by Fran Kimmel
The sun fell below the Canmore peaks and the creek bank filled with shadows. I drank until my insides blazed. Then I kept on drinking until I felt nothing at all.
* * *
I can’t remember how I got back to the shack. If there were a God, he’d of let me crash into the cement plant.
I sacrificed the last few good swigs and chucked the bottle into the bushes before slinking inside the shack, unnoticed, vodka gurgling through my veins. Rebee and Eddy were in the bathroom, the door open a crack, their sliver of light shooting a beam through the rest of the box. I fumbled through my pockets, searching for something to chomp on to hide my boozy breath before I said my hellos. What was it exactly I’d been doing all that time? Where was the bread?
I don’t know whose voices crowded into my head that night. The table lunged up, and I fell forward to hold it down with my elbows. I could hear Eddy’s cooing noises and Rebee’s little protests coming from the bathroom, blue blurry, as though they wheezed through the air upside down. Or maybe it was me who was upside down. The whole world had tilted. What were they doing in there? Bloodied macaroni bits swam on the plastic plate in front of my nose. I started to wretch, but forced the vodka back down.
“Come on, Rebee, quit wiggling,” the slurry voice said. Where was the ketchup lid? “Stay still. Let me hold you.” What were they doing in there? What was I doing out here? Something. . . . Why couldn’t Eddy put lids back on? “But it hurts,” the little girl cried. What was she saying? It hurts? I’m sure I heard that. What hurts? It shouldn’t hurt. Hands thumped water. Hands thumped the table. “It doesn’t hurt, just relax,” he comforted. “Remember our deal,” the man said again. “It’s a secret, right,” the little girl’s voice. Giggling. No, no, don’t giggle like that. Oh god. “That’s right. You want to be a big girl,” he coaxed.
Ten steps across the room, like falling down a mountain. I pushed open the bathroom door. Her pink nakedness lay out before him like an unwrapped present, Eddy kneeling, his large hand under the water.
He shot his head around, startled. “When did you get — ” but I slapped the smile from his lips with a kick to his middle, and another, and another.
“What the hell?” Eddy yelled, grabbing for my foot. Rebee screamed, trying to stand, but she lost her footing and fell back in the water with an angry splash. I switched to my fists then, pounding them against his cheekbones, his ears, his throat. The shampoo bottle ricocheted against the wall and into the tub, clipping Rebee on the jaw. I pummelled Eddy harder. He hauled himself up off the edge of the tub and caught hold of my wrist and we fell sideways out of the bathroom, clawing our way across the floor, until Eddy finally straddled my middle and pinned my arms above my head.
“What the hell, Vic.” Eddy was panting hard. Harder than me. A drop of blood fell from his nose to my cheek. “Jesus,” he said softly. He let go of one of my hands to wipe it away and I smashed my fist into the side of his head.
Eddy pushed back from me, rocking on his knees. “Do that again you’ll be sorry,” he growled. He meant it. My legs were mush, my fists too, the sweat between my breasts frozen solid. I’d run out of fight.
He rolled off and stood over me, menacing, like I was a dog in need of a beating. “You’re drunk, Vic.”
But I wasn’t drunk. Not anymore. I was a woman on the floor with a man looking down on her. “And you’re a damn pervert.” I couldn’t meet his eyes when I said it. I was afraid I’d see just the pancake man who built kingdoms from crates.
Eddy laughed. A black sound. “I’m a pervert?”
“You had no right.” He had no right to touch her.
“No right to what, Vic? Give the kid her supper. Carry her to the flag? Throw her in the tub? No right to do what?”
I wanted to curl into a ball and fall asleep and wake up far away.
“Where were you?” his boot nudged my hip, not quite a kick. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
I pulled myself to a sit and focused on the battered table leg. How often had I left her alone with him? Three night shifts. How many coffee runs, just the two of them? That car wash. The ride up here in Eddy’s truck. Asleep in Eddy’s arms. Naked in the water? Where was I all those times?
“Where were you, Vic?” Eddy spoke quietly, like the question was no more than noodles for dinner. I could hear his match strike his belt buckle. “Off getting cosy with the boys in the bar?”
Off getting cosy with the kid in the tub, the voice in my head echoed back. I felt hollow inside as I clung to the table leg and crawled my way up to the smokes. My hand shook so bad it took three tries to get a flame.
Eddy’s eyes were slits, the colour of cement. He raised his hand and I braced myself, but all he did was draw on his cigarette. “What exactly you accusing me of, Vic?”
What exactly was it? What did I hear? It hurts, she said. I know I heard that.
“Jesus, Vic,” Eddy worked his jaw like a tooth was loose. “You’re some piece of work.”
“You had no right to touch her,” my voice sounded so hoarse I didn’t recognize it as my own. I wanted Eddy to hold me. But then the other voice in my head shot back. You let him do whatever he wanted. What was so damn important to run out on her — to leave skid marks in Eddy’s dirt? Where did I throw the damn bottle?
“You think I touched Rebee?” Eddy spat. I searched his eyes for the monster, but it wasn’t there. Please Eddy, make this stop.
“You really think I could do that to Rebee? Jesus, Vic.” Eddy stumbled backwards. I’d never seen him look at me like that, like I was trash and the stink was unbearable. I smelled it too.
He stopped at the door to the shack waiting for me to say something. What could I say? Sorry I kicked you in the stomach. The reel in my head was so fuzzy I couldn’t trust the picture. All the courage I’d felt just a moment ago drained out of me. I was an empty bottle.
“You live in the gutter, Vic.” Eddy said, almost tenderly. I wanted to cover my ears.
“I suppose I can’t change that,” his voice quiet and measured. “Who knows what you got going on, you and that cracked sister of yours, but I’d say — ” he paused, and then more quietly still, “I’d say we’re about done.”
I was already missing him and he hadn’t even left.
“Do me a favour and don’t be here when I get back. And take the kid with you.” He turned and disappeared, my world slipping away, my mind seeing Rebee riding his shoulders, hanging on for dear life.
When I finally got back to her, Rebee sat shivering in the middle of the tub, hugging herself, lips blue, the water cold as iced tea. I reached for her with the towel, but she shrank back, and I had to step away to get her to climb out on her own. She stood still as a stick as I got her in her pyjamas and wrapped her in the blanket, and carried her to the car. Then I laid her in the backseat and told her to stay put while I got the rest of our stuff. The night was black as coal, so still I could hear my heart thump. I kept seeing Eddy slinking in the shadows, but it was only the trees. Eddy was gone.
She didn’t make a sound as we wound our way down the mountain. I kept turning around to steal a glance at her limp body, but I was afraid I’d drive us off the road, so finally I pulled over to the side, shut off the car, and crawled in the back with her. She lay perfectly still under her blankets, fingers in her mouth, eyes huge moons against her pale skin.
“Are you okay, kiddo?” I asked, knowing she wasn’t. She was biting the tips of her fingers hard, and when I reached down and pulled her hand out of her mouth, there were angry red notches just below her nails.
“Am I bad?” she asked, her voice so small I could hardly bear it.
I gathered her up in my arms and held her so fiercely she started to struggle. “Of course you’re not bad, Rebee. Of course not, sweetie.” What could I tell her about what Eddy had done? What had Eddy done? “Did Eddy hurt you?” I asked, making the hideous words sound matter-of-fact.
She shook her head slowly from side to side, not t
rusting me enough to look me in the eye. Who could blame her? She watched me try to kill the guy.
“But you said he hurt you, Rebee. You said, ‘It hurts.’ Remember when you said that? When you were having a bath?” Please, Rebee, please tell me I got this right.
Rebee pinched her face tightly, like she was trying to guess what I wanted to hear. I shook her a little then and she tried to bat me away. Why did I always shake her like that? I held on tighter, until her body went limp again.
“Rebee, if Eddy didn’t hurt you, why did you say it hurts? I heard you say that so don’t tell me you didn’t.” Please, Rebee, please tell me Eddy hurt you. Oh, god, what was I saying? She kept shaking her head. “You can tell me, Rebee,” I pleaded. “I won’t be mad.” But she wouldn’t say anything, so I shook her again.
“Swimmin’,” she gulped. Then her eyes snapped open and she shouted into my face, “Swimmin’ hurts. When the water goes in your ears.”
I let her go then and she scrambled out of my arms and got as far away from me as she could. She curled herself into a ball, pressed against the door handle, and dug her forehead into her blanket. I leaned against my door, straight-backed, staring into the hangover of my life. We stayed in our corners for the longest time, shallow little breaths. The windows steamed over before she finally started in with her baby snore noises. If someone had looked down on her then, you’d think she was just a little girl dreaming of pancakes for breakfast.
* * *
Eddy stopped by my apartment about a week later. I fell out of bed and limped to the door, and there he stood, hands in his pockets, rumpled and stubbly faced and so beautiful I could have fallen to my knees.
I fumbled with the chain, terrified he’d be gone before I could get the door open. But he remained where he stood, staring past me into the empty apartment.
“She’s gone,” I said when I realized what he was looking for. Rebee had clung to her mother while Elizabeth gathered up her stuff. My sister held out a roll of twenties for me, babysitting money she called it, but I told her to go screw herself. When I bent down to kiss Rebee goodbye, she wedged her face against her mother’s legs.
“Elizabeth picked her up already,” I told Eddy. It seemed like a thousand years ago.
“Just as well,” Eddy said. He had a cigarette stuck behind his ear.
After Eddy’s place, Rebee wouldn’t go near the bathtub. I bribed her with a packaged tea set that she could open only in the bath, but she still wouldn’t climb in, not even when I made a mountain of bubbles with the dish soap. So I made her stand on a chair and chase a washcloth over her face and arms at the kitchen sink, but she moved like a robot, like the feeling part of her had died.
“I don’t know where Elizabeth took her,” I said weakly. Eddy just nodded.
I wanted to tell him I was sorry. That Rebee missed him. That the morning of the day her mother reappeared, I caught her with her nose in the fridge, holding the whipped topping can, doing her best to squirt a glob into her palm. She didn’t hear me coming. When I laid my hand on her shoulder for comfort, hers and mine, she hurled around, and the can went whizzing across the linoleum, bashed into the cupboard, and exploded. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried, and never like that. Rebee didn’t step away from the open fridge door. She stood there, stone-faced, back pressed against the milk jug, and watched me writhe about on the floor, glubbing and choking and bawling my eyes out. I’ll never forget her grey eyes just staring at me like that.
“Are you going to come in?” I asked Eddy, like there might still be hope. After that night at the shack, Rebee never once asked what happened to him. Never uttered his name. And here he was, at my door, Rebee long gone.
I’d not had a shower since the explosion, and I couldn’t remember the last time I brushed my hair. I must have smelled like mouldy fruit, like the rotting core of all those gypsies, tramps and thieves.
“Don’t think so, Vic,” Eddy said finally, breaking the silence.
It took me a minute to remember my question. “So why are you here then?” The words sounded harsh, like I was accusing him again, and I bit down hard on my tongue, hoping to taste blood.
Eddy shrugged and pointed to my chest warily. I looked down at the upside-down skydiver letters. He fell out of a plane once and wanted the evidence. I’d worn nothing but for days.
I pulled the T-shirt over my head and stood naked before him, the cotton crumpled in my fist. He reached for my outstretched hand slowly, his eyes not leaving mine as he took the shirt from me. Then he backed away.
“Please stay, Eddy,” I croaked.
But he just kept going.
MISS
BEL
“TIME FOR SUNBURST,” I told the children. Almost every hand went up — pick me, pick me, my turn, Miss Bel!
Rebee Shore, the new girl, hid behind the other Grade Twos in the centre of the room, her nose pressed to the back of Vanessa’s sweater. She’d been here a week now. Mrs. Bagot marched down the Messenger School hallway last Tuesday afternoon, rapped on my door, announced that the girl was a transfer from the Peace River School Division, then shoved her inside. She came bedraggled, like she had rooted through a week-old hamper to pick out her clothes. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. I led her to the back of the class and told her to roll up her sleeves. Then I scrubbed her hands with disinfectant and wiped her face with a wet paper towel. I called Vanessa and Susan away from their desks to come join us at the sink. I told them that Rebee Shore was their new assignment, their buddy project, and that they were in charge of making her fit in. The girls moved in on Rebee like mother ducks and fawned over her like a lost lamb.
“Rebee, today you’ll do Sunburst. Come.”
The children separated, making way for Rebee. She inched towards me as I positioned the small chair in the greatest shaft of light pouring through the window. Vanessa and Susan took her by each arm and helped her to step up and stand on the chair. She looked condemned, head slumped, as if expecting the chair to fall and a rope to tighten and snap her neck.
“Girls, have you told Rebee about Sunburst?”
“Not yet, Miss Bel.”
“All right then. Rebee, just close your eyes and stretch out your arms.”
The children moved back slightly, watching Rebee closely. She was breathing fast, panting as she lifted both arms, her eyes squeezed shut. One of her shoelaces had come undone and dangled over the side of the chair.
“You’re standing in a sunburst, Rebee. Does it feel warm?”
I held out my hand and clasped the tips of Rebee’s fingers within mine, pushing Rebee’s arm higher.
“Let the light wash over you like a warm bath. From the tips of your fingers right down to your toes.”
Rebee stood a little taller, her face squeezed into one big wrinkle. She stuck out her chin, holding my fingertips tightly.
“Children, quietly now, what do you see?”
I closed my eyes, too, and listened to the children whisper their observations, just like I’ve taught them. The way the light danced over Rebee’s face, the shine in her hair, the halo above her head, like an angel. Her sweater lighting up in stripes from the slats of the window blinds — its colour changing from red to orange. Rebee’s body glowing, growing, how she became taller by standing in the light.
It’s a silly game I’ve made up for these kids. When I opened my eyes, I saw Rebee, perched on her tiptoes, arms spread wide, like Jesus on the cross.
I wanted her to know that light doesn’t hurt. “Very good, Rebee. You can open your eyes and come back to the floor.” She stepped down from the chair, tripping over her shoelace. “Sunburst is over. Everyone to your desks.”
“Should we take out our arithmetic scribblers, Miss Bel?” “Yes, Peter. I suppose we should.”
* * *
I chose Winter Lake for its coordinates. Longitudinally speaking, I’m now stationed at 110°00 W, directly north of the battered wooden hole, veined and stained, of the old outhouse on the farm
where I was raised with the chickens. If I could find a piece of string 560 kilometres long, I could tie it to the outhouse latch, which sits on the southernmost tip of the Alberta-Saskatchewan border, run the string north along the border line, and tie it off at the Messenger School door. The outhouse still stands, although my parents have a real toilet now. It took my father six years to finish the eight-by-four room. My mother said little to hurry the process along. My mother says little during the best of times. Six years to drop a sink into the oval cutout, add a closed-in cabinet, taps to the bathtub, pipes that piped well water in and out. The bathroom door was added in year five. A doorknob to close it — year six. I was ten years old by then, but after all that waiting, the indoor toilet was reserved for visitors. My parents had the well to think about. “Water is as precious as a two-dollar bill, Belinda.” To this day, the flush of a porcelain bowl makes me hear the tinkling of china, cups brought down from the back of the cupboard, teetering on saucers on the way to the table.
But it’s latitude that matters the most. Latitudinally speaking, I’ve moved up in the world. I found the ad for my Winter Lake position while slumped in the hallway waiting for Christie to open the door. Christie and I shared a room in the dorm at the University of Regina. Having graduated already, I’d been forced to give up my key. But Christie didn’t mind me hanging on. She was a big-boned farm girl who hated change, spoke only when in bed, only when her side of the room was in shadow, always with her nose pressed to the wall, always with a muffled, fluttery lisp. I had no intention of teaching like the rest of my graduating class. I was planning to go north to find my uncle. I needed more money to make the trip — I just hadn’t got around to finding a job.
I was waiting for Christie, absently scanning the bulletin board across from the elevators on the dorm’s sixth floor. A small slice of newsprint caught my eye. Grade Two Teacher Reqd. Immed., Messenger Sch., Northern Lights S. D., Winter Lake. I know my geography. The words fluttered inside like trapped swallows as I ripped the paper off its tack — Messenger, Northern Lights, Winter Lake. This was my winning ticket, a paid sabbatical on my journey north. Winter Lake sits at the halfway point on my climb up the provinces. From there, I can dip west and north until I hit the Welcome to the Northwest Territories sign, then traverse my way to the Beaufort Sea. Tuktoyaktuk is positioned at 69°27' N, a quarter-inch above Inuvik on page eighty-six of the New Canadian World Atlas. From Winter Lake, lati-tudinally speaking, I’ll have a mere fifteen degrees to cross before I hit my mark.
