In the Field

by Claire Tacon

  “Do you think I should have called the cops?”

  “It would have been better.”

  “Do you think I should call the cops?”

  “Not at this point. There’s not much you can charge him with—if he’d grabbed before you struck, maybe. Probably better to let him cool off. Besides, who knows if you’re going to see him again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t you think it’s time the three of you came home?”

  “Because of what he said?”

  “Partly.”

  “Not everyone out here is like that.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Stephen told me he wants to stay.”

  “Stephen is thirteen. This is between the two of us.” Richard pulls the reins on the tension. “Ellie, it’s been a hard day. I’m not going to push it. But I’d like to talk about it.”

  When he hangs up, I’m left with the aftertaste of being chided. I wish I could have spoken to Terrence instead, wish I could have heard him tell me that I’d done the right thing. I go to sleep thinking of my own father, wishing for the first time in years that he were still alive to say the same.

  We drive to Martinique beach a few days later. Linda rings me at eight and asks what food I’m bringing for the picnic.

  “We made some ham and cheese.”

  “With mayonnaise?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lisa doesn’t eat mayonnaise.”

  “We also have some peanut butter and strawberry jam.”

  “Did you bring any fruit?”

  The kids are squabbling in the background. Linda covers the mouthpiece and yells for Max to cut it out.

  “Bernie wants me to make fruit salad,” she huffs, irritated by the demand.

  “We’ll make do without it. We can stop on the way if we have to.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I told him but he said you were making sandwiches, so I’d better bring something too.” Lisa’s started wailing.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ve got some macaroni salad.”

  I can hear her open the fridge and what sounds like the lid coming off a casserole.

  “Christ, Bernie, did you get into the macaroni?”

  When Linda hangs up, she doesn’t replace the headset on the cradle, and the line stays briefly engaged so I can hear Bernie’s muffled apology. I head down to my mother’s cold cellar to see if there’s anything else I can salvage. The cellar’s only lit by one bulb, hanging from old, loose wiring. It always feels as if the socket is going to give before the light flicks on.

  There’s a flat of pop left over from our last visit. I pack the cans into a crate, feeling badly that Linda’s worried about the potluck. If I weren’t on vacation, I wouldn’t have made anything either, I’d have just picked up chips and salsa. Besides, it’s her one day off this week. I doubt she wanted to spend it at the beach with me in the first place.

  It’s already quarter past eight so I call up to the boys, who were sent to change into their swim trunks. No response. When I reach the landing, they’re standing outside my mother’s bedroom. At first I think they’ve broken something, their bodies rigid like they’re expecting punishment. When Stephen turns to me, however, his face is afraid, not guilty. My mother’s naked, standing in front of the bed, staring at her bathing suit. Oblivious to the three of us.

  “Mom?”

  She tilts her head to the sound, but doesn’t respond.

  I close the door to shield the boys. “Mom?” I touch her back tentatively, like she’s a strange animal I don’t want to startle.

  She turns around, unperturbed and unaware that she’s naked. I’m arrested by the sight of her body, even in the midst of my concern, by the way my frame is a replica of hers. The rounded “W” of her chest, her narrow gymnast’s hips, the frown of belly over her hysterectomy scar—it’s like skipping ten frames forward on a film of my body’s trajectory.

  She’s still staring at the suit.

  “Do you need help putting it on?”

  “No. Don’t be silly.” She grabs the teal suit, holds it against herself, and examines her reflection in the full-length. Her lips are moving, as though she’s having a vigorous conversation, but no words come out.

  I should call an ambulance. I lay my hand on her forehead to test for fever.

  The contact snaps her out of it. I reach for her wrist to check her pulse but she bats my hand away. She presses the suit against herself, covering up and sharply asks for a bit of privacy.

  Downstairs, I question Stephen about how long my mother was standing there.

  “Five minutes.”

  Stephen asks if she’s going crazy.

  “No,” I say. “She’s just getting confused.” I send the boys out to pack up the car then call the doctor’s office. The receptionist is curt. I outline the morning’s symptoms and ask to speak to the doctor. I’m told she doesn’t do phone consultations.

  “It was like she didn’t know I was there.” I need to know if I should bring her in right away.

  Her response is dry as an automated recording. “If this is an emergency, go to the hospital.”

  I book the first available physical.

  My mother is in the upstairs hall, dressed in her suit and sarong. She’s been listening to my conversation. The colour in her face is better, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to run her by emerg.

  “I just need some breakfast.”

  She sits down at the table, her arms folded over the straw placemat. In the cupboard, there are a couple of digestive biscuits and I put a few on a plate for her. I grab a mug and an Orange Pekoe tea bag, hoping the caffeine will revive her. One cream, two sugars. It could still be anything benign—mild hypoglycaemia or adult-onset diabetes.

  The phone rings. It’s Linda. They’re ready to leave.

  The day’s alternatives spread out like diverging squares on a board game. If there’s a problem, Martinique beach is very remote. I’m not even sure that they have a professional ambulance service. On the other hand, getting my mother to the hospital will be a fight.

  Linda is waiting for the go-ahead.

  “Give us ten minutes, then we’ll be on the road.” We’ll be driving near Halifax, so I reason that’s an hour in a confined space for observation. If there’s any question about her health, we can take a detour.

  I step outside to round up the boys. At the sound of the door closing, their heads pop out of the far shrubbery. I call across the lawn, “You two need to use the bathroom.”

  Luke looks at his brother sheepishly. This is what they’ve been doing in the hedge.

  We’re twenty minutes from the beach when we pass a surfboard rental shop and Stephen asks me if we can take a look. There’s no way that I’m going to let Stephen try surfing, but we settle on a boogie board. Luke, of course, wants to have what his brother is getting. I get him a flutter board instead. He’s got a hand-me-down life jacket, so it should be okay.

  “Do you think Max and Lisa will want one too?”

  Linda’s annoyed when we pull into the parking lot. She’s smoking beside the truck cab, wearing an orange bikini with a white mesh top and jean cut-offs. “We were about to go back to see if you got lost.”

  Stephen’s already brought Max’s board over to him.

  The kids run up the stairs to the boardwalk but Linda hollers for Max to come back. She nudges his ribs and gestures towards me with her cigarette.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Bascom.”

  “No problem.”

  Linda nods at me. The kids sprint ahead and we follow behind with all the stuff. Linda hauls a lot of the gear, despite her espadrilles, which twist out from under her once we hit the sand.

  My mother takes out her book and sets up a towel over by Linda, who’s rubbing on tanning oil. I throw some sunscreen on my legs, my top covered by one of Dad’s old button-downs.

  Martinique beach is white sand with marsh grass growing at the
top of dunes. It’s an endangered sandpiper habitat and before going in the water, I call Luke over to point out the signs describing their migration patterns. They’re not the same variety as at Evangeline beach, but they’re virtually indistinguishable. These birds are fattening up for the three thousand kilometre flight to South America. Breeding season’s passed, so I promise Luke we’ll look for old nests when he’s finished swimming.

  Back on the beach, my mother and Linda are deep in conversation. When I get within earshot, my mother falls quiet, like a kid caught by a teacher. For a moment neither of them say anything. Then my mother starts chortling, her hand over her mouth, body rocking back and forth. Linda’s howling as well.

  “Useless as teats on a steer.”

  At first I think they’re talking about me. I lie on my towel, pretending not to notice.

  My mother finally slows to little hiccups of giggles. She looks at me and says, “Did you know that Linda works with Barry Sheffield now?”

  I can’t place the name.

  “You know, Barry from the co-op. The one with the moles?”

  I vaguely recall a manager or something when my mother was still there.

  “You know,” Linda says. “The one with the damp spot—” It’s too late for her to get the words out because she’s laughing again. “I swear one of the girls caught him in the office.” She cups her hand, pretending to jerk off.

  My mother hunches over laughing again and then straightens up and reaches out to touch my knee. “I might not have told you about that.”

  Linda pulls out her cigarettes and offers one to my mother. She shakes her head and then shrugs. “Why not?”

  In thirty-nine years, I’ve never seen my mother smoke.

  Linda looks over at me. She already knows I’ll refuse. I expect my mother to start coughing, but she doesn’t, just drags on the cigarette and lowers the corner of her mouth to exhale. For a second she’s thirty years younger, the way she looked when Dad was still alive.

  “When did you quit?” Linda asks.

  My mother looks sheepish. “Oh, I haven’t smoked much since Ellie was two or three. I started up again a bit when Mackenzie died—still keep a pack around the house.”

  Linda nods as if she’s seen this all before. “Smoked since I was fourteen,” she says. “The only thing that bothers me is my nail.” She holds her index finger out to show the half-moon stain of nicotine.

  “You just got to bleach it out,” my mother says. “Just a dab or two when you soak your nails. Might take a while, but sure.”

  Linda nibbles a bit of cuticle off and smiles.

  “Do you smoke, Ellie?” My mother leans back on one arm and stretches her legs out. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we’d been keeping it from each other all these years?”

  Linda raises an eyebrow, waiting for my response. It’s like being the only one at a sleepover who doesn’t want to make crank calls. This is my chance to join the rapport between my mother and Linda, but I blow it. I don’t smoke. I don’t want to smoke. I find it embarrassing watching my mother lighting up. Mostly I want to ask if she’s been keeping it from her doctor too.

  “Bernie told me Ellie was more of a drinker.” Linda smirks at my silence, ashing her cigarette in emphasis. “She’d be two sheets to the wind and he’d have to drive her home.”

  They slip right back into their one-on-one.

  Even though there’s nine years between me and Richard, the distance between Linda and Bernie seems unfathomable. On Friday, he’ll be forty. She’s in spitting distance of thirty.

  “Bernie’s a natural with those two,” my mother says.

  “Bernie takes to kids pretty quick. He felt pretty bad about what happened to your Stephen the other night. Drove over to Dougie’s house as soon as Max told him.”

  I watch Linda in my peripheral vision.

  “Blocked the car in the drive and started laying on the horn.”

  “He come out?”

  “I guess. Bernie wouldn’t tell me. Just said they came to an understanding.” She shakes her head. “Fucking stupid if you ask me. Not his fight. That’s the way Bernie is though.”

  “He’s a natural,” my mother repeats, still oblivious to the implications of the altercation. “You two going to have any of your own?”

  Linda holds up her ring finger. “I want to be hitched first next time.”

  At the end of the day, it’s Linda and me left packing up while Bernie herds the kids to the toilets. She separates out our food and hands it over with a forced politeness. Everything smells plastic after the day in the cooler. We won’t make it through all of the coleslaw that’s left so I suggest she keep it for the party she’s throwing for Bernie’s birthday. She holds the container up to the light, checking for an expiry date.

  “We just got it yesterday.”

  She tosses it in their fridge bag. “You know the time, right?”

  I didn’t know we had an invitation.

  “Seven-thirty, at the house.” She works an elastic around a deflated bag of cheese curls. “Bring your man too, if he’s in town.”

  The comment catches me off guard. “Richard’s still in Toronto.”

  “Max told me he’s flying out.”

  “Not anytime soon. Not that I know.”

  She shrugs. “Stephen told him he was flying in on Friday.”

  Her tone makes me suspicious—not about a surprise visit, but that she’s on a fishing expedition. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”

  “The boys must miss their dad.”

  We rise to fold the picnic blanket, a corner in each hand. When we meet in the middle, she towers over me in her heels. “You missing him too?”

  Definitely fishing. “Of course.”

  My first visit here after Richard and I were living together, I thought about him so constantly that he might as well have been travelling with me. Everything I saw, even the most familiar things, I saw with double vision—my own perception and his imagined reaction. We spoke on the phone every night, each goodbye counting down the days until my return.

  This time, I’m feeling his absence, but it’s not the same. Instead, it’s an anxious feeling, like watching a tree being felled and not knowing where it’s going to land.

  On the drive home, my phone starts vibrating—a text from Richard asking me to check my email and give him a call. It’s brief, but the message feels like a good sign, an answer to my rumination. I drop my mother and the boys at home and drive back to Wolfville on the pretext of picking up take-out. Waiting for the email to load, a pop-up ad covers the screen and I almost swear out loud trying to find the close button. When the screen finally clears, I find that the message is a forwarded travel itinerary from Westjet. Linda was right—Richard’s booked on an afternoon flight two days from now. At the bottom of his message he’s written one line: Thought I’d keep it a surprise but then realized I’d need a ride.

  If it’s a surprise, then why do our sons know?

  After dinner, I pull Stephen aside. It doesn’t take much cross-examination.

  “Dad booked his ticket Saturday morning.”

  The day after the fight on the soccer field. This trip is a rescue mission to bring us back to Toronto. What’s so unfair is that it’s not the first time the boys have been witness to this kind of ugliness. In school, there’s a no-tolerance policy and the teachers have been good at cracking down on students using racial slurs. But it’s happened after classes and not just with kids. Once, Luke overheard a friend’s parents discussing the supposed medical dangers faced by kids of mixed parents. Even within the family, one of Richard’s cousins has always had a problem with him marrying a white woman and wasn’t afraid to discuss this in front of the boys until Terrence shut it down. I’m furious that Richard doesn’t trust my judgement. For Linda to know first is humiliating.

  When everyone has gone to sleep, I open my bedroom window and slide out onto the porch roof, hoping that the outside chill will offset the rage that’s building. My je
ans scrape against the shingles, one of which comes loose and jangles down to the lawn. A few bats make passes down from their nests under the eaves.

  It’s the underhandedness, the fact that he involved our sons. We’re right back to where we were at the beginning of the summer—he’s making decisions unilaterally that should involve me. I text him back one line: 6:15, arrivals.

  The phone rings half an hour later, but I don’t pick up. Richard doesn’t leave a message. I sit on the roof for a good while, feeling like a petulant teen, wishing for the first time in twenty years that I had a fat joint to spark and some White Shark to chug. I’d like to see what Richard makes of that.

  6

  WHEN SHE OPENS THE DOOR ,Linda’s arms are looped with streamers. She’s asked me to bring the kids over to keep Max and Lisa occupied while she preps for the party. We’ve come bearing videos—one picked by Stephen and one by Luke because after thirty minutes, I gave up on consensus. They have their whole lives to learn about compromise.

  Linda’s got a friend at M&M Meats who’s helping with the catering. She’s been saving the frozen appetizers nearing their expiration dates and is selling them to Linda half-price. She was supposed to drive them over later tonight but got called in for the late shift. Linda looks at me like she doesn’t want to ask. “You mind driving to the mall? Here, I’ll give you some money.” She digs around in her wallet, crushing the draped crepe paper, and hands over a hundred dollar bill.

  “Bernie out?”

  “He’s supposed to be at Gail’s watching the baseball game but he’s got to work late at the autoshop. He doesn’t really like baseball anyway.”

  “Neither does Richard.”

  “He coming in tomorrow then?”