Three Years with the Rat

by Jay Hosking

“You’re late,” Grace told me.

  “What the hell do you care?” I said. “You don’t even want to go.”

  “Jesus, you’re snippy. What’s your problem?”

  I looked in the rear-view mirror. John and I exchanged a nod of greeting.

  “Anyway, you’re right,” Grace said. “I have zero interest in going. So let’s just cancel.”

  “We’re going,” I told her. I put the car in gear and drove off. “Mom harasses me about visiting every week.”

  “So go visit without me,” she said.

  “You’re a real charmer tonight,” I told her. “Mom harasses me about you visiting every week.”

  “If she wants to know about me, she can ask me herself.”

  “You’d have to pick up your phone,” John said from the back.

  The car was quiet until we reached the highway. My phone buzzed in my pocket and I knew it was my mother, wondering where we were. Grace and John stared out the window and watched as the storefronts became unfamiliar, then absent. I veered the car onto the 401 and, sick of the silence, I turned on the stereo.

  Grace’s mix CD started to play. I skipped back to the second song. Some indeterminate squeal, maybe an electric keyboard, droned away until the bass and kick drum dropped in. And as always, just as I felt I was getting the hang of the rhythm, the guitars and cymbals crashed in and reset the beat.

  “God, I love these guys,” I said.

  “What’s your sample size?” John asked from the back. He was smiling, trying to be light.

  “What?”

  Grace was hunched in her seat, bundled in her layers. She chewed at her thumb and didn’t turn away from her view out the window.

  “You said you love these guys,” John said. “How many of their songs do you know?”

  “I don’t know. Really only this one, I guess.”

  “So your sample size is one. Not exactly statistically significant.”

  I laughed. “You’re a dick. O.K., I love this song. I’ve listened to this song hundreds of times. Sample size is hundreds. Totally statistically significant. Dick.”

  I let the CD play out and we didn’t talk much. We watched the landscape make its familiar transformations and took all the usual exits to my mother’s house. I pulled into the driveway.

  “I should be at work,” Grace said.

  “It’ll wait,” John said from the back.

  “This was a mistake,” Grace muttered.

  “Come on,” I said. “She’s waiting at the door.”

  “I don’t want to do this,” Grace said.

  “It’ll just be a couple of hours,” John said. He reached a hand to her shoulder in the front. “We can do this.”

  “It’s not you who has to do anything, goddamn it,” Grace said, her voice getting high. “Don’t act like this is difficult for you.”

  “It shouldn’t be difficult for anybody,” I said. “It’s dinner. Suck it up.”

  I climbed out of the car and came around to the passenger side. Grace didn’t budge when I opened the door for her.

  “Out,” I said.

  Reluctantly she began to move. John followed her, patting me on the arm as he passed me. Our mother made a shrill sound from the front porch. The three of us approached the house, myself in the front.

  “Oh,” our mother cried. She’d left her work clothes on and tried to tame the frizz of her hair with some water. She passed me without any acknowledgement and put her arms around Grace. “Christ almighty, I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it.”

  —

  Dinner was surprisingly civil to start, most likely because my sister snuck out beforehand to smoke a joint. Our mother fired questions at Grace, John answered most of them, and I diverted our mother’s attention whenever I could. We sat at the dining room table and didn’t move. The rest of the house was dim and quiet except for the hum of the television in the living room.

  After dinner I collected the plates from the table and told my mother, “Nicole wishes she could be here.”

  “Nicole, eh?” my mother said. She couldn’t have cared less about what was going on in my life, and Nicole’s name passed, flickered, and disappeared from her awareness. “Coffee, anybody?”

  “Please,” John told her.

  When the table was clear, I sat down again with John and Grace. My mother scurried around the kitchen. The white noise of an electric kettle rose in the background and made me feel uneasy. Over that anxious sound, my mother shouted, “God, it’s nice to have everyone under one roof again.”

  “Everyone?” Grace said, meaning our father.

  My mother unplugged the kettle and brought it to the table, its cord dangling behind her, then shuffled back into the kitchen.

  “I miss the good old days,” she said.

  “When was that, exactly?” Grace asked.

  “Oh hell, you know what I mean,” my mother said. She brought four mugs to the table. “It was just so nice when you were kids.”

  Grace was becoming agitated, fidgety. “Are you joking?”

  Our mother brought a jar of instant coffee and some milk to the table and sat down.

  “Hey, instant coffee,” John said to Grace, in a calm voice. “Everybody’s favourite.”

  But whatever soothing effect John had had the last time we four ate dinner together, it had faded. Grace just glared at him.

  My mother was spooning the coffee powder into the mugs and not paying attention to the subtleties of the conversation. She smiled at John. “Things were just simpler, you know? She was always so bloody bright. A royal pain in my ass, of course, but she was happy, and so how could I complain?”

  “What kind of revisionist bullshit is this?” Grace demanded.

  “Grace,” I said.

  “Honey,” our mother said, “I know it was a little tough when your father left—”

  Grace interrupted, “I’m not talking about Dad—”

  “—and obviously there was going to be some acting out, you said and did some things, you always had a temper, ever since you were a baby. But we got over it, didn’t we?” She seemed to suddenly realize how fraught this conversation had become, and smiled at Grace to calm her.

  There was a painful silence and then Grace spat, “Are you fucking insane?”

  My mother’s face pinched a little at the curse. She looked old. “Jesus, honey. Show some respect.”

  I wanted none of this conversation. I’d witnessed enough variants of it from the time my sister shaved her head at thirteen until she finally moved out for university. “Can we just take a time-out for a second?”

  “You stay out of this,” Grace said to me, quietly. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me, Mom?”

  “Why are you being like this?” my mother said and frowned. “You talk like I was such a bad mother.”

  “You were,” Grace said. “You were the worst.”

  “Will you give it a rest?” I said.

  In one quick motion Grace pushed back her chair and stood. She stomped through the carpeted living room and straight into the foyer. John rose and followed her. There was some muttering between them, then the sound of keys, then the slamming of the front door.

  “She was always so difficult,” my mother said. “Always convinced that everyone was against her, willing to do or say whatever, just to get revenge. Your father and I would just sit back and wait for the storm to blow over.”

  Her eyes were brimming and shiny. She bit the dry flakes of skin from her bottom lip. “But I wasn’t so bad, was I?”

  “No, Mom,” I said. I put my hand on hers. Still, something Grace had said was bothering me. I’d heard them fight countless times but I had never heard anything that suggested there was some specific catalyst: Do you have any idea what it was like for me, Mom?

  John came back to the dining room and sat down. My mother excused herself and went upstairs.

  “She took your car,” John said.

  Before I realized what he was telling
me, I heard Grace screech out of the driveway.

  —

  The three of us sat on the old couch and watched television. My mother held my hand and occasionally squeezed it. I wanted to scream but instead I smiled at her.

  Two hours later, I heard Grace lay on my car horn for ten straight seconds. I rushed to the front door and gave her an angry stare through the window. We put on our coats and shoes and I hugged my mother goodbye. She got shrill again and urged me to visit soon. During the goodbyes, Grace lay on the horn another time and I swung open the door and shouted, “For Christ’s sake, enough.”

  My mother stood on the porch and waved at Grace. I couldn’t make out the expression on her face.

  When I opened the driver’s side door, the interior light came on and it was immediately apparent that Grace hadn’t just been driving around. She was scattered, wild haired, and dirty. I was too annoyed to care. I shouted at her, “Move.”

  She slid to the passenger seat, her eyes like saucers. She didn’t seem to notice my mother waving at her but instead wore a vacant look. I took the driver’s seat and found that the car had an odd, unwashed-human smell. John climbed into the backseat.

  I reversed out of the driveway, sped through the suburbs as quickly as I could. The stereo was off and I left it that way. No one spoke for thirty minutes. Cars flickered by but all I saw was their headlights. I drove over the speed limit the entire time.

  Finally John spoke up. “Are you all right?”

  Grace said nothing. She only stared, the gloss of her eyes catching electric light as it approached and passed.

  “What the hell were you thinking,” I said, not a question. And then, feeling John’s disapproval from the backseat, “Where have you been?”

  The question seemed to resonate. Her wide eyes became slits and her slack face became taut.

  “Looking into a dead end,” she said.

  “What the hell does that mean?” I asked. I wanted to demand an answer but she was turned to the backseat, facing John.

  “You lied to me,” she said. “You’ve watched me fail in the lab, over and over, and all this time—all this time!—you’ve known how. You’ve been keeping the truth from me, in your little code book.”

  John squared his jaw and faced his accuser. He didn’t say a word. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and over at the passenger seat but ultimately I had to keep my eyes on the road.

  “Is anyone going to let me in on what the hell we’re talking about, for once?” I asked.

  No one spoke again for the rest of the trip.

  I left Grace and John on the sidewalk in front of their apartment door. It was late but the lights were on in the basement when I got home, warming the windows with a yellow glow. I unlocked the door, entered quietly, and found the room full of the smell of baking. Nicole was sprawled out on the couch watching a movie, still wearing her apron. When she saw the look on my face, she immediately stood, walked to the door, and wrapped her arms around me. I hugged her back and felt my muscles loosen.

  2008

  THE NEW RULES are slippery. I phone Brian again and take some comfort in a familiar voice, but, like Lee, he doesn’t remember John or Grace. The next time I call him he’s unsure of who I am, tries hard to be friendly but ultimately treats me like a stranger. The last time I pick up the phone, I find that my cellular service has been disconnected. It isn’t clear whether it’s because I haven’t paid the bill in months or because I no longer exist in their registry.

  Still, at the hardware store down the street, looking for a large pane of mirror, I’m in luck.

  “Some guy ordered it but never came back,” the clerk says.

  “What guy?” I ask.

  He looks through his computer but there’s no longer any record of my name. He doesn’t seem to remember my face, either. I convince him to sell me the mirror as well as a small flashlight and a set of batteries.

  I stay indoors mostly, waiting for the landlord to knock on my door and ask for rent money I don’t have. It never comes. In fact I don’t recognize the people I see using the suite upstairs, and they don’t seem to notice me peering through my blinds in the basement window. I leave the apartment only for cheap food, bell peppers and onions and tofu and rice from the Vietnamese grocer on Dundas Street, using the cash I took from the machine while it still worked. My key still fits in the lock whenever I return, and what few belongings I have are always there.

  My money dwindles and all but disappears. No one visits.

  It takes a week of false starts and careless errors to sand the glue and residue off the broken panel, affix the large mirror to its inner surface, and polish the glass inside the box until the reflection is free of oily fingerprints and dust. I test the alignment of the refurbished panel with the rest of the box and make small corrections, careful to never fully enclose myself inside. Buddy stands on the roof of the box and observes.

  Cautious about inexplicable prying eyes, I drape towels over every mirror and reflective surface in the house, and without day–night cycles I soon lose track of time. I read and reread John’s decoded pages, and try cipher after cipher on the remaining sections of his lab notebook. Using whatsyoursamplesize as the key, I unlock a third section of the notebook, and pore over it for any crucial information. There’s no longer a couch to sit on, there wasn’t a television to begin with, and the few CDs in the apartment are from my undergraduate days in Vancouver and bring me no comfort. Every sound outside makes me hold my breath and listen. I stop putting Buddy back in his cage, and some nights I wake and see his two glistening eyes looking at me from the end of the bed. If he judges me, he stays silent about it. In exchange, I clean up his shit wherever I find it.

  Nearly everything is ready. The box is as complete and perfect as I can make it. One pouch of earth should be enough for my journey, and I have Buddy for a guide. But first I have some unfinished business.

  —

  Throughout the day I peek out the basement window, waiting for dusk. When it finally comes, I unveil the mirror above the washroom sink. My head looks round and fuzzy, like a tennis ball, so I use the electric razor to trim the hair back. I shower and shave and take a good look. The face is thin, the eyes are sunken, but the line of cheek and jaw isn’t displeasing. The short haircut makes me look younger. Altogether my appearance isn’t as horrible as it could be. And though I’m the only figure in the reflection, I cover the mirror again to be safe and leave the bathroom.

  I put on my best clothes, black pants and a white collared shirt. As I dress, I rehearse lines of dialogue, witticisms, the act of smiling. Blood swishes through my ears and my heart is racing. Buddy watches me muttering to myself.

  “I’m nervous,” I say to him. “Isn’t that absurd?”

  He doesn’t respond, only twitches his nose and turns away.

  After bundling myself in warm layers, I slip on my winter boots and leave the apartment.

  Outside it is dark and quiet. The city lights reflect off the cloud cover and so the sky has a little pink and orange mixed in the deep blue. Winter has arrived, and fat flakes of snow fall gently to earth. This first layer quickly melts and chills the surface of Toronto. Snowfall passes through the electric-yellow light of the street lamps in a steady, curved current. It is beautiful. Flakes land on my shoulders and in my grey knitted scarf. They melt on my face like cold kisses.

  It’s a short walk down the street to the Cuckoo. Through its bay window, I can see her, the life of the party and the centre of her friends’ attention. Nicole.

  My focus shifts to my reflection, to the glint of a mirrored streetcar rumbling down Dundas. There are no shadowy figures but still I expect they’re watching. There isn’t any more time to waste. I take a deep breath and enter the bar.

  Moving toward Nicole’s table, I recognize Lee and Brian among the group, their elbows and thighs pressed against each other, their smiles private, their presence at the table only cursory. It isn’t surprising that Steve is absent. I raise a
hand in greeting to them and they stare, puzzled, and look to each other for clarity.

  On the other side of the table is the woman with whom I used to live. At first the group continues to chirp, to drink, to chuckle, to gaze in Nicole’s direction. Then my looming presence begins to weigh on them until they become quiet and agitated. Attention shifts to me, Nicole’s last of all. She looks at me, really looks at me, and I cannot help but smile. She smiles in return, but there is something strange in it. She is sizing me up.

  “Hi,” I say to her. I can feel all eyes on me.

  “Hello,” she says. She wears a simple dress and leggings for warmth and less make-up than her usual. She looks perfect.

  “Happy birthday,” I tell her.

  Her smile broadens, her eyes squint a little, and she cocks her head to the side ever so slightly. I have seen this look before.

  “Where do I know you from?” she asks. My smile falters.

  Someone at the table coughs. I glance at Brian and Lee. Brian turns away, uncomfortable, but Lee stares back with some kind of abstract concern. I am just a sickly-looking stranger standing over a crowd of friends at a birthday party.

  “Oh Christ,” I say. “O.K. There are a few things I need to say to you, Nicole. Please. I don’t think it’ll take too long.”

  It feels as though the group is holding its collective breath. Only Nicole looks relaxed.

  “You don’t have to trust me,” I say. My throat is dry and it makes my voice hoarse. “You just have to be too intrigued to say no.”

  Her gaze hasn’t broken from mine and in it I feel no judgement, only curiosity. She takes a moment before she speaks. “Sure, I’ll listen. Provided you stop standing awkwardly over the table.”

  And while she pokes fun at me, there is only kindness in her manner.

  —

  The walk is her idea but it is exactly what I wanted. We move south down a side street, into the neighbourhood of her new apartment. At first we are silent. Snow tumbles down and the streets are cold enough now that it sticks to the hoods of cars and the branches of trees. We are two black shapes moving across a pale landscape.

  Nicole matches my pace step for step but does not look at me.