Berth

by Carol Bruneau

  “Tell me,” a voice dared, a voice barely mine.

  “What, an’ crap out on a buddy? I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe when you’re sober.” My words mixed with a whirr, the furnace coming on.

  Outside, it was snowing like crazy, covering the gravel. I felt Wayne’s envelope half up my sleeve; stunned, I’d held onto it. The return address was a law firm downtown, the letter a diversion while I pondered what to do, guzzling Kwik Way coffee. An attorney advised Wayne of a legal separation; Reenie’s address was there, an apartment number, a street near the bridge.

  I could still feel his grip, the scratchy warmth of his skin.

  Scumbag. Liar.

  There was a small fleet tied up at the government wharf. I walked over to some men baiting traps. What weather to be going out in; you wondered who set the seasons. I shouted down to a grizzled fellow in a Maple Leafs cap and eventually he scowled up.

  ‘What’s your problem, honey?”

  “I’d be happy to pay—”

  The younger guy in the boat nodded towards the eco-shed. “Buddy there runs a ferry, not us.”

  “S’pose we could run ya out,” said the older one. “This once. Not far, is it.”

  Never look a gift horse…Taking the man’s hand, I climbed down.

  “Seen you before, haven’t I?” he said, once we’d gotten a ways out. “You’re part of that outfit there with buddy, Mr. Ecologize? One of them hippies. Jeez, you folks’d live in hollow trees if you could.”

  The younger one worked away as if the old guy was talking to the air. The boat stank of engine oil. The chop rocked my stomach. You could barely see Thrumcap for snow. Maybe he was just being friendly, but the man kept staring, flakes sticking to his lashes. It made me squirm.

  “I know,” he said, as the dock’s outline slid into sight, “you’re the little one that was expectin’. How’s the kid, then? Good thing youse are out here so’s the rest of us can’t hear the squallin’. Lord Jesus! Like Joel here, eh? Miserable little son of a bitch he was. Hadda leave home to get away from the crying, no friggin’ lie.”

  The snow swirled, making it hard to see. For a minute it was like being in a plane: nowhere. The lump in my throat grew as we finally docked.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I pushed money at him; he pushed it back.

  “Watch yourself,” he muttered as I scrambled out, and the son mumbled, “He don’t mean the ladder.”

  As I waved, they were already putting out into that wrinkled, steely grey.

  Snow shrouded the woods, covering my tracks. It held in every sound and smell—the sharpness of spruce gum and the odour from the refinery made almost solid. I wasn’t dressed for it. Bolts of white capped my head and shoulders, weighing the branches, plummeting without sound. Nothing stirred, except for the foghorn. Its groan was a trail of pebbles luring me, snowblind. It made me think of warmth. The kitchen fire, tea. A box of Bugles I’d been hiding from Sonny. Reaching the pond and the open, slanting snow, suddenly I craved salt, imagined Hugh and me devouring the snack. The silence following the crumbs.

  Wayne slid back into my thoughts; how had Reenie kept from picking up a knife?

  Twice I stopped to spit into the wiry, white bushes, the Kwik Way coffee like acid inside me. Thirsty, I stuck out my tongue. Snow burned my eyelids. If I stopped and lay down, who would notice, or mind? Sonny, perhaps. Imagining myself melting in spring, a wet sheen on the ground, I thought of Hugh and replayed what’d happened. If I lay in the snow…How foolish, though. Not like I’d gone to Wayne’s naked, wrapped in cellophane, as Sandi and her friends said they did to please their husbands. “That’d give him paws.” “My luck, he’d call the guys in white suits, take a permanent Haitian Vacation.” Their voices seemed to screech through the snowy branches, but it was only the container pier, its cranes.

  I pictured the cover of a Cosmo magazine: 50 ways to please your lover! Keep him coming! Then thought of that Paul Simon song about fifty ways to leave your lover. Fifty? Husbands were different; with Charlie there’d been only one. How many ways were there for Reenie? The thought of Wayne’s face mooned me. As I reached the tundra of beach the foghorn jeered: He don’t need to know.

  The falling snow shushed the waves. At the water’s edge I jammed my finger down my throat and brought up coffee.

  Hugh was watching for me. “Where’ve you been?” He pulled me inside, helped me out of my sweater. Snow left pools on the floor. I waited for him to say he’d been worried. “Wouldn’t wanna be out driving anywhere,” he said, and my stomach churned as I thought of Sonny.

  He poured tea and set what was left of the Bugles on the table. “Surprised Wayne’d go out in this. Should’ve asked him to stay. With Reenie out of the pitcher he’s got nothin’ but time.”

  Pic-ture, I wanted to snarl, rubbing my hands together. Almost purple, they ached as they thawed. Tell him, I thought. Tell.

  He creaked back in his chair, as glad as anyone to be inside.

  “Wayne was in no shape—” My teeth chattered. “He was—”

  “Poor bugger. Ever since Reenie took off…fuck. Can’t blame the guy. I mean, without Reen…”

  I licked orangey salt off my fingers and laced them around my cup. Hugh kept talking. His voice doodled around me, buzzing off the walls and whitened panes. All about Wayne and Reenie, me and Sonny…it made little sense.

  The tips of my fingers were wizened teardrops.

  “Hugh,” my voice leapt, still frozen, and he went quiet. “He tried…he came on to me.” The words were a fish out of a lake. Dated, as if from a bad script.

  Hugh looked at me, then reddened, his face changing.

  “Oh?” he said in the tone he used totting up Scrabble points. Double word score; sweetie, why not go for triple? “You must’ve done something, then.” That scorekeeper’s voice, so matter-of-fact it took a second to register. “You must’ve waved some bait.”

  “What? You honestly think—”

  “Wayne’s not a bad looking guy.”

  I choked, inhaling tea; he was kidding, right? “If you like fat drunks with disgusting—”

  He didn’t crack a smile.

  “Look. It, it wasn’t…something I expected.”

  His gaze was like the tower’s beam. “What did you expect, then?”

  “A ride, as usual. That’s all.” My brain seemed to float to the ceiling, as if the rest of the room were rocking, shifting.

  “I’ll bet. Was it good?”

  Tea stung my throat; heat buzzed in my ears. I’m dreaming; that’s all it is, a dream. Maybe I’d dreamed Wayne, too.

  But he persisted. “The ride, was it good?” It was like being frozen then dropped into a scalding tub.

  “Stop,” I bleated.

  His eyes were slate. He rose slowly, as if minding his step, and without a word put on his coat. The dog whined at his heels, the storm door thudding behind him.

  24

  DECLINATION

  The snow was so thick now you could hardly see out. I folded the Bugles box and pushed it into the fire, then, mustering a sweaty calm, phoned the school and asked for Sonny. The secretary balked at first. “Normally we don’t take calls to students.”

  I squeezed the receiver, breathing. “This is, um, not normal.”

  “Well,” she sniffed, “it’s chaos here, with the storm. We’re looking at noon dismissal.”

  “Please—he’ll need me to arrange something.”

  “Who’s speaking? A guardian, or caregiver?”

  “His mother.”

  I could hear her sigh. Outside, the wind howled at the eaves. The snow blew at a crazy slant past the panes and the sound was like insects hitting them.

  “Well. Just this once,” the woman relented. “In future you should sort things out with your child in advance.” There was a clunk as sh
e put down the receiver.

  Feeling sick, I imagined Sonny leaving his desk and ambling to the office phone. He took forever, the silence as I waited laced with that pinging noise. It got louder as the snow turned transparent.

  “Hullo?” His voice seemed thin and nervous.

  “Sonny?” He always sounded younger on the phone. Picturing his face, its spray of freckles, I ached to put my arms around him and hug him till he hugged me back.

  “How come you’re phoning?”

  I hesitated, everything flooding in. Hugh, the snow and…“The weather outside is…frightful.” I tried my best to sound chipper. His breathing, the sleet beating the glass, a crackle on the line—everything seemed filtered through thick cotton.

  “I’m goin’ to Derek’s after school. He already asked. It’s okay.”

  A buzzer sounded in the background and a high-pitched chirring—that noise of kids, like a zillion birds.

  “You don’t even have a toothbrush—”

  “Mom. It don’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t.”

  “Whatever.”

  “That line’s for emergencies, dear. Someone might be trying to call,” Ms. Officious chimed behind him.

  “Mom, I hafta—”

  “Sonny?”

  “What?”

  “Be good now, won’t you.”

  “Yup.”

  “Sonny?”

  “WHAT?”

  “Love you.”

  “Yup.”

  “Call me when you get to Derek’s?” Then he hung up.

  ***

  Sometime in the black between dusk and daylight, Hugh returned. I was lying there listening to the wind driving rain when he crawled into bed. He’d been drinking. I could smell it. He stretched out beside me, pulling at the blankets.

  “I’m sorry Willa. You don’t fuckin’ know how sorry. I’m a shit,” he breathed.

  I shrank away, but part of me wanted to sing out, we’re all shits.

  He curled closer, his eyes shut, moving under the lids. “You don’t deserve it, Willa. You don’t deserve this shit. I can’t believe Wayne did that to you. I can’t fuckin’ believe what an asshole…”

  Wars had started over less, I thought.

  “He’s already stepped in once—once too many. The little prick.”

  “Hardly little,” I blurted out, hugging myself.

  “What d’ya mean?” But his voice was just a murmur. Pressing his face to my shoulder, he stroked my side. His clothes were damp and smelled like wet dog. “Promise, sweetie,” he whispered slowly. “I’ll kill him if he tries that again.”

  I caught his hand, let it fall. “That’s what you say.”

  “Willa. Without you, I’m—”

  “Toast? Merde?” I thought of Sonny and Derek upstairs hurling insults, boys having fun. Bonding. Worthless piece of crap, one had called the other. A giddy despair filled me, a quiet rage. “Piss, poop, crap, dung.”

  He opened an eye, winced as if nursing a wound, then took my hand and kissed it. His lips were cold as the ocean. “Without you I’m lost. A fuckin’ dinghy without a rudder.” He grinned a grin not much different from Sonny’s. That grin was my undoing.

  Something inside me dissolved. “How’d you get home, anyway, this time of night? Good old Wayne. Did he get funny with you in the boat? Get fresh,” I mimicked, almost choking. “Put the moves on, the make. Try to toast a weenie, for God’s sake!” I thought of that belly, that tattoo. My throat felt parched. My voice rose, sputtering. “Wanna hear a joke? Derek’s, to Sonny: How’d the Dairy Queen get pregnant?”

  Hugh looked baffled, then scared. His hand lay on my stomach.

  “Burger King forgot to wrap his weenie.”

  Like a car slow to turn over, he laughed, his eyes strangely lit. “Thought you weren’t a drinker,” I prodded, and his face went like sand with the moisture drawn out of it.

  “Once, maybe.” There was a dullness about him. “Not anymore.”

  “Okay.” But my voice was foam riding a wave. “I need you to tell me. I have to know. What did you do to Julie?”

  He held my hand so tightly it hurt, his sleeve dampening my wrist.

  “You have to believe me, Tess. I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t me.”

  My need to believe him was an undertow, a suck and pull dragging me out.

  “All right.” I came up for air. “Then tell me, Hughie. Tell me where you’ve been.”

  He kissed me, his mouth sour. He lay back, sighing, a sound that pushed everything from the room. “I can’t. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, Tess. Trust me, all right?” Then he slid under the covers, kissing my navel. “‘Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to visit the Queen.’”

  ***

  We woke to ice: snow transformed to glass. It creaked from the clothesline. Hugh used a pickaxe to clear the step, the yard a silver glare as if the sea had spilled in and solidified. The Ice Age following the Flood. The hills on the far shore were crystal, too, split from us by a belt of sparkling blue. Even the wind seemed frozen, caught; the world struck with brilliance as if everything had been splashed with mercury. The roads would be treacherous; I imagined Sonny slip-sliding with Derek to school.

  Hugh hacked out a path to the lighthouse, then went back to bed. He’d been up just after dawn, wretching. Grudgingly I offered toast, tea. He yanked the covers over his head.

  There was an inch of vodka left in the bottle up in the lantern. The sun beamed through the salted panes and the quicksilver glinted, a huge silver bracelet, the giant lens turning in it like a fist. Picking up Hugh’s binoculars, I trained them on the sea. A pair of ships sat on the horizon, a helicopter darting between them, like a needle darning them together, gunboat grey melded with chicory sky. Turning the binoculars, I peeked through the wrong end; everything foreshortened, the military manoeuvres squeezed from view, disappointing. Righting the glasses, I looked again. Already the ships had moved, shrinking against the competing sea. I took the bottle outside and emptied it on a rock. The bright trickle melted the ice as if Oreo had passed, lifting his leg.

  By noon the sun had turned everything liquid, with the kissing sound of melt and things coming unstuck.

  Hugh slept.

  I tried calling Derek’s. There was nobody there. “Have a good one,” the message machine trilled.

  At one-thirty I dialled Wayne’s, one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, harder than calling for Charlie. While the phone rang, I remembered something Charlie had told me once, he and his crew picking up a defector, a Romanian stowaway who’d gone overboard into the harbour. The man spat like a rabid cat till they’d wrapped him in a blanket and calmed him enough to drink a coffee. The guy had cried and kissed their hands. Best part of the job, Charlie had said, handling the unexpected. Though things swung both ways.

  “Yup?” Wayne sounded the same as ever. “Whassup?” he blurted out, then, “Who is this?”

  Apologize, you piece of crap. “Willa.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” There was a heavy pause. Then, “How’s she goin’?” Not a hint of remorse. Possibly he didn’t remember; could he say I made it up? I thought of Julie and the photographs. Pantyhose! A sick amazement held me; maybe the guy was to be pitied. It was all I could do to be civil.

  “Alex’s bus’ll be there by three.”

  “Like—yeah?”

  Another deadly pause.

  “Can you … would you, um, get me first?”

  “Put Hughie on.”

  “Hugh’s in bed.”

  “Wha’s his problem?” He cleared his throat. “You poisonin’ him or what?”

  Asshole. “Look. Can you get me first?”

  “Huh? Listen,” his voice slurred low, “dunno what you’re so uptight about. I ain’t no fruit, if that’s what you’re scare
d of.” His laugh was a bark. “Well, that’s it, then,” he said, as if he’d called me. “No problem wit’ Sonny. I’ll be waitin’ for him.” From the next room came the creak of Hugh turning over.

  ***

  Visualize. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Picture something as we want it. An orange, for instance. Perfectly round, dimpled, whole. The colour of the sun meeting the horizon.

  If we believe it, so it is—or might be.

  I set myself on a course of tidying then. Re-prioritizing, as Charlie would’ve said. The importance of tiny things: shelves clear of greasy stains. Baking soda in the fridge. Dust-free treasures in Sonny’s window. I scanned his room for other details: clues as to his happiness—or misery—but it was a map with no legend.

  The god of small things ruled the clock, folding everything inside a tissue of safety, and almost before I knew it Oreo yipped and Sonny was bursting through the door.

  “You okay?” Dropping everything, I grabbed for his waist. He batted my arms away.

  “Like, yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He smelled like someone else’s house. Fried food and carpet. Oreo licked him all over, then reared back, barking.

  “Derek has a hamster. Lucky bugger.”

  I stroked Oreo’s snout. “There’s a boy. Watchdog.” Never mind that Oreo would’ve licked anyone breaking in, and wagged his tail. But suddenly I thought of intruders: men at night, rowing ashore from ships; climbing the shingle, surrounding us … It was an idle fear, yet comprehending this meant believing it even as my weight shifted over loose stones—the whole world shifting in ways I wished it wouldn’t.

  “Mom? What’s for supper?”

  “Gimme a second, I’ll figure it out.” In my heart perhaps I was plotting. Visualizing. A lifeboat landing, rescuers with oars. Heave ho. All aboard. ROW!

  But the detail god stepped in again. Easier to plot this way, like sliding a knife through cheese. Seeing the bubbles in a piece of bread. The things you glimpse through the bottom of a glass, which you’re paralyzed to turn right side up.