by Claire Tacon
We can reassess the situation in eight to twelve weeks.
I wheel my mother back to her room. This time she wants me to assist her in transferring back into bed, even though she’s done it herself half a dozen times. She complains when I tilt the bed back upright. She wants me to prop her up with pillows instead.
“This isn’t permanent,” I say.
Her voice is full of rebuke. “People only leave those places in caskets. How do you think they got the spare room?”
There’s a message from the Kentville Agricultural Centre when I get back—they want to bring me in for an interview the day after tomorrow. Richard delivers the information straight, no interrogation, just hands over the phone number on the back of a receipt.
“You’ve got to confirm a time.”
I’d forgotten that I’d applied.
Richard doesn’t ask, but I reassure him that I’m not considering taking the position, that I only wanted to get my feet wet with interviewing again.
“Of course I’ll cancel. I shouldn’t have kept it a secret.”
Richard shakes his head, calling my bluff. “If it’s about practice, by all means, go.”
It’s a first-round panel interview. They’re looking for a research scientist to study methods of reducing agricultural runoff into local waters—not my primary area of expertise, but the meeting goes well enough. When I get back, the boys are on the front lawn staring up at the roof, flanked by Richard, Bernie and Marc. Bernie’s fixed Stephen up with a tool belt and he’s got it slung low on his hips, the hammer smacking his leg with each step. Richard’s got a pen and paper in hand, looking like he’s taking lecture notes.
“Sure, you’ll have to slap some more paint on it,” Bernie says. “Ellie, can you look through the shed to see if there’s any leftover paint?”
“Won’t it have gone off?” Marc asks.
Bernie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugs. “It’s exterior paint.”
“If you just take a chip off the side,” Marc continues, “you can get them to match it at the Canadian Tire.”
I notice Richard scrawling this down. Bernie waves Marc’s suggestion away. “Not important now. We’ve got to pack the insulation in, get the drywall up and do something about the bathroom upstairs. I want to get as much done today as we can.” He doesn’t say it, but his other work’s piling up. “Let’s decide who can do what.”
Marc nods. “Sure. I can start on the bathroom. I’ll fix up the flooring and then tear down the rest of the tile and rotted wall.”
“You know plumbing?”
“So-so.”
“Don’t finish the wall then, just leave it open and I’ll come up afterwards.”
“Luke can help you put things into garbage bags.” Bernie picks Luke up and pulls him onto his lap. “What do you say?”
Luke nods, excited to be the first one asked.
“Richard, how are you at drywalling?” Marc asks.
“Might need a little supervision.”
Bernie’s not impressed. “The four of us can start on the insulation. Then I’ll get you started on the drywall while I’ll go out to get the fixtures for the bathroom.”
The first thing Bernie does is get everyone fitted up with dust masks and gloves, taking extra time with the boys. Luke and Marc go upstairs and the banging starts right away, debris floating down from the hole in the ceiling.
Downstairs, we work in pairs, packing the pink fibreglass in and stapling plastic overtop. Bernie has to keep walking over to inspect Richard and Stephen’s work and to give them a hand. Each time they get corrected, I see Stephen looking up at Richard, questioning. He’s been promised his own bedroom and it’s becoming more obvious that Richard doesn’t have the skills to finish the basement.
Drywalling’s the same ordeal. Bernie has to walk us through the whole process, gesturing with his hands and describing how to measure around the edges.
“Can I leave you to keep working on this?”
Richard nods.
When Bernie’s left for New Minas, Richard keeps trying to get me aside to ask about the interview but Stephen is always within earshot. Despite his earlier nonchalance, I can tell that Richard is on edge about my applying.
The work goes much slower without Bernie, but we manage to get the regular-sized sheets finished, leaving a few areas that will need to be fitted around the windows. We try to measure out one of the notched pieces, Stephen and I holding the tape and Richard making a diagram, but once it’s cut it doesn’t fit. We have to ask Marc to come down to help.
“Easy mistake to make,” Marc says, jovial. “You reversed it.”
“Can’t we put it on the other way?”
“The other wall doesn’t have such a narrow clearance.”
The one sheet is ruined. Marc helps us measure out the next piece and then leaves us. When we try again, Richard insists that we double-check all the measurements. “Are you sure?” he asks when we’re on the last jag. He’s just nervous but it comes out accusing.
“Yes,” Stephen answers, exasperated.
Richard carefully tells us where to cut. When we hold the piece up, we get the same problem, it’s a mirror image and won’t fit.
“You measured wrong.”
“You measure it then.”
Richard takes the tape and checks each side against his note. “It’s off a quarter-inch here.”
Clearly that quarter-inch wasn’t the problem.
Marc hears us fighting and pokes his head down through the hole in the ceiling. “You guys need help?”
“Please.”
He looks at Richard’s diagram then holds up the piece of drywall. “It’s how you’re cutting it. You’re measuring it out opposite to how you should.”
Richard looks over at us, as if to say, see.
Stephen glares back. “You told us how to cut it.”
“It’s okay,” Marc says. “Give me the exacto knife.” He manages to make a few adjustments and fit the piece in, then uses some scrap to fill in the gap.
“How’s it going upstairs?”
“Almost there. Your son’s a trooper.”
It’s getting late and Marc needs to head back. The boys are getting restless so I phone for pizza delivery, which in our area will take over an hour. It’s a ridiculous wait, but we’re glad for the break.
Bernie arrives shortly after the pizza gets there. He wants to unload before eating, while we still have the light. Once we’ve got everything in, including the one-piece shower unit that will become my mother’s tub, he goes into the kitchen to inspect the drywall. Richard’s nervous, but I can tell that he’s also proud that we got it done. Bernie rubs his thumb over the gaps then stands back.
“Yeah, she’s done,” he says. “The seams are a problem, but I should be able to fix them with the plaster.”
We eat in awkward silence. Richard offers to work on the taping but Bernie shakes his head. It’s got to be done a certain way. He sends Richard upstairs with more garbage bags and a Shop-Vac to clear away the last of the garbage in the bathroom. I stay behind to help.
We work quickly together. The seams are taped before the vacuum comes on and then Bernie gets started on the plastering. He works on the more difficult seams and I cover the screw holes. I make two mugs of instant coffee with creamer and hand one to Bernie. He kisses the top of my head absentmindedly. I look around to make sure no one has seen, but they’re still upstairs and the vacuum drowns out all the noise.
When Richard and the boys finish, Bernie says they can take it easy for a while. Richard offers to take our sons to town for ice cream. It’s a good chance to use the bathroom, just in case we don’t get the toilet hooked up tonight.
The two of us get started on the upstairs plumbing. Bernie heats up some PVC tubing with a propane torch and slides it over a metal joint. I crouch next to him, apprehensive at being alone with him and try to make myself useful, handing over tools as they’re needed.
“You�
��re getting good at this,” he says, grabbing the rubber mallet. He leans in to kiss me and I pull back after our lips touch. He shakes his head. “I’m not trying to get into your pants.”
He launches back to work, his lips set in a thin line out of concentration or anger. My job is to put the flux on the copper piping before he starts soldering. It’s uncomfortably hot cramped up here, both of us hunched over the iron.
I focus on the droplets of excess solder.
“Linda’s a great woman,” Bernie says, standing to unplug the extension cord. “In a couple years, we’re thinking of putting in a hatchery for Max to run.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s still real young. Lindie and I could still start our own family.”
Bernie kicks a piece of baseboard into alignment then grapples me over to him, so I’m braced against the window frame. The sill pinches my back. Bernie’s mouth tastes of sweat and coffee whitener. I push him away, reflexive, but he keeps me pinned, his breath shallow and fast. He looks me straight in the eye. “I don’t want to be left holding the short end of the stick.”
He thinks I’m leaving Richard.
The car turns in the drive and there’s no time to explain.
We sleep indoors for the first time, the boys in their sleeping bags and Richard and I in my mother’s room. There’s still no toilet or sink, but the bathtub wall unit is hooked up to running water. Before he left, Bernie gave explicit instructions for sanding the plaster before priming. “At this point it should be pretty foolproof,” he said, condescending as all hell.
Lying there, his sleeping bag unzipped because of the heat, Richard tells me he’s counting down the days until we’re back in our own home. He tucks his knees up, curving his back. Richard’s lost weight this summer and in this position his spine is super-articulated. Sometimes I forget how much older he is than me, than Marc, than Bernie. He isn’t used to people outshining him. These renovations are driving him crazy. My fingers trace his spine and ribs.
“That feels nice,” he murmurs. He shifts onto his back so I can rest my head on his collarbone. “I’m sorry about the drywall.”
“It’s new for all of us.”
“No, I was being a crank. It’s just—how much does a sheet of drywall cost? The way Bernie reacted, you’d think I’d have to sell a kidney to replace it.”
I roll on top of him, resting my weight on my elbows. “After the plumber comes tomorrow, we can do the rest ourselves.”
He tugs my shirt up so our bellies are pressed skin against skin. He asks for a blow-by-blow of the job interview. The day’s been so long, it feels like it happened yesterday.
“Is this something you’d want?” he asks. “Something in government?” It’s hard to read where it’s coming from, if he’s disappointed.
Nothing about Richard’s working life, from his early tenure to his field of research, has prepared him to seek out change. What excites geochronologists about rock is its stasis. Unchanged, it’s a glimpse into the way things were. The less altered the rock, the more it spreads open like a mineral history of our planet.
Soil science is a different kind of endurance sport. It wouldn’t exist if rock never changed, if the parent material never weathered into soil, into a medium for life.
“We were fighting when I applied,” I start to explain.
He motions for me to blink so he can brush a lash out of my eye crease.
“If I make it to the next round I can withdraw.”
Richard shushes me. “What I was thinking is that for the next sabbatical—I know it’s not for another year—but if you need to move somewhere for a contract job, I can arrange things around it.”
Without anything to rage against, all I can see is his tenderness.
9
WE MOVE MY MOTHER’S THINGS the next afternoon. It’s only a carload—a bottle-green ceramic table lamp, some doilies from the basement, a few books, three framed family photos from her bedside and seven changes of clothes. My mother’s jumpy about having personal items in the new room—she’s equated making it more homey with making the move permanent. I lay out the doilies on the side table and window ledge, place her toiletries in the drawers and buy her a proper box of Kleenex and a bag of hard candy. With so few mementos, the place looks like a soft prison.
Thursday I drive her and the menagerie of plants she’s collected from hospital visitors over to the nursing home. I wheel her into the room and she surveys it, then wheels herself over to the ledge with the photos. She shakes her head and rearranges them, angling them away from the light. The task irritates her, as though she’s righting a prized possession upset by a rough houseguest.
There’s a big lawn out front and I ask if she’d like to have a coffee outside with me before I go. She glares at the mention of it, a warning that she won’t be easily appeased. She thinks I’ve betrayed her leaving her there but sooner or later she’s got to realize that she’s going to need assistance. She’s got to understand that I’m only trying to protect her.
Protect her from herself. I sound just like Richard did earlier this summer. It isn’t the same, I say, trying to justify the difference, but it nags me for the rest of the day.
Friday night there’s a double bill of pirate movies at the New Minas theatre and Linda’s asked if Stephen and Luke want to go with her kids. It’s also karaoke at Legends Bar in Coldbrook and Bernie calls early Friday morning to extend the invitation, his voice flat as a dental receptionist confirming a six-month checkup. I can’t decide if it’s because he’s still angry about the other night or if Linda’s in the room.
Luke’s hanging between Richard’s arms, using his father’s shoulders as a jungle gym. When I ask about karaoke, Richard swings our son into a somersault and shakes his head, pass.
I tell Bernie we’re happy to take the kids to the movies.
Stephen pauses his video game and groans when he hears this, disappointed about being chaperoned. It’s his first kids-only event this summer. Richard catches our son’s frustration and tells me to firm it up with Bernie after all. “It’ll be fine,” he says as Luke flips over again. “Give us a chance to relax.”
We give Stephen forty dollars to treat everyone to popcorn and candy. He carefully folds the bills into the utility pocket of his jeans and I notice him checking it periodically on the drive over. Sometimes I forget how young he is, that forty dollars is the most money he’s ever had on him.
Bernie and Linda don’t make a fuss with goodbyes like we do. They stand by the double doors, impatient, as we give the boys one last hug. Linda’s wearing a flowery dress with spaghetti straps that gives as much coverage on top as a triangle bikini. Next to her, in my unlaundered tank and shorts, I look like a bookish kid sister.
“You got your CDs?” Bernie asks her.
She hits him on the shoulder. “Christ, Bernie, stop pestering about the CDs.”
He gooses her rump and she swats him away. In the tussle, her breast slips precariously close to the seam. Linda looks up, laughing. “Bernie’s making fun of me because I like to bring my own music.”
“The host only brings his own five thousand songs.”
“I don’t always want to sing the oldies.” Linda knocks on the car window to get Bernie to open up faster. It’s the first time I’ve seen the two of them flirting like this. “A person likes to practice, too.”
Richard hums as we continue towards our own car. “Hardcore karaoke.”
Legends is the Pulpit minus the university students. I guide Richard into the parking lot and he tilts his head at the cheesy backlit sign. Here? Really? There’s no lineup, but the bouncer’s already at the front door, solid as ham hock.
The karaoke host, Bobby Vince, is at the back of the raised dance floor, setting up for the night. He’s a short man, probably about Richard’s age, but paunchier and dressed like he’s judging the twist at a sock hop—black shirt, black pants, checkered suspenders and bowtie. He’s busy plugging in AV cords and chatting with a few
of the regulars who’ve also brought their own backup CDs.
Pretty soon, the place starts filling up. The few students are easy to spot. They sit on the far side of the room—the girls in terry cloth shorts and tube-tops, the boys in jeans and ironic T-shirts. Except for an old-timer sinking five-dollar bills into the video gambling machines, we’re the oldest people here.
Richard and I half-heartedly flip through the request book.
He leans closer so no one hears. “Do you notice anything different?”
I scan the crowd but don’t see anything out of the ordinary.
He tilts his head. “Twelve o’clock.” Lined up at the bar, there’s a group of about eight black men. It’s the first time since he’s arrived in Nova Scotia that it’s been anything other than Wonderbread.
Bernie interrupts our conversation to line up twelve plastic cups in front of us. The beer is cheap and pale, a queue of urine samples. His brother, Jason, squeezes in next to Richard and distributes the draft. Richard doesn’t want any, so that leaves four for the rest of us. I’ll be lucky to get through two.
Linda calls over from the next booth. “Bernie, Gail wants you to do Summer Nights with her.”
“Lindie, you know I don’t sing.”
“I’ll do it with the big handsome guy then,” Gail drawls.
“She means you, Richard,” Linda says. “It’s from Grease. You ever seen it?”
He ducks his head and waves off the suggestion but Linda wags her finger at him. “I’m putting your name down.”
Bobby opens the night at nine-thirty with his own rendition of Rambling Rose. Then it’s Linda’s turn and the sounds of Britney Spears’ Hit Me Baby One More Time blare out from the speakers. Her voice isn’t terrible. Performing, Linda’s totally unselfconscious, like an indulged child. She gyrates through the chorus and deftly swishes the mic cord from side to side. During the bridge she purrs, “This song’s dedicated to all the good lookin’ men I see out there tonight.”
