by Alan Cumyn
“Do you think I want to crush your spirit? I don’t want you to stop working for beers. I love that you work for beers!”
“But before you said—”
“Forget what I said! What kind of marriage do you want? One where we keep track of who said what, like keeping a ... a cricket score?”
“Cricket? Since when do you care about cricket?”
“Since never! All I know is, the score gets too high to count. And you shouldn’t keep score, either!” She wraps me in her short, loving arms. Just like that, she looks as if she wants to be kissed.
“But what did we decide?” I ask.
We are both so tired we feel almost drunk. Silently, she gets back into bed. I snuggle in beside her. This is what I wanted. All along. Just to feel her. To hold her. “But what did we decide?” I ask once more.
The warmth, being warm again, feels so good. She presses her face against my chest. She says, “We will be interesting people. Together. All right?”
God, what a night! We must have said everything there is to say. And nothing else matters.
“All right,” I say. The rest is just cricket scores.
She kisses me. Oh. Again and again. “Go to sleep,” she says. “We are never doing this again.”
“You couldn’t pay me enough beers to ever do this again,” I say.
“Shut up,” Jess says.
We are warm, warm together.
“Even if you filled the fridge ...”
Her body tenses into a yawn. “No more. Please. Just. Shut up.”
She turns over and we snuggle even closer. Why couldn’t we do this hours ago? Our bodies feel wrapped in the same heavy skin. In a minute she is snoring. Snuffle-whiff, snuffle-whiff. Gentle, gentle. I pull her even tighter.
She hugs the arm I lay over her. I bury my drowsy face into her hair.
Dreamless sleep. Drained of everything. Warm together.
Slowly, the light changes. I sense the change and I don’t. Slowly, morning comes on.
Slowly, Jess wakes up. I see her in a dream, waking up. I am sleeping, but I see her somehow. Are my eyes open?
She sits up. “God! Gregor! Get it!”
I bolt awake. “What?”
“Get it! Get it! There!”
I twist out of bed and grab my shoe again. I hammer away, chasing the cockroach around and under the bed.
Jess screams, “It’s over there now! Go!”
“I’m trying! I’m trying!” I shout.
“There! There! Oh, God, get it!”
I whack the roach. Whack! Whack! There— got it! Jess runs into my arms, knocking me to the floor. “My hero!”
Oh, we kiss as if we are gasping for air. Like we should have kissed all last night! Instead of fighting. I manage to pick her up, then dump her back on the bed. I dive on top of her.
“Wait,” she says.
“What?”
“What time is it?”
“Really?” I groan. I scramble to find my watch. “It’s 9:07”
“What?”
Oh God, oh ... I spring out of bed. “It’s 9:07! 9:07! It’s seven minutes after bloody nine.”
Jess madly starts pulling on clothes. “Oh God! Oh God!” she cries.
I shove our one bowl of cereal towards her. “Here! Here!”
She almost knocks it with her elbow. “But you have to stack all those chairs,” she says. “You have it!”
We take turns eating cereal while trying to pull on clothes. She hurries into the black leggings she always wears when she tries out for a part. The long red top with the narrow sleeves.
“You have to go!” I say. “If you catch the subway—”
“I’ll never make it!”
“You can! You can!” We’ve made it this far. We made it through last night.
“Oh God, I’m just going to make a fool of myself.”
I help her into her winter coat. “You are stunning. You’ll be great. I love you. Now go!”
“You have to go to work, too!”
“I’m coming!” I say. “I’m coming! Just go!”
I push her out the door. I finish the last of the cereal, spilling milk on my work pants. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just be stacking chairs. I finish dressing and leave. As I close the door behind me, I slide the magazine under it. Maybe, maybe the lock will hold. How late am I? I don’t look at my watch. I run down the alley. The day is bright, the slush frozen. The city does not care if I am late for stacking chairs.
As I come around the corner, I see the bus pulling away. I run for it, knowing I won’t make it. It doesn’t matter.
The sun has come up and Peter is still dead. It occurs to me that now I have to love Jess for both of us.
I am running, running, even though the bus has already gone. When I get to the stop, I keep going. Yes, I think: Jess will make it to her audition. That’s what counts today. She will light the judges on fire.
Fire.
The hot plate.
The hot plate!
I left it on!
So I turn back, I run for my life. I imagine black smoke rolling out the window. It’s all my fault. My fault! But maybe I’m not too late.
We slept with it on all last night.
Around the corner, back along the alley. No smoke. Thank God! I fumble with the key, burst back in. There’s the hot plate, turned off.
Cooling quickly.
Jess is standing by the bed, her jacket off, boots off.
“We left the hot plate on!” I cry.
“I’m missing my audition,” she says.
“I know.”
“And you’re late for work.”
“I know! I know!”
“I almost got to the subway,” she says. “As soon as I remembered, I knew.” She locks eyes with me. “It was just like when my father died. The very same feeling.”
No, no. I know what she is going to say. “Wait a minute...”
But she keeps going. “I knew you would not remember.”
“There is no fire,” I say. “You feel bad because your father died, and now Peter died as well. I feel awful, too. But that’s not the same as forgetting to turn off the hot plate. We both remembered. We both came back here.”
She shakes her head slowly. “Too late to get to work. Too late for my audition. That’s the story of you and me right there.”
“Don’t say that! I don’t like where you’re—”
“Why couldn’t I say yes to you? Why not?”
“Don’t ask that question!”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
I try to hold her. “Because it’s not too late.”
“It is! It is too late.” Her body is shaking.
I say, “You still have time to put on something sad and black. You can still make it to the audition. You can knock them over with the story of how your father died ... just yesterday. You can act that, can’t you? And I can still make it in time to stack a million chairs.”
“You want me to lie about my father?” she says.
“Not lie,” I say. “Just tell a story. That’s how we all get through every day. We tell stories.” About Peter, about ourselves, who we are and who we love.
She hugs herself. “Is there any cereal left?” she asks.
“I finished it. I’m sorry. I will go out there and stack enough chairs to buy you all the breakfast cereal in the galaxy!” She looks so sad that I reach out and hold her. Then I run to the closet and pull out her black dress. The one she should have worn to Peter’s funeral. “Put it on! Put it on! For this moment, for why the universe has plotted to bring us back together.”
“Are you kidding? The only plot here is that we screwed up. I’m sorry. Last night was just ... I don’t see any way forward. You’re a great guy, you’re really talented, you make me laugh, I love you, but—”
I try to cover her mouth. “Don’t say but!”
“I have to say but. We have come to a certain ... a junction in our lives.”
I wave the
dress like a flag. “What do you mean, junction? A turning point, or a hiccup?”
“A crossroads, Gregor.” I imagine her walking down some road I am somehow not allowed to follow.
“No,” I say. “It’s not the right word, so I’m erasing that from today, all right?”
I wipe the air with the dress as if erasing something. She locks down the corners of her mouth. Trying not to laugh.
“You can’t just erase it,” she says. But she’s smiling. She is smiling!
I feel like I will burst from my skin. “You said ‘but,’ but you didn’t finish. So I get to erase it. Instead, I’m going to say this. I put the snake in the box for when I was going to propose because that’s how I feel about you.”
“What?”
I have her attention. She takes the dress from me, lays it on the bed.
“It’s how I feel about life with you,” I say. “It could be anything. It could be diamonds ...”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
“Would you let me finish?”
“You’re the one who stopped me from saying but. I’m just—”
We stare at one another. Finally I say, “Our life together could be a diamond ring. It could be a snake jumping up in our faces. It will probably be all that and more. But it will always be interesting. And without you ...”
My face feels wet. Jess pulls out a tissue.
“I don’t need that,” I say. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve.
“Without me, what?” she says. “Say it. You’re scared.”
“Of course I am,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“And I’m scared without you,” Jess says. “But is that a good reason to get married? Shouldn’t we both go out there alone and become strong? Shouldn’t we be able to stand on our own?”
“And later,” I say, “when we’re seventy, we can get married and whoop it up together in the old-age home.”
Another smile! She cannot resist me. Despite everything. She wiggles my chin. “Seventy is the new fifty.”
“That’s right,” I say. “And if we do our push-ups every day ...”
“I’ve never seen you do a push-up.”
I whip off my coat. “I’m starting right now!” I stretch out on the floor. “One, two, three, four.” I begin to struggle. It is harder than I thought. “Five ... Marry me! ... six ...” My arms are shaking. “Seven ... Marry me! ... eight ... nine ... ten!”
I collapse. Pathetic. Not at all how I want her to see me. I squeeze out three more push-ups, then collapse again.
“Stop!” Jess says, standing over me. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I will not give up. I will not! From the floor I groan, “Marry me!” I start another push-up, my arms burning.
“Get up!” Jess cries.
Another, up, up. “Marry... me!”
I collapse again. Jess rubs my shoulders while I catch my breath. “I have stacked a hundred million chairs,” I say. “Why can’t I do push-ups?”
“I thought you were going to hurt yourself,” Jess says.
I sit up and hold my head in my hands. We are sitting close together now on the floor. But it isn’t freezing, somehow. “I miss Peter,” I say. “He would stop us from hurting each other. By now he’d be calling us because he was drowning somewhere. Or he was in love with some girl who didn’t know he was alive. And he’d talk to you about all the mushy stuff. Then he and I would do a comedy act about the whole thing. Why didn’t he just wake up?”
Jess holds me. “I know,” she says.
She loves Peter. I know it. She loves us both. I wipe my eyes. And Peter loved her. And now I need to love her for both of us.
I need to do what I need to do.
“Here’s the thing,” I say. “Peter is dead. You have drained me. We drain each other. But—and this is the truth—you do something to the air around you. It’s easier to breathe.”
I look away while the words sink in. I hold out the dress again. “Are you ready?”
She looks dizzy. “What did you say?”
“You drained me.”
“About the air. About breathing?” I know that smile. I know it. She looks as if she is a kid, rolling in the grass, with sunshine on her face.
“It’s easier to breathe the air around you,” I say. “I heard what you said in the night, when you didn’t think I was there. You said that you love me and that you loved Peter. I believe Peter would want me to say those words now. About breathing. Because those words are true for me, too. And I’ve tried everything else.”
Jess pulls on the dress. I am waiting for her to explode. But she says, “I can’t lie to the Sweeney Circle judges. My father didn’t just die yesterday. But I’ll figure out something. And, yes.”
Somehow, in the silence of our shabby apartment, my ears feel filled with music. Maybe Jess is hearing it, too. I shout, “Yes?”
“Yes!” she shouts back. “Get your coat on.”
Yes what? What is she saying?
“I said, get your coat on,” Jess cries. “And, about that other thing: yes!”
“Really?” I’m still not moving. “What other thing?”
The music in my head gets wilder and wilder. She suddenly looks like she wants to slap me again. But instead we kiss: deep, long, giddy. Jess breaks it off, laughing.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask.
“Because I just said yes! And we need to go. Go!”
We both scramble to put on coats. Jess finds the ring and slips it on. It looks pretty. It looks a lot more than pretty. As we go for the door, we knock shoulders and kiss again. Then we both look at the ring.
The music in my head seems to be shaking the floor.
“But why did you say yes?” I yell. “Because of what I said? What Peter said?”
“Not now!” Jess replies. “I’ll tell you in twenty years, all right? Maybe I’ll understand it then. I love you. Go!”
We rush out the door. I slam it behind us. I try to lock it but now the key won’t work. It doesn’t matter. We run, hand in hand. Even though I’m going in the wrong direction to catch my bus. I will make sure she gets on the subway all right.
“Will the door stay shut?” Jess yells. Damn! I didn’t push the magazine under it.
“Who cares?” I say, and we keep on running, straight into the wind. No gloves. No hats. But her hand is warm in mine. It’s all I can think of. I can’t stop smiling.
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Good Reads Series
All Night by Alan Cumyn
The Stalker by Gail Anderson-Dargatz
Coyotes Song by Gail Anderson-Dargatz
Bed and Breakfast by Gail Anderson-Dargatz
The Break-In by Tish Cohen
Tribb’s Troubles by Trevor Cole
In From the Cold by Deborah Ellis
The Clear-Out by Deborah Ellis
New Year’s Eve by Marina Endicott
Home Invasion by Joy Fielding
The Day the Rebels Came to Town by Robert Hough
Picture Anthony Hyde
Listen! by Frances Itani
Missing by Frances Itani
Shipwreck by Maureen Jennings
The Picture of Nobody by Rabindranath Maharaj
The Hangman by Louise Penny
Love You to Death by Elizabeth Ruth
Easy Money by Gail Vaz-Oxlade
Bed and Breakfast
By Gail Anderson-Dargatz
Annie runs a bed and breakfast, renting rooms to overnight guests. She ha
s lived alone since her husband died five years ago. Now, she wishes for someone to love.
One morning, Annie helps her friend Steve fix the kitchen pipes. She couldn’t manage without Steve. But with his old clothes and unshaven face, he’s not Mr. Right.
Then Annie hears a mans voice: “Hello?” Surprised, she bumps her head on the bottom of the kitchen sink. Jumping up, Annie welcomes Brent, her guest. Her heart skips a beat as she meets him for the first time. Handsome, charming, well dressed— will Brent turn out to be the man of her dreams?
Love You to Death
By Elizabeth Ruth
One evening, Ivy goes out for dinner with Robin and Phil, a married couple. Phil’s old friend, Mark, joins them. Mark has just moved to town. He needs a place to live for a few weeks, until his condo is ready. Robin asks Ivy for a favour: can Mark stay with her?
At thirty, Ivy longs for her first real boyfriend. With Mark in her house, her wish soon gets her into trouble. But Mark has stepped into trouble, too. He has never known a woman like Ivy—and he never will again. Ivy makes sure of that.
The Clear-Out
By Deborah Ellis
Duncan is very angry. Tess, his wife, has turned their dining room into a library. For forty years, she says, she has cleaned the house while he sat in front of the TV. Now she deserves a room of her own.
Then disaster strikes: Tess gets sick, and soon Duncan is alone. Right away, he clears out the books he hates. Suddenly, things in the house start to move around by themselves. A strange message appears in the kitchen. Is the house haunted?
Scared, Duncan turns to two unlikely friends. With their help, he learns a great deal about himself, about Tess, and about lasting love.
About the Author
Alan Cumyn began writing poetry and short stories in high school. Today, he is the award-winning author of twelve novels. His human rights novels, Man of Bone and Burridge Unbound, both won the Ottawa Book Award. Alan lives in Ottawa and teaches writing with the Vermont College of Fine Arts.
