by Claire Tacon
The last thing I want is for September to arrive and still have no direction. Between making Luke’s costume, taking Stephen shopping for dress pants and the usual errands, the past week was completely eaten up. If things stay the way they are, any chance for reflection’s going to be strangled by the minutiae of our life.
Financially, the only option would be for me to drive out early to Nova Scotia. It’s not my first choice, but a few weeks hunkered down at my mother’s would at least give me time to think. Besides, it would be nice to have some time with her. We haven’t been alone in a room together since Stephen was born.
Let Richard cope on his own with the boys.
The TV shuts off upstairs. A few moments later, my husband’s seated on the top step, the kitchen light glowing around his silhouette. He drums out a weak percussion on his knees, waiting for me to stop.
“Just for the record, I don’t think you’re a failure.”
It’s enough to start the tears. I angle myself away from him, blinking.
He ducks as he comes down, almost grazing the support beams with the top of his head. He doesn’t try to hold me, just grabs the bags I’ve filled and carries them upstairs.
I find him at the kitchen table with the crossword and a scotch.
“I was thinking about going out to Nova Scotia early.”
“Ellie, I don’t want us to keep fighting.”
“I need to clear my head.”
He collects his pen and paper, downing the last of his drink. “Bed.”
“I’ll be up in a minute.”
“Take your time.”
When I slip under the sheets, I think he’s asleep but he twists over to spoon.
“I’m sorry.” Richard props his head up on one arm and turns me around so that we’re facing. He caresses the small of my back as he repeats his apology. “You really don’t want to take them?”
“Let’s not bring it up again.”
“Would it really be so terrible if you never got tenure? Some people build perfectly respectable careers as permanent part-time. We can make do financially.”
“Permanent part-time? You wouldn’t settle for that.”
“If I had to.”
“No research lab, no grad students to churn out publications, no senior level courses?”
This is his embarrassment talking. Fifteen years in the department building his reputation and now he’s mortified to admit he didn’t ask me.
I’m cross-legged now, feeling ridiculous fighting in my underwear and sports bra. It’s too damn hot in our house for pajamas. We’ve been saving for forced air but it’s out of our means. Another reason why permanent part-time isn’t going to cut it. “What do you think about me going to my mother’s?”
“When?”
“Mid-July.”
“After my Banff conference?”
“When do you get back?”
“The sixteenth, but then I have the BBC article due.”
“Stephen can look after Luke. Or you can ask your father.”
“He already does enough child care.”
“Can you postpone the article?” I know his response as soon as I ask. Richard’s been working for years to get an article in a popular science magazine. For one thing, geo-chronology doesn’t generate a lot of mainstream interest and for another, he’s more comfortable writing for an academic audience. BBC Science is a big deal. “Fine, I’ll take the kids with me.”
“Stephen won’t like it. He’s got soccer.”
“Then they can stay here.”
Richard’s frustration translates on his face as a thatch of lines in the corners of his eyes. “Maybe it will be good for your mother to have more time with them.”
We both huff off to separate edges of the bed. I shift through sleeping positions, vigorous as a yoga instructor. Mostly I want to provoke him so we can finally get through the argument and make up. We never fight for more than a few hours before sitting down and figuring things out. All it would take is him agreeing to give up the courses, maybe give me the place to myself for a weekend. I’d rather spend the bulk of the summer here with him and our sons. By quarter past one, he’s already snoring. It kills me that he can sleep.
I sigh, loudly enough to startle him awake. He flails over, fleetingly concerned.
“I’d like to leave next week.”
He slides his hand under his pillow and curls away from me. “Is this your way of sending me to my room for misbehaving?”
2
RICHARD STANDS in front of the pantry, surrounded by an outer ring of cereal boxes and an inner oval of cranberry cocktail Tetra Paks. When it was just the two of us, the kitchen was enormous. Now we’re running out of storage. Every time we open a cupboard door, the shelves threaten to spill their produce over the tile floor. It annoys Richard to no end that he has to empty the whole shelf to find his brand of cereal.
“Maybe when you’re away I’ll finally put a rolling basket in here.”
He brandishes the box of wheat squares in the air.
I don’t know what to make of his nonchalance.
Richard carefully steps over the cardboard fortress and serves up his breakfast on the island. He eats standing, flanked by stools. “You should get the car serviced.”
“I’ll drop it off before I pick up the boys.”
“Are you going to take it to our guy?”
“Canadian Tire.”
“I’d feel better if you waited for an appointment at the dealership.” Richard doesn’t trust anything walk-in.
“We’re just checking the blood pressure, not doing a full physical.”
When I was seven, my father told me that God put dealerships on this earth for the sole purpose of gouging suckers. You either work on your car yourself, or you make friends with a mechanic.
“If they can sneak it in over the weekend, fine.”
“Are you planning to leave this week?”
I run my finger along a gouge in the butcher block. “I was thinking Tuesday.”
“Fine,” Richard says, pulverizing the wheat pellet into the milk. “It’ll give me a chance to polish my conference paper.”
My mother retired from the Grocery Co-op last year when she turned sixty-two so I don’t have to worry about her getting the time off. It’s ten when I call, her time, but she sounds distracted, like she just woke up. She’s never been natural on the phone. When I first moved to Toronto, the long distance rates were so exorbitant that she’d set her oven timer before each call and hang up exactly fifteen minutes later.
“I was thinking of bringing out the boys a bit earlier.”
“Let me get the calendar.” My mother shuffles off before I can tell her how soon I was hoping to arrive. The phone clacks down on the counter and I can hear a radio in the background. The volume is up high—a woman is talking to a man with a cracked voice, giving him the licence plate of a car that’s on the shoulder of Highway 101, by the Greenwich exit. My mother’s listening to her police scanner again.
“Okay,” she says, loudly flipping through the pages. “When were you thinking?”
“Wednesday or Thursday.”
“This week?”
“Richard’s away in Alberta the week after. I thought it would be nice for the boys and me to have a longer visit with you.”
“It’s awfully sudden.” She takes a minute before continuing. “Is there a way you can get here from the airport?”
My mother’s hated the 101, the asphalt tendon that connects the Valley to Halifax, her whole adult life. She’s part of a large percentage of the population that’s convinced it’s a death trap because it isn’t completely divided. It’s true that there are a lot of accidents on certain stretches, but it’s a cakewalk after rush hour on the 401.
“We’re driving from Ontario.”
“What do the boys eat these days?”
“Don’t worry about that, we’ll go shopping once we’re out there.”
“They’re reporting a break-in i
n New Minas,” she says breathily, as though she doesn’t want the neighbours to hear. “Can you call back?”
“I’ll call you from the road when we reach Amherst.”
“You always call on Sundays.”
Sunday’s eleven-thirty phone call is our family’s most awkward weekly event. A rehashing of the week’s activities interspersed with banal news items—grocery store specials, weather forecasts, updates on the backyard garden. The boys line up for a quick hello, and answer a question or two about school. Richard makes an appearance and then it’s a final goodbye from me. I’m hoping it will be easier for the boys after they get to know her better over the summer.
“Do you want us to bring you anything?”
“What’s that?” The volume’s gone up on the scanner and she’s lost to the developing police crisis.
I tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her.
She’s already hung up.
We hit the big box stores on the way home from the boys’ sleepovers. It’s such a rare event that Stephen’s already excited when I park in front of Future Shop. It’ll be a twenty-plus-hour drive to Nova Scotia. Without Richard, I’m going to need all the electronic help I can muster.
The boys tear off and I catch up with them at a display of handhelds. Luke’s standing next to his brother, waiting for his turn with the demo unit. He’s not quite tall enough to see the screen in Stephen’s hands and soon abandons his post to crouch in front of the games vitrine.
My eldest is completely absorbed, stabbing the console with a stylus in time to a cheesy ’70s song. This is the point of the game.
“How much is it?”
Stephen hits pause. “For real?”
“Can your brother play it too?”
Sensing victory, Stephen hands his brother the game. It’s a move so calculatingly generous that even Luke hesitates before accepting. They look up at me in a pantomime of longing. At least it’s not a puppy.
“You both did very well at school.”
The nearest employee, kid in his late teens, slouches over and unlocks the storage compartment. He explains that we’re going to want the Rumble Pak add-on that makes the controller shake whenever there’s a crash. Stephen nods his head vigorously. There’s a sale on that shaves off the taxes, which is a small mercy. A quick swipe of plastic and we’re down five hundred dollars but are two systems, four games and a Rumble Pak richer.
I make the announcement after the boys are buckled into the backseat. “Your father and I have decided that the three of us are going to drive out early to see your grandmother.”
“I thought we were already going there on vacation.” Stephen wedges his knees against the front seat. “Is this because Dad called you a hick?”
“No.”
“Is he coming too?”
“Not until after his conference.”
Stephen refuses to make eye contact. “I can’t go, I’ve got soccer.”
“Nova Scotia is the soccer capital of Atlantic Canada.” There’s a big sign to this effect at the highway exit ramp. Stephen isn’t biting.
“Nova Scotia is boring.”
“You had a great time last visit.”
“I was Luke’s age then. I mean, I used to like the baby coaster at Wonderland. Then I grew up.”
Luke strains against the seatbelt to shove his brother. “I’m not a baby.”
“I didn’t call you a baby. I said it was a baby coaster.” Stephen shoves back. “Don’t be a baby.”
“I can walk right back in there and return the games.”
In the five minutes we’ve been sitting in the car it’s gotten uncomfortably hot. Stephen leans his head against the window, sulking. I consider lowering the power window to tease him but decide not to push it. Instead, I distractedly reverse out of the parking spot, narrowly missing the adjacent vehicle’s bumper.
At home, we’re greeted by the burnt smell of microwaved popcorn and staccato outbursts in a Welsh accent. Richard and Terrence are in the living room watching the soccer game. They’re both perched on the lip of the couch, disputing a call along with the commentator. Stephen marches straight over and informs his father that he wants to stay put. Richard tries to shift Stephen to the side so that he can still see the screen. Stephen doesn’t budge. Luke hovers close to me, sensing tension. I don’t want to fight in front of Terrence and the kids.
“I’m teaching, buddy. No one would be around to take care of you.”
“I’m old enough to be left alone. Legally, I’m old enough.” The problem with a Montessori education is that it encourages debate. We don’t always feel like running our family like a democracy.
“Your mother and I have decided.”
I give Richard credit for toeing the line.
“I’m finally on a good team and this is what you do?”
“This isn’t a punishment, Stephen,” I say.
He and Richard both jerk their heads to face me.
“Why can’t I stay with Grampy?”
Terrence makes room for Stephen on the couch. “Of course you can stay with me.” He wraps his arm around his grandson and Stephen gives into the physical affection in a way he won’t with me anymore. “But I get to see you all the time. I’ve got to spread you around a bit. How long’s it been since you’ve seen your grandmother?”
Stephen slumps in resignation.
Luke asks if he can go play his games now. Richard raises his eyebrows as I hand over the electronics bag. I disappear into the kitchen on the pretence of grabbing some nacho chips.
Richard follows me and pours salsa into a bowl, smirking. “I never thought you’d go in for bribes.”
“What did your father say?”
“He thinks you’ve had a rough time of it this past year and it will be good to have some perspective.”
“Do you agree with him?”
“I want to know how much that plastic bag cost.” His laugh has an edge to it. It’s not hard to hear the kernel of rebuke.
Too quickly, it’s Tuesday morning. We leave after the commuter rush and by then a thin drizzle has spread across the city. It’s early but the day already feels stale and vaguely disappointing. The humidity makes the car interior sticky before we even get going. There’s none of the excitement of an expedition that should be accompanying a trip halfway across the country.
Richard sees us off in the driveway. There’s a false calm between us, even though we still haven’t discussed the argument. We’ve made the tacit decision to set the fight aside, like gristle in a cloth napkin, something unpleasant to be dealt with later. Now that the shock of the fight’s ebbed, compassion’s setting in. It’s going to be a difficult conversation with Prescott and I wish there was a way to spare Richard the awkwardness.
Whatever this is, it’s not worth parting in anger. I pull Richard in for a full kiss, press all my limbs against him. When we drift apart, he scans my face, trying to divine what this means. It’s not a blank slate. It’s the remnants of a fear that settled in when I lost my father at twelve. Losing my father so young imprinted in me the threat that what you love can be snatched away in an instant.
“I know you,” my husband finally says. “A week out there and you’ll go stir-crazy.”
New Brunswick is a ten-hour corridor of trees and blacktop. By the time we reach the Nova Scotia border, Stephen’s so bored, he’s even participating in Luke’s spot-the-licence game. We briefly try singing Down by the Bay but it quickly devolves into rhymes with “dumb-ass.” Luke cracks up each time Stephen belts one out: crumb-ass, thumb-ass, gum-ass, dumb-bum-mum-ass.
Even if the boys aren’t, I’m starting to get excited about the summer’s possibilities. It’s been over five years since I’ve been back and almost two decades since I’ve spent any amount of time here. I’m looking forward to showing the boys my old haunts.
The sun is setting as we drive through Windsor and muscle memory twists my neck towards the ocean at the right juncture to catch the mudflats. Tide’s o
ut and it’s a sliver of coastline that whizzes past. Only forty minutes until home.
Once, on a tour of his school’s music room, Terrence picked up a violin and played it next to a cello. As he sounded the E string, the A on the cello vibrated because they share an overtone. It’s why people fall in love, he said, because even though one is a violin and the other is a cello they sense their sameness.
This demonstration of sympathetic resonance came early on in my marriage, when I wasn’t sure if Terrence minded that his son had married a white woman. I took it as confirmation that it didn’t bother him, just as it hadn’t mattered to him and Evelyn that they’d adopted a son with African features, even though it shocked their Indo-Caribbean family back in Trinidad.
Tonight, Terrence’s words play in my head again as I strain to catch a last glimpse of the water. Something about seeing the carved channels of slick red clay gets me humming.
I get off the highway early to drive through Grand Pré and down the Wolfville main drag. It’s a Tuesday night and the street’s dead. I half-expected there’d be a line by the Pulpit, Wolfville’s notorious off-campus bar, but the place doesn’t look open. Only a handful of students stroll along the sidewalk towards Traders Restaurant. I don’t recognize a lot of the stores along Main Street, even from the last time we were here. Everything’s quainter, as if Wolfville’s polishing itself into the kind of boutique small town that sells to weekend urbanites. Thankfully, the facelift hasn’t yet spawned signs with extraneous lettering like “shoppe” and “olde.”
