“He took me by the wrist and held me hard…”
—HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 1
Most days after school, I go to the loft. If Mick’s not at a meeting, we get a couple of hours together. Weeknights, I sleep at home. If I didn’t, Mom would get suspicious. My single bed feels sad and small.
All week I look forward to Saturday. We spend all day together and at night we fall asleep, our legs tangled together, William Shakespeare curled around my head like an orange fur hat.
When I let myself in this Saturday morning, Mick is on the phone. I can tell from the clipped way he’s speaking that he’s talking to his lawyer. “That’s ridiculous,” Mick says, scowling into the phone. “I’ll never give her that. Never. No way.”
When I wave at Mick, he doesn’t bother waving back. It’s as if he hasn’t even noticed me come in. William Shakespeare must be hiding. The cat is as sensitive to Mick’s moods as I am.
Mrs. Karpman is in Toronto. I take her key from the kitchen drawer where I left it for safekeeping. At least Sunshine will be glad to see me.
The canary chirps when I come in. I change his water and add seed to the plastic dispenser. Even though Mrs. Karpman said I didn’t need to change the wax paper at the bottom of his cage, I do it anyhow, sprinkling the fresh paper with gravel. When I do, Sunshine swoops down to the bottom of the cage as if to show me he’s grateful that it’s so nice and clean.
I’ve never seen so many knickknacks as in Mrs. Karpman’s apartment. It turns out she doesn’t only collect porcelain teacups and salt and pepper shakers. She’s also got a shelf full of thimbles and two shelves of eggcups. Who ever heard of an eggcup collection? If she ever did move to Toronto, she’d need an extra moving van for her collections.
But though the apartment is crowded with her stuff and smells of mothballs, there’s something surprisingly peaceful about being here. Maybe it’s Sunshine’s chirping or maybe it’s the spirit of Mr. Karpman, but when I sit down in Mrs. Karpman’s velvet armchair, I relax in a way I can’t seem to relax at home or even at Mick’s.
When I think of Mick, and as if on cue, I hear his voice booming through Mrs. Karpman’s wall. “No way!” he’s saying, and then I hear a thud. My shoulders stiffen. I hope Mick has just banged down the phone and not punched another hole in the wall. And I hope William Shakespeare isn’t freaking out.
I don’t want to go back to Mick’s straightaway. I should give him time to cool off, calm down after the conversation with the lawyer, but the thought of William Shakespeare, who startles when he hears a loud noise, makes me go back a little sooner than I want to.
I wish Mick didn’t have such an explosive temper. That’s the right word for it: explosive. And it’s hard to know what’ll set him off. I know it comes with being passionate and creative. Mick gets upset because he cares so much— too much, maybe. I could never be with someone who wasn’t passionate and creative or who didn’t care too much. Even if that someone never lost his temper or raised his voice or put his fist through a wall. I know I’d be bored to death with anyone but Mick.
I let myself back into the loft as quietly as I can. I’ll just check on William Shakespeare. Maybe I’ll make some tea. Mick likes tea in the morning. He says it’s bracing—whatever that means. Two spoons of sugar, no milk. I drink mine that way now too.
At first, there’s no sign of William Shakespeare. I think of calling out for him, but even that might upset Mick if he’s still angry.
Then I catch sight of William Shakespeare’s orange tail. He has crawled under the bed, but he seems to be considering coming out now that I’m back. “Hey, William Shakespeare,” I say under my breath, and a small paw emerges.
Mick is at the table, tapping furiously at his laptop.
“Sorry,” I say.
“What are you sorry for this time?” he asks, without looking up.
“I’m sorry things are going badly with the lawyer. I’m sorry you’re upset.”
“That lawyer is an asshole. I hired him to work for me, not her.” The angry way he says her makes me feel a little better. Sometimes, when I’m in my own bed at home, I worry that Mick might get back together with Nial’s mother, for Nial’s sake. But Mick could never go back to someone he hates so much. So passionately.
“How about a cup of tea? Two spoons of sugar, no milk.” My voice rises on the word milk. I sound like some lady on a TV commercial for margarine or paper towels! It’s because I want to fix Mick’s mood, but I don’t know how.
It’s a crisp, sunny February day. The cold spell we’ve had all week has broken. With the temperature hovering around zero, it’s a perfect day for a walk on the mountain or maybe a drive to the Laurentians. There, Mick and I wouldn’t have to worry about running into anyone we know. We could just be ourselves and not have to hide who we are to each other. But now isn’t a good time to mention going for a walk or driving to the country. I reach for the teapot. Even though Mick hasn’t said he wants tea.
“Don’t talk to me as if I’m a child.” When Mick says this—out of the blue—I’m so surprised I nearly drop the teapot.
My mistake is talking back to Mick. I should’ve waited for his black mood to pass. For the sky inside his head to turn blue again. “I wasn’t talking to you like a child. I only asked if you wanted a cup of tea. I thought it would help calm you down.”
“Calm me down?! You think a bloody cup of tea with two sugars and no milk”—Mick is imitating me now, the way I sang out the words before, and the imitation is so good, it makes me cringe—“will calm me down?! You have no idea what I’m going through. No idea at all!”
“I do. I swear I do.”
I’ve just stepped on a land mine.
Without thinking, I raise my elbow so it covers my face.
“What do you think I’m going to do, hit you, Iris? Is that it?”
Oh no, I think. I’ve made things even worse by covering my face. Why am I such an idiot?
“No, I don’t think that,” I say, and I realize I am cowering too, like William Shakespeare under the bed. I don’t know what to do to get Mick to calm down. I don’t know where to go to get away from his anger. I have nowhere to go.
What happens next happens so quickly it’s hard for me to keep track of what is going on. To process it. Mick grabs the neck of my T-shirt. “Let go,” I say. “You’re hurting me!”
Mick is so angry he’s sputtering. All the while I’m thinking he isn’t really angry with me. I haven’t done anything wrong. Just offered him a cup of tea. If only I hadn’t shielded my face with my elbow. I insulted him by doing that. So I let my elbow drop back down. I do it slowly, so Mick will notice. “Calm down, Mick. Please, calm down,” I say, my voice starting to break. “Please!”
Mick’s eyes are cold as marbles. I watch his fist coming through the air like a baseball. This time, there’s no wall behind me. I try ducking, but I’m not fast enough. Again, I get the weird feeling that part of me is watching from a distance. That I’m both the actor and the audience. That my mind manages to duck in time but not my body—and my mind is somewhere up near the ceiling, watching the terrible scene unfolding below.
Mick punches my right cheek. The pain is so sudden and intense, I crumple to the floor, doubled over. The inside of my head is ringing. How, the part of me watching from a distance wonders, can flesh ring?
“You had it coming, Iris.” His voice is coming from far away. Why isn’t he calling me Joey the way he always does?
Besides the terrible pain in my cheek all the way up to my right eye, I only know one thing: Mick sounds calmer now. Much calmer. Like himself again. And despite the pain, I’m glad the storm is over.