Wind Tails

by Anne Degrace

  Wind Tails

  Wind Tails

  a novel

  Anne DeGrace

  McArthur & Company

  Toronto

  First published in Canada in 2007 by

  McArthur & Company

  322 King St. West, Suite 402

  Toronto, ON

  M5V 1J2

  www.mcarthur-co.com

  Copyright © 2007 Anne DeGrace

  All rights reserved.

  The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in

  any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

  recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the

  expressed written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of

  the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  DeGrace, Anne

  Wind tails: a novel / Anne DeGrace.

  ISBN 978-1-55278-663-5

  I. Title.

  PS8607.E47W55 2007 C813’.6 C2007-903981-2

  eISBN 978-1-77087-117-5

  Cover design by Tania Craan

  The publisher would like to acknowledge the financial

  support of the Government of Canada through the Book

  Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and the

  Canada Council for our publishing activities. The publisher

  further wishes to acknowledge the financial support of the

  Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

  To my mother, Peggy DeGrace: my first storyteller

  Wind Tails

  Contents

  Tailwind

  Windswept

  Second wind

  Windwise

  Wayward wind

  Blown away

  Ill wind

  Wind shift

  Whirlwind

  Gale force

  Windblown

  Wind tails

  Acknowledgements

  Tailwind

  The north wind doth blow,

  And we shall have snow,

  And what will the robin do then, poor thing?

  — Mother Goose

  It’s the first day of the third week. Jo never thought she’d get used to starting work at 6 a.m., but the truth is, she’s starting to like it. Even college classes, when she last attended, didn’t require rising so early, and then mornings included the bustle of her mother heading off to work at the clinic, her father’s newspaper rattle at the kitchen table, the morning banter—on the good days— between them. It’s September: she should be at home, just starting second year, perhaps sharing an apartment with other students. Every Sunday, dinner with her parents, a load of laundry churning away in the basement while they eat. She pushes away the small pang she feels for that domestic scene.

  Instead, Jo turns her attention to the earthy smell of coffee as it begins to percolate in the big countertop urn. When it’s done, she’ll pour herself a cup and hope for enough time to savour it before the first customer comes in. The early fall sunlight begins to slant across the worn linoleum as the sun crests the tops of the pines across the highway. There is birdsong, and the relative, temporary peace. Temporary, because the first customer can pull in to the gravel lot at any time; relative, because there is outward peace, and then there is inward peace.

  As the coffee perks, Jo ties her straight red hair into a ponytail; nothing like a long hair in the soup to send a customer squawking and Cass scolding. There are four tables on either side of the door, two in the middle of the diner. As the sun glances off their surfaces, Jo can see the remains of coffee rings, small scatterings of salt and sugar, evidence of sloppy clean-up, and so she begins wiping the plastic covers. Cass would have something to say if she came in and saw a less-than-clean table, not that it’s likely. When Jo hauled herself up from her cot in the back room of the trailer a half-hour ago, Cass’s snores suggested an extended lie-in, something Jo has come to expect. Twice, so far, Cass has spent the whole day in the trailer, ankles propped on the coffee table, reclining in a nest of pillows and crocheted afghans, watching soaps on the one channel available to this part of British Columbia.

  Jo leans across the swivel stools to wipe the Arborite counter that runs along the back of the room. At one end is the cash register—behind it, the coffee urn, dishes, cutlery, cooler—and cut into the wall behind them, a window with a ledge on which to set the orders. A set of swinging doors to one side blocks the kitchen view from the restaurant.

  Surfaces clean, there isn’t much to do; she’s got the grill heating, everything’s ready to go. Sitting on the corner stool, jeans sticking to a peeling edge of duct tape, Jo scans her surroundings, now becoming familiar. On each table, salt and pepper shakers in the shape of jumping trout, or chickens, or, on the table nearest the door, skunks embracing; plastic flowers in a tomato paste can covered with wallpaper; a cylindrical sugar dispenser, the sun through the glass casting a glow across the table’s surface. On the washroom door, a sign that reads Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. On the wall, the plaster Jesus hands beside the Coke cooler angle upwards towards last year’s 1976 classic car calendar. Above that, a chalkboard proclaims the soup of the day—yesterday’s rubbed out, today’s still unwritten. The glass display case holds three pies of varying degrees of wholeness labelled carefully: Apple, Rhubarb, Lemon Marrang. Real Lard Crust reads a fourth sign, folded to stand like a little pup tent.

  There is the whoosh of a car passing on the two-lane highway: an early riser, not stopping. Jo pulls the lever on the bottom of the urn, watching the level of coffee in the glass tube adjust downwards as the liquid swirls into the cup. Cream, two sugars. This is her time.

  “Biker Baby Born with Gang Tattoo” reads the tabloid headline on the newspaper left by a customer. It’s ridiculous, of course. It should make her laugh, but instead, Jo feels the push of tears. It’s just the suggestion, she knows. Maybe it’s just the word “baby.” She wonders how long it will affect her in this way. She folds the paper and shoves it with the others on the corner of the counter, leans back against the wall, and closes her eyes.

  Seven months earlier, Jo is sitting in a dark living room waiting for her mother to come home. It’s better in the dark: the shadows in the room match the sinking feeling that roots her to the couch. She tries not to think of the associations she holds with this piece of furniture; she feels as if she could drown beneath the floral fabric. Death by upholstery. She watches the last shimmer of sky wither to black. She doesn’t know how she will answer the questions.

  The subtleties of the dark intrigue her as she waits, looking out: how the gradations of bark on the maple meld, as the light fades, into flat black. Contrast is relative, she thinks, then: Everything is relative. Black to blacker. Before, and after.

  She hears the click of the door; inhales sharply. The cold air curves around the entrance and strikes Jo before the sound of her mother unzipping her winter boots reaches her ears.

  “Jo? Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

  Light floods the living room, and the maple tree outside disappears altogether. There is nothing but this room, this couch, her mother, the new hardness of her belly.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  Jo’s mother stands in the yellow pool of light in her camel-hair coat.

  Eamon is thirty-two, but he looks younger. It’s the long black hair, curling around under his ears. Even with the laugh lines, his blue eyes look young, playful. But it’s the accent that really gets her, making her think of a children’s fairy tale: a leprechaun, a pot of gold. And it’s true: there is a sparkly quality to him when he walks into a room, bright points of light dancing around his words as he speaks.

  When her mother in
troduces him, she explains that he is distantly related, by marriage: “Your cousin James’s half-brother. Uncle Arnie was married a long time ago, before he met Patsy.” Jo isn’t altogether sure of the lineage—her mother had five sisters—but sees that this tall, friendly man has been welcomed by her mother as family.

  “He’s going to stay while he looks for a job. Maybe even at the college, Jo. You two could take the bus together.”

  Eamon twinkles at Jo, who imagines him teaching her first-year journalism class, imagines going for a beer with him afterwards, the easy conversation between them, the envy of the other girls in the class. Later, “Does Dad mind about Eamon staying with us?” she asks her mother. Jo’s father is away on business.

  “He’s family. It’s just for a short time,” her mother replies.

  But Eamon stays through September. Jo’s father comes in from work each day, heads for the den with a rum and Coke and the Calgary Herald, emerges for dinner. Over pork chops and mashed potatoes, Eamon charms them with stories from Ireland, where he’d returned with his mother when he was “just a young lad.”

  “I’ll make you all a real Irish stew,” he tells them, “to thank you for your wonderful generosity.” The stew never materializes, but Jo’s father’s bottle of Jameson’s diminishes.

  “How goes the job hunt?” Jo’s father asks. It’s a friendly inquiry. Eamon’s shown a real interest in the woodworking shop in the basement, asking questions about joinery and wood finishes, exclaiming over the craftsmanship in one or another of his host’s projects. Like Jo, like her mother, Eamon’s blue-eyed gaze appears to make Jo’s father glow. There’s no question, Jo’s father is sure, that Eamon will find employment soon enough. Perhaps there may even be a position for such a promising young man once the new franchises have been set up, and Jo’s father can concentrate again on the home office. He has some pull, there. Meanwhile, Eamon’s presence in their house is a pleasure.

  “Ah, it’s a hard world out there,” Eamon replies now, shaking his black curls. “Can I give you a hand with the dishes, Mrs. P?” and Jo’s mother smiles and flutters and lets him help her carry out the plates, normally Jo’s job.

  Eamon has been living in the spare room for almost three months when Jo comes home through the swirling flakes of the first big snow from a late class to find a note from her mother: Helping late at the clinic. Bert’s flight cancelled, so just you two for dinner. Leftover M&C in fridge.

  Jo is just placing the casserole dish in the oven when Eamon leans his tall frame in the kitchen doorway.

  “Are you making tea, then?” he asks. He means dinner, but Jo is used to his figures of speech.

  “Mum’s working late at physio,” she tells him, tucking her hands in the back pocket of her jeans. When she sees Eamon looking at her breasts, she crosses her arms. “Probably all the snow. Back injuries, twisted ankles.” She doesn’t know where to look, feels herself colour.

  “It’s just you and me, then,” says Eamon, pushing himself off the doorframe and striding into the kitchen. “Shall we have a little party?” He’s taken the whisky from the cupboard, two glasses. “Fancy a drink before we eat?”

  It feels just dangerous enough to be exciting. Jo looks at the snow through the kitchen window, feels the warm houseglow envelop them both. She is just eighteen. Sure, she’s had a few beers at parties, cheap wine: Labatt’s 50; Calona red. The Jameson’s is her father’s domain. The first taste, when the whisky hits her throat, makes her cough. Eamon puts a friendly arm around her. “Easy, girl. Small sips, let it warm your mouth, then slide down your throat, slowly—like this.” Jo watches his lips where they touch the glass, close over the amber liquid, thin as he swallows, then smile, dimples forming in his cheeks. The next sip doesn’t burn, just warms, and she wonders if it’s possible that the liquid is flowing directly into her veins, warming every part of her. She can feel it in her fingertips, her toes, even down there, melting through her body like warm honey.

  They sit on the sofa, the only light coming from the kitchen, where the macaroni and cheese slowly dries out in the oven. He asks her about her classes, how they’re going. If she’s serious about journalism. His face is earnest: he asks her about her opinions on current events. What about the election in Quebec? Will this René Lévesque character push for separation? He listens to her words, considers her replies, leans forward to ask another question, touches her shoulder, meets her eyes. She could drown in that much blue. Her body feels like liquid, itself. She has never felt so— noticed.

  “Do you have a boyfriend, then?” he asks her, holding her with his eyes as he refills her glass, not spilling any. She shakes her head. “No? A pretty, smart girl like you?”

  She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t have to say anything. He takes her glass and sets it on the coffee table with exaggerated care. His fingers, where they touch her chin, are electric; she can feel the current. Her own lips, when they meet his, are numb from the whisky, but his tongue in her mouth is a living thing. This is not the kiss of a boy, not the sloppy groping party-bedroom kisses: this is the real thing.

  They make love on the couch. She marvels at the extraordinary act in these ordinary surroundings, thinks she will never be able to sit on this couch again without steamy thoughts betraying her. She grips the piped edge of the upholstery.

  Later, they will scrub the bloodstain with baking soda and then flip the cushion over. By the time her mother returns, wondering at the amount of snow, busses not running, and the taxis so busy it’s a miracle she got home at all, they have already scraped the blackened casserole contents into the garbage, washed their glasses, and are sitting at opposite ends of the living room, lights blazing. Jo has a textbook in front of her, but she has been reading the same paragraph for a half-hour. She realizes how lucky they were: her mother could have walked in at any moment. She hopes the toothpaste masks the scent of the alcohol. She is absolutely sober, but the living room, now, looks completely different to her. Or maybe it’s Jo that’s different.

  “Mrs. P!” Eamon looks up from his book and smiles winningly. “Back, are you? We were about to send out one of those Saint Bernard dogs after you. Here: let me get you a glass of whisky. Just the thing after your ordeal.”

  Jo winces, but Eamon’s on his feet. Her mother thrills at the attention and tells Jo there’s a fresh bottle of Coke in the cupboard. “We’ll have a little party!” she gushes.

  “And do you mind if I have a wee taste myself, Mrs. P?” asks Eamon, tucking the bottle back in the cupboard before she can see how little is left. He has already poured himself a glass.

  Over the next three weeks Eamon and Jo find several more occasions to get together. Jo cuts classes, coming home midday when she knows her parents will be working, to find Eamon lying on the couch, exhausted after a morning of reading yesterday’s Help Wanted section. Her father has offered him use of the Smith Corona in the den to type résumés or cover letters, but she has yet to see him use it. She doesn’t care: he is there when she comes in, sitting up, letting the paper fall, like he has been waiting for her all morning. In the light of day they descend to the basement where they test the springs of the old couch her father keeps in the workshop for midproject napping on Sunday afternoons.

  The subterfuge, exciting at first, begins to wear on Jo. She longs to be seen with him, walking beside his Irish good looks, holding his hand. Her parents like him; surely they’d be pleased. But when she asks, he strokes her hair. “I just want you all to myself, darlin’,” he tells her, before changing the subject.

  Jo’s father has begun to notice a fishy smell in the workshop, and wonders if the foundation might be leaking. He and Eamon spend a boozy evening down there trying to find the source of the odour, pouring beer after beer while moving furniture and wood to inspect the concrete. Later, they can be heard singing Irish drinking songs while Jo sits in her upstairs bedroom, sulky because he’s not with her, but also guilty and strangely excited, full of her own womanhood. It’s th
e smell of sex that has her father so bewildered. Later, she comes down to the living room to find her mother watching Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, a show her mother has always maintained is stupid. The volume is louder than usual. “Look that up in your Funk & Wagnall’s,” says Goldie Hawn. From the basement comes a burst of laughter as if timed for the punchline.

  It’s only first year, she tells herself when she misses a deadline for a paper. She’s really just killing time anyway, keeping her parents happy by taking courses at the college while she figures out what to do next. But she’s missed too many classes, now; things are slipping. She’s stopped seeing her friends, stopped going out in the evenings or having anyone over. Her mother doesn’t appear to have noticed.

  Eamon comes into Jo’s room one evening. There’s an exam tomorrow; it’s the last stretch before Christmas break. She’s sitting on her bed cross-legged, books spread out in front of her. He leans in the doorway, hands in pockets, and watches until she looks up. She feels the little heart rush that’s still there, and still surprises her. That he wants her is sufficient for her to melt like wax. She read enough Harlequin Romances in her pre-teen years. It bothers her that the clichés come so easily to mind, and yet she is all of them.

  “Darlin’,” he says, and she feels herself puddle. He curls his frame onto the floor beside the bed. When she weaves her fingers into his hair, he tilts his head back and smiles at her, eyes closed. Then he rolls down her sock, gently eases it from her foot, and with his tongue begins stroking each toe.

  With some effort she pulls her foot away. “Let’s move out,” she says. He’s looking at her, tongue still outstretched like a cat, playful smile on his face. “I’ll quit school, get a job. We could both get jobs, get an apartment downtown.”