We All Love the Beautiful Girls

by Joanne Proulx

  “The property’s impressive,” David says, “but the house doesn’t look like much.”

  Evenly spaced white tree trunks, undergrowth groomed back, a half-acre of mature birch trees separates the house from the road, and on either side, the neighbours are well out of screaming distance. A meandering laneway carves the manicured stand of birch in two, but it’s hard to see much of what looks like a bluish-grey, single-storey rancher from the road. All that’s really visible is the triple-car garage at the end of the drive, a recessed front entry, and Peter’s BMW parked squarely out front.

  “The lot drops down at the back,” Mia says. “There’s a walkout basement, then another storey of windows overlooking the water. Terraced decks. A private dock.” On hot days when they were stuck in the city, Mia used to bring Finn over to swim. One summer, a blue heron took to landing on the end of the dock every day around four, which, in the middle of the city, felt like some sort of blessing. On Christmas Eve, if the ice were good, Peter would shovel off a rink, although watching the kids skating on the river always made Mia nervous. Even in the coldest winters there were accidents, people and sometimes their dogs falling through.

  “I did a search,” David says. “The property’s owned free and clear. No mortgage. No secured lines of credit. The cottage and chalet are in his wife’s name, but they’re also unencumbered.”

  “I figured.” Which she had, although hearing it confirmed, she feels a little air go out of her—they are so much better off than she and Michael.

  “Amanda’s getting the house,” David says, casually, no hint of bitterness in his voice. Amanda, his ex. Their home, as gorgeous as she is. “I’m sleeping on a mattress on the floor of an empty condo. But you know what? I wake up every morning and my first thought is, I’m free.” He throws his head back and laughs. “I’m fucking free.”

  Mia’s surprised and…what? A little envious? She’d imagined David would have a harder time losing half his assets, not to mention his picture-perfect wife.

  He stares out at the house—perhaps regretful or contemplative—but when he turns back it’s with a mischievous smile. “We should put a flaming turd in their mailbox.”

  “Do you have a flaming turd?”

  “No. Not on me.”

  A small white rabbit jumps from the birch trees and hops languidly across the road, stopping on the dirt shoulder to twitch its nose at them. Mia watches it disappear into the long grasses on her side of the car. At this end of the island, the houses band the shore, but there are none in the middle, just a long, meandering meadow. The real estate people think it’s the perfect spot for a luxury condo development, good luck to the bunny. So far the City does not agree. Years back, however, they did sell off a few acres closer to the overpass, so a private school could be built. Ferndale. Way back when, she and Michael went to an open house. The teachers were great, the class sizes small, but the parents all seemed like such snobs. And dressed in a navy jacket and school tie, crisply pressed shorts and white knee socks, the headmaster looked like an ass and talked mostly about making business connections. Which, when Mia thinks about it, would come in handy now.

  “How about we drive up? Give a little beep. See who’s home.”

  “David, no way.”

  “Might be fun,” he says.

  “Might not.”

  “I’m your lawyer. What could go wrong?”

  “Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

  “Maybe.” He grins over at her. “Maybe not.”

  Mia’s eyes widen as, over David’s shoulder, the door of the garage starts gliding up. Together they watch the slow reveal: the long, tan legs, the short shorts, the bare midriff, the tight flowered top, the broad shoulders, the wild, auburn hair.

  “Their daughter,” Mia whispers, slightly relieved. Frankie isn’t one to hike up a long driveway to fetch her parents’ mail.

  “Great legs,” David whispers back.

  Mia would smack him if she wasn’t holding herself motionless in the car.

  Frankie aims a hand at her father’s BMW. The trunk jumps. She throws in a backpack and then leans up against the car, pulls a phone from her front pocket and begins thumbing the screen.

  Mia hasn’t seen her in ages. Not since before Finn’s accident…the ski weekend at the chalet. She’s watched Frankie grow up and always believed that she loved her. But if she had, if she really had, wouldn’t she have found some way to keep in touch? Is the cast of her light really that small? She would never let Finn drift from her life for months, without so much as a phone call. She can’t remember really even missing her. Over the past four months she’s thought about Peter, viciously, and Helen, coldly and occasionally longingly, but she’s barely considered their daughter.

  Frankie slips her phone back into her pocket and, bracing herself against the trunk of the BMW, leans back and closes her eyes against the sun.

  “Completely oblivious,” David says. “Completely clueless.”

  “No.” Mia jams the car into gear. “Trusting,” she says. “And sweet. Like her mom.” Easing off the clutch, she guides the Jetta onto the road. She almost wishes Frankie would look over, startled by the rev of the engine, suspicious of its source, but in the end, she’s relieved they slip away unnoticed.

  —

  JESS RAISES A HAND and shields her eyes. She’s sitting on the hood of the Caddy, one foot up on the bumper. Where’s Eli? she says.

  He went to the end. He’ll be a while.

  My feet are sort of numb from the vibration of the board, so I feel light and loose, like I’ve been shaken open a bit and have more room inside.

  You want a drink? Finn? Stop staring and come here.

  More room for her to come in.

  I drop my board where I stand. Pull off my helmet and drop it onto the board. I use my teeth to work off the left glove. First the Velcro strap at the wrist, then the tip of each finger, the tough nylon fabric gritty where it touches my lips. It takes a while. It takes longer than it should. With my good hand free, I work the duct tape loose and yank off the folded-down glove. Give the cuff of my sleeve a tug, make sure everything’s covered before I walk past her and hop into the back seat. On the right side of the car.

  Finn? She turns around, a swing of high, black ponytail. I just smile. Through the back of my shirt, the press of sun-soaked leather.

  Jess holds up a bottle of Vitaminwater. Light pink. I was going to get beer, she says, but this has electrolytes. Better after boarding.

  Thanks. I stretch my good arm along the seat.

  She finally gets up. When she leans in to give me the drink, I can see right down her shirt, her bra with the red cherries, their curved black stems.

  I give her a smile and twist off the cap, drink half of the kiwi-strawberry in one long, thirst-quenching gulp. She’s got dragonfruit, a dark reddy purple. Why don’t you get in?

  Jess stares up at the Parkway, its last, long hill. Eli might be—

  It’s not a crime to sit in a car.

  She sighs and climbs over the side. I move my knees so it’s easy for her to get by. She slides to the far corner, puts her legs up on the front seat so her feet are in the air. Her flip-flops. Toenails painted blue, lighter than the sky.

  It’s nice seeing you in the day, I say.

  It’s nice seeing you.

  I stick the bottle between my knees so I can slide my hand across the seat, palm up, a thing I might do if this were, say, our first date. It takes a few seconds, but then just like I want, she reaches over and threads her fingers through mine. Holding hands—it’s one of the things we skipped over.

  How was your ride? she says.

  Good. Her hand’s small in mine, a perfect fit. Amazing day, I say.

  Gorgeous.

  I want to tell her so badly. Break her number-one rule. Maybe I can tell her I don’t want to share her anymore. That I never wanted to share her and forget gravity, love is the most powerful force on the planet. Keep it light, Finn. Don’t do any
thing stupid. I think about telling her about the owl, but I don’t know, it just feels too fresh or something, too personal. First date, I remind myself, first date.

  So, Vegas, I say, which is probably worse.

  Yeah. Vegas.

  You didn’t want to go?

  It was a guy thing, she says, lightly. Besides, Eric says he’s been spending too much money on me lately.

  Has he?

  Probably. He’s always kind of spoiled me.

  Really? Even to me, my voice sounds hard. I have, like, two hundred bucks in the bank and a mason jar full of change in my room. I’m pretty sure my family is about to be poor. I let go of her hand and take another swig of sweetened water. Afterwards I keep a grip on the bottle, watch for Eric’s brother to come cruising down the hill.

  You know, Finn, my life isn’t like yours.

  I know.

  No, you don’t. Jess sounds tense all of a sudden, pissed off, even. You have a father who goes looking for you when you don’t come home, she says. A mother who takes pictures for a living. Your family fits in. You are in. She takes her feet off the front seat, sits up straight so it feels like we’re actually going to have a fight. About what, I’m not totally sure. I’m the brown girl, she says. The girl who lives in the apartment. The one with no father and a mother who’s never around.

  You’re the beautiful girl, I tell her. The girl everyone wants.

  Oh my god, Finn.

  What? You are.

  I’m pretty. Hot. Whatever. I’ve made the most of that. The world cares about that.

  And you don’t?

  I don’t know. She flops back against the seat, starts playing with the little silver ashtray on the armrest. My mother wanted me to be resilient. She uses that word a lot. Tabah. Resilient. She wanted me to grow up in a safe neighbourhood. She wanted to live by the water. That’s what mattered. That’s why we ended up in Old Aberdeen.

  And that’s bad?

  No. It’s not bad.

  She shakes her head, all frustrated with me. But honestly? I don’t know why we’re talking about her mom. I watch her flip up the silver lid. Flip it down. Up and down, up and down, sharp metallic snaps.

  I remember the first time I saw you, I say. In the crabapple tree.

  Jess stops with the ashtray and stares down into her lap. I know she remembers, too.

  You were barefoot. Squatting down on that big branch, with your arm around the trunk. When you jumped into our yard, your hair sort of flew out behind you and I thought wow. I clear my throat, take another chug of my drink, a little shaky, a little embarrassed. I was only like, what, six when you moved in?

  Seven. Her voice quiet. You were seven.

  Every time you came over I thought wow.

  She finally looks at me, her eyes bright, squinting against the sun.

  What?

  Even with the top down on the Caddy and all that blue sky overhead, the air in the back seat feels close and charged. Dangerous, even.

  You make everything so hard. She tears a piece off her bottle’s label, stuffs it into the ashtray. Gets back to not looking at me. You know what my mom does?

  Works at Lee Valley?

  Night shift. Extra shifts. Making fancy gardening tools. And we don’t even have a garden. She’s been trying to get an office job forever but they keep telling her her English isn’t good enough. She’s lived in Canada for twenty-five years. She has an accent. Her English is as good as it’s going to get. Jess tears another neat paper rectangle off her bottle, stuffs it into the ashtray. Pretty soon, the whole label’s in there. All those weekends you were skiing or playing hockey? I was standing behind a cash register scanning groceries, she says, and I feel my cheeks go hot. Student loans? They aren’t even going to be a thing for you.

  She holds the bottle out over the side of the car. Tips it mouth down. Drips of sunlit crimson fall from its clear plastic edge. That day your dad took those boards out of the back fence? For someone else it might not have been a big deal, but for me it felt like this huge gift. Just to get to come over to your house.

  She drops the bottle onto the floor of the car. Nudges it around with her foot. Holidays? she says. New clothes? True love? Luxuries we can’t afford. If we have extra money, we send it home to my mom’s family. I want something else. With one flip-flop she stamps the bottle flat, that plastic, crinkly crunch.

  I stare out at the rectangle of empty asphalt, the perimeter of trees, the hills rising from the parking lot like rolling green playgrounds. Nubs of old mountains worn down by twenty thousand years of rough weather after the ice age failed to crush them flat. I stare out at those mountains and I feel like an infant. Like I understand nothing. Like that whole thing with the owl was probably meant for someone else.

  Hey. Jess smiles over at me, back to bright. Everything good, she says, right there on the other side of the fence. She taps the seat so I can’t miss her hand. You. She taps the seat again. Right there.

  And even though I feel like I’m on the most fucked-up first date ever, I finish off my sweetened water and drop the empty bottle onto the floor of her boyfriend’s car and put the hand I’ve got left in hers.

  You remember the night your parents took us to the Thunderbird Drive-In? We saw Jaws. Remember? You hid behind me when the shark attacked the girl.

  I did not.

  Yeah, she laughs, you did.

  And then she tells me this story about when we were kids, and she was looking after me and we were at the park, in the little forest, on the path that cuts from the tennis courts to the swings—You remember that path, Finn?—Yeah, of course—and there was this group of girls, older girls, like high school girls or something coming the other way, really loud and laughing, and she tells me that when they saw me they just stopped and stared, sort of stunned into silence until one of them said, Look at him. Isn’t he the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen? And she tells me how much it bugged her when the girl said that and the way they were looking at me, so she took my hand and dragged me past them and pushed me for longer than usual on the swing.

  Do you remember that, Finn?

  No, I say.

  And we’re looking at each other now with our heads resting on the back of the seat and our hands locked together and the leather warm against my cheek and my lungs too confused to even try for another breath, my heart too messed up to beat, and she says, They were right, Finn. You are. The most beautiful, beautiful boy.

  —

  MIA DROPS DAVID off downtown and drives straight back to the river. The weather is so glorious, her mood so unguarded, she doesn’t want anything to shift. And if she goes home, things will definitely shift. She ends up on the public dock across from the Kellys’, shoes off, enjoying the breeze, dangling her feet in the sun-spangled water—cool at first, but she gets used to it. Across the slow drift of the river, through a lazy sway of willow branches on the far bank, Mia can make out one hoop of the Golden Arches—part of a strip mall that marks the start of the city’s urban sprawl. Neighbourhoods of carport bungalows and split-level houses on 60s sized lots. A wide, practical main drag lined with autoshops, box stores, roadhouse-style restaurants Mia’s never visited. Farther south, the real suburbs begin—old farm fields turned into subdivisions, grids of big oatmeal houses on streets with improbable names—Rocky Ridge Crescent, Sundance Circle, Great Plains Lookout. Mia rarely has occasion to drive out there, but Finn’s rehab facility is over the bridge, a few blocks up from the water.

  Not five feet in front of her, a pair of black swans glides silkily past, swivelling their necks in unison, checking Mia out. Beaks and eyes a deep, waxy red, feathers dense as matted fur, the swans are housed in a specially built sanctuary during the winter and released back onto the river in spring. Mia has never seen one without the other. She has never seen them trailing any young.

  “I thought it was you down here.”

  She turns. Helen is standing behind her, in sandals and a simple white summer dress.

&nbs
p; “Mind if I join you?” she says, a slight waver in her voice.

  Even though Mia knew it would happen eventually, even though she braced herself for it every time she left the house, she just wasn’t expecting it now. Today. Like this. Caught on the dock, shoeless, in the sunshine, in a pair of diva sunglasses.

  Helen settles herself on the dock, lean and graceful. Frankie might get her big bones and her height from her father, but other than that, she’s all her mom. They have the same long, slim legs. The same amber eyes, auburn hair, freckled skin that always appears slightly tanned. And beyond the physical they share a gentle nature. They both yield easily, forgive easily, are expert at keeping the peace. Both are softer sorts than Mia, that’s for sure. Helen’s a kindergarten teacher. Mornings only. After Frankie was born, Peter wanted her to quit altogether, but she stood her ground; she was born to teach little kids.

  “How are things at the studio?”

  “Good,” Mia says, although she never did reschedule any of the jobs she cancelled last winter and tells anyone who calls that she isn’t sure when she’ll be reopening.

  Helen tries again. “I like your hair.” Mia presses her hand to her forehead. To save money she’s been trimming the bangs herself. “It’s so cute on you. Short like that.” Helen pulls off her sandals and dips her feet wincingly into the water; she’s always preferred a heated pool to the real thing. “Listen,” she says, “we should talk.”

  Mia considers her options, how gentle or snarky or careful to be. She decides not to make things easy. “I still have your casserole dish.” Why should she make things easy?

  Helen frowns. “Oh. Never mind about that.”

  “It’s an Emile Henry.”

  “Mia, I don’t care about a stupid casserole dish.” Helen is easily flustered and hates confrontation. It was bold of her to even venture onto the dock. “How about we just sit here?” she says. “How about we just don’t talk?”

  Mia circles her feet, creating two tiny eddies in the water. She’s fine with not talking. She hasn’t really talked to anyone since Finn’s accident. She glances over at Helen, looking forlorn in her white linen dress. Her hair’s been cut too, just past shoulder length by someone who knows what they’re doing.