What are you doing? I ask. I know this is stressful, but you’ve been puttering around alone up there for over an hour.
Hen went upstairs after Terrance left, to the room down the hall, the guest room. I stayed in the living room, listening to her shuffling around, until I decided to go upstairs and investigate.
“I’m trying to sort some of this, get this stuff out of here. I’m thinking almost all of it should be chucked. I hate having this clutter. It’s crap. It weighs me down. How have we collected so much stuff? It’s not like we’ve been living here for twenty years. But there’s twenty years of shit and baggage.”
Not all of it’s shit, Hen.
“Pretty much,” she says.
Is it so important to clear this room out now? I say. I was hoping to talk to you, about how you feel.
“You were hoping to talk to me about how I feel? Really?”
Yes. You sound surprised.
“It’s not like you,” she says.
Well, considering the situation, there’s a lot to discuss.
“Yes and no,” she says. “We’re in this now. It’s not like talking about it is going to change anything.”
Hen, I say, taking another step toward her, I’m worried about you.
Her expression changes, softens a little.
“What are you worried about?”
I worry about leaving you here, about what you’ll do while I’m gone.
I don’t tell her everything I’m worried about. How I’m concerned what my leaving will mean for us. That it’s a long time to be gone. That this is all I’ve ever known.
“Your face,” she says. “It’s flushed.”
I’m trying to tell you, I say. I don’t feel good about this.
“You have nothing to worry about. Trust me.”
I don’t understand you. You’re acting like this isn’t a big deal, as if we get this kind of news every day. I’m leaving! Don’t you get that?
Now I can feel my face flushing. I can feel my blood pumping and moving. It’s unpleasant. And her first impulse was to come up here, away from me, in this moment, and start sorting through old stuff. That’s what I find most distressing. The more I think about it, the more it upsets me.
“I’m acting like I have to, okay? There’s no way to plan for this. I’m reacting and figuring it out as I go. That’s all. If you can’t understand that, there’s nothing I can do.”
These are the last few days we’ll have alone for a long time, I say. Terrance said we should be celebrating. Enjoying our time together. Shouldn’t we at least try to—
I don’t know, I say. Try to savor our days? We should make the most of it. We have limited time now. Limited time together.
“I have so many questions in my head, questions and concerns and complaints you can’t even begin to understand, and I just thought it was better to be busy tonight and feel like I’m being productive rather than wondering what’s going to happen next and what the consequences of this, of all of this, are going to be.”
What questions do you have? I ask, sitting down on the floor and pulling her next to me. I want to know. I have questions, too.
There are boxes and piles of things scattered around us. She looks so tired, stressed. I put my hand on her knee.
I don’t want to argue, I say.
“There was a time when we didn’t argue at all,” she says. “At the beginning. You wouldn’t remember.”
I consider this but don’t respond.
“And it’s not even that I want to clean up. I just want to be busy, at least for now. I don’t know. This is all happening faster than I was expecting. What worries me more, though, is that now we hear he’s coming to stay. Why couldn’t he have told us that earlier?”
I lean over to kiss her. She offers me her cheek, not her lips.
“It’s not a usable guest room when it’s like this.”
I close my eyes, lean away from her.
Terrance isn’t my biggest concern, Hen. You are, I say. I don’t care if he’ll be comfortable in here or if it’ll be crowded.
“I’ve been meaning to clean up for a long time anyway. I feel like if we sit around and talk about things, it won’t do anything for me. Nothing changes. Can you see that? No, of course you can’t. That’s what I’m realizing. Nothing changes, not for me.”
That’s fine, I say, I know we’re different. I know we deal with change differently. But Terrance is not going to care what his room is like. I don’t want you stressing over Terrance.
“I’m not stressing over Terrance! This whole thing is stressful. My life is stressful, Junior!”
This is his doing. We didn’t ask for any of it, I think.
“He’ll be staying in here, and I don’t even know what half this stuff is. You don’t need these.”
Her movements are quick and forceful, which confirms she’s upset, angry. I stare at the gloves in her hands.
I work so much with my hands, lifting and sorting. Here’s proof of that. These old gloves. I wore right through the palm of both after a couple of months’ use. I have no idea what prompted me to keep them, to store them away when they are so tattered. Why would I keep them?
“Look, there are holes in the palm and fingers. And they stink.”
No, I say. Keep them. They’re better when they’re worn in. I hate breaking in new gloves.
“You’ll never wear these.”
You don’t know that. I might. Plus, these objects, they remind me of things.
“This is why we have so much stuff. If you think like that, you’ll never get rid of anything. It’s not healthy. This is a chance to clean up, to clean house, throw stuff out. Don’t you see that?”
I don’t consider it much of a chance to throw my belongings away, my memories. A chance usually means it’s a good thing. If it’s in here and not tossed already, there’s a reason.
“You know what I mean.”
Not really.
“We never come in this room anymore. So many boxes. I have no idea what any of it is.”
Are you going to go through it all tonight? It’s already getting late.
“No, I don’t know. I’ve started now.”
Listen, I don’t want you throwing anything out, I say, my voice rising. All of this is mine, and if you just toss it all out, I’ll never know what . . . what . . .
I can’t finish the thought. I’m at a loss for words, and I don’t know why I feel so attached.
I might need these things, okay? I say.
My tone, assertive and sharp, surprises her, I can tell. It surprised me, too. I don’t often talk like this.
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you getting so worked up?”
Nothing’s wrong. I’m not getting worked up.
“You are. You’re yelling. You shouldn’t be yelling.”
I’m not yelling, I just feel a bit blindsided. I don’t know why you get like this. Why tonight of all nights.
“You have to calm down. I’m not doing something or trying to start something. All I’m doing is getting rid of clutter and making space. You’re the one—”
I thought we were having a quiet, relaxing night together. A celebration. I guess that was wishful thinking. Now I find you all alone up here, doing this. Everything in here has value to me. All of it!
Hen gets up. Her back to me. She pushes aside a box and steps into the closet.
“A quiet night together, ah, just the like the old days?”
There’s derision in her tone. Derision and indignation.
Pardon me?
“Forget it,” she replies, and turns back to her sorting.
So much stuff that just sits in the dark for years. But it’s not garbage. It makes up who I am. My memories. To dispose of them because she happens to be in one of her moods—that isn’t right.
I’ve shared years here with Hen. Without substance, how can I maintain an identity? Why does she want to forget? Why does she want to forget us?
I watch her struggle on all fours to move some boxes to the side, to get deeper into the closet. She’s already removed several large bins and two shoe boxes from the heap, which are pushed against the wall. The room has become almost entirely dark in the fading light. Hen has grabbed a headlight. She turns it on but doesn’t wear it. She’s bent over, hidden deep in the back of the closet.
“AHHHH!” she yelps, and then jumps out from the closet, her eyes shut.
“Did you see that?” she says. “That. In there.”
I take her headlight and step into the closet. I shine the light into the corner. I see it there, in the spot beside an old shirt. It’s in the beam of light, not moving.
I keep the light on it, bend down for a closer look. I find it . . . enthralling. Unfamiliar.
Shit, I say. That is weird. I’ve never seen one like it.
“It’s so big,” she says. “They keep getting bigger. I thought they eradicated them years ago, got rid of them all in the area.”
Did they? I don’t know, I say. I don’t remember.
It’s not doing anything. Nothing at all. I want to keep looking at it. The desire is strong. It’s almost hypnotic. Its long, thin tentacles are twitching. It doesn’t appear scared or nervous, but calm, knowing, poised, ready.
“Just what we need,” she says. “An infestation. They’ll get into the walls. They must be coming inside from the canola fields.”
It’s not an infestation, I say. It’s only one.
“One is too many,” she says.
Why isn’t it moving? I think. Why isn’t it scuttling away, hiding?
I can’t take my eyes off this large insect. I know nothing about these creatures. Nothing. Not a thing. How can that be? It’s living here in my house, living in the same rooms I live in. Yet I never knew.
“I’m definitely checking under the bed for more.”
Then, I feel her foot lightly kick my back.
“Junior? You haven’t budged. You’re staring. What are you doing?”
I’m not sure. But you don’t have to worry, I say. I’ll take care of it.
“Well, good. Because I don’t want to. I’m done in here for tonight. I’m going to bed,” she says. “Get that thing outside.”
You should rest.
I’m still looking at the beetle when she walks out. Its body is shiny black, with intermittent yellowish stripes. It’s impressive, about two inches long. The antennae are about twice as long as the body. It’s the three horns that are most dramatic. Two on either side of the head and one in the middle, extruding upward.
It comes to me. A horned rhinoceros beetle. That’s it, that’s what they’re called.
Hen mumbles something at the door, but I don’t catch it.
Uh-huh, I say, without turning around. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of it.