My Temporary Life

by Martin Crosbie

  “I have something for you.” She hands me a small plastic ball from the pocket of her jacket.

  I hold the ball in my hand. “I’m sorry, what is this for?

  “We might not be able to tell if it’s her from the car. This way you can go and kick the ball around the park, or play with it somehow. You can get a better look that way. I brought it with me.” As she says it, I can almost see the reality of the statement hitting her. I can see her becoming deflated, as she realizes that it really doesn’t make any sense for me to be playing, alone in a park, with a little ball. I try not to smile as she forces it into my hand. “I don’t know, Malcolm. I just thought it might help.”

  As we lay in the room, the night before, we talked about sitting outside an elementary school in a rental car, watching young children when you’re thousands of miles from home. We decided if a concerned neighbour, or a teacher, or even a policeman, knocked on our window with questions, we’d tell them we’d stopped for a few minutes to reminisce about Heather’s old school. We were on our way to points north, taking a trip down memory lane. It sounded plausible to me, but to be actually in the school yard, where the children are, and with a small ball, this added a whole new dimension to it.

  I hold the ball in my hand, thinking about how difficult this is going to be, not wanting to see her disappointed.

  “Hey, they’re starting to come. Look up the road.” I see a few children, some walking together, a couple by themselves, farther down the street coming towards us, and we’re right. These are hearty, small-town kids and the cold weather isn’t bothering them at all. They’re wearing jackets, and some of them have woollen hats on, but none of them seem to be wearing scarves, or anything that might cover their faces. They all walk, none of them are driven. Some are even coming out of the houses that we’re parked alongside. She was right. This is a small town, with small town sensibilities. Children find their own way to school in Woodbine.

  She peers intently, crouching uncomfortably, even farther down in the vehicle, her eyes just barely above the dashboard. I look at the old photographs of her, and wait as dozens of little legs sluggishly make their way towards the school. They come at us from both ends of the road, almost simultaneously. There are little boys, and bigger boys, walking together, and then little girls, in twos or threes, never alone. We’re parked across from a park that joins the schoolyard. It takes a great deal of concentration to look in one direction, and then back in the other, all the while trying not to look suspicious.

  The children walk along the road or on the sidewalks, not even glancing our way. Some of them cut across the park, making it impossible to see their faces. At first there’s only a few, but then they come in bunches. They’re talking in loud, excited voices, some pushing at others, doing anything I suppose, to not think about spending the next few hours in a classroom. I spend my time straining my eyes, trying to compare their faces with the photos, while looking up and down the road just in case another vehicle comes along, or a parent wanders by wondering what we’re doing there.

  “This is difficult. I can’t see the ones in the park.” There’s frustration in her voice.

  “Look, those are all girls, see what they do. They all walk along the side, off the road. The boys don’t care. They’re in the road, showing off for the girls. Shit, we try to impress you guys even at that age.” It’s interesting to me to see the patterns, to see how the young children show off for each other.

  The girls stick to the sidewalk, or if they’re really daring, they walk on the outside curb. But the boys bounce between sidewalk and road, not caring about the odd car that comes along. We search their little faces, trying to find some kind of a resemblance, something that will make us look twice. I want them to turn their heads, to give me more than just a glance. I want them to give me something that looks familiar.

  Heather holds her own photograph in her hand. “This is too hard. I’ll know her. I know I will. I just can’t see them all, not from here.”

  She says it again, that a mother knows her child. She’s convinced that she’ll recognize Emily. I let my silence tell her that I agree, but secretly I think that we might need to find another way. And then, just as fast as it started, it ends, and they’re all in their classrooms, away from us. It seems like it has only been minutes from the time they came walking down the road to the time they’re all behind the school doors. There had been perhaps a hundred children, all different sizes, but most of them could have passed for a ten year old, and we saw the faces of maybe thirty. At least half had crossed through the park. We need a way to be in that park, and we both know it.

  “I guess I could be in the park at lunch time.” I reluctantly hold the little ball, tight in my hand.

  “It’s the only way. I’d do it, but I might be recognized. I can’t be, not yet.” She touches my face as she says it.

  “There might be another way. What would her last name be?”

  “Postman, I mean, no, no. It would be Michaels’ surname, Adrian, maybe. I don’t know for sure. I don’t even know her first name. Why, what does it matter?” She’s exasperated now. “It’s not as if we can call the school, and ask for her. She’s ten years old. That just doesn’t happen, Malcolm.”

  I silently start the engine and pull the car out onto the quiet road, heading back to the motel, trying to think of an excuse to be in a schoolyard during lunchtime. “I have an idea. Are there maps in the glove compartment?”

  A couple of roadmaps fall out, as she opens the compartment. “I’m going to sit on that bench over there, and read these maps at lunch time. I’ll be just an ordinary traveller, trying to find my way.”

  She pulls herself up, leans over, and kisses my cheek. Her lips are cold, even in the warmth of the car, but it feels good to have the closeness after staring out of the car window at little faces for so long. “That’s it. Now you’re thinking like a detective. Thank you.” She goes back to her down low position, pointing me forward. “No don’t turn. Keep driving. I’ll show you something.”

  She quietly gives me ‘lefts’ and ‘rights’, guiding me along streets lined with old houses, until she whispers for me to pull over.

  “It’s the one with the porch, the big green porch,” She’s still whispering, pointing towards the house that she grew up in.

  “I didn’t want to ask. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see your Dad or the house.” I stare at it, trying to imagine a little girl there. “It’s nice. It looks like it would be a nice place to grow up.”

  She lets out a small almost anguished sound and keeps whispering. “It was Malcolm, but only for a little while. Then it was bad, really, really bad. Can we drive on please?”

  There are times that you ask questions and times that you don’t. So, I don’t ask. I think of a girl, fifteen, almost sixteen, losing her mother, and living with a father who doesn’t care. I steer the car down the street, past the house, and notice a large black sport utility vehicle, parked in the driveway. Its windows are tinted, and it’s decked out for winter. I look over to see if I can see the expression on her face, but she’s turned away, and her door is locked. At some point between leaving the school and driving to her old house, she locked her door.

  CHAPTER 21

  I hold open the door and wait as Heather hurries from the car to the room, with her hat pulled down low, over her face. The tension of the morning seems to leave us for a moment as I watch her pull off her jacket, toss her hat on the floor, and step forward, staring hard into my eyes, and pushing her body into mine.

  “Are you sure? Now, is now the best time for this?” I ask as I slip my hands under her sweater, and cup them around her breasts.

  “I want you, Malcolm. I want you to fuck me.” She drags the words out, long and emphatically, sounding like someone that I don’t know, kissing me hard, and biting into my lower lip.

  I push her onto the bed, pulling off my jacket and sweater. I have an overwhelming urge to feel my skin on hers. She writhes up t
he bed towards the headboard, staring at me with a devilish look in her eyes, almost daring me to come and get her. I pull her shoes off roughly and, leaning forward, rest my body on hers, as she seems to almost struggle underneath me. She kisses me hard, over and over again. She holds my head, pulling it towards her, almost begging me to be harder with her, rougher with her. I reach down and loosen her jeans, slipping them down her legs, and slide my hand gently between them. I try to whisper in her ear, whisper Scottish in her ear, the way she likes, but she pushes my head away from her face.

  “No, no, not this time, Malcolm. Fuck me like you mean it. Please, just fuck me.” She spits the words out, firmly pushing her body up into mine.

  I stand up and pull off the rest of my clothes, as she removes hers. I kneel over her, watching her eyes, not recognizing the hard look of desire that she’s giving me. As I place my mouth on her breasts, she pulls my head hard, down on top of them, again begging me to be rougher with her. I quietly oblige, squeezing and touching, and tasting, and then, when I can’t stand it any longer, I raise her legs, and place myself between them. She grabs my hand and places it on top of her wrists, over her head, forcing me to hold her down even more firmly. I hold my body there for a moment, waiting, staring at her, not recognizing her. It’s only a moment before she pushes herself up into me again, her body asking for more.

  I keep kissing her roughly, watching her eyes, as they dare me to drive myself deeper into her. Her lower body keeps pushing back, almost wildly, into me, as though she’s trying to buck me off. I push back, staring at the wild look in her eyes, overpowering her strength with mine. She groans and writhes, biting into my shoulder, as though she’s silently trying not to scream. I look away. There’s an old battered headboard on the bed, and diamonds on the ceiling above us, diamonds that are just sparkles in the paint. I close my eyes, still pushing myself into her, wondering what’s really happening. When I open them, there’s a small, noise from her, and there’s sweat on her face mixed with tears.

  I pull myself off, as she starts to sob. “What are we doing? What was that? I thought you wanted me to. I’m sorry.” I blurt out excuses and questions, as she covers her face with her hands.

  “It’s okay. You were okay. It’s me. It’s just me.” She says it with resignation, with finality.

  I reach out to touch her, but she’s up quickly, and as she turns, I can see a hardness in her face that I’ve never noticed before.

  We get back to the school just before lunch time, and watch the quiet school grounds and the adjoining park, knowing that it will soon be bustling with children. I grab the maps and kiss her gently, before getting out of the car. She slides into the driver’s seat, and rolls the window down to talk to me. “I haven’t thanked you for helping me, Malcolm.” She pauses as though she doesn’t know what to say next. “We’re in this together now. It isn’t my secret anymore. It’s ours, both of ours.”

  She’s looking into my eyes but she can’t see me. She’s somewhere else for a moment then smiling, she comes back. “I do love you, you know. I honestly do.”

  The usual feeling isn’t in her words but I take them, accept them. “I know you do. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be okay.” Just like my Dad told me when he taught me how to punch bags of leaves in our front yard so many years ago. Everything is going to be okay.

  She hands me the small ball and smiles as I stuff it into my jacket pocket, making my way to the park bench. As I wander over to the park, I think of all the variables involved with finding someone when you don’t even know for sure what their name is. Does she actually attend this school? Does she still live in this town? And, will we even recognize her if she passes? I think of how we could have done more research, found more information. There are so many things that have to fall into place for us to find Emily, or whatever her name might be now.

  I take up my place on the bench and spread one of the maps out beside me, all the while watching the large doors at the side of the school where the children entered in the morning. I can see the back end of the rental car where I parked, but I can’t quite see Heather in the driver’s seat. She’ll be hunched down again, trying to stay out of sight.

  The doors open, and a cascade of children come tumbling out, some running, others walking. They hold lunch kits and bags of various sizes and colours, and just as we predicted, most of them come walking towards the park. From my vantage point, I see them this time. It’s much easier than sitting in the car. I think of the images from the old photographs that I left in the car, then look at the faces coming towards me, trying to see a face that might look familiar. Some of them stop and sit on other benches or wander around with half eaten sandwiches in their hands. Others stay in the schoolyard, hurriedly eating, probably trying to get the maximum amount of playtime in before school resumes. When they reach me, most pass right by as though I’m not there. Some of the cheekier ones make a face or whisper to their friends and laugh. It doesn’t matter. I’m close now, close enough to see them.

  I have no time for the boys, but I search the faces of all the little girls, looking for a half dimple or a cheeky smile, or something, anything that will make me think that it’s Heather’s Emily. I hold my jacket tight against me, shielding myself from the cold, enjoying watching their smiling faces, even smiling back at some of them. There doesn’t seem to be as many as there were in the morning, so I assume that some are inside, eating or staying warm. The heartier ones run amongst the trees, playing on the schoolyard swings, shouting at each other, trying to be noticed, trying to do something that makes their long schooldays a little easier to bear.

  There are two groups of little girls sitting on benches that face each other at the edge of the school yard, where it joins the park. I can see their fair hair, and hear their high pitched laughter, but I can’t see their faces. It’s hard to tell exactly what size a ten-year-old should be, especially when it’s a long time since you were ten. These little girls look ten to me. They look like ten-year-old girls.

  I leave my map on the bench and walk closer, trying to get a better look at the little girls. I can’t see the car at all now, but I know that Heather will be watching me or watching the other children in the park. I focus my eyes, trying to see them as they giggle at each other, jumping excitedly while eating their lunches. As I get closer, I see them more clearly. There are two on one bench, and three on another. One girl is talking over the others, always interrupting. I hope that she isn’t Emily. I’m a few feet from their benches, and can see one little girl, sitting at the end, listening, and I wonder if that might be her. I stop every few feet, focusing on the little girls, trying to see something, anything. As I try to remember the face in the old photograph, I hear footsteps coming up fast behind me. Suddenly, there’s a strong hand coming down on my shoulder and I hear a man’s voice.

  I freeze in position, and watch as the little girls look at me, then turn back to their lunches, giggling. “Is there something we can do to help you sir?” He asks it in a condescending way, as though he isn’t really interested in the answer.

  When I turn, I see two of them, the man who stopped me, and a woman coming behind him. They’ve been walking fast to reach me, but don’t seem out of breath. The man stands with his arms by his side, hands raised out, clenched into fists, as though he’s ready to attack me if my answer isn’t to his liking. “I’m sorry. I’m lost. I was looking for some directions. I have a map. I’m not a local here. I’m just passing through.”

  I stumble with my answers, and as I motion towards where I’d been sitting, I notice that the map is gone and that there’s only an empty bench. I look around for the rental car, and the man seems to think that I’m looking for an opening, trying to make a run for it.

  “The police are on their way, Buddy. Just relax. You can tell them your story when they get here.” He pats the kids on their heads as they pass him on their way from the schoolyard to the park. Some look up and wonder what’s happening while others just lau
gh and run by, continuing their games, ignoring us. Although the man looks to be about my age, he stares at me as though he’s older, like a parent, scolding a child.

  “The police? What are you talking about? Listen, I don’t know what you think is happening here, and I’m sorry if I’ve caused you some confusion, but I really am just lost. I thought somebody could give me directions.” I look at him, hoping for some understanding, knowing that I haven’t done anything wrong.

  The woman is standing beside him now, closer, waiting for his lead. The two of them seem fearless, protecting the children in their schoolyard. I look from her face to his, trying to appeal to them. “What did you think I was doing?” I say it as though I’m offended by their vague implications.

  “Well, I get a call that there’s a man lurking around the park, watching kids, staring at them, trying to smile at them.” He answers me as though he’s talking to one of the children. “I don’t know what to make of that. So, I sit by my window, watching you. Then, when I see you sneaking up on those young girls, I think, well, I’ll just come over and investigate for myself, see what kind of a man tries to talk to kids while he’s got a bottle of something or other stuck in his jacket pocket in the middle of the day.” He motions towards the bulge in my pocket, still never taking his eyes from me.