Roost (11 page)

Glen comes for dinner Wednesday night
before taking Wes to his Beavers’ meeting. I make spaghetti and garlic bread. Joan’s face turns orange from the sauce.

“So what did you say happened?”

“Joan jabbed me with her nail.”

He leans over the table and examines my eye. He’s wearing cologne.

“Is it better? It looks better.”

“I took the patch off yesterday. Listen, I need you to take the kids for a few days in April during the workweek. Can you do that?”

“I have to check my schedule. Why?”

“Because I have to go to Calgary for training.”

Joan eats with her hands. “Daddy, you know dis movie called Wonka —”

I interrupt, “Wipe your chin.”

“I do know
Willy Wonka
,” Glen says.

“So can you?” I ask him.

“Probably. You have to go all the way to Calgary for training?”

“The regional one was in October.”

“When your mom …”

“Died!” Wes finishes.

We both look at our son.

“Yes. When Grandma died.”

Glen gives me a sympathetic look and wipes Joan’s face with a napkin.

“Dere’s dis boy. He Charlie,” she says.

“I know,” Glen responds, taking another piece of garlic bread. “You must like that movie.”

Joan says, “Me love it,” and attempts to explain the plot. “He has to find go-den ticket and dere’s dis big boo-berry.”

“I used to watch it when I was young,” I tell her.

She looks at me temporarily then resumes gazing at her father.

I get up and clear the table and put the Parmesan cheese in the freezer by accident, noticing that half a dozen Freezies I bought in the summer have leaked and re-frozen to the side door.

I retrieve Wes’s Beavers uniform from the back of his door. The pants look too short. The necktie is cartoonish and makes me think of Willy Wonka. Specifically the ugly kid who plays Charlie. There is something mildly gross about him and his house with all the old people lying in their beds with rickets or dysentery or whatever it is that has made them bedridden. And Grandpa Joe with his dirty Einstein hair, and the way he dances when they find the golden ticket. I want to punch him in the throat.

“Wes, come get your uniform on,” I call.

“I can help him with it,” Glen volunteers, and both he and Wes join me in Wes’s bedroom.

“Arms up,” he says, pulling Wes’s shirt over his head. A lump of ground beef plops to the floor. Glen picks it up with a Kleenex. I gather dirty clothes strewn about Wes’s room and throw them in a laundry basket. My knees make an audible crack when I bend down.

“You should get going,” I suggest to Glen.

He checks his watch and hurries Wes along.

When I open the front door for them, the cold enters. I shiver and kiss Wes on both cheeks and tell him to listen to his Beavers’ leader.

“Have fun.”

Back in the kitchen, I clear the table, stepping over the railway tracks Joan has assembled on the floor. She strings together a row of Thomas trains and pushes them along quietly. She drives over my foot with Diesel 10.

“What do you want to do?” I ask her.

She looks up at me with her dark grey eyes and her pink cheeks and then makes a pig nose.

“Charming,” I say. “Shall we have a bath?”

She nods.

I fill the bath, strip her down, and plunk her in the tub.

“Watch dis,” she says, squirting a whale bath toy.

I do watch. I also sit on the side of the tub and read texts from Cathy. She is stuck at the shop. One of her mechanics called in sick. She asks about the kids.

I text,
Kids are good. Wes is at Beavers with Glen. Just bathing Joan
.

“Look Mommy,” Joan says.

I tell her “just a second,” and check my email.

“Mommy!” She tugs on my arm.

“Don’t, Joan. You’re getting water on my phone.”

Cathy replies,
Sportchek has buy one get fifty percent off right now on sneakers
.

I begin to text her back but Joan starts choking on bath water she is drinking from a plastic tugboat. I gently thump the top of her back. “Don’t drink that.”

I use the last of the watermelon shampoo to wash my girl’s hair and remember when she had none. It seems like yesterday
she was hairless and curious and blithe and I was captivated by her blitheness. Now she bites people and jabs eyeballs with her fingernail and on a bad day I’ve called her an asshole in my head. I really think that’s when being a parent is most difficult. Not the sleepless nights or the fits at the grocery store or the brushes stuck to your head, but when your child does something an asshole would and you actually think it.
Asshole
. You think it and you feel it and then you feel sick, like you’ve just seen a cat get hit by a car, because when you first held her in the hospital and she weighed five pounds and she gazed in your eyes and you fell in love, did you ever imagine you would one day think she was an asshole?

Kneeling, I wrap Joan tight in her towel. The blue one, because it’s her favourite colour. The bath mat is damp. I hug her and rock her in the steamy bathroom, feeling guilty, and notice my toothbrush has fallen beside the toilet.

Winter bows out with little pomp
, no grand finale. I only notice its absence when I pull into Sobeys and the snowplow mountain is missing. Left in its place is a pile of displaced gravel my children insist on rifling through. It is spring. My mother has been gone for five months, but there are distractions: fat lilac bushes, third birthdays, and a new toaster oven. And behind the backyard porch light, a nest of baby robins. Heavy-headed, helpless, hungry. We watched them hatch from the back door. Wes on a stool, Joan on my shoulders.

Our first family gathering since Christmas is the last Sunday in March. It’s also my first look at my sister-in-law since her breakdown. When we arrive Allison-Jean opens the door before I have a chance to knock. She looks skinnier than normal, but she’s still big. She holds the door open and helps my kids remove their shoes.

“Hannah and Liam are downstairs,” she says. “We just put on
Toy Story 3
.”

“
Toy Story 3
is for babies,” Wes whines.

“You’re four, Wes. It’s fine,” I tell him. I hang my coat on one of the guest hooks beside the hall closet. “Go down and play. Allison, you look great.”

“Uh, thanks,” she mumbles on her way to the kitchen.

“Claudia!” my dad calls from the living room. He’s wearing a white terry cloth headband with a navy stripe.

“Hey, Dad. Are you wearing a headband?”

“We’re playing tennis, aren’t we?” he says with his arms outstretched.

I hug him and look at the remote wrapped around his wrist. “Wii tennis.”

“Exactly.” He adjusts the headband. “Keeps the hair out of my eyes.”

My brother doesn’t greet me. He fiddles with one of several remotes until the Wii screen appears.

“Who’s ready to play?”

Allison-Jean returns from the kitchen with a bowl of Bits & Bites, which I decline because they have Shreddies in them. Cereal should be doused with brown sugar. Not salt pellets and spicy dust.

“You’re first, Dad,” Dan says, passing him a Wii remote. “We’re bowling.”

“I thought we were playing tennis?” Dad says, adjusting the remote around his wrist. But he quickly switches gears, circles his arms as though warming up, and then says, “Here we go,” and takes his turn. He waits in anticipation then yells, “Sttrrriiike!” the way an umpire would call it. He hands me the remote and claps for himself. “Beat that, Claud,” he adds.

I bowl a spare and pass my remote to Allison-Jean. Looking around the room, I observe that her house does not look like it has been through post-partum depression. The books are still shelved by colour and it smells like Michaels art store.

Allison-Jean stares at the round avatar ready to bowl on the screen. “Is that supposed to be me?” she asks. “Because I look enormous.”

“No,” Dan says. “You don’t have a Mii.”

“How come?”

“Because you have to go in and make one.”

“What do all those numbers and letters mean?”

“That’s your name.”

“How come your character has a name and mine is
X
7
YPU
769?”

Dan sighs. “The kids made that one.”

“I want my own Mii.”

Dan looks irritated. “But you never play.”

“Just make her a Mii,” I say.

He gets impatient but gives in. Goes to the home screen and selects new Mii. He picks features hastily. “What colour shirt do you want?”

Allison-Jean says, “Purple.” Her Mii’s chest rises and falls as though it is breathing.

“Is that good?” Dan asks.

“No, that’s not good. That looks like Chaz Bono!”

“It does not.”

“Who’s Chaz Bono?” Dad asks.

Dan replies, “The lead singer of
U2
.”

“That’s
Bono
, you idiot. Chaz Bono is Sonny and Cher’s daughter,” Allison-Jean glares at Dan with her eyes all big and her neck extended.

Trying to be helpful, I say, “It does not look like Chaz Bono. For one thing, Chaz Bono is now a man and secondly …” I trail off, unable to think of a second thing. I come up with, “He doesn’t bowl.”

“He doesn’t bowl? Thanks, Claud,” Dan says. “That’s helpful.”

Allison-Jean grabs the Wii remote and tells Dan, “Shut up.” She lengthens her Mii’s hair and makes her thinner. She flicks her wrist to the side and begins entering the letters of her name. The clicking sound when she makes a selection reminds me of chattering teeth. Allison-Jean spells Allison-Jon.
“I hate this,” she says.

Down the hall Emma begins to cry. Allison-Jean gives the remote to Dan and heads off to get her.

“I signed up to play in a bonspiel in April,” Dad announces.

“Nice!” I reply.

Dan focuses on his shot, altering his angle ten degrees left. He steps back from the
TV
and releases his Wii ball. It only knocks down one pin.

“No fair!” he hollers, examining the remote for the cause of his extreme curveball. He takes a second shot and the ball goes in the gutter. He stomps his foot.

“Dan!” Allison-Jean says, placing Emma in her ExerSaucer.

“What? This is ridiculous.”

“Remember when you missed that penalty shot at soccer provincials and you blamed it on the ref?” I ask.

Allison-Jean holds up a beer to me from the kitchen. I nod and say, “Please.”

“I did not blame it on the ref.”

“Oh, I remember that,” Dad says, proud of himself. “You said he was in your way.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “He
was
in my way. He was too close.”

“He was nowhere near you, son,” Dad replies, strapping the Wii remote back on his wrist. “Your mother had to ride home in the back seat to console you.”

“Didn’t you hit something too?” I add, twisting the cap off my beer. “Like a sign or something?”

“I did not,” Dan says, spit flying.

“No, it was the ball bag,” Dad says. “You came off the field and kicked the ball bag.”

“Yes!” I say, jumping to my feet. “And all the balls rolled out and your coach made you pick them up.”

Dad bowls another strike and hands the remote back to
my brother. “Let’s go, Danny,” he says, clapping his hands with encouragement.

“I’m not playing!” Dan shouts, tossing the remote onto the couch.

“Dan,” Allison says, “it’s a game. Relax.”

“Well I’m not playing!” He picks up his beer and downs half the bottle. Foam tumbles out of the top and decorates his upper lip.

We’re all silent for a moment and look at the
TV
. And there in the back of the Wii bowling alley, behind the score table, is our Mii mother. She says nothing. Only wobbles slightly, the way a cell might under a microscope, and waits for Dad to bowl.

“That’s weird,” I say.

“It’s creepy is what it is,” Dan says. “Delete her profile.”

“We can’t just
delete
her profile,” I argue.

“Yes, we can.”

Dad just continues to stare at his Mii wife. “It really does look like her. Except for the eyebrows. The eyebrows are too high up.”

“Oh, you can fix that,” I tell him.

“We’re not going to fix anything,” Dan cuts in. “I’m deleting her.”

“Isn’t that Glen?” Allison-Jean says. “Behind your mom, in the orange shirt?”

“No,” I reply, “that’s
ZPF
678
VG
. Glen’s on the other side with the goatee.” If anything, it’s Mii Glen who looks like Chaz Bono.

I take the remote and lower Mii mom’s eyebrows.

“Is that it?” I check with Dad.

“Yeah,” he says. “It really looks like her.” He nods his head with satisfaction. I save and quit.

“That’s fine,” Dan says, crossing his arms. “But it’s my Wii and I’ll just delete her when you leave.”

“Come on, Dan. It’s just like real life. Mom showing up at all of your games.”

“I’m not remembering my mother in the form of a digital marionette.”

“Marionettes have strings.”

“What the heck ever,” he says, the heck part blurred by a burp. “A doll then. I don’t want to remember her as a little digital doll that sometimes has no legs.”

“Yeah, why is it that some of the Miis don’t have legs?” Dad asks. He pulls up his pant leg to scratch and reveals a gargantuan white sport sock.

I say, “I think it’s only the stranger Miis who don’t have any legs.”

Allison-Jean asks, “Whose turn is it?”

I strap the Wii remote to my wrist and tighten the strap. “Tennis, anyone?”

A week later, I drop the kids off at Glen’s
for the morning and head to Canadian Tire to return a planter. The store is almost empty. I hoist the planter up on the customer service desk and tell the clerk I need to return it. She examines it and asks if there’s anything wrong with it. I show her the crack on the bottom and hand her my receipt. My father enters the store and has trouble manipulating the turnstile.

“Dad!” I yell.

My father looks around but doesn’t see me, and he heads towards the paint department. The clerk hands me back my receipt, which is covered in black marks to remind me I’m going to hell for making a return. After she’s made the refund on my card, I return my Visa to my wallet and head after my dad, who is squatting in an aisle.

“Dad,” I say. He turns and I help pull him up to standing. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for stain,” he says, “but I forgot to write down the colour.”

“Stain for what?”

“Oh, I’m refinishing this old chair for a lady I curl with.”

“You don’t know how to refinish things.”

“Yes, I do,” he says. “I learned it off the Internet.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now if I could only remember what colour …”

“I thought you’d be at the rink practicing for your big debut in a couple weeks.”

“Going to practice tomorrow,” he replies proudly. “Are you and the kids going to come to the bonspiel?”

“We’ll try.” I try to imagine myself in the rink surrounded by droves of soft-bodied happy people who like to organize potlucks and wear fancy tracksuits. “You didn’t happen to bring the chair with you?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Yes, actually. It’s in the trunk. Do you want to see it?”

I follow my dad out of the store, as the clerk leans her back against the counter, her ankles crossed, watching us leave. In the parking lot my dad opens the trunk and shows me an old chair with an intricate back and caned seat.

“What colour would you say that is?”

“No idea. Looks like dark cherry or something.”

Dad pats the pockets of his jacket. “I should have brought my glasses,” he says. “I’ll have to do this tomorrow.” He covers the chair with a brown blanket and closes the trunk.

“Don’t ruin that,” I warn. “It looks worth something.”

My dad seems surprised by my concern. He looks old in the sunlight, his chin taking on the appearance of a raisin. He reaches inside his collar and scratches his chest. I wait for him to finish and beckon him towards me.

“Come here, Dad.”

I hug him long and hard. Rest my head against his chest. After several seconds he pulls away and smiles.

“I should go,” I say, though I can’t remember where I parked my car and need to survey the lot. “I have some errands to do for my trip Thursday.”

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Just Calgary for a few days. For work.”

“Well that should be fun,” he says.

“Nah, it’s training. I’ll call you with my hotel information before I go.”

“I should get home too. These damn bedbugs are killing me. I’ve got to find some Raid or something.”

“What?” I say, backing up. “Bedbugs?”

“Pretty sure. Got their damn bites all over me. Say, what’s that pink stuff your mom used to rub on you kids? Begins with a ‘c.’ You know, that lotion?”

He snaps his fingers a couple of times. Long enough for me to wave goodbye, spot my car, and head over to it. I sit in my car for a few minutes. When I’m sure my dad’s driven off, I go back into the store and empty a can of Raid all over my body.