Roost

by Ali Bryan

“Perfect. I’ll be right back.”

  I haul the kids out of the car and they trudge through the front lobby. Wes drags his Spiderman towel behind.

  “Pick that up, hon. It’s dragging.”

  He reels it in with a grunt. I pay the clerk and she gives me a key card and points us in the direction of the pool.

  “Wait for Mommy,” I say, once we’re at the edge of the pool. I try to remove my clothing at the same speed as my children.

  Joan asks, “Can me jump in?”

  “No.”

  “Can I go down that?” Wes asks, pointing at the giant red slide. He jumps up and down and his voice wavers with excitement.

  “Maybe with me, but let’s get in the pool first.”

  I carry Joan on my hip and descend the stairs. The temperature is comfortable. Nice after a long day. Joan squeezes my neck and Wesley flaps beside me, barely afloat.

  “Stay to this side, Wes, where it’s shallow.”

  He flutters back to the shallow end and bravely dunks himself.

  “Good job, Wes.”

  He rubs his eyes furiously then smiles.

  After three minutes of frolicking, which feel more like ten, we approach the winding steps up the slide. I read the sign. It appears I have made an error in judgment. Wes is too small to go on his own. Joan should not go period. But I make the decision to see the sign as a suggestion more than anything, and by the time we’ve ascended the steps, the prospect of taking the stairs in reverse quite frankly frightens me. Panting under Joan’s weight, I sit down at the top of the slide, which is essentially a dark tunnel, with Joan between my legs and tell Wes to come in front.

  “Now don’t move Wes. I’m going to wrap my legs around you so that we all go down together.”

  But as Wes turns to listen to my instructions his small butt pivots beneath him and he starts down the slide sideways. I grab his arm but instead of stopping his descent the move pulls Joan and me sideways forcing a partial wedgie in my suit. And that is how the ride ensues. I carry the weight of one child and my own body on one dry butt cheek while Wes dangles helplessly from my grasp, absorbing the force of the ride in his knobby spine. Joan is silent for the six seconds of skin chafing, presumably because she is comfortably resting on the fleshy part of my thighs. Wes and I scream. And just when the light from the pool below becomes visible, the asshole speeds up and sends us spinning backwards until we are messily unloaded into the water.

  I scramble to the surface dragging both kids with me. Wes howls. Joan rubs at her chlorine-stung eyes. She has a long scratch but is otherwise unscathed. I set her on the pool deck, followed by Wes, who accuses me of pushing him down the slide. I turn him around to inspect his back. It is red but not really bleeding. Wes continues to sob softly while I lay out our clothes to get dressed. Shirts first to cover their goose bumps followed immediately by pants as I have managed to forget to bring underwear for any of us.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling defeated. “That wasn’t too much fun, was it?”

  Wes shakes his head sadly. It is 8:30 and past their bedtime but I drive fifteen minutes in the hopes Dairy Queen will somehow salvage the night. Two Dilly Bars later the kids are asleep with chocolate on their faces. I put my pajamas on and watch The Nature of Things with my dad.

  “What are you eating?” I ask him.

  “Some of the pork. It’s real tasty. Want me to make you up a plate?”

  “Why is it shredded like that?” I ask, leaning in for a closer look.

  “I pulled it apart with a fork.”

  “No thanks,” I mutter. “Where’s Paul?”

  “She’s outside.”

  In a moment of pity for Paul, I go out back to check on her. She’s wound her leash around a tree. It takes a few minutes to untangle her. When I do, she brings me a pinecone. I squat down and scratch her neck. Brush bits of bark and debris from her back.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go inside.”

  She treads close behind me.

  My dad is asleep sitting up on the couch, a half-empty plate on his lap. The pork has gone hard and slides in a mass towards my hand as I carry the plate to the kitchen.

  “Dad,” I whisper, returning to the living room. “It’s time to go to bed.”

  47

  Saturday is a big day. My father’s house is ready for him to move back in and it’s his first major bonspiel. Glen picks up the kids and I go watch. There are more young people in the stands than I expected there would be. A few families with children. Some spectators in their twenties. An odd proportion of people are eating fries. There are four sheets of ice in play. One game is already under way. Three others are about to start. I spot my dad second sheet from the end. His broom is different than those of his teammates. I wonder if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I wish he knew I was watching.

  He gets set to play, brushing the bottom of the rock and manoeuvring his foot in the hack. For the moment he is the only action in the rink. He pushes away, releasing the rock. It almost looks graceful. Artful. Until it flies through the house and bumps the back of the sheet. My dad scrambles to his feet with a look of horror. His adopted teammates also assume looks of horror. People around me mumble comments. Two teenagers in front of me laugh out loud.

  “Did you see that? What a retard.”

  “My grandma can curl better than that and she’s in a wheelchair.”

  “My balls could curl better.”

  They laugh again.

  My dad gets a comforting pat on the back from one of his teammates. He wipes his hands on his pants and returns to the hack for his second shot, preceded by action on the neighbouring sheet. When he gets set to release, all eyes are on him.

  The teenagers nudge each other and look in my father’s direction. This time his rock doesn’t make it to the hog line. No rocks for Gerald.

  “What a loser!”

  “I told you, he’s a retard.”

  I start to panic for my dad. I want to tell him it’s okay the way he did when I fell off my bike or failed a spelling test. It’s only the first end. Refocus. Kill yourself. But I can’t get to him. I can, however, get to the teenagers in front me. I can wipe my boots on their hoodies for instance.

  “That guy is a total pussy.”

  “Loser.”

  “Excuse me,” I say. The blond one on the left looks up. He has an excessive amount of product in his hair. “Don’t you think it’s a little uncool to be watching curling?” I ask him.

  He stares up at me bewildered. Unsure what to make of the question. I panic, suddenly worrying his parents may be close by.

  “What?” he replies, after exchanging looks with his friend.

  “Like, don’t you think it’s a bit loser-ish to be hanging out watching a bunch of old guys throw rocks?” I make an ‘L’ with my right hand, subtly bring it to my forehead, and whisper, “L … o … s … e … r.”

  “Fuck you.” He takes a swig of his fountain pop and motions for his friend to leave with him.

  “I’m just saying.” I lean back in my chair. Watch momentarily as my dad successfully sweeps a rock into the house.

  “My dad’s the provincial champion.”

  “My dad’s Kevin Martin,” I reply.

  The teenagers stand up. Noticing their row exit is blocked by some seemingly purposeless caution tape, the pair is forced to climb over their seats. I contemplate sticking my foot out to trip them. Preferably the blond, but I have already stooped to an unconscionable level. They at least were acting their age. He turns around and says, “Cunt!”

  No one has ever called me a cunt before. It makes me feel old and dated. Why couldn’t he have called me a pussy?

  The arena erupts into cheers and whistles. I clap along observing the time on the giant digital clock. It could be hours before the game’s over. I decide to leave the stands and head to the bar for a drink, hoping to find the happy masses.

  I am not disappointed. The rink lounge is exactly as I imagined. The happily unfit drin
k Moosehead on dated leather-tacked pub chairs, cajoling each other. I order a pint. Sit at the bar and browse through a curling supply catalogue. Glance at the side wall, which is lined with tarnished trophies, photos of foursomes, banners behind glass cases. I could kill hours here. Drinking draught and listening to stories. Periodically I give my two cents. It’s that kind of place. I keep meaning to return to the game to check on my father’s progress, but I feel heady and drunk and everyone’s happy.

  A man enters the lounge and orders an orange juice. His peers address him as Tony.

  “What’s going on out there, Tony?” they ask.

  “Games are all over,” Tony replies.

  “Already?”

  A few of them check their watches

  “Geez, it’s that late already.”

  One of them asks if Don is still around.

  “I think he’s on his way up,” Tony informs everyone. He gets closer to one table in particular and bends in. “There’s a guy still out on the ice, won’t come off.”

  “What? He’s protesting a call or something?”

  “No.” Tony’s eyes widen. “He’s just lying on the ice.”

  “What a loser!” I offer, slipping partially off my stool.

  A few of the men look at me.

  Someone asks, “Are you sure he’s not having a heart attack or something?”

  “No, no, he just won’t get up off the ice.”

  “Oh, you mean he’s actually lying on the ice.” The guy who asks this has a large moustache. He demonstrates the scenario by laying his hands on the table.

  “Lying on the ice,” Tony repeats.

  “Maybe he needed a nap!” I offer, laughing at my own wit.

  I realize with a little alarm that the tail of my shirt has caught on my stool.

  Tony takes a sip of his juice, lowers his voice. “Someone said he was crying.”

  In a second I am sober and heading down to the ice.

  My dad has no expression. If there were tears at one point, they’ve since dried up. I crouch down beside him. “Hey, Dad,” I whisper.

  “Claudia?” He lifts his head exposing an ice-pink cheek. Like a blot of colour in a black-and-white film. It is the only youthful thing about him. Everything else declares age. His jellyfish-pale skin, the grey-blue of his veins.

  “Claudia,” he says again. “You came to watch?”

  “I did.”

  The arena is still. Quiet but for the hum of the overhead lights.

  “I just can’t seem to do it without her. I tried and I just can’t.”

  I brush snow from his knee.

  “I tried to cook a ham and I put it in the oven with the plastic wrap still on it and I don’t remember what vitamins to take and when because there’s an order. There are night vitamins and there are morning vitamins and you can’t mix them up because some of them don’t go together and then they don’t work the same so you have to get it right and I just can’t get it right.” He talks with his hands in the air.

  “You don’t have to do everything the way Mom did. Just because it was her way doesn’t mean it was the right way or the only way, it was just that — it was her way. Except for the ham. You don’t cook it in the bag.”

  I want to lie down. I have the spins. But my dad is making progress, and I don’t want him to retreat, he’s pushed himself up onto his elbow. He sticks out his hand. I help him to a seated position. He reaches forward, pulls his sock down a little, and scratches around his ankle.

  “Your socks are way too tight!” I say, running my finger over the trench left behind from the sock’s elastic. “Why would you wear those?”

  “They’re brand new.”

  “Are you sure they’re for men?”

  He examines his socks. Runs his finger around the perimeter of the opening.

  “Well, they were right next to the men’s underwear.”

  “Huh,” I say, surprised. “You should take them back.”

  My dad manoeuvres himself onto all fours and gradually rises to his feet, eventually pulling me up with him. We stand in the button. A one-foot white circle that feels remarkably like an epicentre. I cling to him, drunk and dizzy.

  “Where’s your stuff?”

  He motions to a duffel bag, rinkside.

  “I need you to drive home.”

  “I can see that,” he says, giving me the once-over.

  A maintenance person looks relieved to see my father on his feet, but once we’re headed his way he puts his head down and busies himself behind a score table. We exit the building in silence.

  It’s a dreary scene outside. Beige cars and cracked asphalt. Shapeless clouds strewn across the sky. Dad opens the passenger door of his Taurus and helps me inside, as though I’ve just given birth or something. For the moment he has purpose. Some responsibility. A job. One that he knows. I crank my seat back to a reclined position as he pulls into reverse. I look over and catch him smiling. And in that moment everything feels light and lifted. Hair blowing in the wind. A song by ABBA. Expression has returned to my father’s face and I savour it. Like replacing an overturned rock back on the dented earth from which it came. Concealing once again its secrets. Potato bugs and centipedes. Debris. I close my eyes.

  48

  We don’t talk about curling at breakfast the next morning. My dad wears his hair in a ponytail and eats bread with Chia seeds.

  “Can you watch the kids?” I ask my father.

  He nods and sips his coffee. “Where are you going?”

  “To the paint store.”

  “Don’t forget about your car,” he says.

  I did forget about my car. It’s at the rink. I text Cathy and ask her to pick me up. She arrives within minutes.

  “Invite her in,” my dad says.

  “No,” I say. “She has a golf lesson. Besides, she’s coming tonight.”

  “We’re having company?”

  “Glen’s party.”

  “Right,” he says enthusiastically.

  “I won’t be long. Wes, Joan, Mommy’s going out!”

  Wes calls from his bedroom, “Pick a number between twenty-one and forty-four.”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Slap yourself in the face twenty-seven times.”

  What the fuck? I take a piece of Chia bread and run out to Cathy’s car. She is wearing a visor and a white golf shirt.

  “You called me just in time,” she says.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I reply. “I totally forgot about my car. What time’s your lesson?”

  “Ten. I was ready sooner than I expected.”

  “Since when did you take up golf?”

  “One of my clients convinced me. Said with my height and strength I’d probably have a long drive.”

  “I can see that.”

  “But it’s hard. It hurts my back having to hunch over. Especially putting.”

  “Maybe your clubs are too short.”

  “That’s what my mom said.”

  When we get to the curling club there are no cars in the back parking lot other than mine. Cathy pulls up beside it.

  “Are you still doing parkour?”

  “No, it finished last week. It was fun though. Want to see something I learned?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Cathy backs up and re-parks the car away from mine. She undoes her seat belt. “K, watch this.”

  She walks about twenty feet away, stops, turns to face the car and then starts running. She makes fists with her hands and they swing high by her forehead. She gets closer and closer and for a second I crouch as though she is going to dive through her open window and tackle me, but instead she hurdles and cartwheels over the hood. When her feet hit the ground she says “whoo!” and adjusts her golf shirt, which had bunched upwards on her sports bra.

  I get out of the car and clap. “Very impressive.”

  She catches her breath and gives me the kind of light hug exchanged between competitors at the end of a race.

  “Thanks f
or the ride,” I say. “Let me know how your golf lesson goes.”

  She says, “Will do,” gets back in her car, and honks her horn twice as she pulls away.

  I skip Home Depot in favour of a specialty paint store I’ve passed from time to time and have always wondered about. Here I hope the person will be forced to smile and act patient through my indecisiveness. I arrive just as the store opens. The guy behind the counter looks up from some paperwork and smiles. His T-shirt is faded blue and his hair sticks up and to the side. Kind of preppy, except he has holes the size of quarters in both earlobes. The earrings look as though they might pop out like wine corks.

  “Do you need some help?” he offers.

  “I want to paint my kitchen.”

  He comes around from the desk and wipes his hands on his cargo shorts, which are covered in paint. “Tell me about your kitchen.”

  No one has ever asked this before. It seems personal. Like I’m about to get a breast enhancement and we’ve come to the part of the appointment when the doctor carefully opens the gown and examines the breasts and then draws on them with a felt pen.

  “It has a fridge,” I say.

  “Black, white, stainless steel?”

  “Yellow.”

  “Yellow? Seriously? Other appliances too?”

  “No. Dishwasher and oven are both white. Toaster is stainless steel, microwave is black.”

  “Do you have one of those built-in can openers too?”

  “Negative.”

  “Continue,” he says, playing with his goatee. His eyes are cinnamon brown.

  “It used to have a border.”

  “Floral?”

  “Roosters.”

  “Cabinets?”

  “Oak.”

  “Floor?”

  “Beige.”

  “Backsplash?”

  “White tile.”

  “All white or are there some decorative cornucopias thrown in the mix?”

  “Some decorative cornucopias.” I say, maintaining eye contact.

  “Were you born in the forties?” He smiles.

  No, but my roommate was, I think.

  “Go on,” he encourages. “Give me details. Like how much time do you spend in it? Do you like to cook? What is the essence of your kitchen?” It is the part of the consult where the doctor is now feeling the breasts.