by H. B. Hogan
THE PRINCESS IS DEAD
The sun had begun to set, but still his wife carried on. Andrews sulked in his backyard and poked at a clump of crabgrass with the toe of his slipper. He derived a perverse pleasure from his otherwise unblemished lawn. It had been touch and go for a few years in the late eighties. His wife and son had been lax in the training of the family dog, a corgi named Heather, but he had put an end to that by installing a patch of gravel at the side of the house, below the eaves, where the dog was confined twice daily by means of a short lead tied to a stake in the ground. Once the dog had thoroughly relieved herself on the gravel under Andrews’ watchful eye, she was released and permitted the run of the yard without posing any risk to the lawn.
His next-door neighbour, Domingas, liked to watch the whole production over the fence with an amused look, and say, “You’ve got it all under control, don’t you, boss?”
Andrews would give a curt nod, proud of his ingenuity, but not wanting to appear so.
Now, in the deepening suburban twilight, his lawn served as a salve for his nerves, which had been scraped raw by the wailing of his wife, Maureen. She sat glued to the television, watching the CBC’s coverage of what appeared to be the sudden and—according to Maureen—globally devastating death of Princess Diana. A glance over his shoulder through the family room window reassured Andrews that he was better off in the yard, despite the growing darkness. Maureen was perched on the edge of the sofa, sodden tissue clutched in one hand and the phone in the other. She had called her best friend Rita, Domingas’ wife, when Andrews had failed to be appropriately moved by the news. Her wet cheeks reflected the glow of the television screen. Maureen’s lap cradled Heather, who looked indignant as the telephone cord swayed back and forth in front of her snout. Watching his wife of twenty years wail into the phone about the death of a woman she’d never met, Andrews was conscious of a stirring within him that signaled despair. And so, when Andrews heard the hum of the garage door opening, he beat a path across the lawn and through the side gate to be distracted by his son, who had returned from wherever it was that he went.
Out in front of the house, Andrews smiled absent-mindedly as Charles maneuvered the family’s station wagon into the garage. Charles braked as the windshield was just shy of the tennis ball Andrews had suspended from the ceiling on a length of twine for Maureen.
“It’s not my fault I can’t see over the hood,” she’d snapped when they’d learned the sensors on the automatic garage-door opener were not as sensitive to obstructions as they’d been led to believe.
Andrews had stood in the garage, surveying the damage and sucking on a toothpick, while he searched for an appropriate response to the situation. One side of the rear bumper hung from the station wagon by a bent piece of metal. The other side rested on the garage floor. They’d been unable to reverse the closing garage door once it had knocked off the bumper, so the door was now jammed at bumper level. Maureen claimed she had no way of knowing that she hadn’t pulled the car all the way into the garage.
“My car,” Andrews had finally said.
“Your car?” said Maureen. “That could have been my head! Think about that!”
Andrews thought about it.
“I’ve got to call Rita,” Maureen had said, as she shuffled around the car and past Andrews to the door that led into the house. “She’s not going to believe this. I could have been killed.”
The door had slammed shut behind Maureen. A minute passed, and then the light on the automatic door opener had flicked off, leaving Andrews in the dark, his calves bathed in the orange glow of the street light out front.
Andrews pulled his gaze up from the repaired, but still dented, bumper and watched Charles slide out of the car and swing the door shut behind him in one fluid motion. There was no popping of joints, no groaning, no sign of exertion. Andrews felt proud, as though this physical ease was something Charles had learned from him, although he knew very well that wasn’t the case. Andrews had never been fluid at anything.
Charles noticed his father standing behind the car.
“Hey,” he said nonchalantly, and made for the door that led into the house.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” said Andrews.
Charles paused and turned to face his father with a bored expression.
“Your mother’s in there having a bird over some car accident.”
“You mean Princess Di?” Charles’ face came to life. “Are they showing pictures of it yet?” He disappeared into the house.
“People die in car accidents every day!” Andrews called as the door slammed shut behind Charles. “Every day,” he muttered to himself.
Andrews sighed and studied the street, knowing that any number of people could be watching him from behind their sheers. He knew this because when he wasn’t tending to his lawn, he spent much of his time watching his neighbours from behind his own expanse of sheers. He enjoyed seeing each neighbour drive by in a car that revealed his or her shortcomings: rust marks, bald tires, filthy windows, crudely plagiarized handicap signs, dashboards obscured by outdated parking tickets. Rear windows crammed with bleached-out tissue boxes, stuffed animals, stained pillows, and abandoned action figures. None of it surprised Andrews, in light of the deplorable state of their lawns.
Of particular significance on his scale of poor car hygiene was Domingas, who had to park his dilapidated car in the driveway because his garage was filled with Rita’s wholesale beauty-supply inventory. Domingas didn’t seem to mind Rita’s annexing of the garage. Rather, when Andrews had teased him about it, Domingas declared pride in his wife’s entrepreneurship. This was driven home on Saturday mornings, when Andrews’ station behind the sheers was more often than not blighted by a showy exchange between the couple after they’d loaded up the trunk of the car with reeking pink boxes. As Rita reversed down the driveway, she would flutter her fingers through the windshield at Domingas. Domingas would then kiss the fingers of his hand and flutter them back at Rita.
The only thing more disturbing to Andrews than this public display of affection was his fear that Maureen would one day catch sight of the Saturday Morning Domingas Ritual. Not only would she criticize him for the pleasure he derived from watching other people’s private moments through the sheers, but, given her many complaints over the years about Andrews’ lack of physical affection, Maureen might have grounds for a new complaint about how Andrews never fluttered his fingers at her.
The thought of fluttering his fingers at Maureen made Andrews shudder, and he surfaced out of his reverie to find that he was still standing in the driveway, clad only in his housecoat and slippers. He smacked his palm against the garage-door opener and returned to the privacy of his backyard.
Andrews eyed the wooden bench Maureen had forced him to place at a ridiculous angle against the back corner of their fence. He never sat there, because from that perspective, he was on display to all the rear bedroom windows of the houses on either side of his. He preferred instead to stick close to the deck that ran beneath his kitchen and living-room windows. But it was almost completely dark now, and the wooden bench looked more comfortable than the ornate wrought-iron furniture Maureen had purchased for the patio, so Andrews wandered over and sat down.
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
The voice echoed his thoughts. Andrews jerked his head up and around to find Domingas glaring over the fence towards the light of Andrews’ family room window.
“Domingas! You scared me.”
“It’s not like she’d have thought twice about that woman a day ago when she was still alive.”
Andrews watched with incredulity as Domingas jutted his chin at Andrews’ window.
“Ask me, that woman needs a hobby or something. Keep her mind engaged.”
Although he was in complete agreement with Domingas, Andrews knew a line had been crossed. The obligation to defend Maureen’s honour made him uneasy; he hated hypocrisy.
“Come agai
n?” he said.
“Look at that,” Domingas said. “You’d think she was a blood relative.”
Andrews reluctantly swiveled around on the bench to peer through his living room window, and saw that Rita Domingas had joined Maureen on the couch. The pair dabbed at their eyes with tissues from a box positioned on the sofa between them. Heather must have been exiled to the floor. Charles’s bedroom window upstairs glowed blue—he was watching the news alone in his room. Andrews realized that Domingas was criticizing Rita’s grief, which meant he was not obliged to defend Maureen. His relief was so immediate he was afraid he’d whimpered out loud. He glanced back at Domingas. Domingas was scowling at the window.
“At least your wife’s parents are British,” Andrews said. He rummaged in the pocket of his housecoat for the bag of jujubes he had tucked away earlier.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Maureen has no connection to England but you’d never know it from the way she’s carrying on.”
They fell silent, Domingas scraping the palm of his hand up and down the scruff on his cheek, Andrews chewing thoughtfully.
“Your lawn’s looking fine, boss,” said Domingas.
“There’s some crabgrass over there by the air-conditioning compressor. I’ll have to get at it in the morning before it spreads.”
“Thing is, Rita hasn’t let me touch her in six years.”
Andrews choked on his jujube. He tried to be subtle as he retched into the palm of his hand.
Domingas continued. “We used to be at it all hours of the night and day when we were trying to have kids, but when we gave up on that, she gave up on everything.”
A light went on in Andrews’ kitchen window. He felt inexplicably saved. After a moment, they heard an electric whirring noise.
“Maureen,” said Andrews. “She’s into the frozen daiquiris.”
“That wholesale gig was the best thing that ever happened to me. Rita leaves the house every Saturday morning and then I’m free until one. I’ve met someone, Andrews.”
Andrews turned to stare slack-jawed at Domingas, the wet jujube still cupped in the palm of his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the kitchen light go off. He felt abandoned, adrift in the riptide of Domingas’s admission.
“I wonder how long two people can go on living like this,” Domingas said.
Andrews carefully put the jujube back into his mouth and wiped the palm of his hand on his housecoat.
“How old is your boy now, Andrews? Eighteen?”
“That’s right,” Andrews said, wary.
“I bet it never occurs to him that he could end up like this.”
“Like what?”
Domingas scratched his whiskers and then sighed. “Never mind,” he said. “Anyway, I’m leaving. Tonight. Rita doesn’t know yet. Just thought I’d say goodbye.”
“You’re kidding,” said Andrews, stunned.
“Take care, boss,” said Domingas, and then he walked away.
“Sure. I mean, you too.”
As he listened to his neighbour’s footfalls fade, Andrews gazed up Charles’s window. The erratic blue light of Charles’ television jumped and pulsed. He was disappointed that it would not have occurred to Charles to join him in the yard. When Andrews was growing up, he’d admired his father, and valued his advice and attention. Andrews couldn’t pinpoint when Charles had become so indifferent toward Andrews, but he was, and Andrews didn’t know how to fix that. In the living room, Maureen sat back on the sofa, legs crossed. She sipped a daiquiri and cackled with Rita. The TV footage that had only minutes ago rendered her speechless with grief now went unnoticed. Such was the unpredictability of Maureen’s emotional landscape. That unpredictability was a quality that had endeared her to him when they were first married, made him want to protect her, but it had long ago become exasperating. As he sat there contemplating the lackluster Saturday mornings of his near future, it slowly dawned on Andrews that the contrived and empty gestures of another man’s dead marriage had been his only source of intimacy. He would miss the Saturday Morning Domingas Ritual like he missed every other illusion that had once sustained him: the meaningfulness of life, the institution of marriage, the value in stoicism, and the consolation of having had a son. Andrews realized that when Domingas had referenced the two people in an empty marriage, he’d been referring to them—to Domingas and Andrews.
Andrews removed his housecoat and folded it neatly on the bench beside him. Then, with some effort, he lowered himself, groaning and wincing, first onto his knees, and then his belly, so that he was lying face down in the cool, damp grass. It was prickly against his cheek, but he didn’t mind. He ran his fingers back and forth though the springy turf, and inhaled its earthy scent. It was the scent of final destinations—something Andrews had not yet lost faith in. He closed his eyes and steeled himself as best he could, determined, as he was, to stay the course.
EMPTIES
BEFORE
The watery light of dawn found Kerri, sixteen and, until recently, a student at Harmony Heights Secondary School, passed out on the picnic table. The long grass around the table was littered with empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and an empty pizza box. Her best friend, Jolene, was curled up under a transparent plastic tarp on a foldable chaise lounge that was missing one arm.
When Kerri came to, she was shivering. Her feathered blonde hair was crushed flat on one side of her head and stuck to her damp face like a fringe of small wet tongues. Dean was sitting on the tabletop at her side, rubbing her denim-clad bum. Kerri grunted and sat up slowly. She slumped forward, her throbbing head cradled in her hands. Dean leaned over and murmured into her hair.
“F’goff,” Kerri moaned, and elbowed him away. She put her head back in her hands and wondered if she’d pissed him off, but a wave of nausea quickly monopolized her attention. After a minute, she heard footsteps and looked up to see Dean stalking across the yard to the house, hand in hand with Jo, who looked like she’d won the lottery. Kerri watched them disappear through the screen door and then lay back down with a sigh.
When Kerri came to for the second time, the sun was peeking out from behind the house and she was sweating. The smell of cooking food wafting from the kitchen window coaxed her up off the picnic table and into the house.
Paula stood at the stove in a nightgown that had once been pink but had been washed into a gloomy shade that was somewhere between beige and grey. The fabric was pulled taut over her belly and her bare feet were cracked and grey with dirt. A cigarette dangled from her lips above a sputtering pan of ground beef. Kerri’s stomach simultaneously turned and growled at the smell of food, smoke, and dirty dishes.
“Mornin’,” she said to Paula. Paula said nothing. Kerri’s hi-cuts stuck to the linoleum as she walked over to the kitchen sink. She ran the faucet until the water was cold and the sulphur smell had subsided, then pulled back her hair and leaned down into the crusty sink to drink from the tap.
Paula watched out of the corner of her eye for a minute. “My dad called.”
“Huh?” said Kerri, straightening up and shutting off the tap.
“My dad called. He’s comin’ this afternoon. You know what that means.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Kerri nodded and wiped the smeared blue mascara off her face with the sleeve of her jean jacket.
“That means you’s all gotta split or there’s no way he’ll give me any money.”
Kerri slumped over the sink and salivated as she watched Paula break up the browning meat with the back of a bent metal spoon.
“Whatcha makin’?” asked Kerri.
“What’s it look like I’m making?” barked Paula. She took the cigarette from her lips and leaned towards Kerri to flick her ashes into the sink. Kerri moved out of the way and then slumped back against the counter without taking her eyes from the pan.
Paula waited another minute and then yelled, “I’m makin’ hamburger! What’s it look like I’m makin’?” Under her breath, she said, “Mor
on.” Paula and Kerri were the same age, but Paula acted like an old woman. They stood in silence until Kerri’s stomach audibly growled.
“Smells good,” said Kerri.
“Ya, well if you want some you better hurry up, cause my old man is comin’ round and none of you’s can be here when he does!” Paula smacked the spoon against the side of the pan and squeezed her left eye shut against the smoke of her cigarette. Kerri turned the tap back on to drink some more.
Paula yelled over the running water, “And tell them fuckers to clean up before you’s all take off!”
DURING
That afternoon, Kerri and Jo laboured slowly down King Street towards the Beer Store. It was the first warm day of spring. Jo had the sleeves of her Leafs jersey pulled up over her shoulders and Kerri had tried to roll up the legs of her stretch jeans, but they only went up to the tops of her ankles before they got too tight. One side of her feathered hair was still matted flat against her skull, but she’d reapplied her blue mascara and her lips were coated in sticky pink gloss—the same as Jo’s.
“This sucks,” said Jo.
“Mm-hmm,” said Kerri.
“We need one of them old-lady carts.”
Their gait was halting and awkward. They each carried a six of empties in one hand, and in the other they had balanced between them two two-fours. It was more than they could handle, but Kerri had insisted the Beer Store wasn’t too far of a walk. Kerri had never walked to the Beer Store before. The dimensions of downtown Oshawa, once so familiar as it whisked past her in the passenger seat of her dad’s pickup, now seemed to stretch endlessly before her. By the time they’d reached King Street, nowhere near the halfway point, Kerri knew she’d made a mistake.
“Kerri, c’mon,” Jo pleaded. “Let’s just stick these in a bush or something and come back for them later.”
