Flight

by Darren Hynes

  Flight

  A novel by

  Darren Hynes

  Flight

  A novel by

  Darren Hynes

  St. John's, Newfoundland and Labrador

  2010

  © 2010, Darren Hynes

  We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing program.

  All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any requests for photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed in writing to the Canadian Reprography Collective, One Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Cover design by Eric Walsh and Todd Manning

  Layout by Todd Manning

  Published by

  KILLICK PRESS

  an imprint of CREATIVE BOOK PUBLISHING

  a Transcontinental Inc. associated company

  P.O. Box 8660, Stn. A

  St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador A1B 3T7

  Printed in Canada by:

  TRANSCONTINENTAL INC.

  Printed on acid-free paper

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Hynes, Darren, 1972-

  Flight / Darren Hynes.

  ISBN 978-1-897174-66-1

  I. Title.

  PS8615.Y53F55 2010 C813'.6 C2010-904538-6

  “This slender volume is a gripping read, literally a page-

  turner from start to finish. The stakes are high, and the

  situation both familiar and dire.”

  –The Telegram

  For Michelle

  CONTENTS

  MONDAY

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  TUESDAY

  2

  3

  4

  5

  WEDNESDAY

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  THURSDAY

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  FRIDAY

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  MONDAY

  EMILYWAKES TO KENT PRESSING HIMSELF AGAINST HER; his warm breath on the back of her neck, his strong fingers beneath her nightgown gripping her hips, his grunts in her ear.

  She shifts farther to her side of the bed, unwilling to let go of the sleep she’s somehow managed for the first time in months.

  He latches on to her again, tighter than before. Almost all of him, it seems, wanting inside.

  “Don’t,” she says, thrusting her pelvis forward. “I’m so tired.”

  Any farther now and she’d be on the floor.

  She listens to his breathing, sensing him close still.

  She waits.

  Waits some more.

  Then, just when she expects him to grab hold of her again, he flips over on his back and kicks off the sheets. Gets up and leaves the room.

  She struggles to hang onto the sound of his footfalls down the hallway.

  It’s still dark. Plenty of time yet before his blaring alarm. Why’s he up?

  Although she tries, she’s unable to lift her cheek from where it’s practically glued to the palm of her right hand.

  She thinks she hears footsteps again, the opening of a cabinet door, the running of water, but then dismisses them.

  What was the dream that he’d interrupted? Yes, she’d been standing near the stern of the ferry, gripping the rail so tightly her hands had turned white; Lynette, her youngest, holding her around the waist; Jeremy, older than his sister by four years, off to one side, hands cupping his mouth, shouting into the wind, She’s stealing us away, Dad! A lone figure in big boots and a blue parka standing on the receding dock. Him. Kent. Hands partway in his jean pockets, and hair, though balding at the crown, blown askew in the gale. The sound of the churning engines widening the gulf between them. The first hints of freedom warming her belly like strong whiskey.

  I should get up, she thinks, but sleep snatches her away before she gets the chance.

  * * *

  EMILY BOLTS AWAKE. Inhales sharply. Sits up.

  In the dark room it’s the whites of his eyes that she notices first. Then his nakedness. He’s peering down at her, and holding the good crystal jug.

  “Next time it’ll be Coke,” he says.

  She runs her hands over her face, through her wet hair. Nipples hard through her now-soaking nightgown. “What’d I do?”

  “You know.”

  He comes closer, his upper thighs pressed against the side of the bed, the jug in front of his penis.

  Why the good crystal jug her mother had given them? Why not the stained plastic container underneath the sink for the sugary Tang or lemonade? That would make more sense, wouldn’t it? But to get this one he’d had to reach behind the fancy wine glasses on the top shelf of the cabinet.

  “You couldn’t get enough of me once,” he says.

  Looking at him now she can hardly believe there was a time when that was true. Like teenagers they had been.

  She imagines digging what’re left of her nails into the flesh of his chest, etching bloody rivers down the whole of him, right to his belly button.

  “I’m just tired,” she says.

  He’s standing there, looking down at her.

  She doesn’t move. Or breathe even.

  Suddenly he turns and walks out of the room. Slams the door so hard that the family photo on their night table nearly topples over.

  She listens to his bare feet slapping off the hardwood, then him opening and closing the bathroom door. Running the shower. She wonders if he’s woken the children. Probably not Jeremy. He’s like his father that way, could sleep through jet planes. But little Lynette is a light sleeper; cutting bread is enough to rouse her. Once woken, she’d come in, pajama bottoms covering her tiny feet, and that ratty, stuffed giraffe, as always, tucked underneath her left arm.

  Emily sits in the near dark, waiting. Then gets to her feet. Wipes the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand, then walks over to her dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. She lifts the wet nightgown over her head and tosses it through the open doorway of the closet, not caring if it finds the clothes hamper or not. The dry one she finds in the drawer feels warm against her skin.

  The alarm clock on Kent’s side of the bed says 5:30 a.m.

  Although lately she pretends to be sleeping, his wet kiss usually wakes her – hot lips smelling of coffee and baloney against her forehead, his right hand resting delicately against her left cheek. Then the sound of his footsteps in the hall, him opening and closing the front door, the turning of the ignition, pumping of the gas, rocks spitting out from underneath the heavily treaded tires. Two horn blasts. Then the stillness.

  At the window, she makes a space in the blinds to peek through with a forefinger and thumb. The sun is on the cusp of slicing upwards out of the bay. In the distance a trawler floats listlessly, as if timid about venturing too far from shore.

  “Four more sleeps,” she hears herself whisper to the windowpane. One year of saving sixty bucks a week. Three tickets on a seat sale: $1,755 with $1,125 left over. All of it shoved under a loose floo
r panel in the basement near the washer and dryer. Even now, because the rectangle of wood blends so nicely with the others, she has trouble finding it. Every payday she spends a minute or two on her hands and knees like a dog, her fingertips gliding along the floor in order to find the ever-so-slight ridge. Because of her chewed nails, she sometimes needs a butter knife to wrestle the wood out of place.

  She leaves the bedroom and goes out into the hall. Moves towards the kitchen, deciding that it’s better to make coffee and fry him baloney rather than lie in bed.

  She covers the coffee grinder with a drying towel to muffle the sound. Breathes in the aroma of freshly diced beans. As she drops six heaping tablespoons into the filter, she realizes that Kent’s shower has stopped. In her mind, she sees him hauling aside the shower curtain and stepping onto the matt near to the tub: strong calves and a still-trim waist to match his firm arms and chest. Then snatching a towel off the rack and drying himself so roughly that his skin turns red. His long-fingered hand wiping the steam from the mirror. Nose hairs to pluck, a few on the lower lobes of his smallish ears too. Then his chin dropping onto his chest so he can get a better view of the thinning hair on top. Frustrated breaths before he combs what’s still lush on the sides and back.

  He’s right there when Emily turns around.

  “Oh,” she says.

  The towel’s tight around his waist, water from his hair running down his cheeks, past his neck and onto his collarbones. His eyes right on her.

  He takes hold of her. Hugs too tight. Always too tight.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  She allows herself to be held, ignoring the impulse to push him off, her left cheek pressed against his chest, his heartbeat in her ear.

  “Did you hear me?”

  She nods. “I heard you.”

  “You sorry too?”

  She knows the list is long with the things she’s sorry for. “Yes.”

  He kisses her forehead. Squeezes her behind. Lets her go. Smiles. Turns around and heads back the way he came.

  She hauls out the baloney and some butter, places the frying pan on a burner and cranks up the heat to almost max. Plops in more butter than she’d prefer, but that’s how he likes it.

  The aroma of sizzling meat and dripping coffee fills the kitchen now, and her one hand holds onto the spatula; the other arm is crossed just below her breasts, its hand tucked into the opposite armpit.

  After a few minutes, she flips the baloney, then turns around to look out the window above the kitchen table: the sun is inching higher on the horizon, the bay alive with ripples.

  A flick of grease from the pan strikes her neck. Except for a rushed intake of breath, she doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t even bother covering the burn with her hand.

  She lowers the heat on the burner and flips again, the meat a stiff purplish red. Not fit to eat. Perfect for Kent though.

  She smells him before she sees him. Old Spice. Even before his union job, when, like the others, he’d gutted whatever fish they happened to haul from the now-empty waters, he’d splashed a little on. Laughed at the things said behind his back because of it, Emily knew, so confident he was about moving up. First it was shift leader to foreman, then union representative for Lightning Cove, and finally union head for the whole of the northeast coast. No one laughed at him anymore. All nods and ‘yes sir.’ Eyes could barely stay trained on him now. Hers couldn’t.

  “I thought I smelled coffee,” he says, as casually as if she were a buddy from work. As if it was someone else who’d thrown a jug of water in her face not more than twenty minutes ago.

  She forces a smile without looking at him, the pulse throbbing in her neck.

  “Baloney, too,” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Aren’t I a lucky one?”

  His scalding lips suck momentarily on her neck.

  “Don’t.”

  He stops. “You’re not still mad, are you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I said I was sorry – ”

  “I know.”

  He grips her tighter. “Do you love me?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Do you?”

  She nods.

  “Say it.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you too, baby. So much.”

  If he squeezes her any harder she’ll pass out.

  “Sit down,” she says, “I’ll bring over your breakfast.”

  He lets her go and sits down at the kitchen table. She watches him: tan chords and black cashmere sweater, clean shaven and too much gel in his combed-back hair. Because it had been thick, wavy, and parted in the middle, they’d called him ‘Vinny Barbarino’ in high school. The dimple in his chin along with his height helped the nickname stick until well after graduation.

  With a fork, Emily stabs at the crusted-over baloney, dropping it on a plate. Pours his coffee, then brings everything over to him. Before he has a chance to ask, she grabs the bottle of ketchup and the cream from the fridge, laying both beside his plate. The sugar is already on the table.

  She sits down.

  “You’ll have a cup with me,” he says.

  She rises and pours her own, then sits beside him again.

  The ketchup makes a fart noise when Kent squeezes the bottle. He squeezes again and again until his plate is a collage of red and brown, like the insides of some wild animal.

  Emily turns her face away, looking out the window. She finds herself paying extra attention to his clicking jaw and his sticky saliva as he chews, suddenly conscious that, soon, she will no longer have to listen, or look at him.

  After he finishes eating he sits back, his thick fingers around his cup. He brings the lip to his mouth and sips. Scrunches up his face. “That’s strong.” He drops in another spoonful of sugar and more cream. Tries another gulp. Puts it back down.

  Emily notices his eyes lock onto the centre of the table. She waits for him to look up at something else, the view outside the window perhaps, or at her, but he doesn’t. He’s left her and she knows it.

  She glides a fingertip along the top of one of his palms. “Kent?”

  By the look on his face, it’s like she’s not even in the room.

  She slides her chair closer. “Kent?”

  She wishes now that one of the children were up – Lynette, so he could throw her up in the air and then catch her, or Jeremy, so they could talk hockey or weightlifting. They could bring him back, she thinks.

  She takes her hand away. Slides back in her chair. Is he thinking about earlier? Had the cold water in her face not been enough after all?

  “Kent?” she says. “What’s wrong?”

  He looks up, finally. Right at her. Back from wherever he’d been.

  It’s Emily now who looks away.

  “They’re announcing the layoffs this morning,” he says. “‘More workers than there is fish,’ the crowd from St. John’s says. In their fancy suits and ties they were. The Minister of Fisheries and Oceans with a goddamn flower on his breast pocket.” He goes silent again, this time casting his glance out the window.

  Other than the thinning hair and the few lines in the corners of his eyes, she thinks he looks exactly as he did in high school. His body even better. Hard not to be, with all the exercise he does. Five nights a week he lifts weights in the garage with the stereo blasting. The other two evenings he’s on the treadmill. Comes back in the house then soaked in sweat and plays with the youngsters before their bedtime. Jeremy likes to wrap his hands around Kent’s flexed bicep. Lynette on her daddy’s shoulders, her long blonde hair down to the middle of her back.

  “Myles is finished,” he says, still looking out the window, “and him with another young one on the way.”

  In the silence, she gets up and returns with the coffee pot. He speaks as she’s refilling his mug. “I dare say there won’t be a woman left by day’s end. Not enough seniority.”

  She lays the pot on the table and sits back down.

&nbs
p; “Young Alan Cross says he’s taking his wife and getting the hell out.” He doesn’t use the spoon for his sugar this time, just tips the jar. “Can’t imagine many wanting to stay after this.” Thick waterfall of cream. The clinking of the spoon inside his cup as he stirs. Licks it off after he’s done with it.

  He leans toward her. “I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but there’s talk about shutting her down. ‘Too expensive to keep it going,’ the St. John’s crowd says.” He pauses long enough to suck in a big breath before letting it out slowly. His forehead is suddenly creased with wrinkles. “There may not be a Lightning Cove by the end of the month.”

  She holds his gaze for a second before looking down at her coffee, then wraps both hands around the mug, enjoying the warmth in her palms. Takes several sips in quick succession, but doesn’t put the cup back down after she’s done. Just keeps it below her bottom lip, in front of her chin.

  “Nothing to say about it or what?” he says.

  “Hmm?”

  “I said, you’ve got nothing to say about it?”

  The town can sink into the bay for all I care. “What’s to say?”

  He leans in closer. “Lots, considering we live here.”

  Another sip before she says, “What difference what I think?”

  After a moment he sits back in his chair. “I’m glad it’s not you fighting for us.”

  She finds the air between them growing thinner, lately. Can barely fill her lungs. Suffocating. The pillow over her face being pressed down harder.

  There are footsteps in the hall, quick and light, like a puppy. Lynette. Emily imagines her daughter’s feet: big toes curled in and longer than average baby ones with nails always in need of trimming. She imagines Lynette’s walk too, her reed-like body thrusting forward as if through pounding wind, her little darling never getting to wherever she needs to be fast enough.

  Lynette’s hair is all tangles when she comes into the kitchen, her giraffe trapped at the neck between her ribcage and the nook of her left elbow.

  “Always in a rush, my little darling is,” Emily says, prodding a forefinger under Lynette’s armpit.