by KT Morrison
She lay on the couch, heard the door close behind him, making its air-tight seal. Listened then as he picked his bike from the side of the wall where he’d propped it by the plywood doors that led to their crawlspace storage. She heard the pedals spin as he hopped on it and tried to find them with his feet. There was a buzz of the hub, a shake of the chain as he rode off the ledge and onto the alley surface. She heard him pumping the cranks, then the sound of his rubber on the packed gravel. Listened then, sucking on her lips, his sounds got fainter and fainter as her husband rode out of her life.
Cried softly for a while, laying on the couch on her side with her tights down. Lay for a good long time waiting for Geoff to come back.
GEOFF
There was a black box on the desk by his drawing table, underneath the articulated neck of his iMac’s monitor. A digital clock, no bells and whistles, simply an over-sized red diode readout of the time. Sitting on the corner of the bed, he’d been frozen watching those minutes flicker. Sixty-seven of them now.
His studio was dim. Over the kitchen counter there were two halogen spotlights dropping bright white onto the marble. A warm low-watt table lamp glowing in the far corner of his studio, behind his mechanic’s chest. That was it. It was dark. It was night. The sky out the front of his factory window was the colour of a bruise.
Jenny would be home soon. He was timorous. She was too good for him.
After he’d clumsily had sex with his wife he was out of his mind. He was frantic. Got on that old track bike and he’d booked it. Crying and pumping. Reaching speeds that had pushed his hair back and tugged at his beard. Out to Cabbagetown, Rosedale, back down all the way to the Lakeshore and along the boardwalk. His legs were cramped and sore. He couldn’t outrun what he did.
There was a soft tapping in the hall. The sound of careful and kind footsteps. Flats, leather loafers with shining pennies in them. Small, pretty feet, with clear coat on the nails. They stopped at the door to the apartment and keys jingled, scratching at the wood of the door as one twisted into the lock and turned it.
There she was, his hard-working bookish young woman. A talented and earnest editor at a small press. She was sweet, polite, read two hundred books a year, kept herself happy and safe from harm, kept herself out of trouble. She was the life he wanted.
“Hey, G-man,” she said, her voice soft and caring, barely disrupting the air on its way to his ears. She had a smile for him, her satchel over her shoulder, takeout steaming from a cloth tote and a gift bag dangling from one of her cute fingers, held out and curled around the bag’s red rope handle.
“Hi, Jenny,” he said.
She nodded, knew he probably didn’t have a good day. Kept her smile for him. “I brought dinner...why are you in the dark?” she said, her arm bent up under a lampshade, flicking it on and bringing a little more warm light into the place they shared. “You're okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice quiet.
She crossed to him, dropped the takeout onto the counter, then plopped herself behind him on the bed. Her cheek pressed to the back of his neck, and her arms went around him, her fingers laced out front of his face, the red rope handle woven through them. “I hope it wasn’t too hard for you.”
“It was hard,” he told her.
“Can I do anything?”
“No.”
“Aw, Geoff...I’m so sorry.” She hugged him, pressed her face tighter against his back. “I stopped after work and I got you something.”
“Oh no, Jenny,” he sighed. His hands came up and he held her slight wrists. She had pretty hands—clean, smooth skin, nicely formed thumbs that curled gently back. She wore clear polish, her Tattersall cuffs peaked below the cashmere of her sweater. She wore a simple leather-strap watch and he could hear it ticking while he stroked his thumbs over her delicate wrist bone. “Jenny, baby, you shouldn’t have...”
“Look inside,” she whispered, kissed his neck where it met his shoulder. Her hands pulled the ropes wide so he could reach in.
“Jenny...I made a big mistake today.”
Her fingers held the bag open for a moment by the red string then her hands sagged at the end of her wrists. He rubbed her still with his thumbs.
She stood and he tried to hold her but she pulled away. He turned on the corner of the bed to watch her, and she kept her face from him and walked to the kitchen. The bag was tossed onto the counter next to dinner, a heavy glass clunk from whatever was inside bashing against the polished stone. She yanked the fridge open and brought out a bottle of white. A lone glass was pulled from the cabinet and put on the counter. She poured, set the bottle down heavily. Her head came forward, her hands pressed on the flat surface, her weight leaning on them now as she bent at the waist til her forehead almost touched the counter. She started to cry.
“Jenny,” Geoff sobbed, his heart breaking for her. “Jenny, don’t,” he said and he lifted off the bed and went to her cautiously.
“Oh-oohhw...” she moaned like she was mortally wounded, her body bending deeper, her head dipping below the counter while her hands still spread around her poured wine.
“Jenny,” he said again.
She squat down heavily, her rump to her heels, her knee made a quiet pop. Her face knocked against the cupboard fronts by a curved aluminum handle. Her hands clutched the counter, her knuckles going white. She continued her long mournful howl and Geoff couldn’t imagine he could hurt someone so badly. He fell to his knees next to her, afraid to touch her in case she would lash out.
“Can I hold you?” he whispered.
“Don’t, please...”
“Jenny...”
“How could you, Geoff? How could you let her do that to you?”
“To me?”
“She couldn't stand to see you happy, Geoff. I hate that bitch so much. She just dropped her acid into my life. After I thought I’d saved you...”
“You did save me...”
“She’s poison, Geoff. She hates you...she wants to kill you...”
“No, Jenny...”
“That bitch has you defending her...”
“Don’t call her a bitch...”
“I’m sorry. I know—she’s the mother of your child. Everyone hates her, Geoff.”
“What? Jenny...”
“God, Geoff, look around you. Look around your life...No one likes her except you. You’re the only one she can trick. Everyone else sees right through her.”
“She was my wife...”
“Geoff,” she sobbed, her hands covering her face now, “Geoff, she almost killed you. Do you know how low you got? Do you know how much some of us worried about you? I cried for you. Long before we came together, Geoff. I cried for you. You’re too good to be hurt like she hurt you...”
“Jenny, I’m so sorry,” he said, and he put his hand on her back. She squirmed from him like his touch was toxic. She sat on her rump on their kitchen floor and her head fell against the cupboard. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her neck. She looked up at the oven door, her eyes pained and distant.
“Don’t touch me, Geoff.”
“Fuck, Jenny. I know. Jenny, please...”
“I have to call my mother,” she said.
“Are you going to leave me?”
“Where am I going to go? I live here.”
Her sobs came again and her knees drew up and her hands covered her face, pressed into those knees, and she cried quietly, her back shaking, her tasteful earrings swinging.
NIA
Rocco got home from hockey after eleven o’clock and she was still in the bathtub. An hour now, draining and refilling with fresh hot water, her fingers and toes condensing and wrinkling.
Philomena had stayed all day and cleaned, tended to Marco, picked up Paolo and Rocco Jr. from their school and brought them back to the apartment. After her union with Geoff in the old studio, Nia had laid on the couch and cried. Lay for an hour and hoped Geoff would return. Could picture him storming back through the door and whisking her up an
d carting her off to his new life. Together again. She’d cried and watched the door, waiting and hoping—he’d never returned. She’d fallen asleep. Woke up an hour later. Collected herself, straightened her clothes, iPhone mirror to reapply makeup. Closed the studio door, left it for the very last time, stepped into the alley, stood under the flickering buds and looked up at the house she’d lived in for the best period of her life. Kept it together as she turned her back on it for the last time, knowing she would never set foot in it again. Walked with quickening heartbreak towards Alistair Lessing Public School, knowing this would be the last trip from that wonderful house to pick up their wonderful daughter from school. Sat under the oak in the schoolyard and waited for the bell. Got her shit together in time to receive Odie, and she’d taken her to the bakery for an early dinner. Proud of herself for not crying even once.
Rocco was in the bedroom, she could hear him in there, kicking his boots off, banging around in the closet. A dread, fearful and foreboding, skewed through her. Her big man on the other side of the wall, blustering even at peace. Then the door was opening and he filled the frame.
“You in here?” he said.
Their eyes met in the mirror over the vanity and he nodded with a smile and came in.
“How was hockey?” she asked him.
“I was watching for you. You didn’t come,” he said. He crossed the marble floor and sat on the top step at the edge of the tub. His heavy tattooed arm rested on its white enamel edge. The knuckles on his right hand were swollen and bruised, his hand draped over his forearm.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” she said. She covered herself. An arm slipping over her bare breasts, a leg crossing over the other. There had been bubbles but they’d disappeared long ago. Her head rested on the sloped lip of the tub, watching Rocco through half-open eyes.
“Yeah?” he said. “I’m a fuckin asshole.”
“You are?”
“I forgot what today was.”
“Oh,” she said, her eyes drifting to the tiled wall.
“Are you okay?”
She said, “I’ll live.”
“Was it bad?”
She nodded, her mouth twisted and she bit the inside of her lower lip. Dug her canine into her own flesh.
He sighed, scratched at his arm as his eyes drifted too, looking down the stairs that led up to the tub and staring at the polished stone floor. “Hey, let’s go away this weekend. Go camping. Boys, you and me, Odie. She loves camping and I never got to take her yet. I can show her how it’s done.”
“Geoff’s got her this weekend.”
“This is our weekend.”
“He’s got to do the book with her.”
“The fuckin book. You let him take her? She can do it when he’s with her. Doesn’t need extra time.”
“She wants to work on the book, Rocco.”
“She can fuckin work on it when it’s his turn.”
“I know. I know, but it’s good for her.”
“Whatever,” he said. “You want to go camping?”
“Not really.”
“Mm,” he grunted, nodding, the corners of his mouth turned down.
“Rocco, I didn’t want to go even if Odie was coming. It’s not that. You can go. Take the boys. Take them, they’d love that.”
“Nah, we can do shit around here,” he grumbled. “Maria’ll want them on Sunday morning anyway.”
“Suit yourself.”
“What’s your problem?”
“My—”
“Yeah, what’s your problem?”
“I have a million, Rocco. Sorry.”
“You sure do,” he nodded.
“I was a lot more fun when my problems were for someone else, you just got to fuck me.”
“Nia...”
“That what you think?”
“No. It’s not.”
She pulled her face cloth off the edge of the tub and she let it soak with the warm water, spread it out and covered her breasts with it, nipples still visible on either side. Her fingers laced together over her stomach. “I slept with Geoff today.”
Rocco heard her but he gave no reaction. His expression stayed rock solid. Then it built in him. Too much for him. He twisted his neck, looking around the steamy room, his jaw flexing. He rocked back and forth. His head started to shake. Saying no to himself, his hands clenched to tight shaking fists.
“I’m sorry—”
His eyes bored into hers. His face tightened in pain and anger. He closed his hands around her neck, strangling off her apology.
She held his wrists gently. She didn’t dig or scratch. He had every right to throttle her. Her eyes bulged, her face swelled. He sank her. His eyes locked on hers as he deliberately and coldly pushed her head under the water. His grip released, but he kept her easily pinned. She blinked underwater, the soap stung her eyes, his grim visage warbled with the thrashing water. He was so strong, so powerful, she could do nothing. She clenched her eyes and screamed bubbles up to the surface. He pressed her harder. Her legs kicked and scissored, throwing water over the edge of the tub. She scratched at his wrists, but he didn’t let her up. She clawed at his hands in panic, tried to peel them away but his hold was iron. She sucked in water and it made her convulse. Water filled her mouth, her nose—it spilled into her lungs. She was going black and her nails sought his face now, looked to tear his skin to save her life.
His grip choked her throat again, yanked her up, his thumb and finger digging tight into her at her jawline. He yanked her up to breathe. Air rushed in, panicked, water wanted out. A cough vomited bathwater over his wrist. Her hair clung to her face, and she twisted to get away from him but he had her good. Breath scored through her, racing in to stop her from dying, bringing new water, propelling old water and she coughed again, spraying up into the air and over Rocco. She kicked wildly, her heels flying up and down, hacking the tub and splashing, sending waves of bathwater over its edges.
“Rocco,” she inhaled, a hoarse desperate sound.
He pulled her face to his, his eyes looking through her, and she knew he could kill her. He wasn't going to, but it was something he could do. Water spewed from her. Out of her nose, her mouth—she grabbed shaky breaths, her raspy sounds coming in stuttering stops.
“Go ahead,” she hawked. Her hands clasped him again as his grip lessened. “Go ahead. You wanna fuckin drown me?”
“I would fuckin love to drown you,” he growled. He threw her backward, disgusted, and she banged into the lip of the tub. When he stood, he turned and he shouted, “I oughtta fuckin drown you!” He growled again and he slammed his fist into the drywall above the marble tiles that ran half way up the wall behind the door. He left a hole the size of his massive fist. The door slammed behind him so hard it made her jump, and a small framed painting of cabbage roses jumped off its nail and shattered on the vanity.
She slapped her open palms into the water over and over, splashed water over the edge with her spread out hands, she screamed, “I’m sorry! I fuckin love him! He’s my husband!”
GEOFF
Back in the place he’d said good-bye to twice now. Turning the key in the lock of the kitchen door yet again. The Volvo was parked in the alley, nosed up to the husk that was once his studio. Sleeping bag and pillow under an arm, he stepped into the dark. One more time into this easeful structure turned sombre tomb. The screen door made its familiar aluminum clunk behind him, then the solid sound of the wood as he sealed himself in. Looked out into that black patch, thought of sunny days. Could have brought the tent, pitched it out on the stamp of grass. Bit cold out, but he could have kept warm with happy memories of better times.
Instead, he wound his way down halls and up stairs, into the bedroom, knowing his way without lights from grooves worn into his memory, passing these paths for eight years. Untied and unrolled his sleeping bag, whisking it out flat with one snap of his wrists, flapping it onto the spot where he would have laid in bed with Nia. Threw his pillow down on the bare maple, slipp
ed inside the plaid flannel interior and stared up at the ceiling. Same view he’d seen when he was whole.
36
Winnie
Thursday, August 16th
NIA
It had been humid today. Thirty-two degrees, fifty with the humidex. She’d stayed indoors all day. Her apartment had air-conditioning and she had it set chillingly low. Didn’t step outside once. Saw the forecast on her iPhone in the morning and parked herself on the couch. Dawn to dusk, laying generally horizontal, feet up on her leather couch. They were aching, her back too, she didn’t need to find out how hot it was. She’d worked on bookkeeping off and on for some clients she’d picked up. Got quite a bit of work done.
At 4 P.M. she’d watched Winnie. Saw her husband and her daughter and Laetitia Lily on the twenty-eight daytime Emmy award winning show. Couldn’t fuckin believe it.
Geoff wasn’t a guest. Laetitia Lily was the star, there to promote her children’s book. But this was a variety and talk show and they enlisted Geoff for a segment. Pictionary. Geoff and Winnie on one team, Laetitia was paired with...Odie. Three-minute segment, lots of laughs, of course engineered so Odie and Laetitia won. Winnie asking Geoff afterwards if he had any career backup plans to gales of laughter, even from Geoff, smitten with his own daughter.
Nia was stunned. When it was over, she found her mouth had literally fallen open. She watched it again and again. Saw her own daughter on a show being broadcast to four million viewers. Saw her daughter laughing and drawing, comfortable and precocious amongst two mega-stars like Winnie and Laetitia. Drawing coos from them, head tilts, hands clasped over their hearts. Odie milking it, wringing every juicy drop out of her three minutes of fame. She watched it and laughed, she watched it and cried, watched it until she knew every line by heart and mouthed the words as they were said. Geoff looked good. Looked healthier than the last time she’d seen him. Beard trimmed down, full and shapely. Hair long still, but styled. Dressed like studious and stylish Geoff as always, but she liked that. At the end of the segment, when they should have one more time hawked Laetitia’s book, the pop legend instead announced that Geoff and Odie were the ones to watch out for, they were working on a book together. Geoff beamed and Odie posed, hips swinging, dancing confidently in place, provoking a little dance from Winnie who loved dancing and loved people who danced. The camera zoomed back as they went to commercial. Nia watched it so many times she worried she might wear out her PVR.
