Cracked Pots

by Heather Tucker

  Backing out, I spear my foot on one of her pitchfork earrings, collapsing back onto debris. “Does no one in this bloody house ever pick up their shit!”

  The boy on my cot belches, the sulphury stink hits like a bomb.

  Ronnie lifts her head. “Hey, bitchface. You’re back.”

  “Yeah, let the good times roll.”

  “Hey, you hear about that Natasha chick?”

  “Some. What’s the street buzz?”

  “Scuttle is them sideshow freaks at the Ex snatched her. That monkey boy gives me the heebie-jeebies.” She returns to the pillow like a stoned sloth.

  A train ride away, there is a windowed room in a stone cottage. Sea treasures, books, and photos line the shelves. My pillows smell of lavender and the sheets of a summer clothesline. I close the door and head down to my only sanctuary here, Mikey’s fort in the mouldy cellar. It’s a metal shipping container, six feet long, four feet high, and three wide. There’s an air mattress on the bottom and a flashlight on a hook. A treasured Zajac featherbed explodes like an over-ready dandelion as I rip it from its plastic cocoon. I spread the comforter under and pull it over me knowing that where I am is safer and warmer than wherever Natasha is.

  Can a house fall like a rock cliff, Jasper?

  Rats chewing wires could do it.

  Ashes, ashes, let it all fall down.

  Four

  The fort has a delicious way of warming. I stretch like a contented pup, soaking in the quiet as light fans through the mesh vents. My eyes stay closed, remembering Jake’s muscled goodness, long and naked, beside me.

  Police sketch. Borrow jeep. Laundry. Groceries. Rat traps. Disinfect crapdom. Check on Mikey. School?

  For frig’s sake. Can you not give me ten minutes?

  Don’t say I didn’t warn you when the Dick has you clipping toenails he hasn’t been able to reach for two months.

  Without risking a pee, I’m out the door, running the twelve blocks to the Village. I zip down the alley, take the zigzag of steps two at a time, unlock the deadbolt, and skit into my attic nest. The air is stale with summer heat, cinnamon, linseed oil, and weed. I crack the windows and a hint of autumn floats in. Sister number three, Jacquie, owns the building. She made this hiding place for me before escaping to Poland. In the chaos of my world, it is Nirvana—divine ground, bliss. I collapse into my feathery chair and survey the totems suspended in the window. Tell me we’re not adding another absence to our collection, Jasper.

  Only silence. Not even a squeak from the floors beneath or the street outside.

  I resist the lure of sleep, and shower. The pipes cough, sputter, water running rust, orange, peach, then clear. Aunt Mary’s detangling shampoo smells of Pleasant Cove berries and strips the cigarette stench from my hair.

  Len’s old flannel shirt hangs on the back of the door. His scent has long been washed out, but the remembrance of his arm on my shoulder remains as I slip it on. The nest is always well stocked with non-perishables. Something Len’s cousin Sabina learned in the war. I lighten my tea with powdered milk; fill a plate with nuts, seeds, and sugary oat bars; tuck on my chair; and start the sketch.

  Maybe she fell in the water.

  When did Natasha ever step near the edge?

  Sometimes we don’t see the edge.

  Or it just breaks away.

  My pencil blends her school picture with the “last seen” description: chestnut hair ponytailed, not quaffed like this photo. Pedal pushers, tie-dyed tank, fringed bag. From her painted Keds to the beaded thong securing her ponytail, she’s branded by Ari art. Crap, Jasper, you think this rotten Appleton tainted her?

  Doing crafts can’t spoil anything. Besides, you’re not that important. If you went missing, they’d just wonder what took so long.

  Yeah. I rummage through my pencil crayons.

  Xerox it before you colour it.

  See, that’s why I talk to you. Seahorses have a practicality about them that the Almighty patently lacks.

  I tie up Len’s boots and step into the day. Tap your heels three times and remember you’re the wizard behind your destiny.

  Deep, Jasper.

  * * *

  While Jarvis CI’s student body searches the lakeshore, Mina and I tuck-up to a makeshift worktable at the police station. Mina flags diary entries while I colour copies of the sketch. She studies my face, like an art lover might gander at a Picasso. “I’m used to you leaving here with bruises, but not coming back with a doozie like that. What happened?”

  “Rock talk.”

  “Say what?”

  I recount the rock fall. “According to Missus Butters, the earth was sending me a message.”

  “Which was?”

  “It’s time for me to be picking up my own rocks and putting them where they belong.”

  “You do that more than any other kid I’ve taught.”

  “Not really, if not for my sisters, my aunts, the Zajac tribe, you, Ellis, Aaron, I’d be a directionless pile of rubble.” I recall the blade of sun cutting through the dust cloud. “The Missus said one day I’ll pick up a heavy, heavy thing and it will feel light and it will be light and I’ll know that every cell in me is set right.”

  “That’s lovely.”

  “She said it’s my aria, my song-poem.”

  “Your story too, it seems. A split rock’s a good metaphor for your double life.”

  “Pure schizo, eh? East and west hemisphAri.”

  Mina closes Nat’s diary and picks up a green pencil. “Tell me about your summer.”

  “What can I say? Mikey rose like a phoenix.”

  “And you?”

  “A man walked on the moon.” A smile feels wrong under present circumstances, but one emerges remembering starry nights, a summer house, and two aunties giving Jake and me space to discover the rightness of things. “All I can say is it’s a good thing you took me to that clinic and got me on the pill.”

  “So, poetry? Soixante-neuf, sweet sixty-nine, summer lovin’ with a fiddler fine.”

  “Mina. I’m shocked.”

  “I may be decades past sixteen, but oh, I remember first love.” She fans her neck. “Well, Jake and you’ll manage. Don’t see how Mikey would’ve handled Nat’s disappearance on top of the mess in that house.”

  Detective Halpern comes flying through, jacket half on. “Found her purse near the Redpath refinery. Perry, radio ahead. Clear civilians from the scene. Get Norman in with the dogs. I want every available man on the scene, pronto.”

  Unlike my backpack, which involves an extensive rummage to find whatever I’m looking for, Natasha’s purse was an organizational masterpiece: Band-Aids, tissues, sewing kit, manicure set, treats, always treats.

  “Don’t give up hope, Ari.”

  I meet Mina’s huge eyes. “Give me one plausible hope.”

  “I can’t think the worst. I just can’t.” She moves conversation from worst to bad. “How’s your mum?”

  “A void. Devoid. All six of her girls could vanish and the only thing she’d notice is a shortage of pockets to pick.” The auburn of Natasha’s hair is warm, like her, and I colour more pictures. “How can someone oblivious to time, place, and person find their way home from a bar and Natasha’s lost out there?”

  “Don’t know, kiddo.” Mina chins to the door and I turn.

  No matter how much I love Jake, Aaron West makes my stomach do a double back flip. We’re an odd equation. He’s almost ten years older, but I have sixteen years of shadowlife on him. His positives take away from my negatives and the order in his life is drawn to the bedlam of mine. Every Sunday we meet at the lake for an update on my dog, Zodiac, and a charting of our stars. There’s a solid chalk line between us that we never cross—well, maybe it gets smudged from time to time but in a supportive, not slutty, way.

  We collide in a hug. “Geez, I�
��m glad you’re back. Didn’t have a chance to even say hi yesterday. Any word?”

  I pull away. “They found her purse.”

  “That good or ominous?”

  “Natasha separated from her purse is a bird plucked of feathers. It doesn’t happen naturally.”

  “Is Detective Halpern here?”

  “Just left.”

  “I’ll leave this at the desk then.” He clips together papers. “Cadets and scouts from Scarborough to Port Hope, parents and senior students from Oakridge, Birchmount, and Porter are at the ready for tomorrow’s search. And Salvation Army’s providing lunch.”

  “How’d you pull all this together in a day?”

  “Had help.” He turns and—Oh. My. Goddess. “Ari, this is Linda.”

  “So nice to meet you, Ari.” Her extended hand is like a dish soap model’s. Mine? A lizard with eczema.

  Now, I know I’m a head-turner, even with this bruised face. All the Appletons are. With the J’s, it’s their sunshine hair and forget-me-not eyes. For me, it’s my party of curls and the ocean in my eyes, gray nearing violet. Len’s mother, Babcia, says I’ve the ethereal kiss of the netherworld about me, but this girl has the brush strokes of heaven. Huge green eyes, silky cape of indigo hair, peachy cheeks on translucent skin, and lips that turn the tongue to memories of candyfloss. Next to her, I’m a Komodo dragon with a tragic perm. I straighten. “May reason have mercy on your soul, Aaron West.”

  His smile accentuates his singular dimple. “I assure you my soul is safe.”

  Linda says, “Please know I’m praying for your friend.”

  “And has Jehovah gotten back to you with any intel?”

  “Matthew 10:30.”

  “Good to know the Almighty’s numbered the hairs on Nat’s head, now if He could let us know the location of those follicles, that would be divine.”

  “You know scripture?”

  “Oh, I love fiction.”

  Aaron puts a lid on my spite. “So, how can we help?”

  “Could I borrow the jeep for a couple of hours tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  I savour Linda’s flush of surprise at Aaron so easily loaning me his sacred wheels. “And let Sabina know I’ll get Mikey as soon as crapdom is habitable.”

  “She said she’d keep him.”

  “It’s a hike and a half to get him to school from her place.”

  Linda says, “He was pretty upset when we left him last night.”

  I quash the urge to tell her to back her petite perfection out of our messes. “Yeah, leaving the Cove for crapdom is horror enough without adding this.”

  Aaron looks straight in my eyes, at home with my chaos. “Could we connect on Sunday? Catch up?”

  Linda takes ownership of his arm. “That’d be so nice.”

  “Our bench. Regular time.” I back away. “Bring pictures of my dog.”

  Five

  Several cops sort items from the morning’s search onto tables: socks, toys, hats, flip-flops, sunglasses, nappies, a scarf so diaphanous I imagine it peeling away from wet sand like sunburned skin. Detritus of picnic outings and moonlit romps. An officer uses a pencil to lift a pair of panties. “Her mother thought she’d be wearing underthings with a day written on them.”

  It’s astonishing how many people leave their underpants behind, from big bloomers to lacy bits. “Can’t imagine Natasha wearing Wednesday on a Friday,” I say.

  “What’s that?”

  “They come in a set, a pair for every day of the week. Wednesday panties on Friday would be breaking the rules.” I survey the flotsam spread out in the cavernous space. “Wendy will have a better eye for something that might be Nat’s.”

  The officer says, “She’s just getting an update. Be along any minute.”

  I ask, “Any news?”

  “Just the purse. Seems nothing’s missing. Dogs are quiet.” He looks at me. “That’s a good sign she’s not there.”

  “And the rosy side of that would be?”

  Light and Natasha’s best friend, Wendy, flood in with the opening of the door. “Oh, Ari. Can you believe this?” She’s a knot of despair, snagging me in a hug. “We have to find her.”

  Words turn to stretched noise as the person behind her comes into focus. The preppy guy from the Riverboat cocks his head and says, “This is weird. We met the other night.”

  “Oh? I . . . I don’t remember you.”

  “The Riverboat?”

  Knowing what boys like him want from Appleton tarts, my head shake is a definitive no.

  “Explains why I never got my coffee.” He smiles, soul-winning like a pastor. “I’m Byron Silver.”

  Wendy says, “Byron’s doing a placement here. From McGill.”

  “Wouldn’t Montreal police be a lot closer?” I ask.

  “My dad knows a guy upstairs. Supposed to be working on reform programs for teen offenders, but right now help is needed logging all this stuff.”

  Wendy asks, “Are you studying social work, Byron? That’s what I’m going into.”

  “Haven’t made up my mind. I’ll likely follow my dad into medicine. He’s just taken the post as head of orthopedics at the children’s hospital here.”

  Wendy says, “Ari’s from Montreal.”

  “Really? Whereabouts?”

  “More places than I can remember. Too many to forget.”

  “Maybe we’re related. Are you frog or les rosbifs?”

  “Lioneagle, with a little seahorse on the side.”

  “Interesting lineage.”

  “Remains to be seen.” I grab my pack and head over to the officer. “I put out some lines in the Village. I’m going to see if I caught anything.”

  I head toward Yorkville, quickening with the weird shift in light. The sky is sharply divided, black and postcard blue. Raindrops, big as pennies ping the cement. Chances are good the door to the Riverboat will be open for cleaning after a long weekend. Using it as a throughway to my nest always feels like a Narnian closet to a safer world. I jump down the steps and the handle turns. I sprint through, ignoring voices calling, “Ari?”

  “Ari.”

  “Ari!”

  Before my eyes adjust to the dim interior, I’m out the back, racing the rain down the alley, up the stairs, and in the door. A thunder-smash echoes the click of the lock.

  As I smooth my jitters, knock-knock-knocking, more insistent than the rain pelting the window, rattles the door. “Ari. It’s Mina. Open up before lightning strikes these metal steps.”

  Oh, frig. Frig. Frig. Frig. She pours in as I open the door. “You . . . you can’t be here.”

  “The way you ran through, we thought there was trouble.”

  “Why’re you at the Riverboat?”

  “Only time I could steal away without Ellis knowing. Bernie’s helping me with a fiftieth birthday surprise.” She pulls her soaked blouse from her skin. “Just needed to check you’re all right. Didn’t expect the skies to split.”

  “This really is terrible.” I fetch a towel and bulky sweater. “You can’t know about this place.”

  She changes behind the ancient apothecary chest, used for paints and crafty clutter. Then circles my nest, absorbing spines of books, batiks on the windows, origami suspended from the rafters, my gallery of sketches. “Are you squatting?”

  “Right.” Air snits through my nose. “Someone like me must be stealing space.”

  “Oh, get over your doubting self. You know I’d cheer any kid that created a secret like this.”

  “It’s my escape from gravity.”

  “You need it. The Dick and company are dead weights.” She fills and plugs in the kettle. “This place reminds me of the ‘shell’ Ellis has constructed in our basement.” She helps herself to a raspberry paczki as she examines the totems hanging in my win
dow. “Oh, I love this.”

  “They’re my presents and absences.”

  She examines the brass button, a monkey with rhinestone eyes.

  “That’s my latest addition.”

  “Is it a present or an absence?”

  “Don’t know. Found it in a thrift store in Halifax. Natasha wrote she was planning a big sweet sixteen party. It’s her present.”

  “She does love the Monkees. She went to their concert just last week. Her dad said that he was so nervous at her going, he waited in the parking lot ’til it was over. It’s so awful what they’re going through.”

  “An absence is bigger in a family like theirs. Nat’s mom knew down to her underwear what she was wearing.” I look past the totems to quick-silver rain. “If an Appleton went missing, Mum wouldn’t even be able to get our names straight.”

  “Nature of addiction to kill brain cells.”

  “I tell you, Mina, a head of cabbage has more insight. Even when she had firing neurons, she still never saw me.”

  “It can feel that way sometimes.”

  “When I was just weeks old, she left me on the shore as the tide was coming in. My grandma said it was on purpose, because I was another bloody girl. More likely, she put me down, got distracted, and forgot she had me.” Each word hangs like jagged glass, best left untouched.

  “I remember the day you landed in my class, you had on the most exquisite embroidered blouse.”

  “You remember what I had on?” She nods and I smile. “Babcia made that for my birthday.” I finger five totems. “These are my sisters. They’ve always kept me safe.”

  “From your dad?”

  “Mum mostly. I wasn’t old enough for my dad’s tastes. He checked out before totally screwing me.” I set a circle of bone into a spin. “The ocean gave me this bit. The hole in the centre seemed like a good metaphor for Vincent Appleton.” I journey over my helpers from A to Z, aunties to Zajacs. Two stone turtles clack like Newton’s cradle. “This pair are you and Ellis.”

  “Oh, Ellis and his tortoise muse, Rochester. The pair of you are so much alike.”