Maxine (11 page)

Sure, says Maxine, pushing the hair back off her face and ducking down the steps. Great. Bye, Barb.

Sometimes it wouldn't take much to give Barb what she wants, but she can be so pathologically single-minded thatMaxine sometimes feels she should be resisted on principle. Kyle is smart and funny and he knows plenty. He's a nice kid, but he doesn't strike Maxine as a genius. Barb clearly believes it, though, and not just about karate. She's said other things. She wanted to have special testing done and the teacher said not to bother. Barb was furious. Maybe it's something all parents have to believe, a Darwinian thing: my child is more interesting/creative/intelligent etcetera than the others and therefore I will ensure that he gets special attention. If Kyle were starving in a famine, Barb would step on other kids' heads to get to the front of the rations line. This would probably not be excusable even in the circumstances, but if there is no famine—if Barb just thinks Kyle might want a hotdog, say…Sometimes Barb tells Maxine about an argument she's been in with a teacher or another parent. She smiles that smile that means she knows she's done something bad and she's proud of it. Behind the adult Barb, Maxine can see a two-year-old who's poured a glass of milk over the kitchen table, grinning at her mother in a way that says I told you I didn't want it.

Kyle: OK, so how many words does your book have? I'll look at the rules.

How many words do I need, O Extreme Researcher?

How many do you have?

Quite a few.

How many.

Not telling.

Kyle sighs and straightens his arms, rolling his chair backwards from the table and pulling himself forward again. He does this a couple of times as he reads the screen. Well, he says, a million words would be good, I think.

A
million
? Let me see that.

Actually, it doesn't say that. That's how many I thought would be good.

Je—um, Jeesh. How many does it say you have to have?

Maxine lies back on the couch using the armrest as a pillow. She closes her eyes and waits for the answer.

Five with four zeroes to eight with four zeroes.

Listen, Ky. It could be a long time before I finish this.

Not necessarily. In her heyday, Enid Blyton was writing about ten thousand words a day, or a book a week.

Well I'm not Enid Blyton and this isn't my heyday.

When was your heyday?

I don't think I've had one.

Oh good, it's probably coming soon.

Gail's taking a night course. She wants a better handle on businesss for when the catering takes off. Maxine reads over her term paper. Loss leader? Maxine checks it in the dictionary, but Gail was right. Maxine always thought it was lost leader, a phrase that brought to mind a forest, King Arthur wandering wanly in search of Camelot, Charlemagne trying to find his way back through the Basque country. The poignancy of the muddied hero. Accuracy can be so banal, so disappointing.

Many people, Maxine has learned to her surprise, dislike the present tense. They find it pretentious. It creates a distance between the reader and the characters. It is, apparently, jarring, fancy, overused, and self-conscious. These things don't bother Maxine one bit. The reason she prefers the past tense is that it's safe. Whatever Frédérique did in the past is over and done with, unlikely to cause any ripples now. With the present, you never know where you are. Things keep happening—it's disruptive and untidy. Furthermore, Maxine has discovered, tense isn't just about verbs. It's much bigger than that. She was fixing a paragraph, changing it over from the present to the past, and realized that
Here she is now
does not easily translate as
here she was now
. Somehow,
here
is no longer
here
once you've changed the verb; it's more like
there
. Nor does
now
translate neatly into a past
then
. Place and time have swum around before your eyes. Substitute rhubarb for apple in the pie, and when it comes out of the oven you've got pot roast.

Maxine is lying on her back on the living-room floor next to the phone, bum tucked against the baseboard, legs up the wall. Periodically she spreads them apart in a V, keeping them very straight, then draws them slowly back up together.

I have one word for you. Listen up. The word is dingbat.

I couldn't help it, Gail, I just had to get out of there.

That guy is totally cute. And he's nice too.
He
wasn't making you feel weird?

No, no, it wasn't him.

Well then what the hell was your problem?

I know, but it was something about the smell in the room, it was making my skin go all prickly. I felt like—something really bad would happen. If I stayed there.

It's a pet store. It smells funny because there are pets in it.

Yeah, I know, but.

This really nice guy is practically inviting you to spend the weekend with him—

Ga-yul! A
walk
is not spending the weekend—

—and you turn him down because your
skin
feels prickly—

I had to get outside—

What do you think would have happened, for Chrissake? If you'd stayed? I'm searching for enlightenment here. I'm on a quest. What is the terrible thing that could have happened?

Maxine bends her knees and rolls onto her side.

I don't know, she says quietly.

Frédérique slid out from under the duvet, pulled on a silk robe the colour of milky coffee, and left the room quietly. A few minutes later she returned, pulled the covers down on the other side of the bed and exposed a broad shoulder.

“Jerome,” she said. “Jerome, time to go.” She shook his shoulder gently. He was so young. The skin of his shoulder felt smooth and warm. She shook him again, harder. “Jerome! You must go now. Get dressed.” Jerome sat up and yawned.

“I've called you a taxi,” Frédérique said.

“Why?What time is it?”

“It's five o'clock. I need to work now, and you will be a distraction.” She handed him a pair of boxer shorts. Jerome blinked. He looked like a dumb animal, puzzled at his mistreatment.

“Aren't we going to have breakfast?” He started to pull on his jeans.

“You can have breakfast at home. The taxi is already taken care of.” Frédérique guided him through the small suite to her door. He still seemed dazed.

“But when will I see you? Will you come to the shop today?”

“I am very busy today. Maybe later this week, though.” Jerome looked as if he might burst into tears. “Darling. It has been so lovely to spend time with you.” She kissed him warmly.

“What about the dog?”

“I've decided against the dog.” At this Jerome looked so dejected that she hesitated. She kissed him again, on the cheek this time, and said, “Perhaps a bird. A little bird that would sing, or even a talking one. You will show me, later on this week?”

“For sure. Any time.”

“Oh there's the taxi, goodbye darling!”

It's been an easy transition from friend to caregiver because they both feel pretty much the same to Maxine. All it means is that some of the time she spends with Kyle she now gets paid for, and she has a key for the Larsens' car.

You are crazy. You are already mixed up enough with those people.

Gay, he comes over anyway. I like it—I like him. We're talking swimming lessons or whatever. It's no big deal. And it's a few dollars coming in.

Gail sounds dubious. Yeah, OK, they're realizing your time is valuable, I guess that's something.

Barb had pounced when Maxine was taking out the garbage and forced her in for coffee. There hadn't been a good moment for Maxine to say she doesn't drink coffee because it kicks her heartbeat into the middle of next week so she'd fidgeted and tried to think of a polite way to interrupt and wondered how she could discreetly get rid of the coffee, could she pour it down the bathroom sink or would taking your coffee with you to the bathroom look too weird? She had actually tried—she'd said Barb, thanks, but I don't want any coffee—just as Barb flipped the switch on the coffee grinder. None of this really mattered because Barb was focussed entirely on what she had to say.

I can't have any more you know, Barb said. (Maxine did, and it wasn't a part of Barb's life she wanted to explore.) I don't want to miss anything. I don't want to miss five minutes of him growing up. I've thought about home schooling. It's hard to come here and set up a consulting business when you don't know anybody. Everybody is someone's cousin here. They don't want to let you in.

Her back was to Maxine as she measured. She gave each scoop a quick flick with her wrist to level the grounds. When she'd switched the coffeemaker on, she turned to face Maxine. She leaned back against the countertop.

But I have a good chance at this contract. Sit down, Maxine, please, Barb said, as if Maxine were Kyle. This is a huge contract. It would be a lot for me to take on. For a year or so, I'd be flat out. But after that I could take it easy. Work while he's at school, stop when he comes home. I've been going over it in my head every day, half the night. Talking about it with Dave. We're farm people, we worked all through school. I want to have money set aside so he doesn't have to shovel manure when he should be studying. If I work like a crazy woman this year, I'll meet everyone important in the business. I'd have the option to renew the contract with a reduced load.

Barb looked at Maxine to make sure she was following, which she was.

I've looked at this every which way. It's a big sacrifice. I'll miss out on a lot. I won't be volunteering for the field trips and watching him take his belt test and all that stuff—I won't have time. But if I do this for one year I'll be set and then I can spend all the time I want with him. So that's where you come in. I'd need someone for a year. Not all the time, but to help out, drive him sometimes, to swimming, birthday parties, drop him off, pick him up, be there after school, take him to a movie the odd time, that kind of thing. I can't be with him as much as I'd like but I want to make sure he's taken care of. You can charge what you like, we can talk about the details later.

Barb handed Maxine a large mug of coffee.

Maybe it sounds like I'm trying to dump my kid on you because I don't want to spend time with him. That's not it. I want to spend all my time with him. That's why it's hard for me to take this contract. But it means I can spend so much more time with him after this first year, I could work only while he's in school. Dave's professional situation is…uncertain. I have to make sure Kyle is taken care of.

Maxine, I know we don't know each other all that well but I trust my gut and my gut says Kyle is in a good place with you. And if you would do this, it would just be a huge thing for our family. It's not a permanent commitment. I'm just asking you to think about it, OK, please think about it, don't say no right now, take some time.

Maxine looked up in horror when she heard Barb's voice crack and caught her rubbing her eye: Yes, Barb, sure, don't worry, I'm sure we'll work something out. Barb, sorry but I'm expecting a call, it's kind of important, gotta run. Don't worry, I'll do it, OK?

Maxine, in the Larsens' car, waits for the green at Rawlins Cross and a shiny black crow on the sidewalk keeps a suspicious eye on her. It turns its head toward the car and away, toward and away, and then does one sideways hop closer to snatch up a bright orange crumb. There's another big crumb, even closer to the car; it looks like a goldfish cracker. The crow hesitates and then jumps again. Every possible colour is bound into its glossy black feathers. When the crow seems to face Maxine, she realizes suddenly, it can't see her. It's when it turns away that the eye on the side of its head fixes her savagely. This seems both significant and disconcertingly not-human, and the light changes, and Maxine drives away.

Maxine, were you listening?

Sure, Ky.

What was the last bit I said?

Um, the, uh, book club. I'll read the book you're reading in your book club.

The High King.
And you'll come on Reading Buddy Day and talk about it.

Oh.

And do you remember when Reading Buddy Day is?

It's. Thursday.

Friday at three.

Next Friday? Actually, you know, it's too bad, but I don't think I have that book.

It's on the 16th. And I have a library copy here for you.

You little frigger.

Kyle uses a singsong voice: Max-iine. Lan-guage.

All right. Just write me a little note, OK? With the day and the time.

So what are your settings?

I don't know much about that stuff, Ky. I mostly just do word processing.

No, no—your settings. This site says “No scene can take place nowhere. Each scene happens somewhere. It has a spay-teal context—”

Spatial.

“Spatial context of which readers should generally be aware, since the details of setting will reinforce, oppose or render more vivid the action of the narrative.” Have you thought about your settings?

Yeah, they've crossed my mind.

Well are readers, you know, generally aware of them, do you think?

Isn't it time the North Koreans conquered the Romans or something? Oh. OK.

Frédérique bent over the keyboard, pounding at it with her fingers. She was describing galaxies. She was mapping the stars.

Mapping the stars is probably a cliché. The Andromeda Galaxy looks like a shallow soup bowl with a wide rim, angled on its side. The Large Magellanic Cloud is a primitive sea creature, the indistinct amoebic ancestor of a sea-horse. What would interest Frédérique most about the Local Group, which is her principal area of expertise? The Milky Way?
“Peuh,” scoffed Frédérique.“Everyone's done stellar populations in the Milky Way.”
Right, then—the Pegasus dwarf spheroidal galaxy (Peg dSph). That can be Frédérique's area, pretty darn cutting edge, since no one consciously laid eyes on it until about four years ago. Peg, Frédérique calls it, but thinks of it as male. Peg the boy-dwarf galaxy is gorgeous, a splatter of blue dots of light, tiny balls dangling in an earring cluster, foregrounded in a 1999 photo by several much larger yellow stars with red, purple, and orange aureolae, each sliced though vertically like a cherry on a toothpick by a thin line of light. It's about two thousand light-years across and Frédérique asks it questions occasionally because it is beautiful, her lovely boy galaxy—small, diffuse, pointillist, sapphire and lapis lazuli. The colour, she knows, is in the photograph, not in the sky. Also he's much older than the sun, so hardly a boy, but it's how she likes to think of him. Peg so rarely contradicts, which is satisfying, his views at times naive and requiring guidance but unfailingly well-intentioned.