In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo

by Tacon, Claire;

  Our dog, Donald, has been spending most of the day upstairs with me, his belly splayed over the AC vent. It feels like such an act of solidarity that I’ve been feeding him stealth Milk-Bones, counteracting them with extra-long walks where he sausages along next to me.

  Because I don’t have a job now, they’ve got me doing things for the business. Mostly I’ve been resizing photos for MLS listings and learning the 3-D tour software so they don’t have to contract it out. They’ve decided that real estate technical support can be my part-time job during university. I haven’t complained because, although we haven’t set a price, it sounds like they’re going to pay me. Unless my very own Rumpelstiltskin shows up, I’m going to have to replace the Frankie suit from my tuition savings. My parents are putting some money toward the residence fees, but I’ll be paying the bulk of my first-year expenses with the scholarship and three years of Funhouse earnings. At least now I know I won’t be transferring to somewhere more expensive in New York.

  I do the photo work up in my room so that at least I can listen to my music. The Kills are sing-clapping into my noise-cancelling headphones loud enough that I don’t hear the doorbell or notice my mother come in until she’s at my desk.

  “Come down now,” she says, anxious. She’s been on the phone a lot – I had no idea how many calls she gets in a day. With each conversation her voice shifts to the most patient version of itself. I can see how she and Dad are a good team. She’s the gregarious one bringing in the clients, showing off the houses and Dad does the paperwork and hardball negotiations.

  My father is standing in the hallway, opposite a police officer. Dad has one foot on the carpet runner, one foot off, barring further entry. The door is still open. My mother is the one who ushers us all into the living room, gestures to the couch. The cop nods to acknowledge her hospitality before taking a seat. He could be in his late thirties, maybe Persian. His hat is tucked under his arm. Like my parents, he looks well-showered, well-pressed.

  I, however, couldn’t have constructed a better troublesome-youth costume: ripped jeans, dumb sci-fi shirt and frayed hoodie. Hair spiked in multiple directions because I was too lazy to put product in.

  “I’ve had a call from your boss, Brandon Young.” The cop pauses and I don’t know if it’s an invitation to speak or a tactic to make me listen.

  “Does he need a lawyer?” My mother asks.

  “If he’d like. Mostly I want to ask him some questions.”

  “What has he done?”

  The cop tilts his head, neither acknowledging nor denying her question. “I’m here about a mascot suit. Taken from the Mississauga Frankie’s Funhouse after an altercation.”

  “I wasn’t going to keep it.”

  The cop keeps his voice casual, but everything I say goes into his notebook. “I understand you were at a cottage?”

  “Chicago.”

  “When did you arrive back?”

  “Monday.”

  “So you’ve had two days to return it?”

  “The fur needs cleaning.”

  My mother sits straight-backed, pitched forward. Her body primed to spring up, unleash her own cross-examination. I’m not sure, however, if she’s prosecution or defence.

  “Is it common for you to take the suit home? For cleaning?”

  “No.”

  “So you’ve never done this before?”

  I shake my head.

  “Brandon said you’d been fired. He called you out for some health violations.”

  “That’s not how I remember it.”

  The cop is distracted by the sound of Donald thudding his gut down the stairs. He makes straight for the cop’s shoes, flopping onto his back and snouting for attention.

  “Go away,” my mother says. “Up up.”

  The dog stays planted. He licks toward the cop’s pant leg, anticipating a pet that never comes.

  “Did he tell you that he called me a chink?”

  The officer doesn’t react. Whether he’s surprised by the slur or not, his expression stays neutral. My father’s, as well. The two of them like the Buckingham Palace guards that jackasses try to trip up in movies.

  “Brandon estimated the cost at two thousand dollars.” The cop sets the notebook down and motions to my face. “Did that happen at the store?”

  I don’t know if a person can be charged with underage drinking just by mentioning it. Jeremy’s cousin’s ID is still in my wallet, which seems incriminating enough. Sitting here and being questioned, it feels like the cop already has the answers and is just waiting to see if I’m lying. “No, I was at a bar. I got in a fight with a friend.”

  “What friend?” my mother asks. “What bar?”

  “Jeremy got us in. I had to work in the morning and wanted to come home. He was trying to pick up a girl.”

  “Jeremy has a girlfriend.”

  “He was trying to pick up a girl and she was making fun of him but he didn’t know it. I just wanted to go home so I told him to lay off.”

  “Jeremy looked fine when I saw him on Sunday,” my mother says. “He said you slipped on the stairs to the subway.”

  “He had his mom’s car – why would we be on the subway?”

  The cop knows he’s waded into something volatile, something unrelated to the suit. He waits until we’re silent. “Then what?”

  “A girl was walking by and pulled him off me. She put me in a cab and took care of me after I passed out.”

  “Is this true?” My mother has balled up the bow of her blouse in her left hand. Loops of blue silk peek out between her knuckles. Her right palm is open on her knee like she’s waiting for someone to hand her a quarter.

  “The next day you were at work?”

  “Brandon started up and I made a stupid decision. Whatever happens, I can return the suit, or replace it.” I’ve had no priors, I’m a straight-A student, I’ve held down a job up until now and I’m trying to make things right. When the cop pulls out a form, I think it’s the official slap on the wrist.

  It’s theft under five-thousand dollars and mischief to property. Store management is intent on prosecuting.

  “Since the suit isn’t ready to be returned,” the cop says, “I’ve got to charge you. Most first-time offenders are able to plea bargain.”

  He releases me on a promise to appear, which means no bail hearing. “Sign the form, then in four weeks you’ll go in to give your prints and get your mug shot snapped.” Sometime after frosh week I’ll have to plead at the Mississauga provincial court.

  My parents are silent while the cop completes the paperwork. When he’s ready to leave, the officer stands and bows his head to each of my parents. The politeness of the gesture strikes me. He knows what this means. Because of me, he’s had to come here and basically scooch across our rug like a dog with trapped anal glands. He knows there’s a big brown streak to clean up.

  I sit back on the couch and wait for my mother to show him out.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, expecting another lecture.

  My father’s eyes have gone watery. He looks straight ahead out the side window, onto the alleyway with our neighbour’s festering recycle bins. The tears follow his smile lines down to his chin. My mother stands beside him and dabs at his face with her sleeve. She lifts him up by the elbow and they both leave the room.

  It’s excruciating, sitting here with this guilt and no release. After a few hours of self-imposed bedroom confinement, I start feeling nostalgic for the stocks. At least with a verbal lashing there’s an intermediary, the words a weapon to focus indignation on.

  Out of the world’s seven billion people, probably only Henry is still on my side. Although, considering that I lied to him about parental permission, even he might not want to hear from me. I call anyway.

  “I’d been meaning to let you know about the suit,” he says, static under his voice, like he’s on the hands-free. A railway crossing ding dings in the background. “The body I’ve gotten clean, but the head’s a writeoff.”


  I explain that it’s too late, that I’m officially a hooligan.

  “Christ,” he says.

  “Maybe outlaw has a better ring.”

  “Just don’t get yourself in deeper. I’ll speak to Brandon one-on-one; see if I can’t smooth things over. A record isn’t something to screw around with.”

  “This is what you tried to warn me about, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t think it would go this far.”

  After Henry hangs up, I realize I didn’t even ask how he and Starr are doing. A text now is going to seem like an afterthought. I Sharpie out #1 Selfish Asshole on a Post-it and stick it to my monitor rim.

  My mother comes up before supper and sits herself at the foot of the bed. “I’ve called a lawyer and we’ve got a plan.”

  “Henry’s going to see if Brandon will drop it.”

  “No.” She folds her hands into her lap, lowers her voice. “Now that you’ve been charged, nothing can be done until the hearing. We’re going to find you some community service. And you can keep working for us. The lawyer thinks that having a job and volunteering will help in court. He’ll speak to the manager to arrange the repayment of whatever damage you’ve done.” The concealer around her eyes is uneven, as if she’d just put on extra to come see me. Seeing her so visibly hurt is awful.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She slaps her hand on the bed. Of course not. She doesn’t say anything more, just stands and leaves the room. I can’t face going down for dinner, so I grab a leftover chocolate bar and load up my work. The next house is a suburban semi that’s been sitting on the market for a while. The owners finally hired a stager who basically went in and puked beige on each floor. The kitchen island is arrowroot quartz, the cathedral entrance is rabbit’s ear, the upstairs carpet is crème anglaise. My parents now have the task of selling the inside of an eggshell.

  Objectively, I guess, there’s nothing wrong with the house, it’s just nowhere I’d want to live. Just like, objectively, I’m probably not the worst son in the world but I am the one my folks are stuck with. If I die choking on this Twix, I wonder if they’ll find me before my skin starts melting into the sheets.

  The only good point of the day comes when I’m taking a break and notice that Jeremy’s Facebook status has changed from in a relationship to single.

  HENRY

  WE’RE MEETING DELLA’S PARENTS AT A SECOND CUP IN Streetsville and Kathleen surprises me by ordering a mochaccino – full caff eine, whipped cream. Normally she’ll stick with tea or something low on Weight Watchers points and I’m worried that she needs this small luxury to help her through what’s coming.

  The Jenkins are right on time. Cecil in black business pants and a pale blue button-down that definitely didn’t come, like mine, in bulk from Costco. He’s got a firm handshake, the kind that lingers longer than you expect, so I pull my hand away limp as his is flexed. Karalee just nods at me, oversized daisies creeping up the hem of her sundress.

  Kath hugs both of them. I’ve barely seen the Jenkins since they signed the lease but she checks in every three months or so to go over concerns and to swap schedules.

  “You’re both looking well,” I say, hoping to appease Kath by taking the lead.

  “We’re getting old,” Cecil says. As he sits, he runs his palm down to flatten his shirt, his stomach no more rounded than a teenager’s. “Just got news we’re going to be grandparents again.”

  “Congratulations. Your son –”

  “Erik?” Kath fills in the name for me. My wife’s ability to keep a mental database of personal details, even for acquaintances, makes her a good saleswoman, a good advocate. She’s able to remind people very subtly that they have a relationship, that they’ve already let her into their lives. It makes it a lot harder to say no.

  “Our middle daughter. The one who got married last year.” There is a picture of the couple on the girls’ coffee table.

  “Well, congratulations.” Kath smiles wide enough to show her teeth and my heart stings for her. Surely she’s told them about Melly’s loss. Perhaps the Jenkins are both disciples of meant-to-be, as if that makes the knocks any softer.

  “We’re hoping for a boy. Since we’ve got two girls.”

  It’s raining grandchildren in their part of town.

  “You two getting ready? Melanie and Chester have been married a while now.”

  “Yes,” I say, wanting to spare Kathleen. “But they’re still young.”

  “Of course,” Karalee says and leans back. Maybe she does know about the miscarriage but forgot.

  “We’re getting ready to go away at the end of the summer. Erik will take care of Della, same schedule. We’re spending a week in Banff for our thirtieth anniversary.”

  I wonder if congratulations is the only word I’ll be required to say during this whole conversation.

  “We’ve travelled south and to Europe once or twice, but we figured it would be nice to try the mountains. We’ve been watching those Planet Earth DVDs.”

  Those box sets are collecting dust in our basement too. We stopped watching after the orcas ate the grey whale calf. “Should be wonderful.”

  “Speaking of travel.” Cecil adjusts so he’s pointed toward Kathleen. The chair legs scrape against the tile floor. “I heard it was a hard time at the border.”

  “Yes.”

  Cecil and Karalee wait for a more expansive retelling, but I don’t know where to start. Kathleen attempted a pep talk in the car – “I’m not saying your honesty, your lack of subtext, doesn’t have its appeal. It’s partly why I married you,” she’d said. But the real message was that directness was not going to be helpful today.

  “Must have been hard for Starr,” Cecil prompts.

  “Yes, it was unpleasant all around,” Kath says.

  “To be honest, we were surprised to not get a call on Sunday,” Cecil continues. “Della was upset when Starr didn’t make it home.”

  Kath dings her flat against my sneaker, prodding.

  “We’d hoped to be home earlier. I didn’t realize the girls had plans.”

  Cecil glances at Kath and then back at me, his jovial half-grin looking more forced. “We usually let each other know if it’s later than ten.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know that rule.” It’s unreasonable, but I resent these little codes. It feels like I’m fourteen again and my father’s pointing out the soap marks I’ve left on the car.

  “Ah,” Cecil says. Just as he lets his hands rest against the table, he rears them back up in front of his waist, punctuating his speech. “It’s just that we’d had a good chat with her over dinner. I think Della wanted to smooth things over with Starr – propose starting fresh. So she waited up and then I got a frantic call at midnight and we couldn’t get in touch with either of you. When Starr was also absent from day program, Della assumed she was avoiding her.”

  “There were some unforeseen circumstances.” I take a sip of my medium roast and try to distill the weekend’s events. Another memory of my dad – it’s like trying to fit ten gallons of shit into a five-gallon sack. “Then I had my cell withheld at the border. Again, I’m sorry – it’s not going to happen again.”

  “No, of course. At the time it just felt like two strikes.”

  “Are we playing baseball?” I attempt a chuckle to soften the words.

  Cecil stiffens. “We just want what’s best for our daughter.”

  “And Starr,” Karalee adds. Her bangle earrings swing out with each arc of her neck, their jauntiness at odds with her tone.

  “It’s natural for roommates to have friction.”

  Cecil tucks his arm around Karalee, resolved. “It’s been a few months – there’s the dietary stuff, Starr’s interaction with Della’s nieces.”

  “We can figure out a different tactic for that.” Kathleen keeps her voice upbeat, batting at their doubts. “Maybe your son could schedule his visits so we have time to find an alternate activity for Starr. The
main thing is that they both, at heart, like each other, like living together.”

  “We have to consider if this is the best arrangement.”

  It’s easy to walk away without a mortgage around your neck. As if it’s Starr’s fault she’s good with children, that she can eat what she wants, that she drinks wine now and then. My inflating sense of injustice is pierced by the thought that the Jenkins must need the pooled support hours too. What other options do they have? Like us, they were turned off by group homes. The son’s close to his sister – perhaps he’s offered to take her on when the time comes? There are worse things than a life insulated by family.

  “Look, how much longer is the lease?” I ask.

  “Eight months,” Cecil says.

  “Why don’t we take the next six months as a trial. If a new system works, great.”

  “It’s not a matter of money. We’ll cover what we’ve promised. We just can’t have a daughter who’s crying every night. You know we love Starr.”

  If they’ve decided, there’s no use trying to sell them. Under the table, I thread my fingers through Kathleen’s and we hold silent. Della’s been a guest in our home many times. She’s more family than roommate and it feels wrong to split the girls over petty grievances.

  “Maybe,” Karalee finally says, “we can just call this weekend a low point.”

  “I think we can all agree on that.” Kathleen reaches out and squeezes her and Cecil’s hands. The three of them look like a football team revving up for the next play and I half-expect them to yell, “Hut,” when they break apart.

  On the drive home, I ask Kathleen how I did.

  “Fine, Henry.” She’s more tired than angry; still worried this will go awry.