“It’s important to her,” Maura called out, like she would if one girl razzed another.
“Does that make us cat kids?” Susan said out loud.
Maura realized they’d been watching her their whole lives. She purred and pawed each of them affectionately, still dancing while the soup boiled over. This was the first time her girls hadn’t changed the subject when she talked about the show.
“And Daddy’s a wolf,” Maura said playfully as she pulled the pot from the burner. The girls howled.
Raj was a Siamese.
A cat had more than one life. Each of her girls needed to see her grow. She needed to manoeuvre this better with Karl. The kids might assume that the marriage was over, like when one of her friends left her family and farm to be a barista in the city because “at least they pay me to wait on them.”
Or when Maura’s own mother painted a mural on the barn doors. Flowers, purple and yellow, danced around the border, but her father sloshed red over it the very next day, muttering that he’d be a laughingstock. Her mother took to making note cards with pressed dried flowers for craft sales. Maura remembered violets, Johnny-jump-ups.
When Karl came in a little earlier and toasted and buttered the bread while Maura ladled out the soup, she hugged him after he sat down. A kiss on his neck, in front of the girls.
“Meow,” Susan said.
“Woof,” said Karl.
Tuesday night, Maura parked in the gravel lot, dusted with the first snow, outside the theatre for the first rehearsal. She pulled out her clipboard, her dance bag, and a giant Tupperware of veggie snacks for everyone. She took a deep breath of snowy air. As she left the van, holding everything like a gift to the party, she performed a spontaneous little pas-de-chat, a private ritual she began the day of auditions. The studio lights were already on, the sky outside clear now, and hurrying to winter dark.
She would demonstrate how to lick the floor with the foot, stroke the air with the arm, and reach for the lights with her crown, all to the wildly liberating music of Cats! She craved some lifts in the choreography. She’d ask for separate sessions with the two men in the cast. If they could lift her! A goddess lift, her arms embracing the heights, in her own light.
She looked up at the sky, and yes, a single star peered out already. She’d need a mass of sequined stars for the drive home after ten tonight, to pin her back to the land and Karl, because Raj and the show could shoot her into orbit. The moon was half-full tonight, partially behind cloud. She hoped to see it later, to meditate on its greatness, steadiness, wisdom. Along with another pas-de-chat, a nightly ritual true to her cat self.
Raj met her inside the door, his hand already on her shoulder, setting off flares. “Maura. Ready to leap off Mommy Island?”
He had no idea how much. And what it could cost her if she touched the three-day growth on his chin.
“I want to dance till I’m dead.”
She passed him the oversized Tupperware and kept her clipboard and dance bag in her own two hands because she had a show to do.
Winning Chance
Chance hauled himself into Jeff’s truck, glanced in the back and raked his hand under coffee cups and garbage for his tool belt. He traded take-out from Tim’s for rides with Jeff so Tina could have their van. He didn’t usually leave his tool belt behind.
“Sure in a hurry last night,” said Jeff, who loaded materials every morning so Chance could help Tina.
“Soccer.”
“Fun.”
“Dress ‘em, feed ‘em, and get ‘em there on time.” Three more hectic weeks of soccer left.
“At least you have a life. A wife.” Jeff spiralled on rewind: his monasticism, working ten-hour days, then weekend side jobs with his brother-in-law, a wizard in home mods for disabled seniors.
Chance cut in, “Where to today?”
“Moneybend.”
“Kitchen redo?”
“Cupboards, ten years old, won’t shut.”
“We guarantee that?”
“She’s paying. French White.”
“Custom?” Ten years ago, but Chance would never forget that Riverbend address. He didn’t even check the job roster. “I should take a sick day. Guts are pounding, man.”
“Heading to Tim’s. Need more coffee anyway.”
If Chance called in sick now, they’d get crap jobs for two weeks. This one, minor repairs, with two guys, would take an hour. A class job Chance didn’t want.
But Jeff did. And he couldn’t work it alone. Another company policy, ever since.
“Better?” Jeff said, carrying a supersized double-double and a sprinkled donut.
The truck smelled raunchy, but her tropical scent unearthed in his memory and took over.
“Coffee helps. Let’s go.” Keep your head, don’t look at her.
“Maybe she’s rich and single,” said Jeff. “There’s one in Moneybend, the guys said. A doctor, too. What’s her name?”
“Dr. Sandra Bates, radiologist.” Chance said it without looking down.
“No freaking way.”
“Maybe she won’t recognize me. Four kids later.”
“Never mind Tina. Hell of a wife.”
Chance wondered how Sandra picked him. Maybe she tangled with every tool belt. Cabinet makers come in last, so maybe she hadn’t seen what she liked yet.
“Takes me out of the kitchen to see a problem with the bedroom window, she says. Locks the door.”
“And takes off your tool belt,” said Jeff, eyes wide.
“Went on for months. Then she got me tested. Said I had a low count.”
“Hah.”
“But I believed her.”
“So that’s what messed you up.”
“Stay clear.” Jeff’s brother-in-law had pulled Chance back from the brink. But Chance knew that Jeff couldn’t wait to drop his belt. The guys called him The Monk. Chance didn’t, because he knew that pain. “Probably married by now. I mean, she has to have it every day.”
Jeff was in Never-never Land.
“Keep your shirt on,” Chance said to the sour air.
Tina, she’d see he had a hard day turn on kids’ TV, and pull him into the bedroom. Before soccer season, anyway. Once, though, when the kids were magically scheduled on the same field, they raced them to their coaches, then moved the van near a ravine. Drove back to the games flushed and happy, with Timbits for everyone. The kids cheered because their uniforms said Timbits on the back. Tina promised to buy them again (score!) next time everyone had soccer at the same place. Chance had to get himself fixed. Four Timbits was their max. With Tina so hot and ready all the time, they decided on Freedom Four-T.
Dr. Bates answered the door.
“Call me Sandra,” she said to Jeff in that hiss of hers.
Jeff said it with every opportunity. Chance stayed out of the way like the underling he was not. He checked for photos on the fridge. No wedding. No kids. No toys inside or out. He kept his eyes on his work, adjusting here, tightening there.
“Is that you?” Sandra’s hunger distorted her ultra-smooth face.
“Yeah.”
“Chance! The company said you’d left.”
Jeff floated out to his truck at her sexy wave, which said maybe later, dude, if you can handle it.
Chance kept his hands going. It kept his voice steady, his thoughts straight. When Tina had something to say, he’d draw her into the garage. It was usually about the kids, so better out of their earshot anyway. Clearing his work bench helped him organize what to say back. He listened without asking questions before trying to fix things. Tradesman’s secret. He hoped it would work with Sandra, because with that streaked hair, the tanned face, the bright eyes, and perfect model mouth and teeth, she didn’t look a speck older than before. Made him realize he appreciated a little age on a woman, a mature self-confidence, honest knowin
gness, especially in Tina, other moms. Sandra probably had facelifts.
“Those reports were wrong,” she said.
“I figured.”
“How?”
“Seven, six, five and five.”
Sandra looked away. At Jeff outside, deep breathing, pulling himself to his full height, eyes taking in her property, her car, professional landscaping. When she came back to Chance, Sandra’s eyes glossed.
“I tried to call you.”
“Thought you made it up.”
“I needed to know.”
“Who to blame.”
Sandra’s shoulders trembled. “I have all this.” She waved her arms around the house, the grounds overlooking the river, the fountain trickling, and her red Mercedes in front. “But nothing compared to you. Four? How many of each?”
He packed his tools into his belt. Those numbers were not for her.
“When you dumped me you stole years of my life I won’t get back. So that’s what you have. Your cabinets are fixed. Should last a lifetime.”
He would never use French White, ever, in his kitchen, which really needed redoing, but Tina would rather invest in the kids’ music lessons and couldn’t be without a kitchen for even a day.
On his way out, Chance couldn’t resist gazing down the hall to the salmon pink room where sleek Sandra had steamed him in her hot tub, hand-fed him fruits he could not name and, surrounded by woodsy candles and spiced flowers, he’d kept her oiled for sixty-three nights. He’d stewed about her for over seven hundred more, then took another three hundred and fifty to flush her out of his system.
Then he met Tina at Home Depot. He was picking up a screen door for his counsellor at AA who turned out to be Jeff’s brother-in-law. For the guy’s mother. A pity job. Borrowed his truck, even. But Chance still had his tool belt. Never pawned his tools. A part of his hands, in a pack on his back the whole time he was homeless. Used occasionally for self-defence. Tina rang up the screen door. He noticed her nails were natural, no paint. Chance, freshly shaved, gulped in the lumber smell, the energy of the hardware store at eight on a late spring morning, back in the land of the living and raring to do a job, any job, before calling his old boss to say he was clean.
Tina put down a Home Depot card with her cell number on it and said, “Waited three whole years to give this out. I have specific requirements. If you want to know, meet me at Tim’s for coffee.”
First day back working and already, trouble with a woman. He looked across at Tina, tall as him, orange work apron tied tight, and felt himself smile back without any effort at all. Time dropped away.
He heard her say, “Next?” She was about to snatch back her card.
His hand intercepted it and tucked it into his heart pocket.
After installing the screen door plumb as could be, eating goulash with the yakkity-yak customer, and getting paid in crisp cash, he called Tina. He showered and craved not only Tim’s coffee with her, but steaming soup, toasted bagel, and a cinnamon doughnut.
They went over their schooling, families (both had no brothers or sisters), work, TV shows, and music groups. Her bare long lean arms promised long, lean legs under her jeans. She waited.
He asked, “Your … um … requirements?”
“Funnels down to this: no drinking.”
Too quickly he said, “Been off it a whole year and don’t miss it at all.”
“That’s all I want. What about you?”
Here Chance took his time. He had to say. Could be a game-changer. Best to roll that boulder out of the way right now. He fumbled with his soup spoon, stirred his cold black coffee. Tina stopped it, her hand on his.
“Chance, what?”
“I can’t have kids.”
“Can’t or don’t want?”
“Always wanted. Wish I could have given my folks grandkids before they went. What about you?” He moved his hands to support both of hers while he waited. The silences between them felt like a privilege.
“I should have been adopted,” Tina said. “Instead I had a mom who drank herself to death. So adoption works for me. And bonus, no birth control.”
And then she took him home.
She was there now. The kids were all in school till lunch. If he called in sick now, he and Tina would have the late morning in their bedroom. He loved the way the light made it golden by ten-thirty in June. They hadn’t had the morning in years. It would give them opportunity for preamble, which normally they never had time for, so did without. Maybe he’d massage her back, which bothered her since birthing the twins, boys eight pounds each. After, they’d have lunch with the kids at the picnic table. He’d share from his lunch cooler—they’d love that—then he’d walk the girls and the dog back to school. The boys would muck in the sandbox and he and Tina would leave off gardening and lawn mowing and laundry and cleaning to share the sun and a near beer and watch The Twin Network, they called it. He’d order pizza for dinner and drive the kids in the van to pick it up so Tina could have a half-hour to herself. They both knew what that meant for later.
Chance placed his tool belt on top of his cooler on the truck cab floor and said to Jeff, “Take me home.” He knew Jeff would return to Sandra’s right after. She’d put her spell on him.
“We both got food poisoning, hey, Chance?”
Snakebite, Chance thought. “Yeah. A fancy bakery in Riverbend, because do you see a Tim’s here?” Chance got Jeff hired, a favour to Jeff’s brother-in-law, so he should cover for him. But when Chance called in to their boss, he might say, “Today I need to be with my wife, my kids, at home. Never send me back there again.” Should have said it before. Chance wondered why he never did. Probably, to forget. Or, to see what he would do.
“Home,” he said again, in a whisper.
The Winter Police
I’d been storing rainwater for months. Mom’s old rain barrel, half the height of the house, was full. Hops that refused to die covered it completely. Three trees shaded it. Only a little healthier than the others, those three would become conspicuous when all else yellowed. They survived because of my scant watering, but also because they were bunched together. Like Kent, Mitch, and me.
No ice for thirty years, no snow for twenty, we’d lived with the water rations for a decade. My rainwater contained too many toxins for human consumption, but the trees welcomed what I could spare.
The thin squeal of an electric golf cart alerted me.
“Get in, quick,” I said, checking for eyes in the back alley as Kent trundled an antique refrigeration unit into my greenhut door.
“Anyone out there?” Mitch said from inside, taking one side of the box to help Kent.
“Only a magpie,” I said. The last kind of city bird, sustained by an ability to eat anything.
“Hey sis, you got enough water?” asked Kent.
“Shh.” I whispered at Kent. The threat of sound biters or photo prods existed everywhere, even in our residential lane. I closed the door. “Enough for ten solid centimetres.”
“I did the math,” Mitch said. “We siphoned a sample with old garden hose last night. A little green with algae buildup, but Sonia’s bleach got rid of it.”
I’d saved the bleach, now contraband, from Mom’s things, along with our skates, woolen socks, shovels, and skis.
“I brought paint for the lines,” Kent said. His wife Maggie painted. It helped keep her sane because she hardly left their apartment.
As a registered grower, I had a greenhut covering most of the yard and regular drop-offs of plant liquid (that’s what they called grey water) for the crop, mostly marijuana, because it had the best value. People were less interested in eating than staying high. Without water or wind, all food production happened indoors: hydroponics like my greenhut and indoor animal sequestration yards. Outside, a few untended trees with deep roots survived each drier, warmer year (�
�warmer” was a euphemism). Air conditioning was outlawed, as was refrigeration, so everybody lined up for half-rotten food doled out at central “cold” stations. Food lost its nutritive value by the time we procured it. Getting high to feel hungry enough to eat was the new normal.
Mitch, Kent, and I had built my greenhut over Mom’s outdoor swimming pool. Dry for years, of course, and illegal way before Mom got sick. Near the end, her only solace was floating in that pool, her red bathing cap on, her wiry body always tanned, one of us on the lookout. The pool, only filled to one metre, remained covered at all times, even with her in it. Especially with her in it.
We waited until the red and blue lines dried and then Kent turned on the refrigeration unit and flooded the pool floor.
The plan came to me when, at the bottom of Mom’s skate bin, I found my double-bladed toddler skates and hugged them to my chest and sobbed. All through the rations, impositions, fines, and fault-finding, I hadn’t cried. Those rusty little skates gave me the guts to build the rink for Kent’s daughter and my niece, the only grandchild. Mom never met May.
We opened a trap door in the corner of the greenhut and descended a vertical swim ladder two metres to the pool floor. It had been a lane pool, so there was no deep end, perfect for a rink. No one, not even Kent’s wife, knew. Only
us three.
Mitch decided to video the process: loonie at centre ice, oldtime slogans painted on the walls (remember Mountain Dew, Molson Canadian, or Air Canada?), and one raggedy net we liberated from the dump by feeding pot cookies to already lethargic watchdogs. I repaired the net; Mom taught me to sew. Mitch uploaded his video on an obscure revolutionary platform, Winter. To us, winter meant falling snow. The flicker of flakes on our tongues. We loved the cool, fresh promise of snow. As children, we made tracks with our boots on fantastical sparkling crystals. We made paths with our shovels, creatures from snow boulders, and ice slides with our sleds. In winter, children could alter the landscape. We wanted to share that magic with May.
As kids, Kent and I and Mitch played hockey on Dad’s backyard rink. Mitch hung out at our place in summer, too, because of the pool. Mom taught us all to swim, even though it was obvious to her that neither swimming nor skating had any future as recreational sports. For a time, the very elite were chosen for government hockey careers—not the exorbitant sums of the old national leagues, but a kind of circus job at low pay. People did it for the love of the game. I sure would have if they’d asked me. But now pools and rinks were completely outlawed. To swim now, people had to walk out many kilometres from the crumbling coastline to the stinking ocean (iceberg melt had long ago raised sea levels, which had dropped equally fast when worldwide precipitation dwindled). To avoid garbage and plastic islands, a full drysuit, oxygen tank, and sealed headgear were required. Only the very wealthy ever ventured out. Rivers were bare rocks. Lakes, cracked mud. The words for creek, pond, stream, waterfall, glacier, iceberg—hardly used—became silenced.
Winning Chance Page 10
