Flight

by Darren Hynes

  He puts the bottle down on the table. Breathes out slowly, like someone would upon realizing that the bad news they’d expected is not so bad after all. “We’re close to setting up a nice severance package. Where’s the corkscrew?” He moves over to the counter and hauls open a drawer. Finds one.

  Her dad asks, “How nice?”

  “Nice enough to keep the heat and lights going.” Kent comes back over. Picks up the bottle and inserts the spiraled blade. Twists the top like he’s been opening wine all his life. Like there isn’t anything he can’t do. He pulls out the cork as easily as if it were a plug in the sink. “Nice enough to keep the deep freeze packed with meat,” he says, looking up at his father-in-law, a smile across his face. He holds the tip of the bottle under his nose. Closes his eyes. Inhales deeply.

  As if he knows anything about wine, she thinks.

  He opens them suddenly. “Glasses. We need glasses.”

  Her mother makes to move toward the tumbler cupboard, but Kent stops her.

  “The good ones, Shirley,” he says, indicating the dining room cabinet with a quick point of his chin.

  “I’ll help you, Mom,” Emily says.

  It isn’t really a dining room so much as an extension of the living room. There’s no partition or change in the colour scheme or anything to indicate a separate living space, just a long oval table, its sur- face gleaming, in front of a floor-to-ceiling-window. For show, really. When was the last time anyone had sat there? The cabinet is flush against the wall. Taller than Kent. The sparkling glass allows an easy view of rows of cups and saucers, plates and bowls. Blindingly polished silverware. A shelf in the centre sports an immaculate row of whiskey glasses identical to the ones she’d given him three Christmases ago, and that he’d smashed in a fit of rage after she’d said something that he didn’t like. Jeremy had stepped on a shard in his bare feet and needed it taken out at the clinic.

  The wine glasses with the elegant stems are on the top, beside the flute glasses and the crystal.

  “I need a chair,” she says to her mother.

  Shirley takes the one at the head of the dining table, positioning it behind her daughter. Emily grips the tiny brass knobs and pulls. The seldom-opened doors stick for a moment before giving way. Everything inside the cabinet vibrates.

  “Careful,” her mother says.

  She stands on the chair. “I’ll hand them down to you.” She does so slowly, one after the other, both hands on each thread-thin stem, as if the glasses were ticking bombs.

  She lets go of the fourth one before her mother has a chance to grab it. It breaks against the hardwood.

  “Everything all right in there?” Kent says.

  Her mother turns in the direction of the kitchen. “Just a broken wine glass.”

  Emily gets off the chair. “Why didn’t you grab it?”

  “It was nowhere near my hand.”

  Kent comes in with a broom and dustpan. “Excuse me, ladies.”

  They move aside, but watch him as he sweeps up all the pieces.

  “Lately, she’s always dropping something,” he says to her mother.

  She feels like she’s not even in the room.

  “The other day it was a cup of coffee. A pan of french fries the day before that.” He squeezes between them, back to the kitchen.

  Emily gets back on the chair to try again for that fourth wine glass.

  “Nothing but a waste of money,” her mother says, finally.

  Emily pauses to look down at her. “What?”

  Her mother points up to where the good crystal jug is, its top made more visible now that the wine glasses in front have been removed. “You never use it.”

  She thinks of it in Kent’s hands last night: the rising and falling of his chest as he held it in front of himself, the whites of his eyes in the dark, the smell of rain despite there not being any, and the damp sheets. Cold. So cold.

  She hands down the last wine glass, then closes the cabinet doors. Slides the chair back in place before brushing past her mother without bothering to help her carry the glasses in.

  * * *

  IT’S NEARLY DARK WHEN HER PARENTS decide it’s time to go. Her father, with Lynette in his arms, is the first to step out onto the front porch, then Kent, one hand in his pocket and his laces untied.

  Emily’s surprised to see Jeremy holding his grandmother’s hand. He used to hold her hand like that. It occurs to her, since the top of his head goes past his grandmother’s shoulder, that her little boy is not so little after all. How could she not have noticed until now? What else has she not noticed, she wonders? Before she started planning an escape, there had always been after-school chats: Jeremy sitting on the arm of the chesterfield and Lynette in her lap. Each of their accomplishments would be posted on the fridge back then – Jeremy’s A in Physical Education or Lynette’s drawing from Art class. When was the last time she’d posted anything? Or sat either of them down for a real talk? I haven’t really been here, she realizes. Not lately. Not like I should be. Used to be.

  “Fine evening,” her mother says.

  They’ve all stopped to linger on the porch.

  “Like summer,” Kent says. “Nearly.”

  The wind’s warmer than it had been earlier. A clear sky now with a half-moon, the perfect night for stargazing. She can make out Venus, and the Little Dipper.

  “Are you sure we can’t convince you to stay?” Kent asks.

  “You know Felix, Kent. Can fall asleep at a booth in a restaurant, but claims he can’t sleep in a bed that isn’t his own.”

  “I wish you’d sleep more so your tongue would stop flapping,” Felix says.

  “A flapping tongue,” Jeremy repeats, laughing.

  They walk down the porch stairs to the driveway.

  At the car, her mother says, “You should bring the kids this weekend.”

  She doesn’t speak. The roar of the Boeing 747 that she and the children will have taken by then is in her ears.

  “Can we, Mommy?” Lynette says, from high up in her grandfather’s arms.

  “We’ll see, sweetie.”

  Her father kisses Lynette before putting her down. Goes over and shakes Jeremy’s free hand. Looks at his wife. “Let’s go, unless you plan on swimming across.”

  Emily goes to him, hugs too hard. Doesn’t want to let go.

  “I’ll see you soon, sure,” her dad says.

  “I know,” she says, letting him go finally. She goes to her mother and kisses her coolly on the cheek.

  Kent walks her father to the driver’s side door. Shakes his hand; her dad won’t look him in the eye. Kent comes back and hugs her mother. “Good to see you, Shirley.” He opens the passenger side door for her.

  “Convince that wife of yours to come this weekend,” Shirley says, ducking her head and getting in.

  Kent waits for her to swing her legs in before closing the door.

  Her father says to Kent, “Let us know about the severance package offer.”

  Kent nods. “Will do.”

  “And be sure to keep that cut clean,” her mother says.

  “I got the best woman in the world to take care of that,” he says, reaching out and taking Emily’s hand.

  They watch the car back out of the driveway.

  “Be good youngsters!” Her mother shouts through her rolled-down window, just as the car pulls away.

  Jeremy and Lynette run out into the street, waving.

  His grip on her hand tightens. “Let’s go in,” he says.

  5

  HE’S PRESSING EACH OF HER WRISTS into the mattress above her head. His grip is so strong. She imagines her blood fighting to make its way through her too-thin veins, then clotting, bulging before exploding. Dark purple spreading out near the top of her skin.

  He flips her over suddenly. Because he can. Because he’s used to getting what he wants. Because she knows better than to fight. She turns her head, letting her right cheek sink into the pillow that smells of him: outdoors a
nd gasoline. The moonlight, through an opening in the blinds, is casting their shadows on the opposite wall. It’s like she’s spying on two other people, the larger of them on top, going up and down with metronome-like rhythm. The bottom shadow perfectly still. So small it might not even be there.

  Why does he never seem to be able to take any of his own weight? Stop, you’re crushing me! It’s like her life being snuffed out, little by little.

  He bites her lower neck.

  She doesn’t cry out.

  He’s salivating. Droplets falling against her skin. Clumps of her hair in his hands. Deep breaths and strained moans. Grunts.

  She’s silent. Deadened now to the part of him inside her. Hadn’t always been. In another life it seems to her now, she’d been louder than he: lifting herself to meet his thrusts, holding onto him like he was the last person on earth. Then lying with him afterwards. From that to this, she thinks. That. This.

  He tenses – shudders, then goes still. The shadows on the wall, she notices, have gone still, too. He says her name. At least she thinks it’s her name. Perhaps it was a moan that sounded like it.

  “I can’t breathe,” she says.

  He gets off, still pulsating, still stiff.

  She rolls onto her back, filling her lungs as if for the first time. Slips beneath a sheet.

  “Don’t.”

  “What? ”

  “Cover up.” He pulls the blanket off. “Let me look at you.”

  He does. Then says, “You didn’t make a sound.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  He lays his palm on her stomach, just above her belly button. “Let’s go somewhere.”

  “What?”

  “Just you and me.”

  They haven’t gone anywhere in ages.

  “We’ll leave the kids with your parents.”

  She pauses. Then says, “Where?”

  “St. John’s.”

  St. John’s, she thinks. Kent’s centre of the universe. There’s so much more to see beyond the Narrows of St. John’s harbour, she imagines. Perhaps one day, when the children are older, she’ll get a chance to see it. Without him, though.

  “We’ll stay at the Battery and you can shop all weekend.”

  Without him. She lets the words drift inside her mind. Waking…without him, suppers…without him, holidays… without him, everything… without him. She turns to look out the window, unsure what to call the feeling in her belly.

  “Wouldn’t you like that?” he asks.

  I’d rather die than go anywhere with you. She nods.

  “When was the last time you bought yourself something?” he says.

  “I buy plenty.”

  “Something fancy, I mean. A nice dress, or jewelry?”

  She can’t remember the last time she’s worn a dress. And it’s hard to get earrings in since she’s allowed the holes to grow over. A nice dress. Jewelry. She imagines her hair unbound, and a tinge of eyeliner. Long nails instead of bitten ones, and smooth, unchapped lips. In her mind, she’s being stared at. Desirable again. Sexy again. A woman again.

  “How about Friday?” he says.

  She nods again, absent-mindedly.

  “With everything that’s been going on, I could use a little break.” He raises himself to one elbow. “It’s settled then. We’ll bring the kids to your mother’s on Friday morning and spend the weekend in Town. Come back on Monday. Fuck it, Tuesday – we’ll come back Tuesday. We deserve a little rest.”

  Her whole body is suddenly cold. Tingling. Either her heart has stopped or else it’s beating so fast that it only appears to be. She longs for breath but can’t draw any, wants to move but doesn’t think she can. Friday? He really didn’t say that, did he? Friday? As in the one coming? Not the one after? Or the one after that? This Friday! She’s only imagined that he’s said the word, she thinks. Of all the days and the weeks and the months how can he choose this Friday? This goddamn Friday!

  “What’s wrong?” he says.

  She’s still not able to speak.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head. It’s all she’s able to do.

  “You don’t want to go?”

  She’s thinking of the right words now, the right phrases that will convince him to stay – to pick another weekend.

  “Say something – ”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I don’t want to go.”

  Silence.

  “I try to plan something nice and you go and ruin it.” He says it softly, his face so close that the heat from his breath warms her nose. “Selfish bitch.”

  Tell him you’re sorry. Quick. Quick! “I’m – ”

  “You’re going,” he says, the hand that was placed lovingly on her belly earlier now clamped around her upper arm, “supposing I have to drag you.”

  Drag me. Wouldn’t be the first time, she thinks. Dragged across the floor, dragged out of the car, dragged down the basement steps. Dragged, dragged, dragged. Sometimes she wonders what need she has for legs.

  “Okay,” she says.

  “Okay, what?”

  “I’ll go.”

  His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. “Terry can manage without you, I suspect. Not rocket science is it, checking in groceries?”

  She has no control over anything, she realizes. What point then in this mind, in this body, when she’s shackled to him? Led around like some pet. Move too far off course and that familiar yanking at the neck. No breath.

  Let’s go somewhere. Three little words. Friday’s plan ruined.

  He lets go of her arm. Lies again on his back. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “We’ll see some live music.”

  “Okay.”

  “Eat seafood.”

  “Yum.”

  * * *

  HE’S ASLEEP IN MINUTES. She listens, then slides out of bed. Slips on her robe and leaves the room. For the first time in ages she doesn’t stop at Jeremy or Lynette’s door.

  She sits down at the kitchen table. Nothing but blackness around her. No boiled milk tonight. She doesn’t care about sleep now. If she ever does again. It feels like somebody reaching inside her suddenly and hauling something out. She’s not expecting the sound she makes and tries her best to stifle it by burying her face into the sleeve of her robe, biting down hard on the thick cotton. She gets up and moves to the porch, pushing open the door and walking out onto the deck.

  Still warm, the air. Spring. Time for new, but she feels so old. An ancient woman inside a withered body.

  She sits in one of the deck chairs. Wipes her eyes and nose with her sleeve. Spits out over the railing. A dog barks. A man’s voice tells it to shut up. The dog barks again.

  Change the reservations, she thinks. Call the airline and pay the difference. Hardly enough money downstairs to do that, but what choice does she have?

  Next Wednesday. They’ll go next Wednesday. What’s one more week?

  She leans back over the railing again, feeling as if she might be sick. Coughs but nothing comes up.

  She sits back.

  The light in the kitchen goes on. Then the porch door opens and Kent is there with Lynette in his arms. Lynette wipes sleep from her eyes. Hair everywhere. Her stuffed giraffe in her other hand.

  “I heard you coughing?” Kent says.

  “A tickle in my throat.”

  “It’s late, come back to bed.”

  She gets up, walks toward them. Kisses Lynette’s flushed cheek. “Sorry to wake you, my darling,” she says.

  She follows Kent through the kitchen and down the hall to Lynette’s room. Waits at the doorway for him to tuck her in. Kent rejoins her, taking hold of her hand. They walk in silence to their bedroom.

  WEDNESDAY

  THE WINDOW. GO TO IT, SHE THINKS. She rises, slides her feet into her slippers and goes over. Once there she suddenly becomes afraid. Of what, she wonders? Her hand is shaking as she inserts it into a slat of the blinds.
A deep breath then before she peeks through. There’s a car blocking their driveway, the engine running, exhaust coming from its muffler, but no headlights. Someone’s behind the steering wheel, just sitting there in the dark. Who?

  “Kent,” she says, “come look.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Come and look Kent,” she says again.

  When he still doesn’t answer, she turns to him.

  He’s not there.

  Dry mouth and a thick tongue now. Fast heart. “Kent?” She looks from left to right. “Kent?” Moves to the bed just to be sure. Pats down the comforter even though she knows he’s no longer underneath.

  A slamming door makes her jump back. A palm over her heart. The other over her mouth. “Kent?”

  She goes back to the window. Sees him. He’s running across the lawn in bare feet and boxer shorts. No shirt. There’s something in his hand. The driver’s side door pops open. It’s the recently polished shoes she notices first, then the slacks, then the body: stubby torso, short arms, and thick neck. Jesus. Terry. It’s Terry. She screams in a pitch that she’s never screamed in before, but there’s no sound, just the feeling of her jaw nearly unhinging, the muscles in her cheeks cramping. She tries to let go of the blinds but can’t; tries to turn around but her body is frozen. Terry’s out of the car now, standing beside the open door. The interior lights are on. She sees the two furry dice jangling from the rear-view mirror. Kent’s not stopping; he’s running faster if anything. Oh my God! It’s a knife. He’s running with a knife. Her sharpest one too. The one she uses to debone fish, to slice through cabbage and turnip. Kent’s so close now. The knife raised above his head like a hunter. Why is Terry just standing there? Raise your hands! she’d shout if she could. Defend yourself! She presses both palms against the glass as the knife goes deep into Terry’s chest. Him not making a sound, the force of the stab sending him backwards against the car, knocking the door shut. He falls. Kent bends over him and pulls out the knife, its blade darkened with blood, and then draws it back, thrusting it in again and again – into Terry’s chest, face, legs. Terry as calm as anything the whole time. The children. They’re there now, feet away, staring at their father. Finally her voice is back. She screams.