John shrugs and grips my hand tighter. I hope, when he’s older, he remembers our walks home. I hope he remembers the feeling of my hand and the pebbled sidewalks and the smell of early summer. The party is Saturday afternoon. Today is Thursday. Is it too much trouble to ask for
some
advance notice?
“We’ll have to get Benjamin a present tonight,” I say. “Remember we’re going to Aunt Helen’s for dinner tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to go there,” John says. “I don’t like Mark.”
“Now John …”
“Marianne is bossy. And Uncle Dickie looks funny.”
What am I going to do with this boy? He’s going to give me such a run in this life.
“It’s not nice to talk about your relatives that way,” I remind him. He looks up, scrutinizing my face, gauging my sincerity.
Charlie gets home from work shortly after six. He’s on days this week. Twelve hours, from six to six, then he’s off for three days and back for three nights. He sits down at the table in his beige work shirt with matching beige pants. Sometimes, when he’s coming home from a night shift, I’ll meet him in the kitchen wearing my short purple nightie. We’ll sneak down to the laundry room or the unfinished basement, the smell of crude oil and night air still on his skin. I love him desperately in those moments, this abandoned young boy with a dream. I can almost believe what he says. That everything
does
work out for the best.
I take his dinner plate from the oven and set it on the table in front of him. Charlie won’t eat a vegetable to save his life. Everything he puts in his mouth is either white or brown. John and I have already eaten. It’s better when it’s just the two of us. John loves vegetables. His favourite is carrot medallions. I let him peel them.
“I have to go to Woolworth’s,” I say to Charlie. “John’s been invited to a birthday party on Saturday. You can come if you want. To the store, I mean.” I know he won’t, so I feel safe putting it out there.
“You go ahead,” Charlie says around a mouthful of meat loaf. “Don’t spend too much. I need to get the car fixed.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m taking it in.”
“Is it safe to drive?”
“So long as you don’t use the brakes.”
I swat him with my tea towel. “Don’t joke about things like that. You know I’m a nervous driver.”
“I need some socks. Wool ones.”
“I’ll pick some up.”
The store isn’t busy. We pass through the empty aisles and when we come to the perfume section, I almost stop. I’m desperate for some kind of indulgence these days. I saw a dress in the window of Purdy’s on the weekend and just about cried. It was dark blue with a lace collar. I used to have a dress just like that, although I have no idea what happened to it. I have a hard time connecting with my younger self. My teenage years seem like memories belonging to someone else.
“What do you think Benjamin would like?” I ask John as we make our way towards the toy section.
“He plays cowboys and Indians a lot.”
“Do you ever play with him? You’d make a good cowboy.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t like playing that.”
Charlie wanted to sign John up for baseball this past spring. He was excited about being a father, about making up for all the things he never experienced as a kid. The first time we took John out West to visit Charlie’s family, Charlie was so proud of his son. I’d never seen him so happy.
“He’s got my ears,” he said to his mother. “Unfortunately.”
“It’s a sign of intelligence,” Mrs. Sparks said.
“It’s a sign of big ears,” Charlie laughed and lifted John high into the air.
“Treat him right,” Mrs. Sparks said. “You be everything to him.” I heard the slightest quiver in her voice. It was the closest I’d seen her come to revealing the damage Charlie’s father had caused the family. When Charlie broached the idea of baseball with John, we both thought it was a good idea. Our boy needed more physical activity. But John crossed his arms against his chest and howled as though we’d just told him Santa Claus had died. I pleaded with him to give it a chance. Charlie even made him a wooden platform with a pipe to practise hitting the ball, but John would have none of it. I remember the hurt expression on Charlie’s face when he took the platform out to the curb for garbage collection. Later that afternoon, my son and I made a zucchini loaf. I told John to wrap a slice up and set it into his father’s lunch box.
“It’ll be a nice surprise for Daddy when he’s at work.”
John was so careful with the waxed paper that it broke my heart. My husband and son seemed frozen on parallel lines.
The toy section is a whirl of reds and blues and yellows. “Now remember what I said, John. We’re here for Benjamin. Not you.”
We go to the boys’ section and he surveys the shelves of trucks and war figurines. I take a bag of small plastic soldiers from the shelf. The price is reasonable.
“Do you think Benjamin would like this?” I ask. He shrugs. There’s also a toy gun with a holster. “Or this?”
Another shrug.
“Bag of soldiers it is. Now we need to get a card. And wrapping paper. Did we pass that section on the way here?”
I walk towards the end of the aisle to get my bearings. I’m still thinking about the perfume we passed. Why does Benjamin get to have all the fun? I’ll give myself a squirt or two of something. Just to test it out before we have our rec room party. Maybe I’ll stop by the dress department before we leave.
When I turn around, my son is gone. I’d be more panicked if I didn’t know where to find him. He’s moved to the next aisle—the one filled with pink boxes, with plastic faces and eyes half-hidden behind black bangs.
This is the real reason I didn’t invite Charlie.
“John,” I whisper, standing at the threshold of the aisle. “Come away from there.”
“But there she is!” he says. Without even explaining, I know the doll he’s referring to. Curly Q Sue. A girl brought one to school a couple of months ago. Ever since, John has pleaded for one non-stop.
“What did I tell you?” I glance over my shoulder. “Let’s go.” My voice is an urgent hiss.
“Please, Mommy,” he says. His arm stretches out towards the doll.
“I don’t have time to fool around, John.”
“Please.”
“Come here.”
He turns to me and I see his wide eyes.
“Please.”
He sounds like a wounded animal.
“John.”
“Mommy.”
I sigh and look at the fluorescent lights overhead. I don’t know what’s worse—to deny him the things he wants or to allow him to have them. I march over and grab the doll box from the shelf and put it into the cart.
“Come,” I say, louder than intended.
“But I want to carry her.”
“Oh no you won’t.” I grab his wrist and pull him along. I pick the first birthday card I find and a package of the cheapest paper. I’m in such a rush to get out of the store I don’t even pause at the perfume and I don’t bother with Charlie’s socks. I’ll have to make up an explanation for the extra expense. Plastic soldiers have gone up in price.
Once we’re safely inside the car, I establish the rules.
“Daddy will be very angry if he finds out,” I say. “We have to keep the doll a secret. The only time you can play with her is while Daddy is at work. When I say it’s time to put the doll away, the doll goes away. No arguments. You cannot bring the doll to school or mention the doll to any of your friends. If you do, I will take the doll back to the store. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Can I hold her now?”
I can’t help but smile when I pass him the box and watch his face light up. How could I deny my child such joy?
“I won’t tell anyone, Mommy. Promise.”
I’m hanging out the laundry on the back line. John is playing in the sandbox. Charlie is driving posts into the ground. He’s working on a fence that will circle our backyard. He plans to paint it white.
“We’ll have to invite the Queen back to see it,” he says to me.
“I’m sure it will be first on her list,” I reply.
The royal tour is coming to Balsden next week. This is the biggest thing to happen in our city in years. There’s a motorcade that will run along Parker Street and stop at city hall while the mayor makes a speech and a high school band plays “God Save the Queen.” Then the motorcade will start up again and wind past the river before ending in Century Park. There, Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip will watch performances by a children’s choir and Ukrainian dancers and the Queen will be presented with a gift on behalf of the city. (Fern says it’s an oil painting of the refineries by a local artist, which sounds just awful to me, but she insists it’s nice and if anyone would know, it would be Fern.) Afterwards, the Queen and Prince Philip will visit one of the refineries. I screamed out loud when I read that, as Charlie is working that day, but he says it’s not his refinery they’ll be visiting.
“Likely Nordoc,” he said. “It’s the newest one.”
John and I will go downtown to watch the motorcade. He’s convinced he’s going to meet the Queen in person. I’ve tried to quash those expectations but with little success.
“Well hello, neighbours!”
I turn from the towel I’m hanging to see Hal Sparrow standing at the edge of the yard, wearing a bucket hat.
“Hi, Mr. Sparrow. I haven’t seen you or Eileen around for a while.”
“Eileen’s under the weather lately.”
“Oh? Nothing serious, I hope.”
“She’ll bounce back.” He waves to Charlie. “I could use a fence around my yard, too.”
“That so?” The back of his shirt is patterned with dark shapes of sweat.
“Good you’re getting that done before the construction starts,” Hal says to me. “I just hate to think of those trees going.”
We stand in silence for a few moments, watching Charlie hammer a post into the ground. A cicada’s trill stretches through the air.
“It’s a shame about the Pender boy.”
It takes a moment for the name to register with me. “Pender?”
“Yeah. Anne Pender’s boy. Freddy. That was his name, wasn’t it? He’s dead.”
“Dead!
That can’t be true. Who told you that?”
“Eileen heard it. Apparently he was on a ship. Some Alaskan cruise. I think he was a singer or something. Anyway, he went overboard.”
“He
what?”
John’s head turns towards us.
“The official word was that it was an accident.”
I look over at Charlie as he rears back the sledgehammer. He hasn’t heard any of this. John is emptying a bucket of sand on the ledge of his sandbox. Clothes flap on the line. I smell detergent. On the other side of us, the trees.
“Freddy was in Hollywood. He was getting into movies,” I hear myself say. I think of the magazines pressed flat under my mattress. “When did this happen?”
“A week or so ago. There’s no body, of course, which makes it harder. They say when a child dies before the parent, it’s the worst possible thing. Especially in
those
circumstances, if you catch my drift. Did you know him?”
Charlie’s sledgehammer rises and falls. Rises and falls. “Yes,” I say.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“No, no. It’s all right. I didn’t—we weren’t—”
A scream. “A bee stung me, Mommy! A bee!”
I rush over to the sandbox. My son is wailing, tears running into his mouth, a finger pointing to his knee. Charlie calls over, asking what’s wrong.
I can’t let Charlie know
, I think, and then wonder, Why can’t he know about a bee?
Charlie drops the sledgehammer and begins to hurry over, his face set with concern. I hold my hand up. “It’s fine. I’ve got him,” I say, but my voice cracks. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Poor little guy,” I hear Mr. Sparrow say.
I scoop my screaming son up and carry him into the house.
The date squares turn out as perfectly as I’ll ever get them. I ask Charlie to taste one. He chews for a minute.
“Not dry, are they?”
“Why didn’t you make that carrot cake?”
“Older women like date squares,” I say, annoyed. I remind him that John is in his room. “I won’t be long.”
“Who died again?”
I brush some crumbs from the tablecloth. “An old friend. Anne Pender’s son.”
“What was his name?”
I feel my face go warm. “Freddy.”
He meets my eyes. There’s a playful look on his face. “And did you date this Freddy fellow?”
“No. It wasn’t like that.” I can’t let him know anything about Freddy. I can’t let
anyone
know about Freddy.
“You seem a little preoccupied.”
“Someone I knew died, Charlie. What do you expect me to do? Tap dance down the street?”
“Sorry, shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s fine.”
I should’ve just sent a card, I tell myself as I gather up my purse and the tin of squares. Or flowers. I’m not good with these face-to-face things.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Charlie asks.
“It’s fine,” I say. “You stay home with John.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Helen had said when I called her with the news. “Freddy wasn’t right.”
“He was a nice person, Helen.”
“He was troubled. Anyone could see that. I don’t know what you saw in him.”
I turn down Mrs. Pender’s street. The elm trees lining the boulevard are in full leaf, branches reaching over the road. She could be away. Or she might not be open to receiving visitors. I should’ve called first. I pull over and step out of the car. Is she watching me from inside? I don’t know why I feel so afraid. She’s just been through a horrible tragedy. Still, the tin wobbles in my hand.
The front walkway is cracked. Burgundy paint peels away from the eavestrough in curls. The second porch step feels soft under my shoe. I press the doorbell and hear the echo of the chime bouncing off the walls inside. There’s movement on the other side of the window and for a second, I imagine it’s Freddy.
The door opens. A figure stands behind the screen.
“Mrs. Pender?” My eyes try to adjust. “It’s me, Joyce Sparks. I don’t mean to disturb you. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through. I just thought—” I look down at the tin in my hands. The door opens with a metallic scream. Dark eyes, long nose, lips that would melt away if it weren’t for lipstick.