I go to the kitchen and get my car keys from my purse. Then I unlock the front door and step onto the porch. I should change out of my housecoat, but I don’t care who sees me. No one will be up at this hour anyway. Aside from Mr. Sparrow. I look over and see that his blinds are down. It’s still early, I remind myself. No reason to get worked up. Not yet.
The stair railing is dotted with dew and cool to my touch. I walk to my car and get the map out of the glove compartment, then hurry up the front walk and back into the house.
I don’t need the map. I know the way. But it calms me to think of planning out the route, to see things from a bird’s-eye view, like God. I move the bowl of plastic fruit from the centre of the kitchen table and spread the map out, smoothing the creases with my palms. I squint at lines as thin as spider veins. I’m terrified by the idea of driving on the highway. But there’s no other choice. I find Balsden eventually and, taking a ballpoint pen, dot the old highway to Andover with evenly spaced pinpoints.
“That’s all you have to do, Joyce,” I say. “Just drive from one dot to the next.”
Everything looks so simple on paper.
In the den, I pick up yesterday’s newspaper and open it to the weather forecast, even though I checked it last night. Sunny with a high of 29. That’s 84 Fahrenheit, a nice summer day. The humidity has broken and there’s no rain expected. To be certain, I turn on the weather channel and sit in my glider, watching repeats of the same information. The springs of the glider click noisily beneath me. It’s a hard sound, like bone grinding against bone. Still, no rain. Only sunny skies.
“All right, then,” I say to myself, and at that moment, Mr. Sparrow’s blinds roll up like a sailor’s good omen. Everything, it seems, is falling into place.
I turn on the radio and try listening to the morning’s news, but it’s hard to concentrate. My cereal bloats in its milk lake. Pulp dries on the sides of my juice glass. The butterflies on my placemat reveal new patterns. Electric. That’s how I feel, as though I could lay a finger on a lamp and it would turn on. Is this how people feel when they take drugs?
I take out the map again, my eyes surveying all the squiggly lines and the varying letter sizes of the towns and cities. The smell of the paper is comforting and reminds me of Charlie for some reason. I’ve missed him more than I ever thought I would. To think he was gone so soon after retiring. A life of shift work in exchange for a few short years of freedom.
I take my powder-blue pantsuit from the bedroom closet and pick out a yellow-striped blouse to wear underneath. In the bathroom, I smooth foundation over my face and spin small circles of blush on my cheeks. Then I go back to my bedroom for one final touch of perfume.
I grab my purse, the map and a couple of peppermints from the jar on the kitchen counter. Then I step out onto the porch for the second time. The day is heating up. I consider going back inside to apply some deodorant.
“Well, hello there!”
Mr. Sparrow is standing in his front yard, garden hose in hand.
Damn it
, I think, trying to jam the map into my purse. It catches on the clasp.
“Good morning,” I call back and make my way down the front steps. “Looks like it’ll be a warm one today.”
“What’s that?” Mr. Sparrow cups his ear.
“I SAID IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE QUITE WARM TODAY.”
He shuffles down his driveway. I check my watch. I don’t have time for this!
“Well, someone’s all dolled up for a Wednesday,” he says when he reaches the curb.
“I’VE HAD THIS OUTFIT FOR SOME TIME.”
“Purple suits you.”
Purple?
Is he colour blind? “THANK YOU. IT’S ACTUALLY BLUE. I SUPPOSE THERE’S A HINT OF PURPLE IN IT.”
Why am I going on like this? He could’ve said it was plaid for all I care. I need to get going. “HAVE YOU BEEN ALL RIGHT?”
“Have I been on a bike?”
For the love of god. I stand on my tiptoes and cup my hand alongside my mouth. “HAVE YOU BEEN
ALL RIGHT?”
“Yes, thank you. All things considered. The peaches are coming in nicely. I’ll bring you over a basket.”
“THAT’S VERY NICE OF YOU.” I begin to walk backwards to the car. “TAKE CARE AND DON’T STAY OUT IN THIS HEAT.”
I pop a peppermint into my mouth as soon as I get into the car. All that yelling has made my throat sore. Half the neighbourhood has probably heard our conversation. I’m just glad he didn’t bring up Freddy. I slowly reverse out of the driveway.
Everything was Winnipeg. Winnipeg, Winnipeg, Winnipeg. I’d never heard the name so much in the months leading up to the band finals. I’d wake up in the morning with the word spelled out in thick black letters on my bedroom ceiling.
John’s band needed to raise money for their trip, so the winter and early spring saw one fundraising gimmick after the next. I had to sort through our closets for yard sale contributions and make dozens of cookies for as many bake sales. I sold bricks of cheese to everyone I could think of.
“Why do I feel like I’m doing all the work?” I asked John.
“You’re not,” he said. “I sold three blocks of cheese to Mr. Sparrow the other day. He’s a big fan of marble, although I had him pegged as an old cheddar sort of guy.”
“How much more money do you need to raise? You’re going to Manitoba, not Switzerland.”
“There’s a lot involved with this trip. Transportation, accommodations, new uniforms. This isn’t amateur hour, Mother.”
Mother
. My new name. I hated the way he said it, through his nose with an air of formality. A condescension. Charlie, I noted, was still called Dad. How had he managed to escape John’s disapproval?
I griped and complained about the efforts going into the trip, but I was happy for John. I hadn’t seen him that excited for the longest time. He’d finally found his niche. A group of band members got together after school to practise—a boy who played the trumpet and two girls who played the clarinet. John seemed to hit it off in particular with one of the girls. A redhead named Angela. She was pleasant enough, although I thought her complexion was too pale and she had bad teeth. Soft. I could tell by looking at them. She certainly wasn’t the type of girl I pictured my son with, although when I stopped to consider it, I couldn’t think what type I
could
picture him with.
“Are you and Angela more than friends?” I ventured once.
John’s mouth compressed into a tight line as he informed me they were just friends, thank you very much. I told him I bet my bottom dollar that Angela had feelings for him.
“I see the way she looks at you,” I said, surprised by the twinge of jealousy I felt.
In the final days leading up to the trip, I became racked with worry. John hadn’t been away from home before, at least not without Charlie and me. He was too young to make such a big trip. I was certain something was going to happen.
“How many guardians will be accompanying the students?” I asked the band director, Mr. Mandalay.
“We have six adults for forty-seven students. It was all outlined in the letter I sent home. Did John not give it to you?”
“Of course he did. But that’s eight students per adult. I really don’t think it’s sufficient. You know how rowdy teenagers can get.”
“ ‘Rowdy’ isn’t an adjective generally used to describe band kids, Mrs. Sparks.”
Charlie told me I was overreacting as usual. “Just be happy for him,” he said.
“I am!”
“You can’t control everything in his life.”
“I’m not trying to.”
The day of the departure, I drove John to the school parking lot in the dark hours of an April morning. We ran through the list of items he was taking, including the phone number of my aunt who lived in Winnipeg.
“She’s expecting a visit,” I said. “Be sure you call.”
“I won’t have time.”
“Yes, you will. And I’ve already cleared it with Mr. Mandalay.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
There was a yellow school bus in the parking lot, surrounded by an assortment of cars. I saw students with suitcases and black cases, holding their instruments of choice. My son was with good people. Kind people. These were people who communicated with music, not fists. John asked me to pull over a fair distance from the school bus. He didn’t want me to come any closer. I could live with that. I hugged him and kissed his cheek and told him to call me the minute he arrived in Winnipeg.
“You’ll have a great time,” I said as he opened the door. “And give my love to Aunt Eleanor.”
I watched him as he crossed the parking lot, lit up by the twin beams of my headlights, his baritone case and suitcase alternately hitting the sides of his thighs. I parked in a far corner. His face was a blur in the window as the bus pulled away.
I went home and kept the radio on all day, listening for news of cars crossing medians or broken bridge railings. But there was nothing. The next evening, we received a collect call. He was fine. They were in Winnipeg. The hotel was nice. He hadn’t called Aunt Eleanor yet, but promised he would. I pressed the telephone receiver tightly against my ear, trying to eliminate the distance between us.
A few days later, Aunt Eleanor phoned.
“When did you say John was coming?”
“He’s there now,” I said. “He hasn’t called?”
“No. And I’ve got a ham in the fridge.”
I called the hotel. There was no answer in John’s room. It was seven o’clock. What was the time difference in Manitoba? I couldn’t remember. I called Charlie at work, embarrassed by my worry.
“He should’ve called Eleanor by now, Charlie.”
“There’s no point getting worked up. I don’t know why you insisted he visit her in the first place.”
“She wanted to see him.”
“Only after you told her he was coming.”
“What if she saw him on the street?”
“She’s never met him, Joyce.”
The more I thought things through, the more I realized John had no intention of visiting Aunt Eleanor. My nails dug into my palms. I’d ground him the minute he stepped off the bus. I called Aunt Eleanor back.
“I’m awfully sorry, but I’m not sure John will be able to visit you. They’re very busy with the competition. I hope that ham won’t go to waste.” I told her to call me if she heard from him. She never did.
The day of his return, I got to the parking lot earlier than needed. I sat there in the car, my arms crossed. This wasn’t like him. John was always courteous and polite to a fault, especially around relatives. When I’d told him that Aunt Eleanor had six cats and was a pack rat, his interest had perked up.
“You like strange old women,” I teased. “Why is that?”
He shrugged. “Most of them don’t care if they’re strange.”
Eventually, the yellow bus pulled into the lot. I couldn’t prevent the smile from spreading across my face. My son was home. It had been a week, and I’d missed him terribly. I’d found myself pacing the floors, uncertain what to do without him.
But my delight was short-lived. The second he got into the car, I knew something was wrong. I could smell it.
“Did you win?” I asked.
“We didn’t even place,” he said. “Some band from Kamloops won. I’ve never even heard of Kamloops.”
“Did you have fun, at least?”
An uncertain nod.
“Aunt Eleanor called me.”
“I didn’t have time.”
“She was expecting you, John.”
“I didn’t have time.”
When we got back home, he went straight to his room and stayed there until I called him for dinner. I’d made his favourite—tuna casserole. He trudged down the hallway and pushed his food around his plate.
“Are you all right?” I asked. My thoughts immediately went to Angela.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just tired. It was a long bus ride home.”
I assumed that, whatever the cause, his bad mood would clear up within a few days. But it didn’t. If anything, his mood seemed to darken. When he looked at me, his eyes were unfocused. I was competing for attention against an enemy I couldn’t see.
“Something happened,” I whispered to Charlie. “In Winnipeg.”
“Girl problems,” Charlie said. “The redhead must’ve done something.”
“He told me they’re just friends.”
“That’s what all boys say.”
John moved from one day to the next, seeming more and more distant as time went on. He refused to acknowledge that anything was wrong and insisted he was fine. As soon as he came home from school, he’d lock himself in his bedroom and practise his baritone. The sounds were so mournful. I’d press my ear against the door, hoping for some insight, some spoken fragments, but there was nothing. My panic rose with each passing day.
I turned to the only person who might have an answer. I found Angela’s number in the phone book.
“Please don’t tell John I called you,” I said. “I’m worried about him. He’s different since he got back from the trip. Do you know if something happened?”
“Not that I know of,” she said slowly. “I didn’t see him all that much.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. At least, not after we lost in the first rounds.”
“Where did he go?”
“Nowhere. He was still at the hotel. But there were a lot of people at the competition. It was hard to keep track of anyone.”
She paused. I wound the phone cord around my finger.
Then, very carefully, she said, “He made a new friend, from Quebec. A trumpet player. I don’t know what his name was. The two of them really hit it off.”
A jingle for a mattress store booms through the speakers. Why does everyone have to scream to be heard these days? I reach over and turn the radio off. I need to focus all of my concentration on the road ahead. I’m afraid something will dart in front of me. I know I’m supposed to keep driving, even if it means hitting it. That’s what Charlie always told me.
“Never swerve. It’s either your life or the raccoon’s.”
“I’m fine,” I say aloud. “I’m perfectly capable. I just need to maintain a straight path. That’s all.”
People travel on highways every day. Thousands of them. Even this paltry stretch of road I’m on right now. Not even a highway. Just a two-lane road, no different from the one I take to the hairdresser or to the mall. I’m just going a little faster.