Cracked Pots

by Heather Tucker

“Do you think we’re crazy?”

  She cradles her tea in a fat pottery mug. “Delightfully so. And in the thirty-plus years I’ve been with Ellis, that turtle in his head has guided us to adventures more extraordinary than I ever could’ve imagined.”

  “Ellis is the only being I’ve ever known that really seems to get this thing I have with Jasper.”

  Mina’s smile is warm and sweet like Sabina’s pastry. “I know the one seahorse in the centre is Jasper. The other one?”

  “Jake’s Jewel.”

  “Should’ve known. Rain’s stopped. I gotta split.” She places her mug in the sink and winks a promise. “I won’t tell another soul about this place, but can I tell Ellis?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks. He’ll appreciate knowing you have a shell to shelter in.”

  After she leaves, the silence is big. I want Jake. I want an ocean walk with M&N. I need to sit at the wheel and turn pots. I should go to Sabina’s and give her a break from Mikey and Mikey a break from his worries. I rummage my shelves for some weed.

  Enough is stashed for a float, a spin, a peaceful drift and a night without dreams.

  Six

  As we approach police headquarters, suited men hurtle toward me, hurling questions. “You a friend of the missing girl?”

  “Any developments?”

  “Your name?”

  “Is it true—?”

  Ellis snaps, as turtle spirits do. “Back off.” He holds the heavy door open for me. “They’re like a squabble of gulls fighting for scraps at the Koshkins.”

  “Her parents must be going crazy.”

  “They’re just shattered. Um, Nat’s aunt asked if you could walk Alex and Joey to school starting Monday.”

  “Ugh, school.”

  “Listen. There’s an independent study package at Jarvis. Go grab one and just tuck somewhere peaceful after you see them safe inside.”

  “I can skip classes?”

  “Don’t seahorses fare better sheltering from rough seas?”

  “No question.”

  “And you don’t need to be here now. There’re enough volunteers to help sift through everything.”

  “Just came to get the Dick to sign Mikey’s school forms. Peace out.”

  As I pass the clot of Natasha’s friends pawing through the jetsam gathered on the searches, the student dick, Byron Silver, quick-steps over. “Hey, Almost-Ari. You here to help?”

  “Can’t. Have to go murder some rats.”

  “Heard you were imaginative.”

  “Stop hearing about me.”

  “Whoa. I’m just trying to get to know everyone.”

  “I’m no one worth knowing.”

  “Maybe I’m someone you should know.”

  “I’m usually the affable sort, Mr. Silver, but presently I’m in turtle retreat mode.”

  “What?”

  “I’m shellbound and unreachable.”

  “Nothing I like better than a challenge.”

  “No challenge here. Just a foregone illusion.”

  “Pardon? Wait.”

  “Vermin wait for no man.” I move toward the sound of the Dick’s grunting, get the requisite signatures, then head crapward in Aaron’s pristine black jeep.

  I pull up behind a rusty Ford pick-up. A dozen cartons are stacked in the back. As I haul in supplies, Todd calls from the boys’ room. “Ari? Come see.” He’s standing on a chair, sliding curtains onto a rod. There’s a marine-themed comforter on Todd’s bed. “Check out Mikey’s tent.”

  I pull back the flap. His camp cot is draped with a matching quilt. “What the heck?”

  “Your sister dropped off gear for Mikey. Said she’d just redone Dean’s room and thought we’d like his old stuff. I pitched all the closet junk. Sealed every hole. This room’s vermin free.”

  “Think I could fit in the closet?”

  “In a pinch.” He places a pillow on his bed. “My boss gave me loan of a truck.”

  “Good. No way can I haul garbage in Aaron’s jeep.”

  “Let’s get ’er done.”

  I load ratnip—cereal, chips, bread, saltines—into a metal cooler. Todd considers the large cage housing a mountain of bird shit belonging to the Dick’s dead parrot, Cunt. “Do we dare take that to the dump?”

  “It’s a sacred memorial, Todd.” I fasten the cooler’s latch. “Gotta pick our battles.”

  “Right. Suit up.” We step into coveralls, masks, caps and don industrial gloves. Todd checks the traps. “Score! We caught a mother.”

  “Mother?”

  “She’s got teats.”

  “So, babies?”

  “Yep.” It lands with a nauseating thud as he shovels it, trap and all, into a carton. A Kewpie doll, newspapers, rags, cigarette packs, motor oil, jumbled fishing line, and half-empty cans overfill the box.

  Lifting a raggedy towel disturbs a nest. Baby rats scurry like fingers snapped from a hand. “Holy fucking son of a seacook!”

  Todd laughs at my shuddery two-step as he shovels up hundreds of candy bar wrappers. “He must’ve had a call out to Rowntree’s.”

  “He and O’Toole steal more than the thieves, don’t they?”

  “Their bonus for serving and protecting.”

  I unearth the contents of a pink bag: folded nappies, rattle, and a baby bottle fermenting with old milk. “What the hell?”

  “Bastard likely thought he scored a purse.”

  I shiver at any police scenario involving a mom not noticing the absence of a diaper bag.

  Two hours and twenty cartons later, Todd says, “Dump closes at four. Let’s set more traps and finish up Saturday.”

  I step out of the tainted gear. “We’ve blown over fifty bucks cleaning up Dick shit today.”

  “Still a million times better than what those Koshkin folks are going through.”

  “Truth, bro.”

  Seven

  The dismissal bell has rung, but the schoolyard is empty of kids. I join the clump of parents at the door as teachers verify ownership. Miss Temple pats Mikey’s head. “He’s been quiet as a mouse.”

  I forgo discussing how noisy rodents can be and we head crapward. Mikey asks, “Who’s at home?”

  “Always a crapshoot, kid.”

  “Will you stay in my tent tonight?”

  “Sure. I love camping in the great indoors.”

  “Do I hafta go to my mom’s tomorrow?”

  “We’ll take her some groceries. Just say ‘red apples’ if you don’t want to stay. Sabina said you’re welcome there.”

  “Where’ll you be?”

  “Work. I’ll crash in the Village after.”

  We amble along like two discarded bags left to the wind.

  * * *

  Removing the cot increases floorspace, but I’d like to meet the tiny people that declared this a three-man tent. Like a teaspoon to a tablespoon, Mikey nests against me. “Ari?”

  “Mmm.”

  “That Linda said Jesus will fix everything. Could He?”

  “The Missus says in her whole long life, no mythic being ever showed up with a toolbox, so she learned to fix things by her own two hands.”

  “What if it can’t be fixed?”

  “Then I guess you make what you can from the broken bits.”

  “Like Huey does with scrapped boats, eh?”

  * * *

  I wake, thinking about how little space Mikey and I take up in this house compared to an absence occupying a whole city.

  Downstairs, O’Toole is asleep on the couch. Snake, an amicable gangster associate, is gape-mouthed on the chair. The cooler’s top is on the floor. The counter is a clutter of Frosted Flakes, pizza crusts, beer bottles, spills, scum, and scat.

  Mikey wanders in, wetting his hair at the kitchen sink. �
��Um, your mum’s really going at it upstairs.”

  I swear, Jasper, I’m going to exterminate her.

  Ohhh, let’s spray her with Raid. I rummage in the closet for a pair of mittens, fish Benadryl out of the cupboard, and grab duct tape.

  Mum is in the bathroom, manically scratching at her arms. “Oh, Jen-jin-jinny. Get this b-be-bee-beee off.”

  The bottle says take two pills, so I give her four, then force her hands into the mittens, securing them with the tape. I empty my little tube of ointment on the raw patches plaguing her arms. “Go back to bed and stop bloody scratching your skin off.”

  “Oh, that tinkles.”

  It’s just seven fifteen when Mikey and I head off for the day. We stop at the variety, buying Fritos and chocolate milk for lunches. “Does your mum have lice?”

  “No, imaginary bugs.”

  “Her inside animal itches her?”

  “It’s allergic to whatever shit she took.”

  He sighs. “Seems more like a year since Pleasant Cove.”

  “Does, doesn’t it.” Just one week ago today, I woke tangled in Jake’s lanky limbs, lazily coming to the day as boats remained in the harbour. Half the cove gathered at Skyfish to weather the storm. The aunties’ barn is huge. Ground floor is a shop for selling our creations. Behind is a windowed workroom. Upstairs is the gallery, one large open space, a place for parties and where neighbours sell wares during high season. Same day as Natasha disappeared, there was laughter, baked treats, and brewed drinks. Kids, stir-crazy from a week of heavy rain, played tag. Women knitted, quilted, gabbed. Men fiddled, mended nets, played checkers.

  We reach school and I hand-lick Mikey’s scarecrow hair. “Wash your face after breakfast club.”

  “Don’t talk to strangers, okay.”

  “I’m a lioneagle on high alert.” I watch until his small self struggles through the heavy doors.

  People move with intention, stepping around the one-hundred-and-seven-pound absence. I turn a corner, cutting across the construction site. No hard-hatted men whistle. They’re too busy righting an overturned backhoe. Posters cover the temporary hoarding: “Summerset Plaza, Opening Fall 1970.” “Metropolitan Church Bazaar, Oct. 18th.” “Toronto Rock and Roll Revival, Sept. 13th.” “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? Natasha Koshkin, Missing August 29th.”

  Where am I supposed to be, Jasper?

  East or nest.

  Let’s fly.

  * * *

  After school, Mikey shops, choosing soup, bread, peanut butter, jam, and Sanka to take to his mom. “You think she’ll like my present?”

  “It’ll brighten up her place and basement apartments are always cold.”

  “Don’t tell her I knit it.”

  “Okay, but she’d find it all the warmer to snuggle under if she knew.”

  “Mikey. Mikey!” Laura is outside her building, jumping and waving, like a mom should after a summer away from her kid. Mikey drops his bags and runs into a hug. “Oh, baby, I missed, missed, missed you.” Kisses land in bunches. “Let’s go to the diner and you can tell me all about your adventures.”

  “Ari, too?”

  Laura is thirty-four, but the Dick has a way of aging women in dog years. Her ashy hair is savagely permed. Face creased from decades of smoking and her wrinkle-free polyester pants look like the ones my grandma wore. She fast-talks, making it hard to sort if she’s on uppers or just excited. “Well, let me set out the situation. Haven’t had a minute to clean up or get anything ready. Got me a job at that new Becker’s. Have the early shift tomorrow.”

  I see Mikey settle, like dust after clapping chalk brushes. There will be burgers and fries, storytelling, ending with a weekend at Sabina’s.

  Eight

  Monday morning, Natasha’s aunt releases Alex and Joey to my care. They are like balled armadillos as I shepherd them to school. By day’s end, they are a little less armoured. Joey takes hold of Mikey’s hand. Alex, pale as fog, adheres to me and whispers, “Ari?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Mikey said, he said your sister disappeared.”

  “She just decided she wanted to live somewhere else.”

  “Do you think Natty wants to live somewhere else?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then-th-then . . .” He fights with every muscle in his bird-thin body not to cry.

  “Whenever I don’t know what to do with my sister hole, I fill it with imaginings of her doing things she loved, like on her bike, hair snapping like a yellow flag. When I was small, June would give me rides in her carrier.”

  “Once Natty gave our cousin’s pug a ride in hers.”

  “That’s a treasure to put in the missing space.”

  There are reporters, but none pounce from vehicles when we approach Nat’s house, though I hear camera clicks, capturing the sag of the boys’ shoulders as they walk the path. Their aunt opens the door. “Was all okay?”

  “They were very brave,” I say.

  Alex asks, “Where’s Mama?”

  “The doctor gave her something so she can sleep. Your papa is out looking very hard for our Natasha.”

  Mikey sounds like a veteran of two wars as we retreat down the drive. “They’re not the kind that are made for this, are they.”

  The unspoken words being, we are.

  A stack of beer returns on crapdom’s porch do little to hide the peeling scabs of paint. Broken panes on the door are patched with cardboard. Scrub weeds and a disassembled Harley grace the grassless lawn. To my mortification, the dick-in-training, Byron Silver, is knocking on our door. He turns as Mikey nimblefoots over the broken step. “Ari? Hi.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Woah. Detective Irwin needed a copy of all the data I’ve compiled, pronto. Just dropping it off as ordered.”

  The door opens and there is Mum, wearing spiky shoes and silver lamé pants, so tight her legs look like knitting needles. Since my return, it’s the first I’ve seen her vertical. By her upness, I’m guessing she scored some speed. “You see it?” she says.

  “See what?”

  “My ri—” She stops mid-word. “Vincent? You’re back?” She turns. “I’ll purse my kettle.”

  “Pardon?” Byron looks at me. “Who’s Vincent?”

  “Dead dad numero uno. Her brain’s fried.”

  “Oh. Hey, Easy Rider’s showing at the Roxy. You wan—”

  “No.”

  As the Dick steps onto the porch, I contort through an entrance obstructed by cases of Quaker Oats. Any thoughts on this caper, Jasper?

  Cereal murder?

  Mikey pops up from behind the sofa with Mum’s ring pinched between his fingers. “Found it.”

  Mum trills like a hopped-up loon. “Ohhh-ohhh.”

  The Dick re-enters with an accordion file under his arm. “That thing cost a fortune and you’re throwing it around.”

  “It just threw off.”

  “You lose it and I’ll ring your fuckin’ neck.”

  As appealing as that scenario is, I rummage an Elastoplast from the kitchen drawer and take Mum’s wedding ring from Mikey, noting the inscription as I turn the plaster around the band: “Edna and Hank, forever.”

  Pawn shop?

  Corpse.

  Yeah, more likely. “Here, Edna.”

  “I’m meetin’ with an old cop buddy. He’s gonna have a look at these, see if anything pops. See Mikey gets his homework done.”

  “Ten four.”

  He really loves this Dick Tracying, eh.

  Like a hog snuffing truffles.

  Even with an empty sink and folded laundry, the craphouse is a smoke-fouled cesspit. I check the traps on the back porch. Holy shit, Jasper, we caught a viper?

  No, Ari, that’d be a tail.

  Nine

  Aaron pushes fries in my di
rection. “Please, eat something.”

  “Linda isn’t going to get all preachy on me, is she?”

  “Most likely.”

  “I don’t get this, Aaron.”

  “She’s the only girl I’ve ever met with an adventurous spirit.”

  “But your modes of travel are completely different.”

  “Just give her a chance.”

  “Do you have any idea how long it took Mikey to settle after she insisted he give his heart to Jesus? A dragonfly already occupies that real estate.”

  “Did you know she worked in Calcutta last summer?”

  “No argument she’s remarkable, but you’re such different animals.”

  “We’re just friends.” He smiles over my shoulder and it’s clear that both his heads are lobotomized.

  Linda’s entrance is an event. I half expect bluebirds to follow. “Sorry I’m late. We’re so busy planning for the festival this weekend.”

  “At Varsity Stadium?”

  She nods.

  “I’m working it too. Amazing lineup, eh. Rumour is Lennon might show.”

  “Wouldn’t know. Campus Crusade will be there for the lineup of lost souls.” She slides in close to Aaron—very close. “After all, what music is there without Jesus?”

  “Pretty much how I feel about Jasper.”

  “Jasper? Thought your boyfriend was Jake.”

  For frig sake, Jasper, stop poking your snout in. You’ll get us committed. “Jasper’s my um . . . guru.”

  “Guru?”

  “What? The Beatles have Maharishi Yogi.”

  “The only true way is—”

  Aaron snaps the conversation in a safer direction. “So, you found this place okay?”

  “Traffic was crazy. All the way along Queen Street I was praying, ‘Please, let there be a parking spot.’ Before I could say, ‘Amen,’ one opened up right out front.” Her eyelashes catch her bangs. “Isn’t God good?”

  I shovel in fries to weight my tongue. Words slide over the grease. “He’s a real peach arranging a parking spot for you.”