by Darren Hynes
He pulls into the driveway. Breaks too hard.
Lynette’s seatbelt digs into her chest; Emily braces her palms against the back of Jeremy’s seat.
He shuts off the engine, then goes to open his door.
“You’re coming in?” she asks.
He stops. Looks back at her.
Those eyes. If not for them, she thinks, she might be able to cope. Maybe. “I thought you were in the middle of a meeting?”
He’s still looking at her, not saying a thing.
“Go in you two,” she says to Lynette and Jeremy.
Lynette starts to leave, but Jeremy pretends he hasn’t heard her.
“We’re all going in,” Kent says, turning from her in order to look at Jeremy.
Jeremy undoes his seatbelt and goes; Lynette’s already halfway to the porch.
Kent gets out. Slams his door with so much force that Emily can feel the inside of the truck shake. He takes a step back to where she’s still sitting in the back seat. Raps the knuckle of his middle finger against the glass as casually as if he were knocking on the door of a buddy’s place, then signals for her to get out by crooking his forefinger.
She doesn’t move. Looks instead to the front door of the house. Even though her brother had pinned her down this morning, Lynette is holding it open for him. He walks past her. Lynette comes out, still holding the doorknob, wondering what’s taking her and Kent so long, probably. Emily waves her inside.
He’s knocking again, except that now he’s using all four knuckles. Without thinking, she reaches up and locks the door. Then slides her bum to the centre of the backseat. I’m safe as long as I don’t go into the house.
It’s the sound of his laughing that makes her turn to face him. Big teeth. He raises his keychain, and dangles it teasingly in front of her, then presses the unlock button. Laughs again, before saying, “Come inside so we can talk.”
She shakes her head. “Is that what you call it?”
“Come in, Emily – ”
“No.” She slides all the way over to the other side.
His knuckles hitting the window again. How has the glass not shattered? “Don’t make me come in there.”
Liar. You won’t. A neighbour might see.
He walks around to her side.
She locks the door again.
He unlocks it again.
It starts to snow. Wet flakes.
He puts his face close to the window, his nose nearly touching, his eyes as big as Frisbee’s. “Come in.” He pauses for a second, then says, “Last chance.”
She considers it. Then imagines what will be waiting for her if she does, and how long it will last. It’s the just-before time she most dreads. Just before he grabs her or just before he slaps her face or just before he kicks her stomach. How strange that the anticipation should be worse than the act. But it is. Every time. At least once it’s begun she knows that the ending is closer. It’s all about getting to the end. To the point where he’s an exhausted lump of remorse. On his knees with his hands resting on his thighs, down-turned mouth, pale face, watering eyes, and forever that rising and falling chest, like something inside him struggling to get out.
You won’t. Not in front of the whole street.
She’s surprised when he grabs the handle of the door and yanks it open. She manages to slide a little in the other direction before she feels him grip her upper arm. She makes no sound when he twists and pulls and then drags her out the open door. How can he be so strong?
He kicks the door shut, then pins her against the truck – his body like a bag of stones – nearly crushing her.
“All right.” She struggles to breathe beneath him. “I’ll come.” He’s holding her by the neck, yet she manages to say, “Someone will see –”
“Yeah…that you’re a fucking bitch.”
Lynette’s staring through the window.
“She’s watching, Kent. Please stop.”
He lets go of her neck and grips her again around the bicep. Hauls her along the driveway towards the porch.
She digs her heels into the crunched rock. Although she wants it over, she still has trouble with it starting.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She is too. For hurting Jeremy the way she did. Perhaps Kent’s fists will be useful for once. Still, though, a part of her resists. Near the bottom of the porch stairs she says, “Don’t, Kent. Please.”
Lynette has moved away from the window now, probably on her way to the front door, Emily imagines.
He pulls her so hard that she trips on the bottom step, then falls forward onto her knees. The steps are wet now because of the snow.
“Get up.”
It’s like her shoulder is going to come out of its socket by the way he’s tugging at it. “Okay, okay.”
How easily he gets her back up. As if she’s weightless. Pure air. Nothing.
A vehicle pulls in the driveway before they can take another step.
“Who is it?” Kent says.
There’s a sensation of everything dropping inside her: heart, lungs, intestines, breath, blood – all of it, going right to the pads of her feet. It’s a wonder she doesn’t fall where she’s standing.
It’s Terry’s car. What’s he doing here? Her dream comes back to her: the furry dice, the idling engine. The knife going in and out. Go away, Terry, for Jesus’ sake. What will Kent think, him showing up like this?
Kent’s grip loosens, as Terry pulls in behind his truck.
“Who is it?” He asks again.
She’s unable to answer, her mind going over what she’ll need to do to prevent the second part of her nightmare from coming true.
Kent’s truck is blocking their view now, so instead they listen. A car door opening, then the steady ding ding ding from inside until Terry closes it, boots on crunched gravel, lighter steps than Emily would have expected. He appears from behind the truck: an apron around his waist and a pen tucked behind his ear. He’s looking right in their direction, yet seems surprised to see them, stopping suddenly, like a dog with no slackness left on its leash.
Kent lets her go.
“Terry,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
Terry’s about to say something, but he stops himself. Looks at Kent instead.
Kent stares back.
For a minute, it feels as though her legs won’t be able to support her. She has to take hold of Kent’s arm to steady herself, feeling its solidness through his coat. It dawns on her suddenly that, for as many times as she’s wanted to get away, so too are the number of times that she’s depended on him – needed him. Funny to need support from the very arm that, just moments ago, had wanted to knock her down.
Finally Kent says, “What can I do for you, Terry?”
Terry’s hair is getting flattened because of the snow. He wipes his hands in his apron. Clears his throat. “Sorry for showing up unannounced. I tried calling, but there was no answer.”
Neither Kent nor Emily says anything.
Her boss puts his hands into his pockets. His eyes go to Emily, then to the wet spots on the knees of her pants. “Did you fall?”
Silence for a moment.
She goes to speak, but Kent does before she can get the chance. “Jesus slippery steps. Caught her just in time.”
Terry keeps staring. Doesn’t say anything.
“Lay down some salt, later on,” Kent says.
Terry nods, his eyes still locked on Emily’s knees.
“What was it you wanted?” Kent says.
Emily clocks Terry as he lifts his gaze and zooms in on her neck. Kent’s fingerprints all over it, she bets.
“Terry?” Kent says.
Terry’s eyes snap back to her husband.
“What did you want, I said?”
Terry steps forward, then stops. Is about to say something, but Kent speaks first.
“Our oldest is sick, so she can’t come in today if that’s what you’re wondering.”
All her boss can do is nod.<
br />
“Guess you’ll have to mind the till on your own this morning.”
In the silence, Terry looks from Emily to Kent. From Kent to Emily. Then, at last, he says, “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“What?” Kent says.
“Your youngster. Nothing serious, I hope.”
Her husband shakes his head. “No, nothing serious.”
After a moment, Kent walks down a few steps, then stops and looks right at Terry. “Gonna have a hard time getting back to work with you blocking me.” He juts his chin towards the parked vehicles.
Terry’s pocket must be full of coins considering the racket he’s making. “Right. Well… I’ll be on my way.” He stays where he is for ages, then finally turns to go, looking back only once before getting into his car.
She stands there watching him leave, imagining herself taking the stairs two, three at time down to the driveway, then running along the crunched stone to his car and jumping in the passenger side and locking the door and screaming for him to drive. Terry stomping on the gas and Kent’s figure growing smaller in the side mirror.
She shakes the thought away to find that her husband is glaring at her from his place on the stairs. Lifting her chin, she looks for Terry only to realize that he’s already gone. Nothing left of him but the sound of his car engine fading away.
She looks back at Kent. Breathes deep. Lets it out. Plants her feet firmly beneath her, a slight bend in each knee. Okay, you son of a bitch. I’m ready.
He doesn’t make his way towards her though. He turns away instead and continues down the steps towards his truck.
She watches him get in, turn the ignition, back out, then take off up the street. No honks this time.
Wet flakes against her face.
Safe.
For now.
4
SHE OPENS THE FRONT DOOR OF HER HOUSE. Heather is standing there. Messy hair and open, worn leather coat with a blue work shirt underneath, thick eyeliner and unzipped black boots. She’s sucking Orange Crush through a straw.
Before she can speak, Heather says, “What the fuck…”
Emily wipes her eyes. It’s like she’s been asleep for one hundred years. Limbs like wood, one side of her face numb from where she’d been lying on it, her throat dry.
“Did Bell cancel your phone or something?”
“What?” She can’t remember what day it is.
“How many times does a girl have to call?”
“I fell asleep…”
“Yeah.”
“On the chesterfield –”
“Died, more like it.”
“Didn’t hear the phone, I guess.” It occurs to her that she’d slept without dreams, without a sense of her own existence. The best kind of sleep. “What time is it?”
“Well, seeing as I’m supposed to be on break, I’d say around… twelve-thirty.”
It’s Wednesday. Wednesday. She remembers Kent’s strong grip. Being dragged up the steps. Terry showing up just in time. “Terry called you in?”
Heather sucks on her straw again.
“I’m sorry, I would have come in if – ”
“You could have – yeah, I know.”
They’re silent for a moment; Emily still trying to wake up; Heather jamming her tongue ring in and out of the space between her front teeth.
No wet snow now, but a dark sky still, the breeze less chilly than earlier.
“So how’s the little one?” Heather says at last.
“Hmm?”
“Jeremy. You know, the reason you couldn’t make it into work this morning – ”
“Better. Well, not better yet, but getting there.”
“That’s good.”
She notices Heather trying to look past her, into the kitchen.
“Who’s minding the store?” Emily says.
“I don’t know. Terry, I guess.”
“You mean you just up and left?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Heather – ”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I just feel bad, that’s all.”
Heather sucks the dregs from the bottom of her can, then says, “Not gonna invite me in, or what?”
Emily hesitates a minute before saying, “I wouldn’t want you to catch what Jeremy has. Especially when you’ve got a show tonight. It is tonight, right?”
Heather nods. “Have to go straight there from work. I’ll miss the setup. Probably the sound test, too.”
It occurs to her that she has no idea where the children are. Didn’t see them when she woke up, or before she fell asleep either. She wonders why neither one of them answered the phone when Heather called. “Well, I should be going. Lunch for the kids and everything.” She starts closing the door, then stops. “I really am sorry, Heather.” She goes to shut it all the way, but Heather stops it with her hand.
“Quit the bullshit, Emily.”
“What?”
“You think I’m as stunned as that?”
“I have no idea what you’re on about –”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
“What was dear old hubby doing hauling you up the steps, then?”
“What?”
“Jesus, why do I always have to say everything twice? Terry said he saw Kent manhandle you.”
She freezes, her mouth half hanging open.
“Did you hear me?”
She finds her voice finally. “He’s a fucking liar!”
“Why would he make it up?”
“The stairs were wet and Kent was making sure I didn’t fall.”
“Trying to knock you down them, more like it.”
She goes to slam the door in Heather’s face, but again, the younger woman stops her.
“Mind your own business!” Emily says.
Heather doesn’t move.
“Get away from the door! I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time! I’m done covering for you.”
“Just go, Heather!”
“I won’t!”
“Heather – ”
“Just admit it why don’t ya?”
“Admit what?”
“That your perfect hubby’s at it again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Let me in.”
Emily squeezes herself in between the door’s opening, blocking Heather’s way.
“It all made sense this morning, suddenly,” Heather says.
“What? What made sense, suddenly?”
“The weight you’re losing. The way you look scared when there’s nothing to be scared of.”
Emily says nothing.
“And then Terry’s driving up your street and what do you think he sees?”
Again she stays quiet.
“Only that bastard knocking you off your feet, that’s all. Hauling you back up like you’re no better than a dog.”
Despite her long nap, she’s weary, her hand barely able to keep hold of the doorknob, her knees nearly buckling. Her lungs are drawing breath still, although reluctantly, as if they’re sick to death of the same old in and out. She’s able to muster up two little words with what energy she has left. “I slipped.”
Heather just stares, jams her tongue ring between her front teeth. She slides it out, then says, “He’s beating you around again.” It isn’t a question.
It never stopped. Her ears are ringing, like someone has just slapped them. Every part of her tingles and, despite the cold, she’s overheated, a tide of it runs up the entire length of her body. “I need you to leave now.”
“I’m right though, aren’t I?”
It occurs to her that a secret only remains one for so long before revealing itself. The unraveling is first. She’s been unraveling for years, slowly in the beginning, then faster, like a tear gaining momentum as it trickles down the cheek.
“Who is it, Mommy?” says a voice behind her.
&n
bsp; She turns around to see Lynette with an open colouring book in her hands, the page displaying a beautifully coloured meadow in front of a log cabin. Not so much as a smear outside the lines. There’s a deer standing off to the side, which she hasn’t gotten around to filling in yet. “It’s Heather, from Mommy’s work.”
Lynette jams herself in beside Emily. Looks up at the young woman.
“Hi cutie,” Heather says.
“Hi,” Lynette says.
“That’s awesome colouring.”
“Say thank you, honey,” Emily says.
“Thank you.”
“Are you sick too?” Heather asks.
Before Lynette can answer, Emily says, “Where’s your brother?”
“Playing PlayStation.”
“Okay, go on now. Your mother is having a grown-up conversation.”
Lynette turns to go.
“Bye,” Heather says to her back.
“Bye,” Lynette says without turning around.
Emily disappears for a second and then comes back with one arm in a heavy sweater. She comes out onto the porch. Closes the door.
“I guess I’m not going in,” Heather says.
She slips in her other arm, then does up the buttons. Walks to where the deck chairs are and sits down. Extends her hand for Heather to do the same.
Heather comes over and sits across from her, torso leaning forward, widely parted legs, elbows on her knees, and her hands interlaced with the empty Crush can in between.
After a moment, Emily says, “Share a smoke?”
Heather puts the can down between her feet. Reaches inside her coat and hauls out a pack of Player’s Light. Pulls one out of the pack and, cupping it to block the wind, flicks open her Zippo lighter and produces a flame. Leans her face into it, her cheeks indenting as she sucks.
Emily breathes in the smell of tobacco before holding out her own hand. Placing the cigarette between thin, dry lips, she inhales, holding the smoke in for a moment before blowing out. Lightheaded immediately. She drags on it again, then hands it back. Looks across at the high school dropout who still lives at home with her mother, who can’t add to save her life, who constantly has customers coming back to complain that she’s overcharged them, and who’d prefer a People Magazine to a novel any day. Even Terry had been apprehensive about hiring her. “It’ll just be a job to her,” he’d said. “A job is just a job to most people,” had been Emily’s reply. Yet Heather’s the one, before anybody else, to put it all together. Not even six months they’ve been working together. Before that, the most Emily had seen of her was in posters taped to light poles: Heather in the foreground, her bandmates behind her, The High-Top Bay Girls in unfocused lettering above their heads. One Show Only!
