When the buzzer went, I jumped—imagine—then counted to five before getting the door. I tried acting surprised, my eyes snapping from his face to the rose.
“You shouldn’t‘ve,” I said, marching to the kitchen for water. He waited in the living room, standing there in his brown coat and boots until I came back, setting the vase on the coffee table and switching on a lamp. He took off his coat and sat down on the couch, which was still damp from Sonny’s pyjamas. His dark hair had a reddish tinge in the light, like a black cat in the sun.
“Get your errands done?” I asked, at a loss. How lean he looked, settled back against the plaid upholstery. His face was longer than I’d remembered, more weathered, the hollows of his cheeks lined. He seemed older, too, and despite his out-doorsy look, his skin seemed fairer—that complexion that turns pink before it tans. In the lamplight, overkill on this partially sunny morning, he had freckles.
It was as if I hadn’t really seen him that day on the island, or the fog had blurred his features. It was like this man in my living room was someone I’d known in another place, on some previous posting, and was meeting for the first time in ages. It’s strange what moving does: puts the world in a shaker and spills it out, randomly you think, until—
“How’s Alex?” he said, looking at me.
“What? Oh…he’ll be here at lunch. You can see for yourself.”
“Shit. I’m early, aren’t I. Look, if I’m holding you up from—”
“No! I mean, no…”
He followed me into the kitchen, watched me make coffee.
“I’ve been wanting to see you,” he said quietly. Oh, God, was I hearing right? “Ever since you came over, you two. I didn’t want to butt in or…How’s Charlie doing?” he asked, smooth as water over sand. “That’s your husband’s name? I figured he’d be back by now.”
A fuzzy warmth buzzed in my ears, and I realized in a blur that I’d been hoping for this ever since my dream, the one with Sonny and the dolphin. The last man I’d talked to was the mechanic at the Ultramar, a guy with hands so dirty you barely wanted him touching your car.
Hugh slung his coat over a chair and sat, his elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him. His eyes were that steady blue.
“If this isn’t a good time,” he began, though it looked as if he meant to stay for a while. It was a bit early to start lunch. I poured us each a coffee and sat down. He kept eyeing me as if reading a poster with odd graphics. I rose to get the milk.
“I shouldn’t say it,” he said slowly, “but I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”
I splashed milk into our coffees, too flustered to ask what he took. My neck felt hot, and somewhere in my head a voice like Sandi’s said, You had a visitor, I hear. Joyce LeBlanc saw someone driving in. I thought of the truck parked at the curb. Cluelessly, I rose and opened the window. It might’ve been half sunny, but the draft felt frigid.
“Take me someplace warm,” I joked.
He held up his hands, like a minister officiating at a christening—or a funeral.
“Would if I could.” His gaze shifted, focusing on my mouth. Forgetting when I’d last brushed, I put my hand over it. But found myself watching his fingers, and imagined them flitting over his sax.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, looped through my mind. A ridiculous mantra. Except that he had beautiful hands, big but not clumsy.
Perhaps he didn’t even play, perhaps I’d dreamed all of that, too.
“Good thing Alex has you,” he said. “A stay-home ma.” For a second he looked almost embarrassed. “So Wayne didn’t lose you guys overboard.” He coughed.
“He said he’d take me over any time.” I waited, holding my mug.
“That’s what I figured he’d say.” He looked pleased; he was smiling, a bit uncertainly, though, as if I were a logo that needed decoding.
“God!” I said, jumping up. Wishing I’d got groceries. Sonny was like a central vac; Lord knows how I’d feed him when he got to be a teenager.
“I’m really sorry,” I said, taking out hot dogs and the remnants of a bag of buns.
“I should’ve brought a picnic,” he said. Not a criticism.
Sonny wouldn’t be home for another half hour, but I put the wieners on to boil and mixed some berry-flavoured punch. I could feel Hugh watching me and taking in the varnished cupboards, the chipped woodwork and the crocheted dishrag hanging from its plastic hook.
“Do you worry about him, Willa?”
“Sonny?” I put down my wooden spoon. “He’s doing okay, I think. Three schools in five years isn’t ideal, but—”
“Charlie, I mean. D’you worry about him?”
I thought of the car, the dryer with the clothes spinning around and around, wet. And I thought of Charlie’s silences and hammering in the basement. I looked at Hugh, my face like cement, and shrugged. Glugging punch into tumblers, I plunked them on the table, laughing.
“Ah! 1987! II est un an très bon. Vintage Sonny. If he makes it to ten with all his teeth, I’ll—”
“Willa,” he took a sip, “well, it hits the spot.” He slid his hand across the sticky wood grain and rubbed his fingers over mine.
“Willa? If I had someone like you, I wouldn’t leave for all the money—all the mines and shells and choppers—on the planet.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said, feeling sick.
“Wait,” he said nervously. “Let’s try that again.”
But there was a bang and Sonny blew inside, pitching his knapsack down the basement stairs.
“Why’d they make you bring that home at lunch?” I started in. “Not like you won’t be back after—’’ Then I saw Sonny’s friend, a scrawny little guy half his size. Derek.
“Me and Derek’ll both have two,” he said, eyeing the hot dogs. “You can bring ’em in to us. Oh, and drinks, too.”
On went the TV in the living room.
“Sonny?” I yelled. “You and Derek can eat in here, with Hugh and me. We’ve got company, in case you didn’t notice.”
I heard Derek say, “Is that your dad? My dad’s on a sub. When he gets back he’s gonna take me to sea with him.” Hugh raised a brow. I stabbed and slid the wieners into some flaccid buns and handed them out on paper towels. We hunched around the table to eat. Sonny glowering at me.
“Oh, all right,” I finally said. “You and Derek can watch TV. Try not to leave crumbs. And don’t forget your pack when you go back to school.”
Hugh got himself a drink of water. “I could run them up.”
“Sonny needs the exercise,” I said quickly. “He’s hardly been on his bike since…”
“What?”
“Since, um, Charlie left. The tires probably need air.”
Hugh nodded as the boys reappeared and began rooting through the cupboards.
“Nothing to eat,” Sonny moaned. “You never buy anything decent.”
“You should live with me,” Hugh teased. “Tuna—breakfast, lunch, and supper.”
“Disgusting” said Sonny.
“It’s not that bad,” Hugh said, grinning at me. His eyes had dark flecks around the pupils.
“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” I switched on the fan above the stove. It roared like a jet.
“There’s that kid in grade five tradin’ hockey cards. Let’s go,” said Derek, nudging Sonny. They kept eyeing Hugh as if Hugh had been airdropped. “Are you in the squadron?” Derek asked.
“Sorry?”
Minutes later the kids were out the door. “I hope you’re wearing your jacket!” I shouted, too late. You could hear them tramping down the back steps, their voices travelling up to the window.
“A force to be reckoned with,” Hugh said, shaking his head.
The house seemed so instantly quiet it was as if a plug had been pulled on the sound, all of it
drained but the fridge’s hum and a tap dripping. Hugh was studying me as if he knew me, had known me since I was a teen and could peel back my years with Charlie.
“Hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” he said, and his eyes held me, making my knees rubbery. He came to the sink where I’d started washing dishes, and took over. We stood elbow to elbow as I dried.
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Since Charlie left.”
Whatever had been soft and melting inside me stiffened. It was painful, those syllables rolling off his tongue, Charlie’s name. I didn’t answer, just kept drying the pot. Our hands bumped as he wiped the drainer; then he took the pot and set it down. He put his hand on my shoulder, the way my brother Jason might’ve if we’d kept in touch. But then he did something definitely unbrotherly. He drew me closer and kissed my forehead, and as I looked up he moved his mouth to mine and we kissed. For how long I’m not sure. There was just the fridge’s hum behind me and a thudding in my ears.
When we stepped apart, he laid his palm on my other shoulder and drew me back, his arm like a crook. And he hugged me close, in such a way that the smell of him, the buzz of him, swelled and surrounded me.
“I can’t believe this,” he murmured.
“You can’t.”
“Willa?”
I waited.
“Let’s get out of here—take a drive or something.” Now he was the one who seemed like a teenager. How old was he?
My heart sagged. The dryer guy was supposed to be coming. But it was driving down Avenger Place in that candy-apple red truck that worried me. Passing Joyce or Sandi—worse, their husbands. I imagined their stares, though maybe that was a bit paranoid. Still I felt the familiar jab of frustration, a feeling always winding up or ticking down. What was the point of anything if you were caged in? That was Charlie’s motto. The thing that kept all the engines going; the thought that someone’s freedom was threatened. Like thunder rumbling through an empty sky, crossing everybody’s radar screen.
I thought dizzily of the dryer repairman.
“We could put some air in those tires,” Hugh coaxed.
“Why not,” I said finally. “A drive would be good.”
He waited in the living room while I brushed my hair and put on a bit of make-up. My eyes had a jumpy, giddy look in the mirror, the look of a teeny bopper sneaking out to drink lemon gin and neck with someone in the woods.
He carried the bike up from the basement.
God. GOD, I thought, as we stepped out into the sun which was trying hard to warm things up. Following him to the truck, I imagined Sandi approaching with her brood—hers and half the neighbours’, mothers off bowling or bingo-ing. I didn’t know you had a brother here, you could just hear her saying, a slyness in her voice. No point hiding things. We’re all in this together. It’s our duty to keep each other apprised…Sandi was my scapegoat as he lifted the bike into the back, and I climbed into the passenger side.
The woman across the street was outside with her little ones, huddled against the wind. She glanced over and waved as we pulled from the curb, yelling something to her baby. “Yucky!” it sounded like. “Don’t eat dirt!”
Hugh waved back, then pulled a U-turn and headed to Sea Fury. I focused on a tanker gliding past in the harbour, its midship obscured by a yellow house with one of those collapsible clotheslines out front. It looked like a dead umbrella or some instrument of torture from the Khrushchev era. Dandelions bloomed on lawns, and there were buds on the puny lilac a few doors down. Mostly what sprouted were toys, bright bits of plastic strewn over the yards. As we drove up the street, the wind blew swirls of dust and you wondered how it could be so dry after months of sleet and dampness. You had to marvel at it—the gritty breeze off the harbour—even as spring burped along, making faint progress.
But none of this mattered as Hugh and I pulled onto the highway and drove away from the base, away from the oil refinery and the alleyway of grocery stores and fast food places leading to the city. Behind us, the oil tanks looked like English mints stuck into the hillside. We stopped at the Ultramar and he filled up the bicycle’s tires, then we kept going.
We passed the autoport, a ship as tall as a high-rise docked alongside compounds packed with new cars, every model and make you could dream of caged behind electric fences. Eventually paved lots gave way to yards and houses, places with swing sets and baby barns and satellite dishes. We passed the wharf and trailer where Wayne had his business, slowing when we came to a beach with a weathered sign and a boardwalk over low patches of dune.
“Too cold for a walk, you think?” Hugh said, and I shrugged.
The harbour branched here, wedged apart by two islands, Thrumcap and another, smaller one closer to shore—the pair of them spooned together like lovers, or a mother and child. A narrow channel with quite a rip separated the baby island from the mainland, but it was near enough that I could make out the trees. It looked uninhabited, a hillside pasture showing yellow through the ruins of an orchard. The hardwoods were in tight bud, groves like grey fur against black spruce.
“Mine’s the next one over,” Hugh said, pointing, and I nodded.
“Any place else, wouldn’t they build a bridge?” It seemed crazy, to be so close yet cut off.
“Six of one, half dozen of another. Gives Wayne something to do; otherwise he’d spend all his time drinkin’.”
We walked the beach towards the point. Seagulls stood in the steely shallows. I couldn’t tell if the tide was coming in or going out. The birds looked planted like those birthday flamingoes on people’s lawns (Lordy, Lordy, Gordy’s forty!) except they were grey—grey against grey.
The wind twisted my hair into my mouth and I picked it out. Hugh moved closer, a windbreak. Tilting away from the breeze, I rested my head against his shoulder for a second, long enough to take in his coat’s canvas smell, almost like dubbin, and the smell of his hair and skin—that man smell, not of sweat or dirt but fitness, unsullied by aftershave.
The feel of his hand at my waist startled me as we turned towards the boardwalk. “Its a lot warmer in the truck,” he said, but we kept walking, rounding the point and pausing to gaze at the horizon. There was a third island etched there, grey and flat, with what looked to be a lighthouse and a barn on it, and not a single tree.
“Devils,” he said. “Now you wouldn’t want to be stuck there alone.”
“God.” I rolled my eyes. “You locals and your demons. A ghost on every corner.”
“A friggin’ ghost,” he joked. “I wouldn’t know.” Then he took my arm.
I squinted at the spit of land jutting out towards that island, a point almost level with the sea. When I turned, he drew me closer and I blinked as he kissed me. I blinked like a baby. I opened my mouth and felt his tongue.
“Does spring ever come to this place?” I said, stunned, as we moved apart. I did a three-sixty to see if anyone had been watching. There wasn’t a soul in sight. But the wind had eyes, or seemed to. Ears also.
He looped his arm around my shoulder and we walked, my hip bumping his thigh. My neck pulled. I wasn’t used to looking up.
We hurried back to the truck, but then Hugh spotted an ice cream place across the road. “I scream, you scream,” he said, and though our teeth were chattering, we went over. He got mocha fudge. I got black cherry cheesecake. We ran back to the truck and sat licking our cones with the heater running.
“Who needs spring?” he said. “At least this way the stuff doesn’t melt.” He bit the end off his ice cream and sucked the dregs, like Sonny would have.
“Is that the time?” I gasped, noticing the clock. School would be out any minute.
“Wayne’ll have my balls, thinking I stole his truck.” He crumpled up his serviette, hunching forward, and twigged us into reverse. “Isn’t it shitty, how treats run out,” he sa
id, and his voice was full of something, not quite disappointment. “So how come we don’t eat the good stuff all the time?”
7
LONGITUDE
Charlie sent postcards. One for Sonny, with the Leaning Tower of Pisa on it, and another for me, showing an olive grove. “Love ya,” said Sonny’s. Mine talked about cheese and was signed “Charlie” in a rushed sort of scrawl. Sonny stuck his to the fridge with a magnet. I slid the other one into a cookbook.
The next time Hugh called, he seemed in a hurry. I could hear music in the background. Loud. It sounded live and not too professional, and there was laughter and shouting. A party. It was a Friday night, after all. Sonny’d gone for a sleepover at Derek’s.
I was alone watching Jeopardy. Does it get any lonelier?
“Run away with me. Just tonight,” Hugh said out of the blue, matter-of-fact as if asking me to a movie, something as safe as Star Wars, or Rocky.
“What?”
“We can be there in half an hour.”
“We?”
“Wayne’s driving.”
I pictured Sonny in the Johnston’s rec room wolfing chips, glued to Derek’s television. Charlie bolted into my thoughts. An image of him on leave, someplace hot and sunny. In a taverna, drinking and laughing with his comrades. His captain.
“I’ll be waiting,” I said.
It was still quite light when they pulled up. Please God, don’t let the neighbours see. In the distance, through a gap between the refinery and a drill rig, the buildings of the city flashed gold in the setting sun.
It was like boarding a bus with no doors.
We didn’t talk much. I sat in the middle, holding my breath as Wayne rode the bumper of the Chevette ahead. It had a sticker that said: Danger, Toxic Love, with nuclear waste symbols on it. Hugh turned the radio on, singing along under his breath. Wayne hardly opened his mouth; he seemed like a guy who didn’t much care for women, not to talk to anyway. A couple of times he elbowed me and didn’t notice or apologize. I could hardly complain, though.
Berth Page 6