Darren Effect

by Libby Creelman

  With the bird tucked inside his open jacket, Darren carried it down the boardwalk to the eastern-most point of North America and tossed it into the air. As long as it stayed airborne and resisted pitching on the water, it might survive, though it had lost weight and there was the sorry condition of its flight feathers. It was dark, and Darren lost sight of the bird almost immediately as, flying more like a butterfly than a bird, it vanished over the sea.

  *

  They had seen Mrs. Pynn infrequently, usually when the weather was mild. She would drift across the cul-de-sac at the end of Goodridge Place in her slippers and housecoat with the fallen hem. She had been chatty, and Darren avoided her, though Jeanette stood listening to the old woman, nodding and sometimes interrupting her with a benign question.

  Mrs. Pynn disappeared in November. It was on Remembrance Day — fittingly — when Darren found her in the obituaries and discovered her first name had been Veronica. She would be sadly missed by her brother-in-law, Norman, and her nieces, Mary and Patty. Flowers were being gratefully declined.

  “Well, well,” he said, staring at his sister, who was reading the paper and may not have heard him. “Stayed in her own home till the bitter end. She always seemed a bit lonely, though, didn’t she?”

  He turned to look out the window at Mrs. Pynn’s empty house. Above it, a water-laden blanket of cloud hung so low it seemed the peaked roofs circling the cul-de-sac were holding it aloft. It had been a spectacularly bad autumn. Thirty-two consecutive days of freezing rain, drizzle, fog or combination thereof, with only a hundred and fourteen minutes of sunshine clocked for the entire period.

  Within a week Veronica Pynn’s house went on the market, but it didn’t sell until the end of the month. Darren guessed the house had seen few improvements during Veronica’s life. Certainly the shabby exterior of the house gave one that impression.

  It was a dim afternoon in early December when the new neighbours arrived, appearing first as a slew of skateboarders: boys of all ages, it seemed, the oldest rangy and bad postured, with bleached hair and broken expressions implying an extreme sport mishap was just around the corner. It was not clear how many of the youngsters actually belonged there. The arrival at suppertime of a parent — in this case, mother — did not shed much light on this, since they all ignored her.

  The moment he saw her, Darren blurted out, “Not Isabella Martin.” He almost groaned.

  He had found Jeanette peering out the window of their front door. She had switched off the hall light, just in case anyone glanced over. It was at times like this that Darren felt a stab of concern for his sister.

  “Who is Isabella Martin?” Jeanette asked, her face to the glass. “Have I met her, Darren?”

  “Avalon Nature Club.”

  “So I haven’t.”

  They watched the Household Movers truck pulling into the driveway and riding up across their yard as it made the turn.

  “A little late in the day for moving, isn’t it?” Jeanette said.

  Two men in blue work suits jumped down from the cab of the truck and began to approach the house, slowly, as though still gearing up for the exercise ahead.

  “Who is she, Darren?”

  “Just give me a minute to think.”

  “Pardon?”

  The moving men and Isabella Martin stood in the driveway talking. The outside light was on, allowing Darren and Jeanette a good look at their faces. Although he didn’t know her well, Darren could recall her sudden, high-pitched cries of astonishment and slightly formal wardrobe. She said something to the men, who laughed. They were slapping their hands together because of the cold.

  Jeanette cleared her throat and Darren glanced down at her. Her lips were slightly open, an unconscious habit of hers that indicated she was concentrating, or praying, though it was a while since he had accompanied her to mass.

  “I don’t know her that well,” he said placatingly. “I’m sure she’s nice.”

  Jeanette walked away. A period of silence between them would now follow, so Darren lingered, observing the men as they began unloading the truck, then Isabella as she coaxed an elderly black dog out of her car, across the yard, up the steps and into the house. The dog fell across the doorstep and Isabella stood staring at it a moment before leaning down to gently shove it inside.

  The unloading continued until well after Darren and Jeanette had gone to bed. Cars began to arrive, presumably parents collecting youngsters, around midnight. There was the sound of honking, cars idling, doors slamming. A light rain made the tires kiss the pavement grittily as they finally pulled away and went off down the street. At one point Jeanette knocked on his bedroom door, but he ignored it. He could hear the door to Isabella Martin’s house open and close every few minutes, followed by shouts. Darren was hoping she was nice, because he was going to have to have a word with her.

  He found the cigarette butts scattered across his front yard in the morning. Jeanette would hit the roof. He began to collect them, not knowing where to put them, when Isabella burst from her house, heading for her car. She glanced at him but didn’t stop, pretending she hadn’t seem him. Darren was relieved.

  Then she changed her mind and walked towards him.

  “Not a bad morning,” she called to him when she got to the edge of her yard. It sounded as though it was the first time she’d used her voice that morning. “Off to work?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m Isabella Martin. I think we’ve met.”

  He stepped her way, the cigarette butts cradled in his hand.

  “You’re Darren Foley, aren’t you? I don’t know if you remember me.”

  “Avalon Nature Club?”

  Her eyes brightened. “You brought in the assortment of bird eggs and stuffed penguins.”

  “Puffins. We don’t get penguins in this hemisphere.”

  “Gorgeous creatures.”

  Yes. Her annoying habit of referring to plants and animals as gorgeous creatures.

  “Before you go,” he said, and she immediately crossed into his yard with an eagerness that worried him. “I just wanted to have a word with you about the commotion last night.”

  She was looking at his house. If Jeanette was spying from a window, he hoped she had enough sense to step back. He was trying to remember something he’d heard about Isabella Martin. There was still no sign of an adult male presence. A recent divorce perhaps.

  He opened his hand to show her the cigarette butts. “My sister Jeanette would be distressed to see these.”

  He was conscious of the length of time it took her to focus on him again. She gave the cigarette butts an unsatisfactory glance.

  “She’s your sister?”

  He nodded. “I’m not married.”

  Why had he offered that? It was the worst possible thing to say.

  “My son has a lot of friends, but I never laid eyes on half those boys,” she said. “I did think they were a hard bunch. I assumed they were from the neighbourhood.”

  Was that a clever insult? “They kept my sister up quite late,” he said.

  She produced an inscrutable smile. “These cul-de-sacs are ideal for skateboarding,” she said. “But I’ll talk to my son. He’s only just turned twelve. He certainly doesn’t smoke. He’s a good boy. I don’t even keep matches in the house.”

  She was looking back at her own house, as though making a quick comparison. The bungalow behind her was nearly identical to his own, yet her green siding was discoloured and faded, something brown had leached from the bottom corners of her windows, and other than a wind-battered dogberry, there was not a single ornamental in her yard. Lined up beside the front door were boxes that had not made it into the house the night before, dark and misshapen now from the rain and drizzle. And she herself did not look too well put together either. The slacks she wore were in need of ironing and her raincoat looked as though she had taken it from the bottom of a box. Clearly, her hair had been shampooed within the past hour, but he knew enough about these things
to know that she had not been concentrating during the drying process.

  “I guess you’re off to work as well?” he asked, thinking to wrap things up.

  “Yes.” She sighed loudly, staring at the ground. “I’m a substitute teacher. Vice-principal called last night. A teacher broke his arm. I suppose I should be more sympathetic.”

  This did not seem to be the same woman who had sat alone at the Avalon Nature Club lectures, occasionally raising her hand, as though it were a classroom, to calmly ask a question or make a comment. He released the cigarette butts, letting them fall back onto his lawn. He hoped Jeanette was not watching.

  Darren found himself glancing at Isabella’s hands on the steering wheel, then quickly looking away. There was a cute Doris Day air about her, and a suddenness in her attention to him that was disarming. At the same time he was cognizant of there being something odd and inexact about her, an impression somehow substantiated by the fact that she smelled of wine.

  It had been her suggestion they share transportation to the Avalon Nature Club meeting, where December’s guest lecturer had spoken on exotic flowers of the Portuguese lowlands. It was not well attended and the slides were all overexposed, which Isabella, who sat beside him, leaned over to whisper in his ear four times during the lecture. That’s when the smell of wine was most obvious.

  “Need anything at the Price Club?” she asked him on their way home.

  He hesitated, alarmed. “Well, no, not particularly. Did you?”

  *

  Ardently.

  He had been trying to find the best word to describe the way Isabella Martin shopped. That was it. She shopped ardently. He supposed she bought groceries ardently, too. A rib roast, a litre of milk, partridgeberry muffins.

  She had waltzed into the Price Club, flashing her membership card. A Tuesday night and it was packed, which dumb-founded him, but then he remembered Christmas was only a week away.

  Isabella slowed in electronics. Every television was on. “My husband couldn’t bear this place,” she told him. “All the noise drove him mad.”

  He noticed the comment had been delivered in the past tense. It reminded him to be careful. He followed her to linens where she fingered some towels and sheets.

  “What did you get your sister for Christmas?” she asked.

  Darren and Jeanette exchanged only one or two presents at Christmas and the day was often nearly over before they got around to it. There was always a bit of embarrassment and loneliness surrounding the exchange for Darren.

  “Nothing. Yet.”

  “I’ve finished my Christmas shopping,” she said. “Now this isn’t bad.” She picked up a baby-blue duvet. She slipped it from its packaging, flapped it open, then swung it around her shoulders like a cape.

  “You look ridiculous,” he said, smiling. “How much for some- thing like that?”

  “One hundred and eighty-nine.” She handed it to him. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  He did his best to scrunch it up. Though lightweight, it was fluffy and uncooperative. He cradled it against his chest and followed her to housewares, where she browsed, finally choosing a beverage set for $79.98. “I want to get rid of the old stuff.”

  “You’re getting that too?” he asked.

  She glanced at him, surprised, and he could see an endearing self-consciousness.

  “I mean, you don’t mind spending money.”

  She pressed a hand into the bundled duvet he held, but it was so dense he felt only a distant pressure. “That’s like asking me if I don’t mind eating chocolate.”

  Now they were at Home Depot, and Darren was beginning to worry that he might be on a date. No, shopping could never be considered a date. He liked Isabella, despite her peculiarities. He felt she was a decent person, though she didn’t appear to have many friends. But she was single, and Darren didn’t want to encourage her. That could be awkward, being neighbours.

  There had been a time when Darren did his fair share of dating, particularly before, and even after, Jeanette began living with him. Tonight, briefly, he felt he was returning to a room he had forgotten existed.

  But he was set in his ways now. He couldn’t get his head around the idea of sharing a bed, closets, bathroom, all that personal space, with another person. And there was his sister to consider. It would be like feeding Jeanette to the wolves, to alter their lives now.

  He followed Isabella down the wallpaper aisle. She was talking about renovating her son Cooper’s room. In the meantime, Cooper needed a desk, reading lamp, shelf for books. Isabella held out a wallpaper sample for Darren’s opinion. It was patterned with racing cars and basketballs.

  “I suggest you steer clear of wallpaper,” Darren said.

  “Really?” She was looking directly at him.

  He shifted. He held a reading light in one hand and a shelf awkwardly in the other.

  “All right,” she sighed, putting the wallpaper back. She took the shelf from him and sank to the floor with it. From a kneeling position she glanced up at him, her earrings swinging. “Do you think this looks stupid?” She was holding the shelf out in front of her, the support brackets resting on the floor. “Just imagine books and other stuff. Not many books, though.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Does this look stupid down here?”

  “You’re putting Cooper’s shelf on the floor?”

  She stood and abruptly handed the shelf back to him. “Never mind. I’ll just get it.”

  He followed her to the checkout. The irritation in her voice had surprised him. He was beginning to think it was crazy, this whole evening with her was crazy. Jeanette would be wondering where he was. And where, indeed, was he? First the Price Club and now Home Depot.

  “What time is it?” he asked her. The incessant Christmas music was wearing on him.

  “Didn’t you wear a watch? It’s close to eleven. Time to go home.”

  You got that right, he thought. She had seemed friendly, if not a little wacky, but now: petulant, almost contentious.

  “Cooper did something to his ankle skateboarding,” she began to explain. Her mood seemed to have completely changed again. “Twisted it. Bruised it. I don’t know. The very day we moved. I thought a shelf with a low position would make it easier for him to reach his belongings.”

  “I suggest you take him to the doctor. Maybe they’d have some advice.” He couldn’t keep the patronizing tone out of his voice.

  She spun around. “Of course I took him to the doctor. I took him to the children’s hospital. I waited there half the day.”

  “What was their diagnosis?” he asked patiently.

  “They said it looked fine on the X-ray.”

  “Then he’s probably fine. Your turn.”

  “Yes, he’s fine.” She placed her items on the counter, staring at the young girl working behind it so long Darren began to feel ill at ease.

  “I like your bangles,” Isabella told the girl.

  The girl blushed. “Thanks. My boyfriend gave them to me.”

  “He just can’t walk,” Isabella said.

  The girl looked up.

  “Darren?”

  “Yes?” They were finally leaving the store.

  “Do you think someone is following us?”

  I’m not answering that, he thought.

  The noise at night continued through Christmas. There was a mild spell and any snow that had fallen was gone quickly, apparently creating favourable conditions for twenty-four- hour skateboarding. A long metallic rolling sound from out on the street, something you might actually be able to sleep to. Not dissimilar, Darren thought, to the childhood sound of tree branches assaulting clapboard, a sound so constant no one heard it. A brief silence, during which Darren imagined the boys lifting into the black air, was followed by a series of startling smacks against the pavement, a jarring he felt in his teeth.

  Darren parked the truck at the north end of Three Stone Pond. It was a four-kilometre hike to the beach through an u
ninterrupted stretch of black spruce forest. The air was cold, but not too damp. A streak of violet in the sky beyond the balled tops of the spruce lightened the landscape, lifting it up a little over the earth so that when Darren touched the ground his steps felt springy. Freezing rain in the night still clung to the twiggy new growth at the tips of the spruce branches and to the leatherleaf and sheep laurel along the track.

  At the top of a rise he stopped to admire a stand of spruce, taller than most and more mature, draped from head to toe in tree lichen glossy with ice. The bark was heavily scaled and such a rich sienna brown that for several minutes Darren could not look away. The days were short this time of year. It would be dusk by four, but he was reluctant to go on. He looked hard at the trees again as he passed. He felt a longing to take them with him.

  “I think it would be a good idea if someone spoke to her,” Jeanette had said that morning, placing Darren’s tea and toast on the table.

  “I suspect she has little influence over those boys.”

  “God knows how many are hers.”

  “Just the one, actually.”

  “Yes, your little shopping excursion.”

  Jeanette brought him the phone and a slip of a paper on which Isabella’s phone number had been neatly pencilled.

  When Isabella’s voice came on the line, it was clear she had been asleep. She was still in bed, perhaps under the baby-blue duvet. Perhaps her eyes were closed.

  “Isabella? Darren here.”

  “Yes? Darren? What time is it?” Her voice was soft and forgiving, like a cushion.

  “I apologize. I woke you. I’ll call back.”

  “No. I was just having this dream.” Her voice changed. He thought she might have sat up. “It was about my husband. He took me to this place. How strange.”

  Darren rolled his eyes at his sister.

  “It was the size of the Grand Canyon. It was filled entirely with bottles of prescription drugs.”

  Darren was confused. “That sounds terrifying,” he said.

  “It was.”

  Jeanette was standing in the middle of the room, studying him. Darren tried to focus.

  “Isabella, I need to talk to you.”