Go ahead, he says.
Like it’s a big deal to wash a spoon.
I don’t say anything. Just shove my hand into the soapy water and work the crap off with my thumb. My dad watches me, leaning back against the counter, trying hard to look relaxed. I keep a tight grip on the handle and my face completely neutral and just, you know, wash the spoon.
You miss playing hockey? he says.
I guess. It’s summer, but yeah. I rub the spoon on the leg of my jeans. When I try to step around him, he blocks my way.
Why don’t you do the rest of the dishes? That used to be your job.
I survey what’s left. A pot, a bunch of rice stuck on the bottom. Doable, if I jam it up against the side. But the wine glass…that’s risky.
My cereal will get soggy, I tell him.
It shouldn’t take very long, he says.
Then you do it. I go to push past him but he places a hand flat on my chest. Light. Barely there. Like a force field barely there, a threat no one’s talking about.
It’s your job, he says, picking up the wine glass and holding it out. Just like I did with the spoon. Long, skinny stem. Shivery thin glass, the kind that sings when you flick it.
I’ll do it after I eat.
Why don’t you do it now?
We’re eye to eye, my father and I, and I’m hanging in there, I’m not flinching. I downshift my energy, use calmness to brace myself against him. His anger, tamped down but ready to flare since that lady handed him the bill at Glenmore. Ready to flare since the day he was born. And his stubbornness. I see it in his eyes. There’s no way he’s backing down. He’s got a dirty wine glass, and he’s going to teach me a lesson. Thinks this is going to get me to slap on a hook.
He drops the glass into the water. A soft bump when it hits the bottom, a bump that sounds like an opening bell, I guess to him anyway, because all of a sudden he grabs my wrist and shoves my good hand into the water.
I tip my head away from him, but he’s really close, his breath right in my face. He throws in a cloth. It brushes my fingers, like rough seaweed, before it settles onto the glass.
You can wash it, right? Or do you need another hand? It would probably be easier with two. And he grabs hold of my other arm and plunges it into the sink. Harder than he needs to because I’m not resisting. My stump slams into the bottom. The wine glass sideslips away, rolled by the violent current.
He’s got me pinned. My plaid sleeves drawing water. His shoulder hard against mine.
You want me to get mad? I say. You want me to get mad like you?
I’m not mad. I just want you to do your job.
I stare into the sink, at my forearms bisected by a cloud cover of soap, and I think about how it felt when Jess and I were holding on to each other in her bathroom. How it felt when I was freezing to death in Eli’s backyard. How everything melted into this big, borderless love-fest, and how right now it’s like that, but flipped upside down. Everything getting smaller, not bigger. Not melting together but splitting apart. My father’s hands might be clamped on my wrists, but we are completely separate, coiled tight around our own centres.
He starts fumbling in the water, chasing the soap-slick glass, trying to catch it between my stump and my fist. I let him drag my arms through the water, like two dead things. When he traps the cloth I pull back. An inch. A half an inch. One little jerk, a burst of resistance, of fighting back, of fuck you, of protecting myself from him.
I don’t know how Mom even loves you, I say, and just like that, he lets go of my arms.
—
THE PLATES HAVE been cleared and the country club waitstaff slip between the ballroom tables, white thermoses in hand, whispers of tea or coffee. This is the part of the job that Mia dreads most. The dinner. The speeches. The wait for the bride and groom’s first dance. She’s seated with a mishmash of twenty-something singles who have been polite yet distant, more interested in checking each other out and defaulting to their phones when nothing comes of their lazy flirting than chatting with the middle-aged wedding photographer. Which actually suits Mia just fine. Her mind drifted through most of the dinner, and she’d slipped out for a quick walk when the best man got up to talk.
Now a stocky woman readily identifiable as the groom’s mother clunks her way to the lectern. Not once did she smile in the family photos Mia took outside the church. And no mention was made of her husband; Mia presumes the groom’s father is either dead or as good as. Despite the purple chiffon dress and floss of teased-up hair, the woman’s bowed legs and thick body make it easier to picture her trundling toward a thatched cottage with a faggot of sticks lashed to her back than stepping up to the microphone at the Aberdeen Golf and Country Club. Mia fiddles with the sugar packet on the edge of her saucer. The last speaker. Please, God, let her be the last.
“Good ev-en-ing,” the woman says. Her accent is thick, although Mia can’t quite place it. Hungarian? Serbian? Czech? She can’t recall the groom’s last name either, although she’d seen it that morning, scrolled atop the invitation. “Thank you for coming to Toma and Cathy’s wedding,” the woman says, holding tight to the lectern. “And thank you, Cindy and William, for all your hard work.” She nods solemnly at the bride’s parents, then turning, finds her son at the head table: a barrel-chested young man with a dark line of facial hair delineating his jawline from the swell of his neck. Mia knows the thought is cruel, but unlike Cathy, who is a good forty pounds slimmer than she was the last time Mia saw her, he doesn’t look like he starved himself for the big day. He smiles awkwardly at his mother, apparently, like Mia, willing this moment to be over.
“Toma,” the woman says, gravely, “I’m supposed to say a few things about you.” The woman is speaking with great care but her English is not good. Mia massages the sugar packet between her fingers. Inside the paper sleeve, granules shift and grind.
“Being a single mom,” the woman says. “And a foreign mom? Is not so easy. In this world? In this country? Raising a strong boy? A tender boy? Is a tough job.”
Tender. Mia hadn’t expected that word. Finn is a tender boy. Vulnerable, Michael would say.
“Every day,” the woman continues, “since Toma’s a little boy I must teach him. Don’t hurt the frogs. Help Mommy in the garden, help in the kitchen. Look after your things. Be nice to the old people. Be nice to the girls. They are strong,” she says, “stronger than you, maybe, okay?”
Mia sets the sugar packet down as the woman raises a beefy, veined fist. “I tell him someone wants to fight you? Shake your head. Say no, no way.” Her arm falls. Her fingers curl back around the lectern, looser now on the edge. “I tell him walk away. They laugh at you? They call you names? Doesn’t matter. That’s why we come to Can-a-da. So you can walk away. No one going to shoot you.”
Bosnia. They’re originally from Bosnia, Cathy had told her. Horvat is their last name.
“When Toma’s a teenager”—the woman shakes her head—“man oh man. He’s a stubborn boy. Doesn’t want to listen. A Canadian boy. Tom, he tells me, now I am Tom. We have some hard times. Sometimes I think he is lost. Sometimes I think I am losing. One night, two nights, he doesn’t come home. I ask myself how to love him?” Sitting in her hard-backed chair, Mia’s heart flutters. “How? I am alone in this country. I am alone in this world. I keep trying. I keep talking. I say, Toma, you’re a good boy. Remember you are strong. Yes?” At the head table, the groom’s head is bowed; it is the bride who nods at his mother. “Cathy knows. Tom, my son, he is good.
“Look, I tell him. Look at the world. Full of problems. There, I say, there is your life. Go fix the problems. This will take a while.” Some of the wedding guests chuckle, then fall silent again. The whole room silent and still. “Now he’s a par-a-me-dic,” she says, respectful of every syllable. “And Cathy is a nurse.” And for the first time since she stepped behind the microphone she smiles, then seems to remember herself and pauses for a sip of water. When she puts the glass back down, her mouth is once more
set in a serious line.
“Now Toma,” she says. “I talk to you. No one else is listening.” Her son lifts his head. Mia believes she can feel the life flowing between them, this mother and her son, like an invisible tether flung across the room. They belong to one another, are one another, as much as they are themselves. “Cathy”—she smiles again—“is a beautiful woman. She is now my daughter. So I tell you, love her like I love you. Forever. No matter what,” she says. “No quitting.”
—
MICHAEL GRABS A tea towel from under the sink and starts wiping the floor: the puddle near the stove where Finn’s sleeves first dripped, across the kitchen, out into the hall. Michael follows the trail up the stairs. The droplets, like glistening demi-planets reflecting better worlds, will end at Finn’s door. Not end—there will be more water on the floor in his bedroom, but Michael won’t be going in to clean it up. Round one is over; he has shown himself to be a brutal father and been declared unworthy of love.
The towel is soaked before he reaches the landing. Through a thicket of banister spindles, at the end of the water-dripped hall, he can see Finn’s door. Closed, which he knew it would be. He thinks about going in and apologizing, but doesn’t trust himself not to get mad again. He gave it a shot in the kitchen and here he is, alone, sopping water off the floor. An epic failure. But he’d been waiting all day to talk to him, was already frustrated when Finn showed up at six p.m. and decided to be difficult. And the smirk on his face when he was washing that spoon, well…
In the laundry room, Michael opens the hamper, heaped with dirty clothes, and throws in the soggy towel. He grabs another one from the closet, is halfway out the door to finish wiping off the stairs when he turns back and takes another look in the hamper. Mia’s pear-printed dress is on top of the pile, a pair of lacy black panties caught in its soft white folds. Michael reaches in and fingers the tiny bow at the front, runs his thumb over the lone rhinestone at its centre. It’s been a while since he’s seen her in something like that. Normally, she wears more comfortable underwear. Michael lets go of the panties, the small bite of the cheap stone, and flips up an edge of the dress. Underneath, a hot-pink thong, sharp and bright as a lie.
Michael drops the dress to the floor, yanks out the tea towel. Mixed into a tangle of dirty T-shirts and wrinkled shorts, flashes of minty green, baby blue, lipstick red, silky swatches of fabric, tiny hooks, crumples of see-through lace; it looks like the entire contents of Mia’s lingerie drawer have been churned into the hamper.
Michael uses the wall to steady himself before he reaches in for the thong. It feels damp—maybe it’s from the tea towel, but Michael doesn’t think so. The thong was under the dress. He could be imagining things. Perhaps it’s just cool. Or maybe all the clothes in the hamper are damp. He doesn’t test the theory; he is unsure his heart would survive the result.
The thong weighs nothing at all. Still Michael hesitates, as if holding a great stone in his hand, before bringing the scrunch of silk to his nose. He inhales her scent, the ripe tang of her cunt. Not frigid, not sexless, no matter how often she’s pushed him away. He inhales again, trying to discern someone else’s juices, but all he can smell is his wife.
—
I HAVEN’T SEEN Eli since the barbecue at his place. And I told him straight up I didn’t want to go out. That, seriously, I wasn’t in the mood. But he was so hyper on the phone.
It’s gonna be sick, he said. I’m coming for you, dude. Five minutes. I’m coming.
He’d been there in three. Edgy, like shotgunning a case of Red Bull edgy. Smacking the steering wheel with his hand. Snoop Dogg in the Porsche, it’s the Porsche tonight, it’s all niggas and hos ce soir. Two fuckbois and a bumpin’ car.
I turn down the music. You okay?
Yeah, fuck I’m okay. Eli leans right into me. Big Heath Ledger Joker smile. Or Cameron Monaghan. He’s so close it’s hard to decide. Either way, I’m expecting blood around the edges. You okay? He screams it. You? Okay?
Maybe I should drive, I say. Like that’s even possible.
Eli slams my shoulder, hard enough that I bounce off the door. Are you nuts? he says. My father wouldn’t let you drive this car. He hits the gas, holding down the clutch so the engine roars. Slams the stick shift forward, yanks the wheel, and we’re over the solid yellow line, rail smooth and rocket fast, tearing up Q. E. Drive, the canal ripping past on my side. The guy in the car ahead flips me the bird as we blow by. It’s like we’re in some video game. I’m hoping there are no points for pedestrians, and we’ve both got extra lives.
You on something or what? I ask when we’re safely back on the non-lethal side of the road.
Finn. I’m disappointed in you. Good, clean fun, bro. Have you forgotten about good, clean fun? ’Cause tonight, my fucking one-handed wonder of a friend, that’s what it’s about.
He cranks up the music. Chance takes over. I hold on and say nothing. Me, the one-handed wonder. Eli slows down a bit after we pass a cop. Swings into a pull-off on the shoulder right before we hit downtown.
He throws the car into park and reaches into the back. Where we’re going—he shoves a hangered shirt at me—they don’t allow plaid.
What?
Put it on.
I stare at the shirt in my hand. Black, flat black buttons. Looks expensive. Feels expensive. Like nothing I wear. There’s a dry-cleaning tag stapled to the label.
Where are we going?
If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.
I pick at the staple, work off the loop of numbered green paper. Dolce and Gabbana. Eighty percent Egyptian cotton. Sixteen percent Thai silk. Four percent elastodiene. No country taking credit.
Is this yours?
If it was mine, it wouldn’t fit you.
Dolce and Gabban-a-na?
It’s Eric’s. Like a kick in the gut. Put it on, he says.
I’m not wearing your brother’s shirt.
Trust me, he says. You’ll want to put it on.
Trust me, I say, I won’t.
And bam, just like that, Eli goes completely flat. Like someone just sucked all the hyper out and pumped him full of mean. A rush of passing cars, total silence inside, and Eli staring slit-eyed through the windshield, doing a pretty stellar impression of psycho. Heath, had he lived, might have given him a cheer.
Is Eric’s shirt not good enough for you, Finn?
What?
Put on the shirt, Finn.
He’s doing something weird to my name. I accept this because right now everything in my life feels strange and unreal. Why not twist my name around? Why not put on Jess’s boyfriend’s shirt?
If it means that much to you, bro, I say, trying to keep it light so Eli’s head doesn’t explode inside the car. I mean, guy’s always been a bit of a dick when he doesn’t get what he wants, but this is dickishness at a whole new level.
I shrug off the plaid, throw it in the back along with the hanger. I’m trying to be quick, my meat-stump’s out, stumping around the Porsche, but the buttons are small, the front seat’s small, I’m trying to get the thing around my shoulders.
Your T-shirt, Eli says, still staring straight ahead.
What?
You’ll look like an idiot with that on underneath. The shirt’s, like, fitted.
Fuck’s sake. I throw open my door and tumble out, yank my T-shirt up my back and over my head so for a couple of seconds I’m shirtless on the side of the road. A station wagon drives by. A long beep. Some girl hanging out the back window hooting. Obviously, she missed the missing hand.
You makin’ friends out there? Eli sounds happier now that I’m doing what he wants.
And it’s easier out of the car, easier without my T-shirt sticking to it. And forget the cotton, forget the elastodiene, it’s a hundred percent silk against my skin. Buttons like polished shells, they take a bit of work, but it’s worth it. Fuck Eric, I’m never giving this thing back. I leave both cuffs undone—one I can’t do up, and the other one is better like that
, better to cover the arm.
I slide back into the car and Eli shakes his head at me, all disgusted.
What?
You look good, he says. He hits the gas and the Porsche fishtails onto the road. You look like a fuckin’ rock star.
Two minutes later he slams on the brakes in the circular driveway of the Aberdeen Gentlemen’s Club. The city’s own little Playboy mansion. It actually sort of looks like a mansion. Lots of stone, big burgundy canopy over the front door held up by two brass poles, hinting at what’s inside. The upstairs windows are painted black and I know there’s a pool out back. If you walk down the alley behind the club at night, sometimes you hear girls laughing and splashing around. Eli and I used to ride our bikes downtown, press ourselves up against the fence and let ourselves get hard just listening to them.
Are you kidding me? I say. We’re underage. We’re—
It’s taken care of.
A WWF fighter ready to Hulk out of his suit jacket jerks open my door.
Be cool, Eli says. To me—who’s been sitting calmly in the passenger seat while he’s been going all bipolar behind the wheel.
I get out of the car. The guy holding my door, his hand’s as big as my head.
Eli swings alongside and tosses him the keys. We want valet.
Boys, he says, his fingers gently crushing the keys. Boys.
Kelly party.
The guy turns and signals one of his sparring partners guarding the front doors. George’ll take care of you.
I try to saunter up to the carved double doors—George has one wrenched open—but I have all the swagger of a stick. And inside, the girl at the coat check isn’t wearing a top, which is okay, I guess, because I’m not wearing a coat.
Summer, George hollers. Kelly guests. VIP room at the back.
Sure thing, she says, getting up off her stool. She’s wearing a glittery skirt made of sequins that swish and sway when she walks.
No phones or pictures, okay? she says, pushing aside a red velvet curtain, looking over her shoulder, giving us a smug little smile, the profile of one perfect tit.
We All Love the Beautiful Girls Page 20
