The Journey Prize Stories 30

by Sharon Bala

  Sammy-Jo drops to the floor, starts kicking and screaming for Santa and a candy cane and a unicorn and whatever else pops into her head.

  “Every moment is precious,” some guy named Franklin says from behind the counter. “Shouldn’t your portraits be too?”

  I’m wearing a little black dress. I think I look hot. And I told Kyle, to make up for sneaking me outta the window, he’d better show up in a suit and tie. Which reminds me. Where the frick is he? I say we have an appointment. Tell Sammy-Jo, enough already. Search my purse for the Harte’s Holidaze Coupon I cut outta the flyer.

  Franklin hauls out a binder. “You have a choice of photographic backgrounds.”

  Mom tried for years to get a decent family portrait of us. But it never worked out. One year me and Donna got chicken pox. The next year it was the mumps. Year after that, Mom shipped us back to Truro to live with Gran. And so it went. It wasn’t intentional or anything. Just like me getting knocked up at fifteen. No way was I having my picture taken. I wound up looking like a frickin’ beached whale. Besides, Mom and Ray kicked me out once they found out I was pregnant, so getting a family portrait was kinda moot.

  I find my coupon, but can’t decide on the backdrop. I ask Donna what she thinks, but she couldn’t care less. Sammy-Jo’s busy with her tantrum. And Kyle’s still not here to offer an opinion.

  I nix the tropical beach. Decide on a winter scene with a sled.

  “Good choice,” Franklin says, and leaves to set things up.

  Donna bribes Sammy-Jo off the floor with lip gloss.

  “Don’t put that crap on her face.”

  “Take a chill pill,” Donna says. “Pucker up, Buttercup.”

  She pretends to add lip gloss. Sammy-Jo smacks her lips.

  “Everything’s ready,” Franklin says. “If you’ll please come this way.”

  “We can’t. My boyfriend’s not here yet.”

  “Kyle’s not here,” Donna says. “Surprise. Surprise.”

  “Kyle’s a dick,” Sammy-Jo says.

  Donna laughs.

  My kid starts running in circles. “Kyle’s a dick. Kyle’s a dick.”

  Donna’s in tears, she’s laughing so hard.

  “Stop encouraging her. Sammy-Jo, don’t talk like that about your father.”

  “Maybe he should act like one,” Donna says.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be teaching Sammy-Jo to call her father a dick.”

  Franklin clears his throat. “Every moment is precious. But I really don’t have time for this.”

  “He’ll be here any minute,” I say.

  “Really,” Franklin says. “I’d like to accommodate you but—”

  “Any minute.” And I flop into a chair.

  Donna reads to Sammy-Jo. I watch the clock, flip through magazines.

  I catch up on celebrity gossip. Pick up tips on how to get the most kissable lips. Although, it’s not like Kyle’s gonna benefit cuz by now I’m totally pissed. I check out flyers. Give Sammy-Jo a juice box.

  Donna yawns. “Ten bucks Kyle’s a no show.”

  “He’ll be here,” I say.

  I give Donna an evil look. And a half-hour later, ten one-dollar bills.

  * * *

  —

  On Friday, two women from the Ladies’ Auxiliary of the Immaculate Deception show up at our door. One’s sprouted green felt antlers with bells and a flashing red nose. The other’s wearing Spock ears and is dressed like Mrs. Claus. Both are carrying baskets filled to the brim with Christian charity.

  “Merry Christmas,” says Mrs. Claus.

  “Joyeux Noël,” says Rudolph.

  “Who’s there?” Tina shouts from the kitchen.

  “It’s freaks bearing gifts!”

  Mrs. Claus gives me this look. Uh oh. I think I just got put on the naughty list.

  Rudolph frowns, whispers to Mrs. Claus, “I thought this would be a lot more fun.”

  Tina rushes to the door. She looks forward to their visit every year. Gives her a chance to talk about religion, now that the Jehovah’s Witnesses stay clear of our place.

  “Come in,” Tina says. “Please excuse the mess.”

  Mess. What mess? We’ve been scrubbing the place for days, used so much liquid disinfectant that the house reeks of pine, and we don’t even have a tree up yet.

  I step aside to let them in.

  The Ladies’ Auxiliary of the Immaculate Deception show up every year around this time. They come bringing frozen turkeys, boxes of instant mashed potatoes, expired pudding pie mix, and the promise of salvation. Every year, it’s like the Island of Misfit Toys under the Christmas tree.

  “There’s more out in the car,” Rudolph says.

  I grab my coat, slip on boots. I hate having to rely on the kindness of strangers. I wish Kyle would step up, frickin’ show up for a change. I don’t want Sammy-Jo growing up with slunkys instead of slinkys under the Christmas tree, pamphlets about fire and brimstone stuffed in her stocking.

  The driveway’s slippery. I wipe out beside their car.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  The voice belongs to a sexy elf with bleached-blond hair. She’s holding a turkey. There’s something vaguely familiar. Not about the turkey but the elf. Oh shit. It’s you-know-frickin’-who. I stand and brush myself off. I grab a box from the trunk, hoping she doesn’t recognize me.

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Positive.”

  We head toward the house.

  “Don’t we know one another?” she says.

  “I don’t think so.”

  We drop off the turkey and a box of hand-me-downs. Enza and Janine are singing carols with Mrs. Claus. Tina’s debating with Rudolph the likelihood of some virgin giving birth in a manger. We head back to the car.

  “I’ve got it. You went to JHC. I never forget a face. Or a name. It’s Amethyst, right?”

  “Wrong.”

  “Quartz?”

  Quartz? Bitch, seriously?

  “It’s Amber.”

  “Amber…That’s it. I knew it was something different. It’s me. Karen Russell. Don’t you remember? We had a couple of grade ten classes together. I mean, we did, until you disappeared second semester. Weren’t you going out with Kyle Reimer back then?”

  “I was. I still am.”

  “Huh…You don’t say.”

  I do say. Like fuck off, bitch.

  “Say what?” Donna asks.

  Donna’s holding a saw in one hand, the trunk of a Christmas tree in the other. She’s covered in pine needles. So’s the sidewalk

  “Karen made fun of me in high school.”

  Karen shakes her head. Bells jingle. “I don’t think so.”

  “Ya, you did. You used to call me halfro, watermelon bum.”

  “Is she the one?” Donna asks

  I nod

  “You’re mistaken,” Karen says.

  “Whoreo Cookie,” me and Donna say together.

  “Look…I’m just in town for the holidays. I’m only trying to help my mother spread a little Christmas cheer.”

  “Is that what they’re calling the clap nowadays?” Donna says.

  I laugh.

  Karen glares, starts using words no respectable elf would say.

  “Where’s the beef?” Janine shouts from the stoop.

  Karen stomps toward the front door.

  “Where’d the tree come from?” I say to Donna.

  “Do you really want to know?” she says.

  * * *

  —

  My mom’s such a know-it-all. Tells me Kyle’s never gonna buy the cow when he can get the milk for free. So not only am I a slut, but I’m a stupid slut. Which is why Donna’s the mastermind, Janine’s the driver, Enza and Tina are on lookout, and I’m on the fence. We’re parked a few houses down from Kyle’s place. It’s late at night. The lights are off at the house and there’s no vehicles in the driveway.

  “I dunno. I still think this is a bad
idea.”

  Donna shakes her head.

  “Oh my God,” she says. “Will you grow a pair already?”

  “What if we get caught?”

  “We’re not going to get caught.”

  “We’re on a mission,” Janine says. “A mission from God.”

  Enza nods. “Ain’t that the mother-fucking truth.”

  Tina high-fives Janine, and she smiles. It’s good to see Janine smile again. She’s been kinda depressed lately, thanks to her new job executing chickens for Castle Brand, and the vegetarian diet she’s gone on to get her job back at Castaways.

  “He’s gonna know it was me,” I say. “What if he goes to the cops?”

  “Go to the cops?” Enza says. “And what’s he gonna tell ’em?”

  “No kidding,” Tina says. “Excuse me, officer, but my ex stole the stash of nudie pics I took of her.”

  Donna’s getting restless in the front seat. “We doing this or what?”

  “Maybe he got rid of them like he promised.”

  “Sure,” Donna says. “Cuz, if there’s one thing we know about Kyle, is he’s the kinda guy who keeps his word.”

  “Nobody puts baby in the corner,” Janine says.

  Kyle was supposed to go with me to my staff Christmas party. Instead, he cancelled and went on a ski trip with his family. Said he needed a break cuz I’m too demanding. I told him to fuck off. That the only thing I needed from him were the Polaroids back.

  “Keep the engine running,” I say.

  Me and Donna get out of the car. I’m wearing a low-cut, sparkly cocktail dress under my coat. I can’t stop shivering. It’s cold. Plus, I’m frickin’ nervous about this whole B and E situation.

  Donna weaves her way toward the house. I try and keep up but I’m kinda at a disadvantage. I’m wearing four-inch heels and I downed way more B-52s than she did.

  Donna falls into a snowbank.

  I stumble over.

  “Holy crap. Are you okay?”

  My sister laughs. “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

  She starts making a snow angel.

  I yank her to her feet.

  “What about footprints?” I say, pointing at the trail behind us.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Donna says, and we walk single file, backwards, into the yard.

  The spare key’s right where it always is, in the gazebo above the doorjamb. I got butterflies in my stomach. I unlock the door. Feel like I’m gonna barf a little. We step inside. Donna turns on a flashlight. I turn off the alarm.

  “Lead the way,” Donna says, shining the flashlight. We head down the hall. Halfway up the winding staircase, she comes to a halt.

  “Man,” Donna says. “Now, that’s what I call a crime scene.”

  “Motherfucker,” I say. There’s a ginormous new portrait hanging on the wall. Kyle and his family wearing identical holiday sweaters.

  “It looks like Christmas fucking threw up all over them,” Donna says.

  We get to the top of the stairs

  “Which way?”

  “Follow me.”

  We head for Kyle’s bedroom. Step inside

  Donna sits on the edge of the bed. “So this is where the magic happens,” she says, dropping a pair of Kyle’s boxers onto the floor

  “Ha,” I say. “Very funny.”

  I head for the nightstand. Open the drawer. Inside, there’s a pile of mismatched socks, a stash of rubbers, and some rolling papers

  “They’re not here,” I say. “What am I doing? This is stupid. What if he got rid of them like he promised?”

  “This is Kyle we’re talking about. Remember?”

  She gets up, starts rifling through his dresser

  I trade places and lie down

  “Anything?”

  “Nope,” Donna says

  I get bed spins. Turn on my side

  Donna searches Kyle’s closet, tossing clothes onto the floor. It reminds me of when we were little. Mom started drinking after Dad left. Like, a lot. After she’d pass out, me and Donna would comb the house for hidden bottles. Dump the contents of whatever we found down the sink. Mom was good at hiding her booze, but my sister was better at finding it.

  “Up,” Donna says

  I get off the bed. Lean against the wall cuz I’m feeling a little woozy. Donna gropes along the mattress edge, looks under the bed. Finds nothing but dust bunnies and clothes way overdue for laundry.

  “Give me a hand.”

  I help lift the mattress.

  “Hurry up,” I say. “This thing weighs a ton.”

  “Jackpot,” Donna says. She grabs an envelope from between the mattress and box-spring. I drop the mattress and take the envelope from Donna.

  “Motherfucker,” I say. “Kyle frickin’ swore he got rid of them.”

  The envelope’s worn around the edges and wrapped with an elastic. I remove the rubber band. Donna shines the flashlight and I peek inside.

  “I’m gonna be sick,” I say.

  I run to the can. Puke in the toilet.

  “You okay?” Donna says, as I rinse my mouth with water from the tap.

  “No. Not really.” I give her the envelope. Seems I’m not the only one Kyle’s been playing dress-up with.

  Donna starts flipping through snapshots.

  “What a Grade A douche-bag,” Donna says. “Isn’t that…?”

  “Yup.” Looks like Karen Russell still fits her cheerleading outfit from JHC.

  “I wanna go home.”

  “Not yet,” Donna says, and drags me back to Kyle’s bedroom.

  I watch her poke holes in Kyle’s condoms. Pocket his hash pipe and rolling papers. She starts trashing the bedroom.

  “Come on,” Donna says. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  I do. But it doesn’t.

  Kyle’s camera’s on the floor, next to the bed. Donna picks it up.

  “Say cheese,” she says. I do. I also double-flip the bird.

  There’s a whir. A click. A chemical smell.

  Once the photo’s developed, I tuck it under Kyle’s mattress.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say, making a run for it.

  * * *

  —

  I’m almost outta tears and the gas tank’s close to empty. So we stop at a filling station on the way home.

  Janine gets out to pump gas.

  It’s snowing. Looks pretty against the streetlights. It’s like we’re trapped inside a snow globe that’s been turned upside down and shaken.

  “I’m gonna be sick.”

  I stumble outta the back seat. Stagger toward the can.

  “Wait up,” Tina says.

  Enza and Donna chase after me. Tina’s close behind.

  Inside the filling station, it smells like rubber tires and old hot dogs.

  “Merry Christmas, Enza,” the clerk says from behind the counter.

  “Merry Christmas, Jimmy,” Enza says.

  The can’s disgusting. But beggars can’t be choosers. Enza holds my hair while I woof my cookies into the toilet.

  “She okay?” Donna asks.

  “She will be,” Tina says.

  When I’m done, Enza flushes the toilet and helps me clean up in front of the sink.

  The mirror’s got this crack down the middle. Throws off my reflection.

  “I’m soooo frickin’ stupid.”

  “Fuck him,” Enza says.

  “Ya, to Hell with him,” Tina says, leaning against sink. “It’s his loss. Not yours.”

  Enza pulls out a Sharpie. She writes the letter K on the bathroom wall as Donna pulls a pack of Export As from outta her purse.

  Donna lights a smoke. Takes a drag.

  Enza adds the rest of Kyle’s name to the graffiti-covered wall.

  “Can I borrow your Bic?” I say.

  My sister passes me her lighter. I grab the Polaroids from my coat pocket. Toss them into the sink as Janine walks into the can.

  “This message will self-destruct in thirty-seven sec
onds,” Janine says.

  I set the Polaroids on fire. And under harsh fluorescent lights, we huddle together and watch them burn.

  SHASHI BHAT

  MUTE

  Everyone was drunk. It felt like a Cheever story—or maybe I only thought that because he was all over the syllabus of our Character Development class, where the professor read stories aloud to us with beautiful enunciation and told us about the old days when he used to drink with Cheever. I felt as though I had ascended into this world where writers were real people you knew. I felt ashamed of having not yet published anything.

  A month and a half earlier I’d moved to Baltimore to attend a graduate writing program. My classmates seemed overwhelmingly American; up until then I had lived in Halifax. Baltimore was a port city, but not like Halifax, where you always remembered you were near the ocean. In Baltimore you always remembered you were near drug crime. My classmates—there were nine of them—had New York or Southern accents, and they boomed over my head. Had I been this quiet in Canada? I couldn’t remember. In bars, my classmates always knew what drinks to order and were decisive about where to sit or stand.

  We were at a department reception at the faculty club. Rooms opened into rooms. Each room had a name: “The Nobel Room,” “The Milton Eisenhower Room,” etc. They had crown moulding on high ceilings and tall windows with pleated brocade curtains. All of the employees were African-American and dressed like Forest Whitaker in Lee Daniels’ The Butler. They carried silver trays covered with bits of puff pastry and skewered scallops topped with pea sprouts and ginger miso cream. There was an open bar.

  When I entered, I found five of my classmates discussing their midterm teaching evaluations. “I read mine after like half a bottle of limoncello,” said Natasha, whose lipstick had left a perfect red half-lip on her wine glass.

  “Mine were excellent overall,” said Murphy, who was wearing a bowtie and speaking in a maybe-ironic voice. “I plan to address the constructive criticism over the next few weeks.”

  Most of them had received comments calling them inspiring and complimenting their clothing or facial features. I could only remember the two bad ones I’d received, one of which said, “Though the course has the word ‘creative’ in its title, the instructor does not seem like a creative person,” and the other, “Spoke a lot, but said little.”