“I never hardly, then. I wants to see it now.”
“What do you want that for?”
“I wants to be a farmer when I gets growed. Didn’t you know?”
“What?”
“A farmer. Like you is.”
He stood up, stepped away from her, stared down at the tiny elf girl drowning in layers of wool and plaid. She stared back, and her face was bright and open. No wetness in her eyes, no fear of him. Something else there instead, and Eli’s heart fluttered, felt as though it were filling and draining at the same time.
“A farmer, you says.”
Big smile and nods.
He looked behind him, at his tools, and his barrels of vegetables, dirt still clinging to the skin. He glanced at the dark corners where he had severed throats, wrung necks, culled litters. He inhaled, smelled the sour stench of hens, uneaten scratch clawed into the mud, rotting. “That you won’t then.”
Pinprick, face falling. “But, I, me—”
“Don’t let me catch you in here. Or out in those fields.”
“But, DeeDee, she do.”
Slight snarl. “That don’t matter.”
The child never asked why, never whined. Slipped out of the coat, handed it back. “Here,” she said. “Don’t want you catching the colds neither.” Then she toddled away, dragging her feet in the boots.
“Angie!”
She stopped. “Yes, Daddy?”
“I. Well, I wants to tell you something, now,” he said, and pinched his nose, swiped thumb and forefinger on the leg of his trousers. “I wants to say something, and I wants you to tuck it away for later.”
“Promise, Daddy.”
He went to her, bent again on his aching knee, plucked splinters of wood from the nubby sweater. Cupping her chubby cheeks his bear paws, he said, “Some people don’t need dirt to grow something good.” He coughed to loosen the words, caught in the thick tangle of netting around his heart. “Some people is bound for better things.”
17
WILDA WAS SEATED at the kitchen table, flipping pages in the news paper, when several words lifted off the page, made her stomach drop, mouth go dry. Leaning in closer, she scanned the page more carefully, found what her heart had already seen. The obituary section. Shallow breaths through parted lips, she blinked rapidly as her gaze sped over the entry. Mrs. Jessie Burry. Suffered from heart disease. Predeceased by her parents, Mary and James Smith, her husband, Edward, and infant son, John. Survived by her sister-in-law, Anita Andrews (Wayne), and her daughter Wilda. And that was it. A scant summary, laid out in neat black font. Wilda closed the newspaper, folded it, pushed it to the other side of the table. Those were the bare bones of her mother’s life. The bare bones of her dead mother’s life.
She felt light-headed, poured a glass of juice and sipped, waited for some sugar to seep into her veins. Teeter Beach was such a small village, why had her mother’s obituary been published province-wide? Staring at the newspaper, she was certain her aunt, a decent woman, had wanted word of the death to reach Wilda. To know the blood tie had been severed, the mind tie might follow. But, sitting there, Wilda could not grasp the possibility that the woman was really gone, even though she sensed the knowledge was hovering around her, pricking her, wanting to find its way in.
Laying her face down on the cold tabletop, she closed her eyes, hoping her dizziness might fade. She shook slightly when she thought about her mother. This was something she had never told Lewis, and never would. There was no way to mouth these words. So snarled throughout Wilda’s flesh, handfuls of rusty hooks, pulling them out would completely ruin her.
Wilda was only seven years old when her mother dragged her into an empty barn. Made her look at the sticky puddle in the middle of the pig pen. “That’s your doing,” she had cried. “Your doing. He loved you. And this is how you look after him?”
Her mother had said, no, no, no, for God’s sakes, not in his state, but little Wilda still nagged her father to kill the pig. She sang out the words, roast and gravy, chops and hocks, roast and gravy, chops and hocks, until her father hoisted himself up off the worn stump beside the wood pile, stumbled into the barn. Her mother yelling out to Wilda, “Watch he don’t hurt himself.” And her father laughed, said, “Oh, she’s re– re– re– pons-ble, maid. She got ’old of me heart.”
She remembered when he struck the pig between the pink ears with a mallet, tying the tiny ankles with rope. Once air borne, the pig was swinging slowly to and fro, and it gently bumped Wilda’s father as he approached, almost knocked him over. He found a knife, stuck into a support post, and he wriggled it free, slurred, “Close down yer, close down yer h’eyes, Cookie.” Gripping a wee hock with one hand, he pressed the blade into the neck with the other. Slicing back and forth, blade moving with rapid, sloppy strikes, and after a moment’s hesitation, blood squirting, splattering on the muddy floor. He leaned in, several more slashes, head nearly severed. Her father swayed, rich color pouring over his hands, onto his shirt sleeves. And then he stopped, dropped the blade, held out his arm, and turned his face towards Wilda. Expression of drunken confusion. He stared down at his hand, his wrist. But all Wilda could see was that the sharp blade had cut clear through the plaid fabric of his sleeve.
Wilda watched that day. Watched as her father reached for the pig, clutched its jaw, fingers slipping, then lunged for the ankles, up high, grasping the end of rope that trailed down between the pig’s pinched legs. Blood spurting, spurting from the flank, and Wilda could not understand how her pig had been cut all the way up there, in the very place where her father was holding. “Help me, Willie,” he said. “God, help me.” His voice sounded like it was coming from behind her, above her.
His face had turned gray, and at that moment, he let go of the rope, and collapsed.
She did nothing. Nothing. Besides skip outside into the warm sunshine, find her twin dolls in the overgrown grass. She was giggling, playing house, and at the same time her father slowly died in the barn.
Wilda jumped up, glanced at the boys, their backs to her, like two small strangers plastered together on the chesterfield, watching cartoons, giggling. “I don’t feel... I’ve got to—,” she mumbled. “I’ve got to go out for a spell. Some air.” To calm myself. They hadn’t heard her whispers. But no matter. She wouldn’t be gone long. Just enough to sooth the agitation in her legs, her racing pulse. She lifted the keys from the hook, and slipped out the door.
WINTER MONTHS WERE slow on the farm, and Garrett Glass spent most of his days working at Clarey’s Paints and Carpets. Mr. Clarey gave him two dollars and seventy-five cents an hour, and after Garrett had worked there for nearly five months, he also gave him a key. Made of brass, red braided string knotted through the hole, Garrett kept it inside the buttoned pocket of his only dress shirt. He took his new responsibilities very seriously, opening the store not a minute before nine, and locking it at five on the nose every evening. He was meticulous with the money, keeping note of every can of paint sold, every brush, and felt a rush of pride each time the cash register shot out, bumped gently into that area beneath his hips. Garrett had big dreams, hoped someday to stop working the farm altogether, and to keep his fingernails clean while managing Mr. Clarey’s shop.
Though Mr. Clarey might not approve, several nights Garrett had slept there. But only if the snow was particularly heavy, and he couldn’t tolerate the long trudge home to the farm. He would flick off the fluorescent lights, and once the gray light had faded he would hide down between the enormous rolls of carpet and linoleum, cover up with his winter coat, drift off while imagining he owned everything that surrounded him. That he was a young man of real substance. An attractive man that the young ones might admire. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, his bones would begin to ache, and he would unroll a few feet of carpet, fold them over, sleep on the soft charcoal sponge that covered the underside. He would lay his face directly against it, rub his fingers over the smooth rubbery surface. There was pleasure in the fact tha
t no person had ever touched his feet to this product. It was pure and completely clean.
The night before, the clouds had been heavy and the wind was making the building gripe, so Garrett locked the door and switched out the lights. He ate the rest of his bologna sandwich in silence, drank handfuls of water from the sink in the bathroom near the back. Removed his good shirt, hung it on Mr. Clarey’s vinyl chair in the office. He lay down in his secret place, and soon drifted. Only to be awoken by drunks stumbling home from the lodge, a man even stopping in the entry way of the shop to piss. Then a woman squatting, her girlfriends hooting with laughter. Garrett felt his heart bang in his chest, angry at the shamelessness, even in the light of the street lamp, faces clear through the window, liquid spattering door and step. He recognized them, but would never say their names. An hour or more later, after he had calmed down, he was startled again by the knob rattling, and he peered out from beneath the roll, saw a man and woman tucked into the small space, her dark coat and open palms pressed against the glass in the door. They were kissing for minutes and minutes, her head knocking against the door, and then, when they stopped, continued to linger, Garrett could hear her giggling, the sound creeping in around the wooden frame, reverberating in the empty store. The man grabbed her bare hand, tugged her up the street to God knows where to do God knows what. And Garrett lay there, wide awake, hands pinched between his bony thighs, lower half throbbing uncomfortably, and he wondered, What kind of love is that? Nothing like Garrett had ever experienced. Or would ever want to. Animals. No better than pigs barred up in a dirty pen.
In the morning, Garrett was stiff and sore and his eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. After he had dressed, washed his face, and put his shirt back on, he cracked open the front door. Several inches of snow had fallen, and Garrett took the shovel and the bucket of salt, cleared the steps, stained snow, layer of ice beneath it. His stomach turned, and he wanted to sluice hot water over it, but that would only freeze, make it treacherous. So, he turned his nighttime visitors into unusual dreams, bad dreams, nothing more, and closed the front door.
The store was empty until nearly noon, when Mrs. Pyke came in with her blond-haired son. Charming cowlick on his forehead, freckles spattered across his turned-up nose. With a terse nod from Mrs. Pyke, Garrett offered the youngster a lollipop. The boy accepted, and Garrett watched him peel off the waxy wrapper, lick and lick. “His room needs something,” Mrs. Pyke said. “Got to be easy to clean.” Though Garrett continued to be shy, his tongue shone the slightest shade of silver whenever he had to recommend flooring for a child’s room. Especially when it was a young boy. Garrett could talk a tightfisted mother into upgrading from indoor/outdoor to luxurious shag. Didn’t she want the best for her son? Could she imagine his poor knees, playing for hours with cars and blocks on such a rough and inexpensive surface? “If you only splurge in one room, Mrs. Pyke,” he said with a genuine smile, “have it be your boy’s.”
“I got to be able to wash it, now. He makes an ungodly mess.”
“You’ll be careful, now won’t you?” Garrett said, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the boy looked up, mouth open, lips and gums green from the lolly, and nodded.
“What about this one here?” she replied.
“That gets very cold in the winter. Touch it.”
And she hauled off her mitten, hand to the back of the linoleum.
“Hm. What about this?” She dug her fingers into a sample of pale blue shag.
“Yes, this one is nice. Has a long tuft, excellent quality yarn.”
“Bit much for an eight-year-old, I suppose.”
“Not at all,” Garrett replied, giving it a good rub. “He only has one childhood, Mrs. Pyke.”
“Don’t we all?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Is it on sale?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Where’s the owner?”
“Mr. Clarey won’t be in today.” Garrett stood a little taller.
“Do you know the measurements for the room?”
“No. Mr. Pyke will be taking those.” She ran her hand over the shag once again.
“Well, when you know that, I’ll see what I can do about the price. I’m sure I can shave something off it.” Garrett knew he could always take five, even ten percent off the purchase price without angering Mr. Clarey.
“Alright,” she said. “Alright. Okay. I doubts I’ll be back today. With this weather. Likely Monday. And you lays it?”
“Yes, we do. We does it all ourselves, Mrs. Pyke. Whenever it works for you.”
She purchased a mop and left. Garrett watched them through the front window, mother moving at a good clip, boy marching on the sidewalk behind her, mop hoisted onto his shoulder. He saw Garrett, and saluted him, and Garrett smiled, saluted back. What a delight! What an imagination! The child was worthy of such a fine floor covering, no doubt, and Garrett made a silent wish that she would return to complete the purchase. He could just picture the boy lying on the carpet, freshly bathed, and reading comics.
Garrett perched his bony backside on the edge of the window frame, stared up at the pinkish sky. The first few sprinklings of snow were drifting down, and then in a blink, lid on the jar loosened, the air was full of fat flakes. With this weather he was certain he’d have no more customers that afternoon, and Garrett went to the counter, found a dust rag, paused for a moment to listen to the lights buzzing, mice scratching and gnawing in the walls.
Though most might be bored, Garrett enjoyed these quiet times the best. What could be better than getting paid just to stretch his legs, wander about, and play games inside his head? One game he often played was Find the Child. Garrett would walk around the store, glancing this way and that, calling “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He only played it when he was certain he would be alone, as he had the penchant to lose himself completely in his fantasy. He glanced again at the snow batting the front of the shop, then he ran the dust rag over the counter, started down the main aisle, cleaning metal stands, rolls of linoleum.
Before long, Garrett invented whimpers coming from the very back of the store. The floor creaked as he circled around, and there, in a dim corner, he conjured a small child, maybe the Pyke boy, lost and crouching. “I knew it,” Garrett said aloud. “I thought I seen you come back.” But without his mother, the boy would be timid, would not meet Garrett’s eye. “It’s alright, you can come out.” If the boy moved forward, what would happen? Garrett thought of a dark puddle spreading on the floor, and his heart squeezed. In his nervousness, the boy could have peed, and it was now up to Garrett to respond. He could reach into his pocket, remove the carpet cutter that was always there, and expose the blade. Scrape his thumb across it, then waggle it under the boy’s nose. “You’re worse than a bloody dog. One flick, my son, and you’ll never piss again.” Then, of course, the child would cry with abandon, maybe even leak some more, and Garrett would haul back his words, kneel down and comfort him. “Shush, shush. I was only joking around for God’s sakes. Being silly.” Or, instead, he could suggest the boy slip out of his wet clothes, offer a small towel to wash himself, dangle the promise of an icy mug of cream soda when he was dry.
For today, Garrett would imagine the second approach. From the bathroom, he tore the hardened towel from the rack, went back to the scene, and held it out. “We’ll call your mommy later. Let her worry a bit, hey?” he said to the empty corner. “Serve them right.” And Garrett’s tongue grew sandpaper as the dream-boy edged forward, stood, stains on his corduroys reaching his knees. With perfect small fingers, he didn’t hesitate as he unsnapped his trousers, bent and pulled.
EVERY MONTH, like clockwork, a letter would arrive from Francis. When six weeks has passed with no word, Wilda began walking to the mail every afternoon to check. In sunshine or slanting rain, she often left the boys playing tin soldiers on the carpet, and walked down the lane, up onto the main road, and into the corner store. Past all the canned foods, bags of bread, freezers filled with Popsicles and
Drumsticks, she would slip into the shadowy back hall. Box sixty-one. Twisting the key, she’d bend, peer though the tunnel and into the office hidden behind, a counter with brown-papered boxes, an abandoned sandwich on a plate. Most days, the box was empty, or holding only a bill or a curled catalogue, but on this particular afternoon she spied a cream-colored envelope. She reached in, let her hand and wrist cover it, slowly slid it out with her fingertips. A letter. For Mrs. Wilda Trench.
Nothing like the regular notes she would receive from Francis. This was a formal envelope, typed address, printed business-style stamp rather than a licked square. At first she believed it was related to her mother. Perhaps, in the weeks since the woman had died, someone had decided to track Wilda down. But when she looked closely, Wilda saw the return address: The offices of Johnston and Eddy. A letter from the city. Francis, then. Oh, oh. Francis. She held it up to the low-wattage lightbulb, squeezed the quality paper. There was something hard inside. Something that was surely a key.
Envelope tucked into her pocket, she hurried home in a downpour, stopped on the mat in the kitchen, water dripping off her coat, splatting near her feet. She looked at the papered walls and painted cupboards, the red plastic tub in the sink still filled with iridescent bubbles. The dusty glass light fixture hanging over the table, the linoleum, hexagonal pattern, the two small heads blocking the television set. As she stood there in her sodden clothes, everything suddenly felt foreign. She could not identify a single trace of herself. As though, all those years ago, she had stepped into a world fully formed. Had existed in it ever since.
She placed her hand against her abdomen, heard the envelope crinkle. Her head began to pound as a stampede of emo–tions charged her. Recent news of her mother’s death clanging against her awareness that Francis was gone. Missing from this world. The two thoughts, opposing spectrums, smashing, disintegrating, leaving Wilda curiously numb.
Toby squealed, cried “slug bug, slug bug,” and she saw him punch Melvin in the arm. Wrestling now, they dove into the displaced cushions, laughing hysterically and pinching each other. In moments, she knew one of the two would be crying. Likely Melvin, and Wilda slipped quickly into her bedroom, closed the door, drew the curtains. She could not be a comfort, now. Could not do the motions, bending, kissing, cuddling, when her chest was bruised. Seated on the edge of the mattress in her cold coat, envelope now beside her on the peach-colored bedspread, her hands shook, she did not trust herself to open it, reveal the certain opportunity inside. She bit her nails, waited, listened for the crying, and when none came, she plucked up the letter. Began to search for a place to hide it.
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