  “There isn’t a run where I don’t gather news from here to there.” William opens his palm. “I’ll be taking one of those pennies for this sorrow.” I find the pouch, lighten it of a coin, feeling like I’ve mastered the first challenge in a treasure quest.

  December 28th, just as the sun slips off the world, we make our way up the aunties’ path with too much sadness between separations. Mary holds on. “Oh, m’girl. Come here. Take off your boots.”

  “Not before I go surprise Jake.”

  Mary eases up the hug, bolsters with a hand on each arm. “When you said you couldn’t come, Jake went with Salt Wind to Charlottetown.”

  What? No, no. Fuck.

  Yep, no fuck.

  My scarf unwinds like a blood-soaked bandage of a girl with a lacerated heart.

  Nia says, “Mikey, I can’t wait another second for you to open your stocking.”

  “For me?”

  His astonishment that someone would fill a stocking for him does me in. I collapse between M&N and watch Mikey, gobsmacked by a compass, fishing lures, a harmonica . . . Nia lifts my hand to the firelight. “This suits your hand.” On my finger is her grandmother’s ring, a black diamond, sided by blue diamonds. A gift to me after Len died.

  “Wore it to the funeral to remind me that treasures are found in dark places.”

  “And that a crushing is needed for those treasures to form.”

  “Shush, Auntie.” There’s a fire, three dogs, moonlit snow falling outside, a clay-etched hand calming my stressed hair, and I don’t believe I have the strength to ever go back to Toronto.

  Eighteen

  First day back at school has a quiet to it, like sounds heard underwater. Teachers don’t bother with questions, there are no answers, just facts: binomials are the sum or difference of two terms. We are minus Natasha. During mitosis, some organelles are divided between two daughter cells. At any moment the earth can crack and swallow a daughter whole. Magma is a complex high-temperature fluid. It’s winter, twelve below with a wind chill.

  The secretary comes on the PA. “This announcement is for Miss Burn’s fourth period art. Please come dressed to go outside for class.”

  We carry out cartons of squirt bottles filled with paint. Mina motions to the banked side of the snow-covered field. “There’s your canvas. Have at it.”

  Sean says, “What’s the point? It’ll just get trampled on.”

  “Everything’s temporal, Sean. But for a moment it’ll be beautiful.”

  I dig the energy and angry playfulness. I like the flight of colour across the sky and its collision with the snow. Turning, smiling, a shot of magenta hits my eye, lime green coats my tongue, a hail of squirts follow. When my vision clears, I’m alone. Jennah’s beautiful cast-off, the warmest shearling any sheep ever sacrificed its life for, looks like a Jackson Pollock.

  Ohhh, I love it.

  Shut up.

  Throughout the remains of the morning, I piece together that my freak status has been lowered to pariah. My semester of solitary study has been judged as me just not giving a damn about Nat. Chitter is I saddled Wendy with Nat’s eulogy, ditching the funeral so I could go fuck the fiddler. Cassie Young and the gaggle of girls following like imprinted geese, spit, “Slut.” “Selfish bitch.” “How can someone like her be so stuck up?”

  I muzzle Jasper from screaming. If you had a molecule of insight into the human condition, you’d see she’s haplessly stuck down.

  Pain gathers behind my left eye. A jagged occlusion distorts Dr. Cornish, the school board’s shrink, as she stops me on my way to hiding in the art cupboard. “Rap session at one thirty. I want to see you there, Hariet.” Her face curdles at my splatteredness. “This childish display is . . . is . . . well, I really don’t know what it is, but it won’t help. Coming together will.”

  The shake of my head stirs the pain and I close my acrylic-coated lids. When I open my eyes, she is gone and the student dick, Byron Silver, is close, so close I smell peanuts on his breath.

  “Looks like you could use a friend.”

  His cheeks flush as Jasper locks on his eyes, searching for his animal. Fox? Possum? Chameleon? “Right. I do. But it isn’t you.”

  A scrub with plain soap, two Midol tablets from Mina, finagling some math help in lieu of the dreaded rap-session, eighty-three percent on my history exam, and last period with Ellis reassemble me, a little.

  Bone-chilling fog covers the field as I head to Mikey’s school. I’m down the hill before I clue in that Wendy is blathering beside me. “I’m not mad at you, Ari. The others just don’t get why you weren’t at any of the stuff for Nat.”

  Well, were they waitin’ in emerg? Working two jobs? At parent-teacher night for a Dick’s kid? Or cooking spaghetti for the hood, the bad, and the ugly?

  “Doesn’t seem possible, does it? That she’s gone. Byron says it all needs time and talking.”

  “Why’s he still here? Thought he went to McGill.”

  “Finished. He got accepted into
med school. Can you believe it? Doesn’t start ’til fall so he decided to volunteer after his placement ended.” She links her arm through mine like I’m a geriatric in need of assistance. “He lost a brother last year, so he gets how awful this is.”

  “Oh, that’s—”

  “Isn’t he dreamy? I know he’s twenty-two, but isn’t your Jake like really old?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “So, you get it. Guys here are so juvenile.” She snaps an icicle off a stop sign and licks it. “So, um, ah, so, with volleyball starting next week, um . . . How about I start walking the boys home? I mean Mikey, too. As spirit head, I can’t have you missing practice. The team needs you.”

  “No, I—”

  The boys launch through the school door as fast as kids in sub-zero gear can move. At the crossroads Wendy says, “I’ll see Alex and Joey the rest of the way.”

  “But—”

  “It’s cool with their folks.”

  I look at Alex. He nods and says, “But we can still go swimming with Mikey.”

  I turn from Wendy’s insistence, absorbing that Mr. Koshkin doesn’t want “that Appleton girl” around his boys. Don’t be sad.

  How is it, when for once an Appleton isn’t the root of all this evil, the shit still lands on me?

  Nia says shit makes good fertilizer. Must be why your hair’s so thick.

  Shut, shut up. “Come on, Mikey.”

  His snow pants shweep-shweep-shweep as he catches up. He stabilizes himself with a grip on my pocket. “Do you think there’s a world like Narnia after we die?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Wish there could be.”

  “Nia says creating something while we’re breathing is the only certain thing we have.”

  “Why did someone stop Natasha from breathing?”

  “Why did Jadis make it forever winter?”

  “She was mean and bad. Will it always be winter now for Alex?”

  “It will. But, you know, after Len died I discovered things like . . . hot chocolate is more spectacular on a blustery day than in sunny summer.”