At the Edge of the World

by Jones, Kari;

  “Enough to pay off some debts and get me going again while I wait to get paid.” He turns to face me. “I’m getting a job. A real one,” he says.

  “Selling weed doesn’t count as a job,” I say, my voice trembling.

  Des shifts in his seat so he’s looking out the side window. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “I meant, I’m looking. I’m starting fresh. Turning over a new leaf. This thing with Pedro is a one-time deal. He knows that.”

  “Selling weed isn’t turning over a new leaf. It isn’t starting fresh. It’s just digging a bigger hole than you’re already in,” I say.

  “Jesus Christ, Ivan, nothing I do is ever good enough for you. I’m trying. Did you even notice I haven’t had a drink since before the storm?” Des pulls up under the trees in our driveway and stops the van. He yanks open the door and stomps into the house. I clench and unclench my hands to stop myself from using them to punch his face.

  By the time I’ve taken the firewood out of the van and stacked it beside the house, I’m breathing normally, but he’s already three beers down. So much for not drinking. There’s also already someone knocking at the door.

  “You Des?” the guy asks when I open the door. I shake my head and point to the kitchen. The man disappears into the room, and a few seconds later Des comes out and heads to the van, where he pulls out one of the backpacks. I don’t wait to watch the transaction. Instead, I head into town to look for Maddie.

  SIX

  Maddie

  “What are you doing?” Peter asks me a couple of days after the fire.

  “Studying.”

  “Why?”

  “You know, exams. Grade twelve. Important.” I wave my hand over the pile of papers in front of me.

  Peter takes a mug from the shelf and pours himself a cup of coffee. “I mean, why bother if you’re not going to university anyway?” He slams the mug onto the table like a challenge.

  “Fine.” I gather my notes into a pile.

  “No, Maddie, don’t be silly—keep studying.”

  “No. You’re totally right. Why study? I’m just an ignoramus who’s not going anywhere in life.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Maddie.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “Then you’re calling me an ignoramus too,” he says.

  “Exactly. We’ll be ignoramuses together.”

  He doesn’t even look at me as he rushes out of the room.

  * * *

  Bo finds me sobbing on the beach. It’s not very warm out, and I’ve wrapped my long cotton skirt around myself like a cocoon to keep warm.

  “How come he has to be so mean?” I ask, wiping my eyes.

  “Peter?”

  I nod.

  Bo sits down next to me and gathers a fistful of sand and rocks, which he lets trickle through his fingers. “He’s not being mean, he’s being scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “That you’re making your life harder than it has to be. Don’t underestimate how hard Peter had it when he was young.”

  “But that was him, not me.”

  “I know. But he loves you, and he doesn’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

  “What about you? Do you think I should go to Emily Carr?”

  Bo gathers another fistful of the beach. For a minute he looks out at the water, and I think he’s not going to answer, but then he says, “I don’t think you should go unless you want to. No one wants to teach students who don’t want to be there.”

  “That’s something you learned when you were teaching?”

  “Yep.”

  “So what do you think I should do?”

  “That’s up to you, Maddie, but if you aren’t going to university, and you want to spend some time traveling, you need to think about how you’re going to make that happen.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Bo pulls off his sweater and hands it to me. I pull it over my shoulders thankfully. Cotton skirts don’t add a lot of warmth.

  “Remember last year at the Salmon Festival you and Katia did those henna tattoos? I bet you could make some good change if you set up a stall at the market this summer,” Bo says.

  “You’ve been thinking about this,” I say.

  He shrugs and nods.

  “It’s brilliant. What a great idea. Thank you so much, Bo. It’s awesome, really.”

  He laughs. “It’s not that wonderful an idea. You’re still going to have to find a proper job at some point.”

  “No, it’s perfect. I loved making those tattoos.” I stand up and pull off Bo’s enormous sweater and hand it back to him. “I’m going to ask Katia right now if she still has any of those henna tubes. And I can look online for designs.” My skirt is a bit damp where I’ve been sitting on it, but I don’t care. “Thanks, Bo!” I almost run across the beach to the path. I’m heading up to the road to text Katia right now.

  * * *

  I set up my market stall on Saturday. It’s not as polished as some of the setups around me, but considering I pulled it off super quickly, I’m pretty proud of it. I should make some good money this summer drawing henna tattoos for tourists.

  By the time Ivan finds me late in the day, my hand is cramped from drawing for hours.

  “Draw me a dragon?” Ivan asks, sticking his arm out.

  “A dragon?” The walls of my stall are covered with photos of flower designs I found online. Ornate, Indian inspired. Perfect for henna tattoos, mostly for little girls and their mothers who want to look festive for a week or so.

  “A dragon with lots of fire. Try Google,” says Ivan. He sits in the chair, his arm still thrust toward me like an offering. “Can you draw Smaug?”

  I haven’t said yes. My arm is rubbery and my fingers are stiff, but then again, it’s Ivan, and he smiles a very convincing smile at me, and I haven’t seen him in the last couple of days, so I tilt my head in agreement. “Okay.”

  I have my tablet with me, and after a short search I find a picture of Smaug good enough to paint from. I show Ivan, and he nods and settles into his chair.

  I turn over his arm so the soft skin underneath shows. His arm is thick, at least twice as wide as my own, and a blue vein travels its length. His pulse shows faintly near his wrist. There are patches of salt on his skin.

  “Surfing?” I ask.

  “We were out on Arne’s boat this morning.” He rubs at the salt.

  “What for?” I hand him a wet wipe from a box I have on hand.

  “Wood.” He rubs off the salt and holds his arm out again. The henna comes from India, via Katia’s trip there last summer, in small pouches shaped like the icing bags used for decorating cakes. I choose a fresh one and poise my hand above Ivan’s arm. The henna comes out smoothly, despite my stiff fingers. I can feel Ivan’s eyes on me, but I don’t look up. Drawing with henna takes concentration. When I’m done, I say, “Let it dry for an hour or so. It won’t last long if you’re in the water, surfing or whatever.”

  “I know,” he says. He runs a finger lightly along his arm.

  “Don’t touch!”

  “Are you done for today?” Ivan asks, dropping his hand.

  There’s no reason I shouldn’t close up. Most other stalls are already getting pulled down, but I shake my head. “I’ll stay open a little while longer.”

  Ivan looks around. “He’s not coming, you know. I saw Bo earlier and he told me Peter had locked himself in the studio for the day.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Stop waiting for him, Maddie. He isn’t coming.”

  “He might.”

  Ivan shakes his head. “Believe me, he’s not coming. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “I guess,” I say, though I don’t want to believe him.

  I unpeg all of the sarongs I've used as walls and shuffle the pictures of henna designs back into a plastic sleeve, then place everything in my market basket along with the henna tubes. The empty frame of the tent collapses onto itself by bending the poles, and the
chairs fold and then slide into cases. My little piece of the exotic East disappears for the week. There are still a few people milling around the market, but I’m tired. I’m done. And Ivan’s right. There’s no point waiting for Peter. He’s never going to come.

  “You need help carrying all that,” Ivan says. It’s not a question.

  “Bo helped me get here this morning,” I say.

  “Then you need help getting back.”

  I hand him the tent and one chair. “But keep your arm as still as you can,” I say.

  The market is in town, near the harbor. We could walk home through town, past Ivan’s house, but that would mean I’d have to walk down the hill through the woods to my place, which would be tricky with all this stuff, so I head in the opposite direction, down a side road to the Legion Hall, then down the stairs to the beach. It’s a bit longer, but there are no hills involved.

  When we reach the beach, I kick off my shoes and balance them on top of the pile of stuff in my arms. We walk slowly, soaking in the sun and sand. It doesn’t matter that Ivan isn’t saying anything. I like having him with me.

  When we reach the path to his house, I ask, “Can I come up? To be honest, I don’t want to go home.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Peter’s not too happy with me right now.”

  “So what? He frowns at you when he says tut-tut?”

  “It’s not funny, Ivan.”

  “I know.”

  My stuff is heavy. The hard plastic of the chair digs into my shoulder. “So can I come up for a bit?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s a disaster.”

  “I don’t care. I haven’t been in your house for years. Why is that? You always come to mine.” The truth is, I think I know why I never go to his house. The place probably stinks, and I doubt if they ever do the dishes.

  “Really, it’s a mess,” Ivan says. He stands in such a way that I’d have to push past him to get onto the path, and when I try, he shifts so he blocks it even more.

  “Come on, I don’t care if it’s a mess.”

  “I do.” Ivan blushes, and for the first time I see it’s not that he’s trying to protect me from anything; he’s trying to protect himself. As if I would care that his house is a mess.

  “I just want to see more than the front hall of your house. It’s been ages. I can’t even remember what the inside looks like. Come on.”

  “Another time.” Ivan and I stare at each other.

  “Fine,” I say, and it comes out harsher than I intend it to, because I’m insulted that he thinks I would care.

  “I’ll clean it up soon.”

  “Yeah, sure. I guess I’ll go home,” I say as I take my stuff from him.

  “You’ll be fine, Maddie. Peter’ll come around.”

  “Okay, yeah, sure.” He doesn’t know what it’s like to live with someone who’s disappointed in you. He really doesn’t know.

  SEVEN

  Ivan

  I hate lying to Maddie. And I hate being so good at it. As if I care that my house is a mess. As if she would care.

  The van’s not at the house when I get back from the market, which I’m glad about. Des is the last person I want to see right now. I haven’t eaten all day, and I’m starving, so I pull a box of crackers out of the cupboard and scrounge around for something to put on them. There’s a half-empty jar of peanut butter. It makes a good snack but only fills me up enough to remind my stomach what food’s like.

  The two backpacks are propped against the wall. I resist the impulse to check them until the crackers are gone, but the temptation’s too strong. I lift the lid of the one closest to me and peer inside. I’m not sure what I expect to find. It’s been hours since I left, after all, so Des has had lots of time to hide the stuff away from me and anyone else who might be looking. I wish I’d thought of searching earlier though. I don’t trust Pedro worth shit. Who knows what else is hidden in those baggies? It would seriously be just like Des to get involved in something sketchy without even knowing it. There’s nothing in either backpack now except laundry, and I know it’ll be useless trying to figure out where Des has stashed it all. He’s been hiding bottles from me for years. Sometimes I find them, sometimes I don’t.

  My stomach growls.

  There are things in the fridge: a beet, some carrots and a head of lettuce, but no matter how long I stare at them, they don’t form into something I can make for dinner. Finally I give up and go to Jack’s house. Jack’s mother never lets me go without feeding me, and if I show up around dinnertime, she’ll always invite me to stay. Besides, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to sit at the table and eat with those backpacks staring at me.

  River and a couple of other guys from school stop by Jack’s place after dinner, so I hang out there until everyone leaves, then head home too, opening the door as quietly as possible, checking the house over, making sure all the cigarettes in the ashtray are properly out before slipping into my room without turning on any of the lights. It’s been a long day. I don’t need any more shit from Des.

  * * *

  For the next week, Des and I circle each other. I know he’s around, because every day when I come back from writing my finals, the pile of dishes in the sink grows, as does the pile of bottles in the bin. By the third day the backpacks are gone. I don’t know whether I’m trying to run into him or trying to avoid him. When school is finally over, I spend my days working on Bo’s shelving and helping him dismantle the remains of the burned shed. Bo says he’ll hire me to build a new one, which would be great. We need every penny I can make. I keep expecting Des to show up with some money, but he never does. Not for the first time, I’m grateful that Des inherited the house from my grandmother and we only have to pay the taxes on it every year.

  On Saturday morning I hear Des rustling in the bathroom, so I get up and there he is, standing in front of the mirror, shaving. His eyes look clear in the reflection, though I heard him coming in late last night, so I say, “What are you doing?”

  He scrapes the razor over his cheek, pulling a streak of shaving cream with it. “Good morning to you too,” he says.

  “I want some of the money.”

  He leans in to peer at his face. Runs his hand over his cheek to make sure he got all the stubble. He doesn’t answer.

  “Groceries, Des. I need money for food. And toilet paper would be good. And soap.”

  He nods but doesn’t say anything as he shaves the other cheek.

  I straighten, trying to take up as much of the doorway as possible. “Des, give me some money.”

  He runs water over the razor until the foam and hair swill around in the sink. “I spent it,” he says.

  “What? What the hell did you spend it on? Not food, that’s for sure.”

  “I had debts. And don’t worry, I’ll get groceries. And toilet paper. And soap. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m going to work today.” He looks at me through the mirror.

  It’s true. He has on a clean shirt and pants with no holes or anything. Even his socks match.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously.”

  “So you were telling the truth when you said you were looking for a job? That’s what you’ve been doing all week?”

  “Of course I was. When have I ever lied to you?”

  “Yeah right.”

  “Look, I’m meeting some guys today about a job. It’s going to be fine.” He rubs a towel across his face and runs his fingers through his hair. He smooths down his shirt and hangs the towel back on the rack. “Now move. I’m going to be late.”

  I jump out of the doorway to let him pass.

  * * *

  I spend the morning working. It’s possible Des has gotten a job. Maybe he is going to buy groceries. But probably he isn’t. Time will tell. Right now, I like spending time with my saw and a fresh plank of cedar. I love the way the cedar smell hits the air when I shave off a sliver of wood. The smoothness of it when it’s sanded; even the way the sawdus
t gets caught in the sunbeams and floats around. That thought makes me chuckle: I sound like Maddie.

  I’m halfway through measuring when Des comes home. He sits on the step and slurps a cup of coffee.

  “Do you have to sit there and watch me?” I ask. I was enjoying being alone. Having him here puts an edge on things.

  “What should I do then?” he says.

  I’m about to say go away, but then I think better of it and say, “You could help.”

  “But you’re doing such a good job,” he says.

  “Still.”

  He puts his cup down and stretches. “All right, hand me the tape measure.”

  We’ve done this for years, ever since I was old enough to hold a hammer and nails, and there’s a rhythm between us that feels easy. When we work together, Des and I get along.

  Des whistles as he works. I tell him about a white whale in Russia that Bo told me about.

  “No shit,” he says. “Arne told me about a black bear that’s got so used to the dump, the other day it ambled in, found a sofa someone dropped off and sat himself right down on it. Check it out,” he says, showing me a picture on his phone.

  It doesn’t take long before the shelf we’re working on is finished.

  “Thanks for your help,” I say as I wrap the cords and make sure all the bits are in the box. He sweeps up the sawdust.

  “So what’s the job?” I ask.

  “What job?”

  “The one you went to this morning.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  I snap the box of bits shut. “What do you mean, oh yeah? That’s not an answer.”

  He laughs. “Don’t be so worried. I’m doing transport and distribution.”

  “Of what?” I don’t like the sound of this at all, and my voice comes out rough.

  “Calm down. Of goods. Mostly for grocery and hardware stores.”

  That sounds okay. I stop and look at him to make sure he’s not lying. He doesn’t look away when I catch his eye.

  “So we are going to get some groceries?”

  “I said we would, didn’t I?”