Cracked Pots

by Heather Tucker

  “Just let go. For one night.”

  We both teeter between holding on and letting go. As the kids launch into another race, my inhale mingles with Aaron’s exhale. He claims a little more of my hand. “Tell me we have next year. Even if it’s just this.”

  “Yin and yang, you and me.” My panties are purring, and my cheeks are as hot as my neon-pink bra. A whisper of space separates our mouths, tongue wets, lips connec—

  Erika and Mikey collide with our legs, jumping up with a splash. “Who won?”

  Aaron exhales. “It was a tie.”

  I would’ve kissed him, Jasper.

  Me too. These waves have knocked us right off our tail.

  Get me home to Jake.

  * * *

  Mikey is asleep before his feet are inside his tent. I pretend my closet is a dinghy and imagine I’m afloat, at rest against Jake’s chest. Todd chitters, “Those guys were from the zoological society. They couldn’t believe that I’d bottle-fed lion cubs.” Only outsider freaks can understand what it’s like to be talked to like a person of more worth than trouble. “They’re going to come to the safari for a tour next week.” He talks and talks, sighs, then says, “Night, Ari.”

  “Night.”

  In darkness, it’s difficult to sort sleeping breaths from sighs. “Ari?”

  “Mmm?”

  “What animal do you see in me?”

  “A sea lion.”

  “’Cause of my blubber?”

  “Inner animals size up with goodness. Sea lions live without complaint on rocky shores and in smashing waves. They’ve a thick skin and a soft heart.”

  “Are they smart?”

  “Jake says they can predict earthquakes.”

  “Ari?”

  “Mmm?”

  “It was the best night I ever had.”

  In the morning I feel a little seasick when I climb out of bed. Todd is belly down, splayed on his too-small bed, looking more like a flying squirrel than a sea lion. Mikey’s nine-year-long legs look thin as cords sticking out of his tent. I wiggle them. “Let’s make an early break for it.”

  He stirs, mumbling, “Is it Friday?”

  “Almost.”

  Some guy, undershirt cinched over his pecker, exits the bathroom as I step over debris in the hall. He grunts, “Hiya,” and goes back into Devil Girl’s cave. The door to the master dumpster is open. Under gray sheets is a mound of Dick. Mum sits on the side of the bed, looking at the clutter on the dresser or perhaps the stranger in the mirror. She looks out at me. “There you arm.”

  And here she is not. “Go back to sleep, Mum.”

  O’Toole is snore-drooling on the sofa. Tork is in the kitchen, jeans slung like a plumber with a heavy load. He pours milk straight into the Dick’s box of Frosted Flakes. Mikey’s jittery voice behind me says, “Let’s just go.”

  The toilet flushes upstairs and no way are we getting caught in the middle of this cereal drama. We are almost out the door when the Dick grumbles from mid-stairs, “Where the fuck are you two off to?”

  Mikey tucks behind me while I scrabble for a reason to be leaving the house at seven a.m. “Um, it’s field day. Mikey wants to get in some practice laps.” He chins us away and we’re halfway down the block before I clue in that Mikey is in shorts three sizes too small, a green-striped T-shirt stained with condiments, runners held sole to canvas by duct tape, and slept-on swimmer’s hair.

  “I hate field day. Can I just go to Sabina’s?”

  “She has a doctor’s appointment for her back today.”

  “Maybe my mom’s?”

  “She got that job at Dominion.” He kicks at the gravel and Jasper kicks me, or tails me, hard. “How’d you like a day off from everything?”

  His head snaps up. “Miss field day? Could I? Please.”

  “Possibly, but first you have to swear on your dragonfly that you’ll never tell anyone where I take you, even if you’re being murdered.”

  “I promise.”

  “I mean it, Mikey. No one can know. Not the police, your teachers, Todd, not even Aaron.”

  “Or Aunt Sabina?”

  “She knows because Jacquie told her for safety, but she’s trained in war resistance tactics. But it has to be a secret.”

  “I swear, on Kira’s wings.”

  “Come on.”

  “What about school?”

  “Marks are in. I’ll get Jennah to call for us.”

  I stick to back streets, hoping Mikey will lose any sense of direction. “Where’re we going?”

  “A lioneagle’s nest.”

  “Wow.”

  Wow. Wonder. Wander. There are filaments of a poem mixed with early light as Mikey circles the nest whispering, “Wow,” and “Holy wow.”

  I dial Jennah. “Oh, you just caught me heading out the door.”

  “Mikey and I are playing hooky. Can you call our schools?”

  “A pesky summer cold?” I hear her Rolodex whirl as she flips for the numbers. “I’m just finishing up the shopping for our trip. Anything you need?”

  “You coming downtown?”

  “I am.”

  “Mikey needs shorts and tops, sneakers, too.”

  “What size?”

  Mikey’s head is tilted up, taking in the totems suspended in the window. “Um, about the height of your Dean, but skinnier?”

  “Measure him up.”

  “Hang on.” Mikey’s hand extends to an origami bird as I size him with a string and ruler.

  He blows on the crane. “I, I dreamed here.”

  I arrange a meet-up with Jennah and find make-do clothes for Mikey. “Go have a shower and I’ll make us some eggs.”

  We graze, draw, read, paper-fold . . . Our eight hours in the nest feels like a holiday week. “Do you know how to fold a dragonfly?”

  “No, but I bet you could figure the physics of it out.” I check the time. “Go get dressed.”

  Jennah did what Jennah does. I rendezvoused with her in front of the Riverboat at one sharp. She passed five bags from the window of her shiny car, waving off my attempt to give her money. “Can’t stay, sis. Have a million things to do. Have a good, good summer.”

  The bags held three pairs of shorts, Beach Boy swim trunks, five T-shirts, underwear, flip-flops, and black canvas runners with white rubber toes.

  Mikey comes out in black shorts and a green top. “Does Jennah know about my dragonfly?”

  “She knows more than she lets on.”

  We wash the dishes, straighten the cushions, gather handmade end-of-school gifts, and close things up for the summer.

  * * *

  When he settles into his tent for the night he says, “You made a room-poem and I got to fly in it for a whole day. That’s bigger than a book-poem.”

  I tuck into my nook. Mum can be heard through the wall, singing, “This little light of men, ’til we go again, let it dee, let it dee, dee, dee me.”

  She still has a sweet voice.

  And a pickled brain.

  I snug back and look up. Suspended from the empty closet rod is a necklace, a honking gold heart. Written on the underside of the shelf, in black marker, are the words, “What a nice place to cum.”

  I rip the sheets off my mattress and ball my blankets on the floor. “That bloody O’Toole.”

  Todd gets up, takes in O’Toole’s scrawl, and slides the bolt across the door. “Is a wanking fool.”

  Mikey says, “But we’re cool.”

  Ah, another room-poem.

  I hate you.

  Thirty

  Last year at early dismissal, I waited here with Natasha. This year, only Mikey comes running out waving his report card.

  “We’re going home!”

  I lift the red ribbon on his shirt. “What’s this?”

  �
��Won it for sportsmanship.”

  “That’s the best award to get.” He runs to keep up with my joy-long steps taking us to crapdom. “Go in and pack while I go see what Halpern wants.”

  He runs ahead. “Hurry fast, okay.” He zips back and hands me the ribbon with a wink.

  “Good thinking, bro.”

  Things are festive at police headquarters. Halpern spots me and brings me a Coke. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Why’d you want to see me?”

  “At our last debrief, Cornish worried that you’re a complete clam with her.”

  What kind of a pathetic analyst takes me for a mollusc?

  Shut up. “I’ve a tribe that gets me to open up. And a two seventeen train that’ll take me right to them.”

  “Okay, then. Just take this one word with you: intent.”

  “Intent?”

  Halpern points to stacked cartons. “Intent. Big difference from making a mistake. Heck, I wouldn’t even call what happened a mistake, more an accident you witnessed. Kid, bad shit goes down every day. Some of it’s planned, but most of the time it’s bad luck and unintentional fuck-ups.”

  “Is all this about Byron?”

  “Nah. We’re looking at every unsolved case. Given what we got so far, Montreal could’ve had him on several counts of statutory rape. He liked them young and worshipping.”

  “So, what was his intent?”

  “Most telling was stuff he wrote after hitching the sneakers to the wreath. He thought Nat had a charmed life. Talk about resentment. ‘She gets everything while I got shit,’ yada, yada, yada. Bastard. He had more chances and more going for him than a lot I’ve seen. Heard you’ve been through the system. How’d that happen?”

  “My dad worked away a lot. My mum would get herself into messes. My aunts usually took us, but when there’re six, a kid can run out of relatives.”

  “How was it for you?”

  “I managed. Most were benign, some deplorable, a few nice. It was never for long. We always got collected up and pieced back together. My sisters and aunts were always there for me. Still are.”

  “Good. That’s good. You hear stories.” He half sits on the table. “You know, back in fifty-three I worked a case. A teenager, Marion McDowell, disappeared. God, we worked it, night and day for a year, two. We even had a dick from Scotland Yard come, a psychic, tips by the thousands.”

  “You ever find her?”

  “Not a hair. The mother went off her head. Dad moved out. The not knowing just destroyed them. Coulda been the same limbo for the Koshkins. This Smith kid was smart enough to erase his tracks and move cross-country. With one kill, there was nothing stopping him from offing the next girl to say no.” He walks me toward the clutter of cops who are lifting a glass to the Dick. “You do okay at school?”

  “I got through.”

  “You survived. Don’t forget that. And next year has to be better than this.”

  “That’s an assumption I never make.”

  “You need anything at all, just let me know.”

  The Dick has a new suit, charcoal gray, hoisted too high on his waist but he looks as nice as a greasy wart hog can possibly look in a suit. “Congratulations, Detective Irwin.”

  “With a commendation.” He pulls at fake suspenders and smiles like a big plum-proud porker. “Doughnuts for the boys was a nice touch.”

  “Todd and Mikey chipped in.”

  “Appreciated.”

  “Um, Ronnie, too.”

  “Lying to a detective? Watch your step.” He squares up the name plate on his desk. “Your mum see the doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Advanced cirrhosis, alcohol-related dementia, heart arrhythmia, chronic bronchitis . . . “She just needs vitamins and rest.”

  “Mikey see Laura?”

  “Yeah. She’s working at Dominion.”

  “I give that ten minutes. Better he’s at that marine camp this summer than with that loser.” I would’ve given the Dick maybe two minutes at being decent but Mikey and I have navigated this entire school year without a punch or kick. “You off then?”

  “Afternoon train.”

  “Been a hell of a year, eh.”

  “Hell. Yeah. Mikey asked me to give you this.” I hand him the ribbon.

  “First? In what?”

  “Um, hurdles.”

  He takes a ten from a wallet overfat with cash. “Give this to him for his holiday.”

  Money has passed from my hand to the Dick’s more than a hundred times. With this giving, I’ve no sense if the planet has been righted on its axis or if the universe is haplessly off course.

  As I head for the door, I notice O’Toole in an alcove, having a head-to-head with Dr. Cornish.

  I exit, scanning the parking lot for Dr. Cornish’s red Valiant. Last time I saw it was this morning at Jarvis. The top was down and she was loading banker boxes into the backseat. Every student has a file. Nat’s was fat with commendations and perfect attendance; mine, with twisted troubles. I think of the evidence stacked in the piss-coloured room, then stride, with intent, over to her car, flip the lid, finger past Abrams, Adams, Anderson, and nab the Appleton file. Shame we have to burn it. It’s such a good story.

  No way we can risk O’Toole sweet-talking her into handing it over.

  I turn and see Aaron standing by his jeep, hands in the pockets of his neat khakis. “Hey, cowboy. You here to help me make a quick getaway?”

  “You need one?”

  “Yeah, I just stole incriminating evidence.”

  “Get in.”

  I hop in. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

  “On my way. Just had to see you first.”

  “Why?”

  “I know you said you’ll be back in September, but after this year, well, no one is guaranteed anything. Every goodbye should be the last words you want that person to hear.” He nabs a spot at the corner of crapstreet and I’m afraid he’ll say words that can’t be unsaid. We’re eye to eye, the back of his fingers brush my cheek. “Ari, this world is a better place because you’re in it.” Not another syllable is spoken. The door opens without a squeak and we both move toward the first summer of a new decade.

  That intent was spectacular.

  Yeah. I walk to the craphouse trying to piece together “intent.” The road to hell is paved with good intentions. What does that say about heaven and bad intentions?

  Let’s just go and have a whole summer for “all in tents and porpoises.” We’ll sleep in tents and see dolphins. Get it? Oh, come on, it’s a little funny.

  Mikey is packed and perched on the front steps. “Todd had to go. He said he’ll come check on the garbage on his days off.”

  “Let me grab my pack and we’re outta here.”

  Mum is standing in the upstairs hall. “Ready to go?” Her lucidity startles me.

  “Yep.”

  “Do I need a sweater?”

  “For what?”

  “Shopping.”

  “We’re not going shopping.”

  “I want a dress for my birthday.”

  “Your birthday’s in October. It’s June.”

  “Junie’s coming?”

  “Sure. Bye.”

  “You promised. I’m telling.”

  “Go, right ahead.” I retrieve my backpack, force in the stolen file, scutter down the stairs, and make for the door. The sound of Mum going ass over tits down the stairs hits like bullets. Her head smacking the banister at the bottom is eerily close to the thunk of BS colliding with the bumper. In the ten-second pause at the door, “intent” opens like a time-lapsed flower. The story of a ruinous lipstick smear on Aunt Dolores’s wedding dress. A suspected appendicitis attack that had Grandpa taking Mum to hospital and missing Mary’s graduation. The phone call
that misdirected Aunt Elsie to the wrong address for her final conservatory exam. A legion of stories of Mum intent on squashing joy. I open the door and step out without looking back. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Mikey run-walks to keep up.

  Intent.

  Shut up.

  On purpose.

  I said, shut it.

  A deliberate act.

  “Shut up. Shut up. Shut the frig up!”

  Mikey stares, gap-mouthed. “Pardon?”

  “When will she stop ruining my life?”

  “Ari? You okay?”

  “No, I’m not bloody okay. She toppled down the stairs.”

  Mikey sighs and turns us around.

  I smolder the three blocks back to the craphouse. She is conscious and sitting against a carton when I go in. “Oh. Jen, I went here, here. I can’t find my tree, my up . . . the feet thing.”

  “Oh, for pity sake. Mike, go see if Ronnie’s upstairs. We’ll pay her to call an ambulance and wait with Mum.”

  Mikey bolts up and hurries down. “She’s not.”

  “Your legs broken? Can you stand?”

  The bump on her head is the size of a lemon. “This forth, right? Bird, like this.” She lifts her left arm and it’s bent at a wrong angle.

  “Should I call Pops?”

  “No. He’ll make us her nurse-slaves. If she can walk, we’ll load her in a cab.”

  “I fell on stars. Down chairs.”

  “Oh, shut the frig up!” I secure her right arm and hoist her up. She emits a noise like a bagpipe inflating, but her feet seem to hold her. “Go call a cab.”

  Mikey zips off and returns. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  “Put a kitchen chair on the front lawn and we’ll wait there.”

  “Shoes on? My shows?”

  “Yeah, My Un-Favourite Martian.”

  “I happy it, like, like them.” Her legs and hips are in working order and she’s compliant.

  Mikey asks, “What’re we going to do?”

  I check my watch. “We’re going to miss the two seventeen, that’s what. There’s a five ten to Montreal. We’re getting that.”