I left home for college that September. My father pulled himself together long enough to help me pack my boxes in the car and drive me there. He was reminding me of the man who had always been my best friend. We talked the whole way, he joked with me, but I couldn’t relax into the belief that he had come back.
We stopped outside my dorm. He turned off the ignition and faced me.
“You know I’m proud of you, right?”
I assumed that, but it was hardly enough. I imagined him alone in our house.
“Are you going to move back upstairs?” I said.
“Probably.”
My new roommate was not only unpacked but seemed to have been living in that room for months. There were pizza boxes stacked on the floor by the door, a wet towel on the unmade bed, a lacrosse stick on the windowsill, an empty Pepsi can on the desk. Dad rolled his eyes and smiled. Once all my stuff was in neither of us could think of a good reason for him to stay. I followed him into the hall and down the stairs to the entrance.
“Is everything going to be all right?” I said.
He squeezed me hard, then left. I ran up the stairs two at a time and to the window of my new room. He got into the car and sat there. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, then rested his head on it. Come on, Dad, pull it together. I looked away and prayed for the car to start.
I was home for the weekend the night of the first snow that year. Snowflakes settled onto the pavement, where they melted. I was in bed studying. Other than the occasional car splashing along our street, the only noise was of my father downstairs in the kitchen. Sounds that had become familiar but that I was trying to ignore: his footsteps, the cupboard door opening, the unscrewing of the metal cap of the Gordon’s bottle. Glug, glug, glug into a glass. The cap again, bottles clinking as he returned it to the cupboard, and the click of the magnet on the closing door. Then later that night unexpected sounds. The deadbolt on the side door and the car backing out of the garage. I read for a bit more, then went to bed. An hour later, maybe two or three, the garage door opened and the car returned. I peeked through the curtain. The snow had stopped. The early morning light seeped through the clouds on the horizon beyond the pines. Dad sat hunched over on the edge of the driveway, his feet on the lawn, his head in his hands. A crow tilted its head back and bellowed a predawn cry. My father shook his head, muttered profanities at the crow, and hobbled into the house.
Then it was Christmas. Aunt Irene and Uncle Bob were staying with us for three days. I think they were worried about me and wanted to see for themselves what was happening. Dad hadn’t moved upstairs, so they slept in my parents’ old room. For the first couple of days Dad was fine, joking with his sister and brother-in-law. He and I even went for an after-dinner walk, our first in months. On Christmas Eve, the four of us walked in the rain to an Italian restaurant. Dad had too much red wine at dinner and became first loquacious, then, when the bill arrived, surly. He wanted to pay and argued with Bob about it, threatening to lay into him if he didn’t shut up. The temperature had plummeted while we were eating and we had to watch for patches of ice on the sidewalk the whole way home.
I went outside the next morning before anyone else was up. When the sun rose it looked as if the entire neighbourhood had been covered in glass. I went back in to get my skates. I left the breezeway, and though it was bumpy, the freedom of skating wherever I wanted — on the street and sidewalk, over the schoolyard, all the way to Crystal Lake and back — was glorious. For that hour I thought of nothing. There was the ice in front of me, the vibrations in my feet, and the glittering branches sheeted in glass. There was a happiness that wouldn’t quit.
The rest of Christmas Day was quiet, and I didn’t see much of Dad. He insisted on carving the turkey. When he cut his hand, he threw the knife on the table and slumped in his chair. We ate in silence.
I laced up my skates again after supper and went out to the backyard hoping to retrieve something from that morning. I left the floodlights off because there was enough light coming from inside the house. I had been skating alone for ten minutes when the breezeway door shut and Uncle Bob was standing at the edge of the ice in my father’s old brown-and-tan leather skates. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of an old ski jacket of mine. He stepped gingerly onto the ice.
“I haven’t done this in years,” he said. He shuffled like a penguin across the ice. “Ah, there we go,” he said once he got the hang of it. “Like riding a bike.”
We skated side by side in circles.
“Not such a merry Christmas, huh?” he said.
The next time I faced the house my father was standing behind the picture window watching us. He was motionless. I stopped and stared at him, wanting to wave but unable to will my hand from my side. Then he turned and left and the curtain covered the spot where he had been.
16
Forest Garden
It’s been three days since my confession, and Lina hasn’t brought it up. The tomatoes are ripening nicely for early August, and soon we’ll be overwhelmed by them. I can’t wait and snap off a beefsteak with green shoulders. I cut it with my Swiss Army knife and offer half to Lina. The zucchinis are loving the heat, and we find one we missed that has grown as big as a baseball bat. We slice off all the smaller ones down to the size of a hot dog. Then we pull up spinach and arugula that’s shot to flower, weed the bed, and sow kale and chard for the fall. I keep my distance from her and try not to stare. We swim in the afternoon, this time with our shorts on. Lina is wearing a T-shirt.
After we eat and say goodnight at the fire I lie in my dank sleeping bag waiting for it to warm up so it will feel dry. I hear Lina’s footsteps.
“If we do this,” she whispers through the canvas, “I need you to promise to keep treating me like a friend. You can’t own me.”
I unzip the flap. She’s carrying her sleeping bag all bunched up under her arm, and I take it from her. She climbs in. We kneel facing each other, holding hands. She lets go of my hand and reaches up to my face. I close my eyes as one of her tapered fingers brushes my face. I haven’t slept with anyone since I left the city and I’m trembling like poplar leaves on a stormy day.
“Hey,” she says, looking me in the eye. “It’s O.K.”
Then she kisses me and I wonder if it will be anything like O.K. An insistent voice cries within me, tells me I am getting in over my head. I press her lip between mine, her tongue tickles inside my mouth, and my hands come up to touch and explore the body I have worked next to and desired all summer. She pulls my shirt over my head, then her own. Though we have both worked shirtless in the sun I am startled by the contrast of my body, with its edges and angles, against her softness. She shuffles closer and I hug the muscular frame of her shoulders, her stiff nipples and full breasts pressed into my chest, and the warmth emanating from her skin. My desire propels me beyond the anxiety that continues to wash over me and allows me to let her reach between my legs, take me in her hands, and love me.
I stay awake watching her peaceful face while she sleeps. She is lying on her side facing away from me. She fell asleep soon after we both came. I envy how uncomplicated falling in love seems to be for her. For me it feels like I’m swimming in the ocean when a big wave curls and breaks on me, grinding me into the sand along the bottom. I come up spluttering, disoriented and anxious, but wanting to do it all over again.
I reach down and draw my finger over her cheekbone, along her chin, and down her neck to her clavicle. Then I lie behind her and drift away.
—
We haven’t left the land for three days. We have been rising late and going to bed early. This morning I’m balancing on two ceiling joists and holding a rafter board while Martin hammers it into the wall plate. He is the first person we’ve seen since Lina came to my tent. I asked him to help us because he knows how to measure and cut the rafters properly. I look over him to where Lina is sawing another two-by-eight on the sawhorses. I grin at her like an idiot. Once the rafters are up we nail
strapping along them, then screw on the sheets of green metal roofing. It takes all day to finish but we have a waterproof space by late afternoon.
Martin takes his cordless drill and his saw home, whistling along the path. I sell him short at times. He really has been generous to me. When his hat disappears among the foliage I run to Lina and throw my arms around her. She sneaks her hands under the back of my shirt. Sawdust clings to the hair on her forearms and rubs against my skin. The sun is on us, hot and intense, and her breath is warm as we kiss. I press her tight against my dirty, sweaty, and tired body.
We decide to take a break from work since it’s my birthday. We plant the oak seedling, a foot tall, that I grew from an acorn I found in Middleton last year. I pull it from the pot and put it in the hole we dug, tamping earth around the ball of roots. We surround it with chicken wire to protect it from foraging deer. Then Lina walks a little way off and returns holding her menstrual cup full of blood. Without a word, she empties it on the soil around the seedling. The blood soaks into the ground. My mouth is agape.
“What?” she says. “It’s good for the plants.”
We need to wash off so we decide to swim in the bay. We get our bikes and walk them along the path to the road. On the way we pass the waist-high garlic. The lower leaves are brown and dry.
“Is it ready to eat?” She rubs her thumb and forefinger along a hard stalk.
I lay my bike in the grass and grab the stalk below her hand and pull it up. The soil is loose and the bulb remains attached to the stalk. Up it comes, this gorgeous treasure, erupting through the dirt and the straw above that into the sunlight. Lina’s beautiful face breaks into a wide grin. I hand her the whole plant. She massages the bulb and the dry dirt falls off the skin. She finds where two of the cloves meet and presses her thumbnail into the depression between them, breaking through the wrappers. Then she wedges her thumb between the top point of one of the cloves and the hard stalk that runs down the centre of the bulb and pulls the clove away from the stalk. It is as large as a good-sized cherry. She hands the rest of the plant back to me. She peels the moist skin away from the flesh of the clove with her nail and pops the whole clove between her lips.
“Can I taste it?” I say.
She bites it and beckons me to her lips. I kiss her and her lips open and a chunk of garlic comes to me, spicy and astringent.
We bike to the Bay of Fundy past Port George, where there’s a beach with a waterfall that Jenifer told me about. Lina and I walk along the sand to a spot where water drops over the edge of the cliff. We strip and stand under it, shrieking as the water washes over our bodies and continues along the beach into the waves. We put our shoes on and hike to the top of the cliff where there is a pool on the ledge. It is deep enough that we can lie in the water. It looks like liquid silver as it flows over and around us on its way to the edge of the cliff. We hike back to the beach, lie in the sun to warm up, then bike to Margaretsville. We buy fish ’n’ chips, then sit on the stony beach to eat. There is a fat gull pecking at ketchup and some greasy-looking fries in a plastic basket someone left behind on the rocks. Twisted within the dry bladderwrack above the high tide mark is nylon rope, faded orange and green, an ice cream bucket, and a shattered stackable chair. I can almost see the beauty of this detritus, catching the slanting rays of the sun. I am in love with this land and its relationship to the sea, with the warmth of summer and the breeze blowing away any insects, and with the slanting light. Most of all I am in love with Lina. I remember then, lightning across a lake, rain on water, my orange towel wrapped tight against my skin, and I know it’s true, that everything is relative and depends on its opposite for definition. I had a long, lonely winter, cold and wet, but sitting on the rocks this early evening with Lina makes it all worthwhile.
“Do you want to go to Art’s?” I ask.
“Let’s go home.”
I’m not ready to go home, wanting the evening to last, and I convince her to bike along the bay road to Art’s place. He hugs Lina, Lucy nuzzles me, and the four of us sit in the kitchen. Art goes to the freezer and brings us each a chocolate-chip cookie. They are frozen. He sucks on the third. Once we finish eating them he tells us they have pot in them. I look at Lina. She shrugs. It’s homegrown, local, and not like the potent skunk that comes from BC. I haven’t smoked pot in years, not since it was bred to disorient you completely, but this is mild enough. We go outside and sit by the cliff to watch the sun set. The water is still, and other than Art chattering and the two of them laughing, it’s quiet. The sky seems gentle, pink and blue, beneficent. Venus shines over the dark mass of New Brunswick. Weaker points of light follow.
Back in the house Art makes us coffee, which we drink in the kitchen. His eyes are closed and he seems to have retreated to some inner dimension, whether brought on by the dope or his memories I can’t tell. Lina sits beside me in a rocking chair, the warmth radiating off her sun-soaked skin as we hold hands. I am confused. The intensity of falling in love again after so many years of being alone is like the heat I feel on my skin when the sun comes out after a thunderstorm. I look into Lina’s eyes, black and big and crinkled at the edges, with dumbstruck affection, and I laugh. That affection is all for me and I am amazed.
Tonight while we are at Art’s and I tell Benny’s story in his kitchen I look over at Lina. She is staring at me in disbelief, as if to ask, How did this good thing we have come to be? Weed makes me reticent, then voluble. Once I start talking it’s tricky to get me to stop. I might not be telling this with Lina here if I wasn’t stoned.
17
New York City
“Damn,” Benny muttered at the jars and bags polluting her fridge.
She stood with the fridge door open on a Sunday afternoon in August. Annika sat at the table behind her. The one-room kitchen and dining room was utilitarian in its blandness: walls painted primer white, grey carpet, pressboard cabinets tacky with years of vaporized grease. It had been muggy and hot for days in New York, the kind of conditions that fermented and moulded the food in the fridge.
“Fucking plastic.”
Annika was a patient roommate and put up with most of Benny’s idiosyncrasies. In the year they had lived together she had watched as every piece of plastic that could be removed from the apartment disappeared. Benny had taken the table and chairs that came with their apartment to the storage room in the basement late one afternoon while Annika was on clinical rounds. Benny replaced them with wooden ones she bought second-hand from a graduating med student. The Venetian blinds disappeared, as did the clock on the wall in the kitchen. Despite these efforts, Benny felt like Sisyphus; everywhere she looked there was more plastic, as if containers were reproducing in the night.
There were the compromises she had to make in the lab. Polyethylene tubes and vials. Polystyrene petri dishes. All this equipment in turn came wrapped in polyethylene bags. Every day in the lab she had to open disposable packaging and throw it out, even the stuff that could have been recycled. But there was no recycling in the city. Everything was thrown out. They discarded the syringes they used in a plastic box and threw that in turn into a garbage bag. On and on it went. Interminable.
She pulled out the peanut butter. Glass jar, metal lid. The heat wave had culminated in a spectacular thunderstorm the previous night. She had woken to bright sunshine and a breeze from the west that had ushered the stench of garbage and fermenting urine out to sea.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” Annika said from the table. “Who told you that getting rid of the world’s plastic was your responsibility?”
Benny spread peanut butter on the two slices of bread, pressed them together, and took a bite. They’d been through this before. Benny had joined the Sierra Club, lobbied her local government to recycle, wrote letters to her congressmen, and formed a group at her high school to encourage the use of alternatives to plastic. There was little recycling, Congress was ineffective, and her classmates laughed at her. When it became obvious to her that this kind
of action was futile, she wrote a letter to the Sierra Club, stating her reasons for renouncing her membership. They weren’t active enough to alter the environmental landscape. Altering human behaviour was glacial and required a Gandhi or Malcolm X to make it budge. There was no longer time to wait for the cultural evolution that might bring sanity to our way of living. What was needed was a real solution, “perhaps like pouring botulism toxin in Boston’s water supply.” She read The Monkey Wrench Gang, joined Greenpeace, and considered bombs, spiking trees, and chaining herself to backhoes and skidders. What was needed was rapid planetary triage. Throwing a spanner in the gears was the obvious means of disabling the machine that continued to spew all over the planet.
“Someone’s got to do it.”
“You think too much,” Annika said.
There was a knock at the door. Annika shut her textbook and stood. She opened the door wide enough that Benny could see Leroy. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his shorts, gawking at Annika, his jaw open, “catching flies,” as Benny’s grandmother used to say. Benny found it funny to watch how confused he seemed every time he was around Annika. It was obvious to Benny what flustered him: the Norwegian accent, her straw-coloured braids and fair skin, her ample curves. Guys hovered around her like fruit flies over a ripe melon.
Benny waved at Leroy from the counter she was leaning against as she chewed her sandwich. He stepped into the apartment as Annika let go of the door, scooped up her textbook and notes, and headed for her bedroom.
“Leroy,” she said, right before she closed her bedroom door, “can you convince Benny not to take things so seriously?”
The Rest is Silence Page 12
