Even when she was sick, my father maintained this cheery demeanour. He took her hand and squeezed too hard. He brought chocolates to the hospital even though she couldn’t keep them down. He told jokes.
“How many doctors does it take to change a light bulb?”
She smiled faintly. “You’ve already told me this one, Jacky.”
WHEN I CAME TO, my father knelt over me. “Alex?” he said, as though I was an acquaintance he hadn’t seen in years.
Then he took my arm, helped me to my feet, and walked me home. When he left me at the porch, he mumbled something like, “See you later.” He was going back to work—he never closed before five—and when he got to the end of our yard he turned and said, “Get some sleep, okay?”
I walked into the house and Simone was on the couch, chewing that gum the colour of wall plaster and reading an old, water-stained copy of A Certain Smile. She raised her eyes and looked at me over the edge of the book. “You look weird,” she said.
I wanted to answer her with: “You don’t even live here,” or, “Why are you always reading such shit?” Instead, suddenly feeling the urge to punch someone, I said, “Where’s Sam?”
“At a friend’s place. Some kid with a swimming pool invited him over.”
I could hear her chew as she talked, and I hated her more than I’ve ever hated another person since. I hated the way she sprawled on the couch as though this was her house. I hated that she was wearing the dress my father had made, and that she wore it every day, as though it were a ring. I hated the way she washed it each night in the sink and hung it, wet and dripping, in the shower. I hated most of all the fact that she was here, now, and nothing like my mother.
“Are you okay? Do you want something?” She raised an eyebrow at me—an eyebrow I’d watched her pluck during her morning routine. “Some gum or something?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Are you sure? I mean, do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m not one of your sisters. I don’t need to gossip about everything that happens around here.”
“Okay. Good point.”
She went back to her book and I looked at the wall. After five minutes, she uncurled her legs, leaned toward the coffee table, and grabbed her purse—a faded leather clutch that must have belonged to her mother. She pulled out rolling papers and a small bag of marijuana.
I’d seen people rolling joints before, but I’d never seen anyone use so many implements for the job. She had a pair of tiny scissors and tweezers, and she performed the whole operation on the surface of a pocket mirror. It was as mesmerizing as watching her put on makeup.
“My sister taught me,” she said. “Kat’s an expert in this kind of thing.”
When we smoked it, I kept myself from coughing.
“This’ll be good for you,” she said, and flicked ash onto an empty gum wrapper.
She was right. It did ease me, and we spent the rest of the afternoon lying like coma victims on the couch.
After a long time, she said, “Do you think we’re using up all the oxygen in the room?”
“No.” My throat still hurt from the smoke. “The window’s open.”
“I wonder if you can die from sweating too much.”
“Probably. You can die from anything. You can die from drinking too much water, even. And my mom died for no reason at all—they couldn’t figure out why she got the cancer she got.”
Simone didn’t say anything to this, and I was glad. She had a talent for dancing to swing and big band, but she was good at being quiet, too.
After a while, she said, “Sometimes it’s so hot at work that when I scoop ice cream I lower my whole face into the freezer.”
“I’d trade my brother for some ice cream right now.”
“And sometimes I go right into the storage fridge.” She spoke sleepily. “It’s cold and I don’t have to talk or smile at anyone. I just stand there for a while, next to the tubs.”
“That’d be nice.” I watched the hypnotic hinge of her wrist as she fanned herself with her hand. “I’d like that.”
AFTER MY FAINTING SPELL, my father went to work by himself and left me at home, with no specific instructions other than “Don’t kill your brother.” Regardless, I started most days by punching Sam in the arm, just hard enough to send him running to his room. Simone ignored this completely. She and I were sort of friends. I didn’t hate her too much and I could even distinguish her moods. After her early shifts she came home cranky and tired, and went straight to the bedroom for a nap. On her days off she’d run errands—mail a letter to her family, or go to Kresge’s to buy the ankle socks she wore to work.
While she did this, I sat on the living room couch. Sometimes I fantasized about a different kind of summer, the kind my friends were having. Swimming, canoeing, and living in cottages. They were with their mothers, who were alive, and their fathers, who took holidays. But most of the time, I wasn’t unhappy. The house was messy but bright, and I liked to watch dust float in the sunlight.
Simone would find me in the living room and shake my shoulders. “Hey, Al. I have an idea.”
I liked her ideas. Maybe she’d coaxed a five from my father before he’d left for work, so we’d see a movie. Or we’d walk down Kensington to see the crates of fruit and vegetables or to watch the poultry guy slaughter birds he kept in wooden cages. Sometimes we’d take what Simone called “family trips” to United Bakery to buy heart-shaped cookies. Sam ate most of them, which didn’t seem to annoy her. Neither did the way he circled madly on his bicycle, or played tag and other games that allowed him to touch her body.
Once, we went to the deserted park on Howland. I slid down the staticky plastic slide and Sam stood on the middle of the teeter-totter. He’d grown tall, while my own body had stalled at an unremarkable height.
“Watch me! Simone, watch me!” he yelled constantly.
I joined Simone on the swings, and we floated lazily, careful not to sway out of the shade of the park’s one tree. I suddenly remembered being on one of those swings when I was very young. It wasn’t a clear memory—just a feeling of air on my skin.
“I think Mom used to take us here,” I said.
Simone leaned back and lifted her face to the sky. She wore plastic sunglasses she’d bought at Kresge’s, and they sat crookedly on her nose. “What was her name? Your mom?”
“Elise.” I leaned back too, and let the sun blind me. “Dad never told you that?”
“I don’t ask him about that stuff. He always wants me to be bright and cheerful.”
“He’s pretty nuts about you. I can tell.”
“He did tell me one thing, though.” She began to swing higher, her hands tight on the chain. “He said he’s worried about you. He wants you to get a job.”
“He said that?”
She dragged her heels in the sand under her swing. “Working’s not so bad, you know. You get to talk to people.”
“I’m not very good at talking to people.”
“You would learn.”
I swung higher to catch up. “Why doesn’t he tell me this himself? If he’s so worried?”
“I don’t know. You’re so quiet it makes him nervous. He’s not sure how to talk to you, I guess.” She kicked sand in Sam’s direction. “Hey, Sam, you’re dead! I just shot you.”
“Did not!” He turned to her, furious. “Did not, and we weren’t even playing.”
“Nervous?” The motion of the swing made me feel exhilarated and sick.
“Did so. I shot you right in the chest.” She turned to me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“I told him I thought you’d be okay.” Her swing fell level with mine. “I told him I thought one day you’d wake up and have it all figured out.”
AFTER THE PARK, we went to my room because the basement was the coolest place in the house. Simone brought a tub of pistachio ice cream and three spoons and we left the light off to keep cool. Sam and I sat on the floor while Simone spra
wled on my bed. She closed her eyes and I noticed that the tips of her eyelashes were blond.
She sang in a sweet and shaky voice. “Oh, your daddy’s rich—”
“That would be nice,” I said.
She hummed the rest of the bar while bending her knees and kicking her feet in the air, admiring her own legs. Then she started to scat in a poor imitation of Ella Fitzgerald.
“Hey, Simone,” I said. “You’re off-key.”
“Yeah, Simone, you’re off-key.” Sam was upside down, trying to stand on his head. In a mocking, singsong voice he added, “Simone is off-key-ey. And Al-ex is in love with her.”
“Sam.” I kicked his exposed belly. “I’m not in love with anyone.”
“Ow.” He slumped out of his headstand and held his stomach. “Are so.”
Simone didn’t seem to hear any of this. She’d gotten out her marijuana and was fishing in her purse for the tweezers.
Sam slid over to her. “What’s that?”
She held up the bag so he could smell the green, earthy contents. “It’ll make you happier.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’ll calm you down.”
The joint was damp from the humidity, and we had to relight it four times. Sam coughed until I thought a blood vessel might burst in his face. Then he got sleepy and lay on the floor. We all closed our eyes and listened to a mosquito that had found its way into my room. It was the most peaceful moment my brother and I have ever shared.
“Sam?” I said, after what seemed like hours. “Are you awake?”
His eyes were open and he didn’t blink.
“Hey, Sam.” I poked his ribs. “Sam?”
Simone rolled from the bed and leaned over him. Her hair hung in his face. “He looks pale.”
“Sam.” I shook his shoulders. “Don’t joke around.”
Then his face turned red and his mouth twitched. “Tricked you!”
I punched him in the stomach, hard this time, but he was still hysterical. “I don’t feel anything,” he said. “I don’t feel any of the things you said I’d feel.”
“Damn it, Sam.” Simone climbed back onto the bed. “That wasn’t funny.”
“I’m telling Dad!” He ran from the room. “I’m telling Dad what we did.”
“Shit.” Simone covered her face with her hands. “For a second I actually thought he was dead.”
For the first time in months, I started to laugh. Simone propped herself up on her elbows and watched me. Then she laughed too. We laughed until we were out of breath and our faces hurt.
“Are you in love with me, Al?” she said, and that made us laugh even more. We laughed as Simone slid off the bed and crouched in front of me. We laughed as she touched my face and I saw a streak of green ice cream that had hardened on her wrist. We laughed as she tilted forward and kissed me.
There was something showy about that kiss, like the pranks my father played, the jokes he told. I didn’t like the way her thin lips felt. Afterward, she touched my hair and began to hum again.
“Quit it.” I pushed her hand away.
“What?” Her face was so close that I smelled her sugary, smoky breath.
“You don’t even know what that song’s about.”
“So?” She shrugged. “Neither do you.”
Then she climbed back onto the bed, put her feet on the pillow, and closed her eyes. I watched her breathe until my father came home.
WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN, I took the bus to the hospital after school and visited Mom by myself. I felt I had something to say to her, but once there—confronted with her thinned face, her bruised and ropy arms, the tubes and smells—I couldn’t remember what that something was. She was asleep, and I was relieved. I studied her face, how the painkillers had slackened its muscles. I left after only ten minutes, because I knew my father would want me home for dinner.
Two days later, she died. This wasn’t a disaster; it didn’t destroy me. I didn’t cry or shout. In fact, I didn’t feel anything but a constant grogginess.
The funeral was traditional, with a reception at our house. After everyone left, my father sat us at the table, which was piled with bagels, lox, devilled eggs, and salad. He said, “We all knew it was coming. At least it wasn’t a surprise.”
Sam nodded. I stared at the wood tabletop.
Then my father stood and said, “I think we all need some sleep.” There was a weariness about him I’d never seen before. He kissed us on the cheek, and his five o’clock shadow scratched my skin.
We spent the next week sitting shiva, which was the perfect way to remember my mother. We covered the mirrors, including the one Simone would later use for her makeup ritual, and observed a week of near silence.
IN AUGUST, Simone started to act differently. She was always tired, and slept until noon on her days off. Some days she’d lock herself in the master bedroom and refuse to come out, even when Sam begged her to go with him to buy Sour Chews.
He was always over-sugared and hyperactive, so as a favour to her I got him out of the house. I took him on delirious searches for the perfect shade. The two of us walked along the city’s streets, smelling the fermenting garbage, until Sam would say, “Can we go home now? Please?”
One afternoon, we came back to find Simone at the kitchen table, crying into her hands. It was a wet, ugly weeping. We watched this for a while. Then I passed her a napkin, the cloth kind my mother used to save for special occasions.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” By then I’d memorized her schedule.
She gave me a look. There was annoyance in it, hatred even. “I called in sick.”
Sam sat at her feet. “Do you want some ice cream, Simone?”
She shook her head, then blew her nose into the napkin.
I pulled up a chair beside her. “We could go somewhere. Like the park.”
“Sorry, Al.” She gave me a weak smile. “Maybe tomorrow?”
That night, she didn’t eat any of the peppercorn steak my father served, and he used the same jokey tone he’d taken with my mother. “What’s this? Miss Summertime isn’t hungry?”
“She’s sick,” I said.
My father kept his eyes on Simone. He spoke with the impatient voice he sometimes used on Sam and me. “She’s upset, that’s all.”
Simone stood and left the table. We heard her steps on the stairs, then the click of the bedroom door. My father didn’t follow her. In my darker moments, I wonder how things would have changed if he had.
ONCE, YEARS LATER, I asked Simone how she felt about him. This was long after that summer. I was working construction, ten-hour days to save up to start my degree in history. I worked at a site on Spadina, converting an old textile factory into lofts and studio apartments. At the time the style seemed original and edgy, though I’m sure the tenants later found it regrettable: the walls were cinder blocks and the piping was left uncovered.
From the scaffolding, I could see my father’s shop. He still worked there, I knew, and somehow that fact made the hours seem longer and my job more humiliating. It was after one of these days, spent sweating under a hard hat, that I asked Simone what she thought of my father.
“Then or now?” She was in our kitchen, flossing her teeth. I remember thinking it was odd that she would floss her teeth in the kitchen. I remember thinking that I didn’t know her at all.
“Whichever.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Al.” She had the same pale, freckled skin as when we’d met, but her body had changed: her shoulders were rounded and her stomach soft. I wanted to stand behind her and place my hands on her waist, where the seam of her skirt met her skin. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”
She squinted thoughtfully, floss looped around her index fingers. “He was funny, I guess.” Then she smiled, perhaps remembering a private joke. “He always made me laugh.”
For a second, I hated my father. Because, for all I’d done for Simone, all I still did, I rarely made her laugh.
But then she went back t
o flossing her teeth, and I put thoughts of my wife’s past out of my mind, which was a skill I’d perfected over the years. And that was it. The only time I ever felt raging, heart-burning jealousy. Which is different from the guilt and loss I always carry with me.
THE NEXT MORNING, there was no coffee, no eggs, no buttered toast. In the kitchen the linoleum was cool under my feet, and Sam poured himself a bowl of stale cereal. My father sat at the empty table, his hands pressed flat to the surface.
“Where’s Simone?” I asked, but nobody answered.
After a week of cereal, it was clear she had moved out. She’d taken all her clothes, including the yellow dress, and my mother’s Billie Holiday record. For his part, my father settled into the respectable life of a widower. He packed the records back into their boxes and drank far less gin.
“I just don’t know,” my father said weeks later, over grilled cheese sandwiches. He leaned back in his chair and seemed tired. For once, he looked his age. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
I didn’t know what to do either. I checked the park, half expecting to find her on one of the swings. But I didn’t think we should chase her. I remembered the way my mother would suddenly emerge from her days of silence, on her own time and never because of my father’s coaxings.
“It’s best to just leave her alone,” I said, and my father listened to me as though he were my apprentice. He was as anxious and lost as a child, and I touched his arm. The sleeve of his shirt was newly ironed, but I didn’t think he’d mind if I wrinkled it. I said, “It’s best to just stay in one place and wait.”
SINCE THEN, Simone and I have lived all over the city, mostly in basement suites. We learned to cook meals on one hot plate. We learned to pay rent on minimum wages and my meagre scholarships. We learned to look around a cramped, dirty apartment and say, “This isn’t a bad life.”
More recently, we’ve had good luck with real estate. When I got my first teaching job—at the same high school I’d attended and despised—we bought a half-duplex on Robert Street. It’s only a block from where my father’s shop used to be, where Sam now runs a clothing store that stocks three-hundred-dollar jeans.
Vanishing and Other Stories Page 20
