Flight

by Darren Hynes

  She walks around his desk and, before taking a seat in Terry’s swivel chair, drapes his knitted sweater over her shoulders. There’s a lever on the side of the chair that adjusts its height, reclines it either forward or backward. He prefers to sit forward and high up.

  Not a picture on his desk. No mother or father, no siblings, no girlfriend, not even a dog or a cat. Pries into her business all he wants, Terry does, but doesn’t say a word about his own family life. All she knows is he was born in Corner Brook, and that his parents divorced when he was still a youngster, his father off with some young thing down in Florida somewhere, his mother living alone in the house where he was raised.

  He moved here not even five years ago. People leave, they don’t come, she’d thought back then when he’d waved to her from the front window of the old dance hall. Had it renovated in a few months, then changed its name and opened for business. Bought some land about seven miles outside of town and had a house built. Too big for one person. Sometimes she’ll see him out walking, hands behind his back like a poet, or a tourist with nothing but time. She’ll see him every now and then at the marina too, when she’s with Kent and the kids. Terry’ll raise an eyebrow from across the way, then sip his coffee, slurp his chowder from a big spoon. She’ll pretend he’s not there.

  His paperwork is in a neat pile in the centre of his desk beside a mug filled with pencils and pens. There’s a notepad near to the phone on the right, and a book of crossword puzzles. No computer. The stained oak is dust free, shined to a luster, smooth against her fingertips when she runs them along it.

  She reaches inside her pocket and hauls out an old, already-paid electric bill. Flips it over to where she’d written the number down. Picks up the phone. Dials nine to get an outside line, then punches in the 1-800 number. She waits for the call to connect, then listens to the rings going through. Tells herself that she’s safe, that no one can hurt her here. Still though, she keeps her focus on the door, as if, at any moment, Kent might come barreling through, his heavy breathing and unblinking eyes, no colour in his face, those pounding steps just behind her as she tries to get away, the hand gripping her hair, hauling her backwards and to the floor, all of his weight bearing down.

  All the operators are busy the recorded voice says, first in English, then in French, and that her call is important and for her to stay on the line.

  She waits while music comes through on the other end. A piano with an accompanying woodwind instrument. A saxophone? Heather would know, she thinks.

  Her eyes go to the small filing cabinet, then rest on the nearly full pot of coffee on top, a container of Maxwell House beside it with its lid off, and a plastic spoon submerged. Like drinking maple syrup that coffee would be now, she figures. There’s a plant beside the filing cabinet, a fern or something that, despite the lack of natural light, appears to be thriving.

  For the first time in ages she feels hungry. Imagines her mother’s goulash, topped with mozzarella cheese. Blueberry tart for dessert.

  Someone human comes on the line. “Thank you for calling Air Canada. How may I assist you?”

  “Hello. I’d like to confirm my reservations for this Friday,” Emily says, her voice low.

  “Confirmation number, please,” says the female voice on the other end.

  It’s on her plane tickets, she bets, but they’re underneath the basement floor. “I don’t have it on me. Can you find my booking by my name?”

  “What is it, please?”

  “Gyles, G – Y – L – E – S, first name, Emily.” There’s a tapping of computer keys in her ear. She takes a pen out of the mug.

  “That’s Emily Gyles?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Traveling with a Jeremy and Lynette Gyles?”

  “My children – yes.”

  “Departure time from Gander airport is 11:00 a.m., Friday, the eighth of May, arriving in Halifax at 12:05 p.m. before departing for Toronto at 12:45 – ”

  “Sorry, departing when?”

  “Departing from Toronto at 12:45.”

  “Okay. Got it.”

  Arriving in Toronto at 3:00 p.m., and then departing for Vancouver at 5:30. Arrival time in Vancouver is 7:30 p.m.”

  The information is already on her plane tickets, but Emily scribbles it all down, her fingertips white from holding the pen so tightly.

  “Did you get all of that, Miss?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Alright. Take this down too. It’s your confirmation number.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s J –K – ”

  “I’m sorry, but didn’t you say it was a number?”

  “It’s a combination of letters and numbers.”

  “Oh.”

  Emily listens hard, writes the confirmation in block letters along the bottom of the bill.

  “Best to check that everything’s on schedule several hours before departure time. Quote the number I’ve just given you. Is there anything else, Miss?”

  “No, that’s all. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for flying Air Canada. Have a nice day.”

  She returns the phone to its cradle, but keeps her hand hovering over the top, the pad of her palm nearly touching. She exhales the breath she’s been holding. A shiver goes through her. She feels its journey from her toes to her heels, up her calves and hamstrings, along her spine, and into her head.

  If it’s the right thing to do, then how can it suddenly feel wrong?

  She tries sitting back only to find herself leaning forward again, her right elbow on the desk while its hand takes the weight of her forehead.

  Will Lynette and Jeremy be better off, she wonders? Is she helping by taking them away, or just making things worse?

  She jumps when she sees the shadow along the floor. Looks up to see Terry standing in the doorway.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.

  How long has he been watching? What’s he heard?

  “You shouldn’t sneak up like that.” She wonders if his feet touch the floor when he walks. You turn around one minute and no one’s there. The next, Terry’s standing right behind you.

  “Sorry.”

  The less anyone knows about her trip to the west coast, the better, she thinks. All it takes is one slip up. One misstep. Like a chip in a windshield that turns into a crack and runs the whole length of the window. “What do you want?” she says at last.

  Terry shoves his hands in his pockets, fiddling away with his coins. “Nothing. Only that the rain has stopped and would you maybe like to join me outside for a bit of fresh air?”

  She grabs the electric bill off the desk, folding it in half and shoving it in her pocket.

  “I’ll be right up.”

  Terry lingers a second before going.

  Although she’s just put it there, she slides her hand back in her pocket to be sure. That’s her way, lately, doing something and then not trusting she’s done it. How many times in the basement at home, for ex- ample, has she wedged her fingernails beneath the floor panel to be sure that the money she’d just put there is there? How often too, has she written down the plan only to rip it into tiny squares a moment later?

  7 a.m.: Wake.

  7:05: Wake children.

  7:06: Get money from basement.

  7:10: Fruit Loops for Jeremy; Honeycombs for Lynette.

  7:15: Wash face and hands. No time for bathing. And on and on.

  Sometimes, on her days off, she’ll take the children down to where the ferry docks to watch the passengers get on and off. Other times, the three of them will make the forty-five minute ferry journey themselves, for practice, although she’d never tell them as much. Soft-serve in cones. Chocolate for Jeremy; a mixture of strawberry and vanilla for Lynette. Then up to the second level to watch the ferry pull away from the dock, their hands gripping the railing. They’ll ask why their dad’s not with them. “This is just for us,”
she’ll say.

  She takes off the sweater and reaches over to switch off the desk lamp, then just sits there in the dark.

  The last time she took the ferry she was alone. Three weeks ago. The children in school; Kent in meetings. The day off from the grocery store. Her father waiting there in his car. The whole way to Gander he played the radio and tried talking but he’s terrible at talking, so eventually he shut up. At the kitchen table afterwards, over tea, her mother patted her knee and asked if everything was okay at home. She nodded, said things were fine. “You know what would be perfect with this tea?” she said then, “Peek Freans.”

  “No Peek Freans,” her mother said. “I’ve jam jams though.” Emily asked her father for his car keys then, so she could go to the store and get Peek Freans. Her dad wanted to go and get them for her, but she raised her voice and he sat back down. Nearly forty-five minutes by the time she got back. The tea was cold and her father asleep on the chesterfield. Her mother forced her eyes away from the Young and the Restless. “Go to St. John’s for the Peek Freans?”

  “Christ,” Emily said. “I forgot the cookies.” Her mother’s eyes right on her. “If you didn’t get the Peek Freans what in the name of God were you doing all this time?” Emily sat on the edge of the sofa where her father’s feet didn’t quite reach. “Driving. Just driving.” Her mother went back to her show, and her father snored himself awake. Tucked inside her jacket pocket were three plane tickets to British Columbia. Three weeks from Friday.

  * * *

  TERRY’S DRYING OFF A MILK CRATE with paper towels when she pushes open the back door.

  He turns to her. “One second.”

  She stands there watching him, her hand in the pocket that has the old electric bill.

  He wraps the paper towel around his pinky in order to get at the rainwater that has fallen between the crevices.

  Though the clouds have lost their purple tinge, they still look like they have more rain to unleash. There’s wind too, chilly enough to raise gooseflesh, strong enough to mess her hair. The air is a mixture of dog shit and tree bark.

  “Okay,” he says, a thumb pointed towards her now-dry seat.

  She goes and sits.

  “Not too cold, is it?” He says it like it’s just occurred to him.

  She shakes her head.

  “Because we can go inside.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I’d hate for you to get sicker – ”

  “I’m fine, Terry.”

  “Okay.”

  He doesn’t pay half as much attention to his own milk crate before dropping the soaked paper towels into the garbage pail beside the back door. He comes back over and sits down. Lifts his bum and inches the crate forward so that he’s closer to her.

  She notices how he can’t get comfortable, moving forward till his backside is almost off the seat, then sitting back again. His greenishgrey eyes rest on her, then move away.

  “I’m almost done down there,” she says finally.

  He smiles. “I’ll count the rest, don’t worry.”

  She looks away. Don’t worry. Worry’s been with her longer than her children. There to wake her in the middle of the night, and to keep her looking over her shoulder; worry’s the relative she never sees but knows is there, the taste she can’t get rid of, the message on her answering machine she can’t erase. Don’t worry? She wouldn’t know how.

  In the silence, she watches him pick the calluses on his right hand, every so often pulling away bits of dead and dried skin, letting them fall discreetly between his feet.

  “You want to say something,” she says.

  He rips off another piece and tries releasing it without her noticing. Looks towards the door and then back at her again. Shifts forward some more so that his knees are nearly touching hers. He makes to stand up. “I’ll bring you my sweater.”

  “No.”

  “But you’re shivering.”

  “Tell me,” she says.

  He sits back down. Looks at her. At last, he says, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  The air’s colder suddenly. She feels heavy in her belly despite nothing being in it.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned anything,” Terry says.

  “I made a dumb mistake. You had every right to say something.”

  “It upset you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  A peck of rain lands on her forehead. She wipes it away.

  Overhead, a flock of seagulls pass, their squawks half drowned out by the building wind. Candy wrappers that had once lain on the top of the garbage bucket are being whipped around in the gale, scattering around their feet, just above their heads.

  After a moment, Terry says, “You happy?”

  She doesn’t answer, choosing instead to tilt her face towards the sky. Another raindrop lands on her cheek. “Starting to rain again.”

  Terry looks up too. “Lightning Cove in May for ya. We’re lucky it isn’t snowing.”

  They go quiet. Then Terry says, “Did you hear what I just asked?”

  She looks at him, then away. Folds her arms across her chest, letting the question sink in, her eyes on the ground. “I’m as happy as anyone else.” She lifts her face and stares at him. “Why?”

  Terry looks past her shoulder. Shakes his head. Shrugs. “No reason.”

  A speck of rain clips the tip of her nose. Another lands on the back of her hand.

  “Let’s go in before it starts to pour.” She gets to her feet.

  Terry’s about to say more, but before he can get any words out, the back door swings open, revealing Heather. She offers them a side profile of her face in order to speak to someone that’s standing behind her. “She’s out here,” she says, stepping aside to let Irene Baker pass.

  Irene seems to have aged ten years since yesterday, Emily thinks. Paler than usual, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her belly so large she looks like she might fall forward.

  “Irene,” she says.

  The woman comes closer, her two hands on the belly of her raincoat, as if it’s the only way to keep the baby from suddenly dropping out.

  “Don’t Irene me,” she says.

  “What’s the matter – ”

  “Stay out of this, Terry,” Irene says. “This has got nothing to do with you.”

  Heather’s still in the doorway, her fingers bracing its frame.

  “Mind the cash,” Terry tells her.

  “There’s no one in there,” Heather says.

  “Go.”

  She does, rolling her eyes in the process and slamming the door.

  Terry offers the pregnant woman his seat.

  “Stay where you’re to,” Irene says to him, “this won’t take long.” She takes a few more steps so that she’s within touching distance of Emily. “No layoff’s, huh? ‘Maybe it won’t come to that,’ you said. Filthy liar.”

  “That’s enough,” Terry says.

  Irene turns to him. “It’s fine for you. You got your precious little store. But what about us that depends on the plant, huh? What about us?” She looks again at Emily. “You knew all along that Myles didn’t stand a chance, didn’t you?”

  Emily doesn’t answer.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “She’s got nothing to do with any of that,” Terry says.

  “Except that she lives with the very one whose business it’s supposed to be to look after men like my husband.”

  Emily points to her milk crate. “Won’t you sit down, Irene?”

  “Just answer my question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I knew. Or had a pretty good idea, at least.”

  Irene’s sknees suddenly buckle. Terry is close enough behind her to catch her before she falls. Emily goes over to help, draping one of Irene’s arms across her shoulders. They lower her gently onto the milk crate.

  “What’s wrong?” Emily asks.

  The woman is clutching her s
tomach, her chin buried into the top of her chest.

  “It’s not coming, is it?” Terry says, his voice a whisper.

  Irene lets out a long breath, then takes a few more. “Not today.” She looks up at them. “I’m so thirsty.”

  “I’ll get you some water,” Terry says. He runs to the door, throwing it open, then disappears inside.

  Emily rubs the pregnant woman’s back – up and down, then in a circular motion.

  “Stop it,” Irene says.

  “Sorry.” Emily leaves a hand on the pregnant woman’s shoulder.

  No words between them now, just the sound of Irene’s breaths – deep and steady for a while and then her holding it. Her holding it for a while and then deep and steady.

  Not yet noon, but the clouds are making it feel like dusk. The rain’s still pecking, about to unleash its downpour. She looks to the door, wondering what’s taking Terry so long.

  It’s ages before she senses Irene’s body relax. She takes her hand away as the woman sits up to full height.

  “Feeling better?” Emily says.

  Irene nods. Spits and then wipes her mouth on her sleeve. Massages her closed eyes. One more long breath before she whispers, “How will we live?”

  Emily says nothing. How will we live? Out west without nearly enough money or resources or hardly knowing a soul other than Jackie and Stephen. And not even Stephen really, seeing as she’s never met him. How long before they kick her and the children out, she wonders? A week? Two? And what was it Stephen had said: something about knowing people and finding her a sublet? Great, except how long – seeing as there’s only $1,125 underneath the basement floor – will she able to pay the rent? She imagines Jackie and Stephen asking them to go finally. The three of them walking the streets of downtown Vancouver. Gripping one another’s hands for fear of being swept away. Three lost faces in an ocean of them.

  Terry’s back. Rather than water, he’s holding Fruit Punch Gatorade. “To replenish those electrolytes,” he says, holding the bottle beside his face like he’s in a commercial or something. He twists the cap en route to Irene. Hands it to her.

  Irene takes a gulp, some of it dribbling down her chin. She wipes away the spillage, then the wetness beneath her eyes.