by Thomas King
The buzzer rings. I stand in front of the door and practise breathing. Steven is in the hall with a brown grocery bag. He waits there, smiling, expecting that I’ll ask him to come in. My mouth is thick and sticky. My hair is bent to one side. The stubble on my legs catches at my robe.
What do you want?
Here, he says, it’s in the bag, and he slides by me, smoothly, rippling into the room, flooding the apartment as he goes.
Nice place.
There are newspapers on the floor. Dishes in the sink. A pile of dirty clothes near the stove. These days I have little to interest eagles. A few books. My mother’s sofa. A television with a built-in VCR. A deaf cat.
I have to see a man about a horse, he says.
The bag is heavy. The bottom is dark and wet. I set it on the table and listen to see if he raises the toilet seat. Or if he lowers it. Or if he washes his hands when he’s done.
When we were in love and in Haida Gwaii, we stood on the rocks and watched eagles tumble out of the trees each evening to take fish off the water. This is where Raven put Eagle’s body in a tree, I told him, and this is where Sun brought her back to life.
So this is where you were born. Far out.
In this particular memory, Steven runs down the beach, his arms thrown out, his clothes catching the wind.
I’m an eagle! His body dips from side to side, weaving in and out of the water, turning and coming back to me on the fly, like a rock thrown at a wall. You’re a fish, he says, and pulls me down onto the sand.
Overhead, the seagulls float and search the foam for food. Further out, dark clouds sit on the water. The sand is heavy and damp. Steven pulls his shirt up over his head and kicks off his shoes. He unbuttons my blouse and tosses it into the air. It hovers above us for a moment like a bird.
The eagles do not follow us. They drift back into the tree. They know trouble when they see it.
Afterwards, we walk to where the land and sea turn north and run out to Rose Spit. It is the westernmost point in Canada, a low promontory of sand and storm-thrown grass. Near the end of the spit is a weather tower, a thin-legged platform caught in a web of guy wires. I climb to the top and watch Steven below me, picking his way through the tangle of driftwood and logs at the water’s edge. He stands on top of a dead tree and smiles and waves his arms and shouts at me, but all I can hear is the ocean and the sound of the wind. Perhaps it’s an apology. Perhaps it isn’t.
Steven flushes the toilet and comes back into the room. I didn’t mean to hit it, he says. It just flew in front of the car. There was nothing I could do.
Steven smiles at me. He tilts his head to one side the way he used to tilt his head when he wanted me to kiss him or put my head in his lap or make him a cup of coffee.
You with anyone? he says
I want to clean the apartment. Sweep the floor. Make the bed. Organize the refrigerator.
Wash my hair.
Shave my legs.
Take out the trash.
Steven sits down on the sofa, spreads himself out generously, and, in that moment, I realize that the bag might not contain an eagle at all, that it might be filled with doughnuts. Bagels. Fruit. Chocolate. A peace offering. An intention. Perhaps something more. Perhaps something less.
I thought there might be a ceremony, he says, like the one in the story.
I make coffee. Steven stays on the sofa and watches me as I move from the stove to the refrigerator. You’re looking great, he tells me. You lose some weight?
In that memory of Haida Gwaii, there is a car on the beach. Stuck sideways in the sand. A car driven too far. A man stands by the rear wheels, a piece of driftwood in his hand. A woman stands near the hood, her arms wrapped around her body. From my tower, I imagine that they are lovers on their honeymoon. The man from Alberta. The woman from Ontario. Perhaps the trip hasn’t gone too well so far. A minor accident in Swift Current. A burst radiator hose in Medicine Hat. An argument in Prince Rupert. And, now, at last, this.
The sky above the car is alive with ravens and gulls. They lie on the wind pretending not to listen. I love you, honey, the ravens chant at the gulls. Lot of good that’s going to do now, the gulls sing back.
When we take pictures, we tend to take pictures of resting moments. With scenery. But what we remember are the disasters. These are the memories that bind us. These are the memories we share with friends. Standing on the tower I can see the couple in the distance shaping their memories. The car is a rental. Or it was purchased just before the wedding. Or given to them by parents. They are in love and too young to know anything about sand and water. Too young to know to stay on maintained roads. Too young to know how quickly tides shift.
Don’t worry, the ravens shout, I know what I’m doing, and the gulls rise up on the gusts and fall away, laughing.
The man digs powerfully with his stick, clearing the tire and the axle so the car can settle deeper into the sand. The woman had already seen the danger long before they made it this far but realized that, even with the protection that passion provides, she could not hope to slow his enthusiasms. While the man works, the woman opens the trunk. Inside, between the suitcases, are brightly coloured shopping bags with twisted paper handles, each overflowing with presents and souvenirs. She looks through each bag, carefully considering each item, finally leaving everything behind and walking across the rocks and the logs, up to where the grass begins.
I watch the ravens and the gulls. They are delighted. The tide is on its way. They know it won’t be long now.
That day at Haida Gwaii, I wait on the tower until Steven finds me. We lean into the wind and watch the man and the woman and the car. Should we help? I ask. The water has almost surrounded the car now.
No point, says Steven. There’s nothing worth saving.
What about us?
Steven raises his arms. He pushes me against the guy wires and buries his face in my hair. I’ll save you, he says.
At Queen’s Quay, Steven takes the bird out of the bag. It is a sorry sight. The body is crushed. Someone has cut off the head and the feet.
Did you do this?
I haven’t been with anyone for a long time, he says. What about you?
It’s not an eagle, I say, it’s a goose, but I can see Steven knows this already.
I’ve missed you, he tells me.
I stand by the railing and look out over the lake. The wind off the water is cold and quick. Steven hangs the goose in a thin ornamental tree that grows out of an iron grating and interlocking bricks. The branches are too weak to hold the bird, so he wedges it deep in the crotch of the trunk.
And I’m betting you’ve missed me.
Steven brings back a wing feather. Something for your war bonnet, he says. And he opens my coat and slides the feather inside my blouse.
We should go, I say.
Don’t you want to see if the Sun is going to save Eagle? He herds me along the railing with his hands. I still love you, you know.
You’re not an eagle, I tell him.
He presses against me gently, and for a moment, over his shoulder, I can see the sky over Haida Gwaii.
I’m not a fish.
The sun comes up and lights the tree and the goose. Steven moves against me, roughly now, his chest rolling against my breasts, his hands pulling my hips into place. I twist and slip away, leaving him hung on the railing, staring at the lake.
Didn’t work, he shouts. And when I turn, I see he is holding the goose by a wing. First light glances off its body, and it swings gently from side to side in the breeze, as if it’s working up the strength to fly away.
You’re Native, Steven says, smiling now, tilting his head to one side. Do something. And he spins the bird around above his head and flings it into the lake.
I walk back to my apartment and lock the door. I pull the curtains and turn off the lights. Later, I lower myself into the bath and watch the water rise around my body. And when I close my eyes, I see the couple on the beach in Haida Gwaii, t
he man bent on saving the car and the presents, the woman content to have reached high ground.
Little Bombs
So far as Larry could remember, Janice started hiding the bombs the same week that the Plymouth died. There had been symptoms, of course. A deep, grinding growl. Iridescent pools of oil and gas in the driveway. A thumping knock that telescoped up through the steering wheel and made Janice’s hands and arms numb.
It was Janice’s car, and, for the eight months that it staggered and sputtered about, Larry was sympathetic. “I don’t know what to do, honey. We can’t afford a new one, and it doesn’t make much sense to throw good money after bad.” And he would hold her and pat her head.
The car finally collapsed in the Bay parking lot and had to be towed to Ralph’s Shell station on Fairfield. “It’s not worth the fixing,” Ralph told Larry and Janice. “The engine is shot.”
They left the Plymouth at the station and drove home in Larry’s Chrevrolet, which ran well, but needed two new tires and a tune-up. Larry stood in the front yard that evening and held Janice, watched the sun set, and looked at the Chrevrolet. He kissed her on the forehead and squeezed her. “What the hell,” he said. “Let’s buy a new car. Damn, let’s get a new one.”
So Larry and Janice sold the Plymouth to Ralph, who said he could use it for parts, and bought a brand new Ford from Herb Nash. The car came equipped with a stereo radio and tape deck, automatic windows, reclining bucket seats, spoke wheels, cruise control, and an odometer for those long trips. It was a brilliant green, metallic with tiny gold flakes deep in the paint. From a distance, it looked like a gumdrop.
Herb was giving away certificates for a free dinner at the Brown Jug for anyone who bought a new or used car from him, and he was able to enter their names in the company’s contest for a free trip to Disneyland, even though the contest had officially closed last Saturday. “Good customers are important to me,” Herb said, and he shook Larry’s hand, smiled at Janice, and slid the keys across the table. Larry took the keys to the Ford, fished the keys to the Chevrolet out of his pocket, and dropped them into Janice’s hand. “We’ll get some retreads next month,” he said. “But the tune-up will probably have to wait.”
The following Monday, after the football game, as he turned off the twenty-eight-inch remote-control colour television he had bought for Janice at Christmas, Larry found the first bomb. It wasn’t a large bomb. In fact, it was a very small bomb, about the size of a grape. It was blue, royal blue to be precise. The bomb had been stuck to the back of the television with a wad of gum. The fuse was grey and about an inch long.
Janice was in the kitchen doing the dishes. “Honey,” Larry said, “look what I found on the back of the television. ”
“Oh, that,” said Janice.
“It’s a bomb, honey,” said Larry. “I don’t know how it got there.”
Janice turned the pot over and scrubbed the black stain. “I put it there.”
“You put it there?”
“I bought it at Sam’s. I liked the colour.”
“Why would you want to put a bomb on the television?”
“It’s not a bomb, sweetheart,” said Janice. “It’s really just a firecracker. It was a joke. Here…” And she took a match from above the stove, lit the fuse, and tossed the blue bomb out the window and into the yard.
“See,” said Janice. “Hardly any louder than popcorn.”
Larry found the next bomb behind the toilet, stuck to the porcelain with a piece of grey duct tape. He had leaned over to find the December issue of Penthouse, and there it was. It was slightly larger than the first bomb, and this one was silver. Janice shook her head when he brought it downstairs.
“I found this in the bathroom.”
“Honestly, honey,” said Janice. “I can’t hide anything from you.”
“Are you all right?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“You could have damaged the toilet.”
“Don’t be silly. Here.” Janice opened the window. She let the fuse burn down before she dropped the bomb into the hydrangea bush at the side of the house. “That was a little louder, wasn’t it?”
That evening, after he had called Janice to tell her he had to work late, Larry went to Cynthia’s and told her about the bombs.
“God, Larry,” Cynthia said. “Do you think she’s crazy?”
“She says it was just a joke.”
Cynthia was wearing a black nightgown with slits at the sides. “Why don’t we lie down for a while. You need to relax.”
Larry kissed Cynthia and gave her right breast a squeeze. “I’m okay. How about making some popcorn? There’s a good movie on at eight.”
The third bomb shattered the green plastic garbage can and sprayed Larry with coffee grounds and eggshells.
“Well, how was I to know?” Janice said, picking eggshell out of Larry’s hair. “You know you never take out the garbage.”
Larry’s good grey gabardine slacks were badly stained, and there was a wet, grey lump of what looked to be fish intestine on his right wingtip.
“Are there any more?”
“It’s just a hobby, honey. I get bored.”
The fourth bomb caught Larry’s favourite chair and spun the cushions into a cloud of tiny foam particles. The fifth took off the head of his driver and three wood. The sixth blew out the door on his locker at the health club and started a small fire in his gym strip.
After Larry put out the fire, he drove home. “Janice,” he said, “that was a great little trick. I tell you, when that bomb went off, Arnold almost fainted. And as soon as old Harry saw the flames, well, you know Harry.”
Janice put down the potato peeler. “Did you really like it? God, I wish I could have been there.”
“I must have laughed myself sick.” Larry took Janice in his arms and patted her butt and kissed her on the back of her head several times. “I love you very much,” he said.
The seventh bomb ripped out the west wall of the garage, most of which fell on the Yamaha all-terrain vehicle that Larry had bought from Jerry Miller less than eight months ago. After Larry cleaned up all the glass and wood, he called Cynthia on the private phone in his den.
“She’s still planting those damn bombs,” he said.
“You have to call the police, Larry. Does she know about us?”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t want to find one of her bombs under my bed.”
“Don’t be silly. She’s mad at me.”
“Well, what did you do to make her mad?
“Nothing.”
“You must have done something.”
“I think she likes blowing up my things.”
“What if she thinks I’m one of your things?”
Larry spent the next several days thinking about the problem, and, on Thursday, when he came home, he marched right upstairs and found Janice, who was sorting and folding clothes in the bedroom.
“Janice,” he said, “we have to talk. These bombs. They have to stop. I know you’re angry with me, but bombs are not the solution.”
“Oh, Larry,” she said. “You worry too much.”
“No,” he said. “I think the problem is that you don’t love me any more.”
“Honey, how can you think that?”
“What I mean is that you don’t love me enough.” Larry unhitched his pants, and undid his new, navy-blue blazer. “Janice, are you having an affair?”
Janice looked at Larry and started to shake her head. Then she smiled and gave him a playful push in the chest. “Oh, Larry,” she said. “I’ve hurt your feelings, haven’t I?” And she laughed. “Look, the bombs were pretty silly. I won’t buy any more. I’m sorry.”
Later that night, after Larry had brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas, and slid into bed, he could hear her downstairs unloading the dishwasher, laughing.
After work the next evening, Larry called Janice to tell her he’d be late getting home again and not to wait dinner
.
“I’ve got to see a client,” he said. “It could be a big deal.”
Then he drove directly to Cynthia’s apartment. She was waiting for him at the door, wearing a soft, rose nightgown.
“What did you spill on yourself?” she asked, looking at Larry’s grey slacks.
“She said she was going to stop planting the bombs.”
Cynthia put her arms around Larry’s neck. “I’m so glad,” she said. “You’re all tense, honey. Let’s go to bed.”
“I was beginning to think she wanted to kill me.”
“You’ll feel better after we make love.”
Larry sat down on the sofa. “I don’t think I can make love. I’m still upset.” He turned on the television. “Is there anything to eat?”
Janice was just bringing the laundry up from the basement when Larry arrived home. “Honey,” she said, “you must be starved. Let me put these things away, and I’ll heat up dinner for you.”
Larry followed Janice up the stairs and into the bedroom. “You can still see the stain in my pants.”
“Well, take them off, and I’ll drop them at the cleaners. Give me that jacket, too.”
Larry took off his pants and his sports coat, and put on his robe. Janice put her arms around his waist. “That’s a beautiful robe. I’m glad you bought it. Nothing feels as nice as silk, and you really look good in it.”
Larry looked at himself in the mirror and patted his stomach. “Is there any chicken left?”
Janice picked up Larry’s coat and pants. Larry looked at himself again before following her downstairs into the kitchen. Janice put the coat and pants over the back of the chair, and, as she did, a little bomb fell out of the coat pocket. Larry stood there in his maroon robe, stunned. “Janice,” he said, “I thought you weren’t going to do this anymore.” He reached down and picked up the bomb. It was bright pink. “I thought you weren’t going to do this ever again.”
Janice took the pink bomb from Larry and rolled it over in her hand. She held it up to the light and turned it around and around. There was a box of matches on the ledge above the stove and Janice struck one on the burner and lit the fuse. “This isn’t one of mine,” she said. And she tucked the bomb down the front of Larry’s robe.
