by Claire Tacon
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Acknowledgments
Copyright Page
for Julio
The character of a soil is profoundly influenced by its parent material. Some primary materials resist change and retain their characteristics, even as particles. Others react with water, oxygen and other minerals to form secondary materials, such as silicate clay. Due to these reactions and the ongoing weathering process, younger soils will reflect more characteristics of the parent material than an older soil.
1
I LEAVE LATE. Twenty blocks in fifteen minutes.
At every crossing, I check my watch, worried the lights will be off in the auditorium and I’ll make a racket with the pushdoor. It’s the last day of school. It’s not going to start on time.
There aren’t any other parents outside the squat brick Montessori which has been leaching our savings for the past eight years. Watch check. Five minutes. Inside, kids are buzzing through the halls. The little ones are already lined up outside their classrooms, fidgeting with the trimmings on their costumes. Fallen clusters of sequins and tissue paper decorate the vinyl tile. A few older kids are still emptying out their lockers, scooping a year’s worth of paper into the recycling bin. Along the corridor, the locker doors hang open, the hall a decimated beehive.
The cafetorium’s at the far end of the school. There’s a small proscenium stage curtained off at the far wall and the cafeteria tables have been converted into seating, the middle panels tilted up as backrests. I spot Richard right away, his long legs spilling out into the aisle. His trousers ride up his bent knees, showing off matching charcoal socks. The other men are wearing runners or thin cotton socks that droop into their loafers. Even with the humidity, Richard stays crisp as lettuce.
He doesn’t rise when I reach him, but lets me struggle to squeeze through the narrow gap between his shins and the bench in front. When I’m halfway across he grabs my waist so I topple against him, onto his lap. That’s when he kisses me, playful in a way I haven’t seen in ages. I slide into the gap between him and his father.
“Quit terrorizing your wife,” Terrence teases, standing to greet me. As soon as we pull apart, he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out two newspaper clippings. “Ellie, these are for you.” The emphasis is for Richard’s benefit. His father’s habit of passing along articles drove him crazy growing up. I find the gesture sweet, like chess by correspondence. One is a cartoon—an archaeologist excavating his teenager’s messy room—and the other is a column on the founder of the human genome project.
“After all those years running these things,” Terrence says, “I never thought I’d live long enough to see my grandson at one.”
“You getting nostalgic?” I ask.
“Ellie, these bones will die happy if they never have to sit on these benches again.”
“You want me to sew you a cushion?”
“Good idea. A person could make a fortune hawking them outside.”
“Have you seen Stephen yet?” Richard asks.
“No.”
“Five dollars the tie didn’t make it through the dance.” Richard finds my hand and laces his fingers between mine. He glances at his watch but doesn’t press me for an explanation.
There’s no good excuse for why I’m twenty minutes late to our son’s grade eight graduation—except that it was the first day in several months that I had the house entirely to myself. That and yesterday marked the last hurrah of my botched academic career at Guelph University’s Land Resource Science Department.
“I’ve got good news,” Richard whispers.
I start to ask but he shakes his head, later.
Earlier in the week, a few of my colleagues threw me a farewell lunch. We ate Thai food out of Styrofoam containers in the student lounge and compared birth stories because one of them is due next month. As the department secretary detailed her episiotomy, I struggled to pick up a water chestnut. Half an hour later, they presented me with a card and a mug full of jellybeans. The rest of the faculty was too embarrassed to show up.
The lights fade and I catch a glimpse of Richard. He’s still smiling, pleased as punch about something. Good, I think, we can use some of that.
The grade ones file out first in a haphazard array of costumes. They’re performing a cultural heritage skit that looks like a budget version of It’s a Small World. Our youngest, Luke, is wearing one of Terrence’s old Mas costumes with a feather and sequin headband. He parades out next to a red-headed boy who’s mortified in his Scottish Highland getup, an altered uniform from a local catholic school. One by one, the kids step forward and say a few words about where a relative came from. When it’s his turn, Luke talks about his grandfather emmigrating from Trinidad. “We have Carnival there,” he says. He shows off a few Caribana dance shakes. The adults burst out laughing and Luke blushes, retreating back into the line, next to England and Korea.
“What a ham,” Terrence whispers.
The grade two theme is the environment. It’s a bit forced when one girl stumbles her way through a mouthful about reducing our personal carbon footprint. It reeks of school propaganda—proof the extra tuition is turning our children into well-rounded socially conscious beings.
Luke joins us at intermission, still in costume, and we shift over so that he can sit next to his grandfather.
“I’ve got something to show you.” Richard reaches into his messenger bag. He holds his fist over Luke’s open palms then quickly retracts it.
Luke claps his hands over Richard’s, laughing and wrestling for the present inside.
Richard deposits a plum sized rock in our son’s hands.
Luke’s face scrunches, so exactly like his father when he’s perplexed.
“This was sent over from another university today. It might be the oldest rock in the world.” Richard is a senior researcher in the geochronology lab at the University of Toronto. I can understand why he’s so excited—his work is mostly with mining applications, but the holy grail of geochrono is finding material old enough, unchanged enough, to offer insight into the planet’s formation.
Luke raises the rock to eye level, appraising it like an auctioneer with a rare china figurine. For a minute he’s completely absorbed by Richard’s description of where they found it, how it was formed, how many billions of years old it could be.
Then Luke wants bake sale.
He passes off the rock to me and heads to the PTA tables in the hallway. We trail after our son, ready to slap down a few dollars for cookies. The rock is heavier than it looked, cool to the touch, except on the side where Luke was holding it.
“Are they bringing you in on it?” I ask.
“Early stages. But probably not. Maybe a small mention for the lab or something.”
He’ll probably be first-author when they publish.
“What was the outlying like?”
“Are you asking flora or fauna?” Richard sucks air through his front teeth, chiding. “Soil scientists are all the same. You’re given a monumental geological specimen and all you care about is the dirt above it.”
Richard’s ribbing me. It’s my pet peeve—using the word dirt to describe soil.
“Soil is the building block upon which all life is sustained,” I parrot from my Soil 101 lecture notes. “It’s a textile factory, recycling depot and construction supply in one.”
Our battle for Earth Science supremacy is postponed
by our arrival at the baked goods. Our Rice Krispie squares have sold out and I reclaim my glass casserole from the parent volunteer. I feel an irrational surge of pride over this small accomplishment, noting that Kerri Donaldson’s chocolate chip cookies have barely been touched. She’s the PTA fundraising chair and mother of Sabrina, a girl who is likely perfectly nice, but strikes me as a carbon copy of her mother, fake as Cool Whip. Kerri waves to us, hovering over her own baking.
“Last year for the kids.”
“We’ve still got Luke for another seven.”
“Oh, of course,” she says, blushing, apologising more than necessary. Kerri’s always acted over-friendly around Richard. We think it’s because he’s black and she doesn’t want to seem racist. She’s cornered me a few times to tell me how great she thinks it is to have “mixed” kids at the school.
“Any summer plans?”
“Sabrina’s going to more camps than I can name.” Kerri rhymes them off anyway.
“We’re visiting my mother for a week or two in August.”
“Maritimes, right? New Brunswick?”
“Nova Scotia, an hour out of Halifax.”
There are more parents behind us now, waiting to buy snacks. We lay down a fiver for the cupcake Luke’s already eating and a few of Kerri’s cookies.
“So is this geriatric rock your good news?” I ask.
Richard ignores the question and bites into the chocolate chip cookie. He grimaces. “Carob.”
I pocket it along with the rest, hoping Stephen will be so hungry he won’t notice.
They’ve got all the grade eights sitting on stage for the graduation ceremony, most of them visibly bored. The girls look fifteen years older than the boys, sucked into small, strappy dresses, their eyes thick with eyeliner and clumping mascara.
They can’t quite manoeuvre in their high heels. When their names are called, they wobble across the stage like cadets struggling to find their sea legs. In contrast, the boys slouch their way over to the presenters, their sneakers showing under suit trousers. Stephen wanted to wear his runners too. Richard insisted on dress shoes.
After the diplomas are handed out, the principal says a few words and then it’s on to the awards. Stephen does well in school, but he gets mostly high Bs and low As, so I doubt he’ll get an academic prize. As they roll through the subjects, Kerri’s daughter keeps getting called up. The principal, a thin man with hair plastered to his forehead, pretends to be surprised each time he calls out her name. Sabrina Donaldson.
“I hope her parents brought a truck,” Terrence whispers.
We’d both like our son to excel more in science, considering what we do for a living, but Stephen’s more interested in sports. I keep my fingers crossed as they go through the team awards. Stephen’s been on almost all of the junior high teams, but he lives and breathes soccer. He’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t get anything. So far, he’s been taking everything in stride, cheering as his friends go up to get their trophies. Even when someone else gets the soccer MVP, his smile doesn’t look forced. The last award is the Fair Play Prize, given to the athlete who has distinguished him or herself in all aspects of the game.
Richard leans over. “He’s got it in the bag.”
The kid next to Stephen nudges him with his shoulder and nods to the podium. Stephen shrugs it off, but I can tell he’s invested, that he’s waiting to hear his name too.
The principal fumbles a little bit with the mic. “Sabrina Donaldson.”
It’s petty, but none of us clap.
It’s a quiet walk over to the roti shop, all of us trying to sidle up to Stephen to tell him he should have won, that the game was fixed, you don’t want to peak in grade eight anyway.
“Just wait until next year,” Terrence says. “Harbord Collegiate’s not going to know what hit it.”
Richard’s more forthright. “Doesn’t change a damn thing that’s really important.”
He used those exact words when I told him about Guelph.
As soon as we open the door to the roti shop, Batula’s voice greets us, a kettle rising to boil. “Look what’s dragged in to plague us. Shoo! Go away!” she says, her breasts shaking against the counter as she waves Terrence off. “Them little ones can stay, but that old riff-raff’s got to go.”
Terrence grips the shirt material around his heart and slumps at the waist, playing wounded. He and Batula both grew up in Port of Spain and they’ve worked out that their grandmothers were cousins by marriage. Besides that, her daughters all went through high school when Terrence was principal and he’s the godfather of one of her grandchildren. If you count all the rotis I had when I was pregnant, then our boys have been eating here since before they were born.
Terrence doesn’t usually have much of an accent, but he butters it on with Batula. “I don’t see any old riff-raff.”
“No, yuh not old,” she says, a wicked glimmer in her eye. “You ancient.”
“Child, I got to jump over the counter and make my own damn roti?”
“Come out looking like what the dog chewed yesterday.”
The other cook hunches over, laughing.
Batula’s hand is already behind the counter, pulling out samosas. She hands one to Stephen. “You look like you could use a little sustenance.” She grabs one for Luke too, but stops short before giving it to him, doing a double take with his costume. “I see your plan now, you’re just going to come down here and break my heart!”
Luke starts showing off his Carnival dance moves again and Batula claps out a beat, saying, “If you whine like dat, trouble sure to ketch yuh . . . somebody woman going to be hornin’ she man.”
Luke shakes harder, his feathered shoulder pads a few jerks away from detaching. He belts out the chorus from “Booboo Man,” imitating Lord Melody’s accent from Terrence’s old calypso records.
Richard and I stand to the side, odd ones out. With their olive-tan skin and loosely curled molasses hair, the boys look more like their Indo-Trini grandfather than either of us. I’m pale as potato. Richard’s closer to obsidian, often gets mistaken for Nigerian. He was adopted as an infant and doesn’t know much about his biological parents.
Stephen bumps his hip against his brother’s and laughs along with Batula. It’s nice to see, because lately he’s been embarrassed by his little brother’s public displays.
“The usual?” Batula calls out our order to the cooks. “One butter chicken medium, two korma mild, one goat medium.”
Stephen leans tentatively against the counter. “Medium for one korma, please.”
“Big man going into high school now?” Batula teases, looking over for our approval before changing the order.
“Are you sure?” I ask Stephen.
“I had some of yours last time, remember.”
As I recall he had a few bites and then had to get a Coke to wash it down. Tonight I don’t feel like being the word of caution. “Sure, one medium spicy korma.”
Richard gives our son a high five. “Bascom men have stomachs of steel.”
Batula laughs again. She pats her stomach and points at Richard’s hint of a potbelly. “Steel on the inside—outside more like korma.”
We take the food back to Terrence’s, an older condo overlooking Kensington market. Terrence pops open some bottles of Carib and proposes a toast to his grandsons. He, Richard and I clink glasses and the boys tap their cans of iced tea against each other. They stare at their grandfather, Stephen’s hands already on the cutlery, waiting for permission to start. The rule in our family is that no one eats until the oldest person touches their food.
Richard interrupts just as his father reaches for his fork. “There’s another matter of business.”
Stephen groans. Terrence looks back and forth at us as if he’s expecting me to announce another pregnancy.
“Your mother will be teaching in September after all.”
“Back at Guelph?”
“No, at U of T with me.” My husband hands me an envelope.
“It’s just a sessional position, but the official word came down today.”
Terrence leads a round of congratulations. I’m too stunned to form the obvious questions.
When the applause dies down, Luke turns to me, winning as Oliver Twist. “Is it okay if we eat now please?”
Stephen put him up to it.
Once the food’s out, it’s a competition to see who can haul the most dough and curry into his mouth in the shortest amount of time.
Richard asks Stephen about the dance.
“Great. I showed off my sweet moves.” Sweet is his new ironic word.
“Do you have slow dances at these things?” Terrence asks.
Stephen answers too quickly, no.
“What about with Amanda?” Luke mimes putting his arms around a woman’s shoulders and makes squelching kissy noises. In response, Stephen opens his mouth with partially chewed roti.
Better to head this off right away. “How’s the medium?”
Stephen rubs his stomach and puts on a Buddha grin. “Now that you’re working again, does this mean we can get an Xbox?”
“It’s a job. Not a lobotomy.”
We’ve never minded if the boys play video games—as long as it’s at friends’ houses where we don’t have to argue about off switches.
Conversation jumps to the FIFA World Cup and tomorrow’s quarter-final between Germany and Argentina. I fade out as Richard, Terrence and Stephen rhyme off player names and debate the odds of either team proceeding. It’s gibberish to me—Ricardo Cruz, Podolski, Klose.
It was very touch-and-go as to whether the university could lay me off. The funding shortfall came down in the first semester of my tenure-track appointment and they first asked for volunteers to switch, temporarily, to other departments. Then our chair formed a committee to eliminate two of three recent hires. I’d already slogged five years as a sessional instructor. Between the low pay, long commute and constant comparisons of my career to Richard’s, those years were like the protracted birth of a twenty-pound fetus. Now the university administration was back sniffing, asking if I felt like fooling around.
