In which past events serve to not only destroy a marriage but also inflict revenge upon a family beyond any reasonable limits.
The snow-covered prairie unrolls like a vast sheet of corrugated cardboard, gently rising and falling beyond the blurred horizon. The snow is fresh. There is little to interrupt the whiteness: bent backs of wheat stalks poking through, thin line of fence posts, lone shadow of a circling hawk. A black gash of newly ploughed gravel road pointing north bisects the scene into equal halves. There’s a low stand of trees to the east crowned with snow. Off the main road a narrower ploughed artery bleeds east to west as far as a farmhouse. Otherwise there is merely the stamp of boot paths leading around the house to the barn, the shed, the woodpile and so on: evidence of daily chores occurring despite the weather, the worst now over. The sky has cleared and it’s an almost windless afternoon with smoke rising straight up from the chimney.
Inside, a man jostles burning wood with a metal poker and adds a fresh log to the pile. He uses the flared end of a dried stick to re-light his pipe, shakes off the flame, tosses the stick on the hearth, eases himself backward into a sofa chair. He crosses one knee with an ankle and smokes. A golden lab lies at one side of the chair. The two stare into the fireplace. A voice issues from the kitchen followed by a woman wearing an apron. She rubs her hands with a dishtowel.
“Should be back soon.”
“Yeah.”
The woman steps behind the chair and rubs her hands as if trying to remove something other than water. “Nice fire you got going.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Kinda nice. Weather and so on.”
“Umm.”
The two remain quiet. The woman wipes her nose with the towel. The man chews the stem of his pipe. The two of them sigh.
“She’s pretty excited.”
“Sure. Not everyday you get married.”
“I can’t believe it. A week today. Our little girl.”
“Not so little.”
“Maybe.”
The man taps ashes into the ashtray and sets the pipe down. He drags a hand through his thin hair and pulls at his stubbled chin.
“What do you think?” the woman asks.
“What do I think? About what?” There’s no verbal response from the woman though the man can sense her reaction, a habit she has, chewing the inside of her lower lip as she waits out a reply. He gives in with a slight shrug of shoulders. “Don’t know. Hope for the best, I guess.”
“Yeah. She loves him. I know that much.”
“Umm. Is it enough, is what I’m wondering.”
“You don’t think he loves her?”
“I don’t know. Seems to. Can’t say he doesn’t. It’s just …”
“Yeah.”
“Funny. Him being gone almost a dozen years, shows up out of the blue, snap, just like that, not here more’n a few weeks, settles in, gets a job, next thing he’s courting our Jenny. Why?”
“I know. Funny.”
“After what happened.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Time heals all wounds, that it?”
“Maybe. People change.”
“I hope.”
“Anyway, it’s not up to us, it’s up to Jenny.”
“Jenny, yeah. Though more Warren, I think. She’d’ve waited, seems to me. Taken more time. Instead.”
“Less than six months. Getting married Saturday.”
“Seems too fast.”
“How long for us? Not much different, I think.”
“Difference is we were older. Older when we met, older when we married, older when we had her. Old enough to know our own minds.”
“Jenny knows. In her heart she knows. Where it counts.”
“I still say.”
“Nothing you can say. Nothing either of us can say. It’s done.”
“Uh-huh. In her heart. OK. I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Thinking back, though. That look he gave me when they took him away.”
“He was a boy.”
“That’s what scares me. He was a boy. That a boy could give such a look. Filled with such hatred.”
“Maybe you’ve exaggerated. Maybe you’ve allowed it to grow inside your head all out of proportion.”
“You think?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“Maybe. Maybe.” He slumps into the chair and stares off into the flames. His arm drops and he mechanically scratches the dog’s ears. The woman gives the dishtowel a shake and returns to the kitchen.
The two of them are in the local diner finishing off hamburger dinners. Their conversation is animated with youthful energy, nervous bounce and rapid gesticulations. They wave arms, bob heads, lean in and out, grab at hands, squeeze, kiss, release. They laugh out loud, roar, whisper. They push aside plates and drink Cokes. The boy wraps his fingers around the girl’s wrists. He looks straight in her eyes. His tone grows serious.
“Jenny,” he says.
“What? What is it?”
“I have terrific news.”
“You found us a place?” She smiles and rubs his fingertips with hers.
“Sort of. Not exactly. Better.”
“Better? What better?”
“I didn’t tell you, but I’ve been lookin’ for a different position.”
“You mean your job? I thought you loved workin’ at the hardware store?”
“Not a different job, a different position. Management.”
“Uh-huh?”
“And I got one. With a major chain.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Thing is … it’s in Toronto.”
The girl relaxes her grip, her body sags. “Toronto?”
“Yeah, isn’t that great? We’ll be able to get outta this dump and live in the city. What d’ya think? Terrific, right?”
“Um … I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? I thought you’d be excited.”
“I’m sorry … I just thought … I assumed … we’d be stayin’ here.”
“Stay here? Why? For what? There’s nothin’ for us here. It’s a shit hole. I’m sorry but it’s true. The place is dead. It’s practically a ghost town. Everyone’s movin’ out. All the young people anyhow. If I stay here any longer I’ll go crazy. We’ll both go crazy. I’m tellin’ you.”
“I didn’t know that. I thought you liked it here.”
“Are you kiddin’? What’s to like? I hate it. Nothin’ but wheat fields for miles. Dust in the summer and mud in the winter. Everyone workin’ two or three jobs to make ends meet. Or else on some kind of social assistance or welfare. I wanna make a life for us. A better life. I can’t do it here.”
“Why’d you come back then? In the first place?”
“Don’t know. Thought I had to. Maybe prove somethin’ t’myself. Everyone else.”
“Prove what?”
“That I’m OK. That I’m not a fuck-up. Back then, I was taken away and stuck in a home. This time, I’m leavin’ on my own terms. My choice. Y’understand? The difference?”
“Yeah, I guess. Only, what am I gonna do in the city? Out here, I’ve got my parents. I’ve got my horse. I’ve a got a job.”
“There’s horses near Toronto if you wanna ride. And your job? I mean, c’mon, gimme a break, I don’t wanna knock it, but you sell tickets and popcorn at the theatre, what’s that? You can do that anywhere. Besides, theatre’s gonna go belly up any day now. As for your parents, we’re gonna be married, right? Husband and wife. We wanna have a house and kids and a dog and maybe a cat, yeah? Give them a good life, right?” He strokes her arms and smiles. “Right?”
“What about Saskatoon? Did you like it there? It’s pretty big. Maybe we could live there awhile, y’know, get used to things?”
“I don’t wanna talk about Saskatoon, OK? I’ve got nothin’ good to say about that place either. It was a prison to me. I just wanna forget about it and everythin’ that happened there, clear?”
“Yeah, clear. It just seems like so much so soon.”
“What do we wanna wait for? You love me, yes?” She nods. “And I love you. That’s what matters. That’s what’s important. So let’s go for it. I’m tellin’ you. Toronto! Nice shops, nice restaurants, things to see, things to do … You’re gonna love it. I promise.”
“When?”
“They want me to start March First. Plenty of time to get things organized here, make our good-byes and so on. ‘Course, I gotta be there a bit sooner to get the lay o’ the land, find us a place, figure out what’s what, y’know?”
“Sure, makes sense. You really want this, yeah?”
“What’s not to want? We get to Toronto, it’s a quick flight to New York, Boston, Chicago … the world! Wherever we want. Think about it.”
“OK,” she says quietly. He jiggles her hands and her face lights up. “OK.”
“OK. That’s my girl. Let’s pay the bill and go back to my apartment, huh? We’ll have some fun. Celebrate.”
The two are naked in bed. On the side table a wadded Kleenex hides a used condom. Jenny has the sheet pulled over her breasts while Warren lies totally exposed, his penis damp and limp between his legs. He has an arm wrapped around her shoulders and runs his fingertips up and down her neck. She’s in a half-turn and pulls gently at the hairs on his chest.
“How many kids ya want?” he asks.
“Don’t know, haven’t given it much thought. Two, anyway.”
“Yeah. I’m thinkin’ at least four. Maybe six.”
“Six?” She laughs. “What’ll we do with ‘em all?”
“Take care of ‘em. Raise ‘em. Make ‘em better people.”
“Better?”
“Better, yeah.”
“Is there somethin’ wrong with us?”
“Not us. Other people. That’s why we need to have kids. To balance things off.”
“Oh.”
“Sooner the better.” He pokes at the Kleenex. “Every time I wear one of these I feel like I’m killin’ somethin’.”
“Some people never get pregnant.”
“That’s generally because they’ve been waitin’ for the perfect moment and by the time they figure they’re ready, their bodies have forgot how. Or one person has an accident. Or dies. It’s too late. That’s what I mean. There’s no guarantees. If you’re gonna do somethin’, do it while you can; while you’re young, don’t sit around thinkin’ about it or plannin’ for sometime in the future, ‘cause there might not be a future.”
“Are you sayin’ this ‘cause of what happened to your brother?”
“I don’t wanna talk about my brother. He’s got nothin’ to do with this.”
“It was an accident.”
“Sure, it was. Did I say it wasn’t?”
“No. I just wanna be clear there’s nothin’ …”
“It was an accident. OK? I mean, I wish it hadn’t happened, but it did. It was years ago. I still remember it, I can’t forget it, it still hurts sometimes, but I’ve learned to deal with it. At least, I hope I have. Is that clear enough?”
Jenny nods.
“Fine. Let’s drop it and move on, OK?”
“OK. So long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. OK?” He kisses her on the forehead.
“And you’re happy? With me?”
“Totally. Couldn’t be happier.”
“OK.”
“OK. Hey!” He jumps out of bed. “I’ve got somethin’ for you.” He crosses the room, opens a drawer in the dresser. “You know the thing they say about weddings: somethin’ old, somethin’ new, somethin’ borrowed, somethin’ blue?”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“Whattaya got so far?”
“So far? I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
“Well, you should. I mean it, it’s important. Rituals and such.”
“Isn’t it just, like, superstition?”
“Maybe. But why take chances? Doesn’t cost anythin’ and, who knows? Maybe it makes a difference.”
“Maybe.”
“So, you’ve got an old dress, yeah? You got it from a used clothing place in town. Somethin’ new is the ring. Somethin’ borrowed is my boss’s car to drive from the wedding to the honeymoon suite at the Radisson in Regina. We’re three quarters there. All we need is somethin’ blue …” He withdraws something from the drawer, hides his hands behind his back, slides over the floor to the bed and dangles two blue ribbons in front of her face. “Ta-da!”
“What are those?”
“Somethin’ blue. You can use them to tie your hair up.”
“You know I don’t like to tie my hair up. It makes me feel … claustrophobic.”
“It’s only for a few hours. And it’s important. For the ritual. You don’t want the wedding to be cursed, do you?”
She stares at the ribbons; pokes at them with her fingers. “Can’t I wrap them around my wrists instead?”
“No. I want you to wear them in your hair. Doesn’t have to be tight. It would please me. The blue snakin’ through the blonde. Beautiful, yeah?”
“Snaking? Nice word. Poetic.”
“Umm. Besides, just think how sexy it’ll be when we get to the hotel and I untie the ribbons and your hair falls over your bare shoulders.”
He drags the ribbons slowly up and down her head and across her neck. He pulls the sheet from her chest and tickles her nipples. She lies back and moans softly. He slips the sheet further down to reveal her belly and pubic area. He kisses her breasts and teases the ribbons between her thighs.
“I can use them later to tie your wrists and ankles to the bed.”
“You’re bad,” she says, moaning.
“I am bad. Very bad.”
“OK,” she whispers. “OK.”
She can feel his growing erection against her thigh.
“I love you,” she says.
“Love you too, baby.”
She grabs his ass and digs in her nails.
The house is a small, detached wood and yellow vinyl siding bungalow loomed over by two, two and a half storey semi-detached brick units. There’s just enough room on either side to push a medium sized wheelbarrow, maybe. Postage stamp-sized front lawn. A paving stone path, three concrete steps and a small wood landing lead to the door.
“Looks tiny,” she says.
“It’s what the agent calls a starter upper. We live here a few years, get established, build up some equity, buy somethin’ bigger, y’know? Besides, it’s got everythin’ we need: two bedrooms, cozy living room, combination kitchen/dining room, bathroom with one of those stacked washer/dryer units, half-finished basement, back yard with a bit of lawn and a shed. Updated plumbing and electric. New roof. Easy to care for. I can walk to work so don’t need a car. Grocery store within spittin’ distance. It’s got character, yeah?” Warren waits for an answer that doesn’t come. “I think it’s got character. Anyway, it’s all we can afford right now.” Still no reply. “You’re not mad or anythin’ are you?”
“I’m not mad, no. I guess I just wish I had been more a part of … you know … findin’ a place for us.”
“You’re the one who said you wanted to spend time with your folks.”
“I know.”
“We talked about this. I said come with me, remember? You made the decision to stay. I went along with it ‘cause I thought it’d make you happy.”
“Yes, and it was sweet of you.”
“Uh-huh. And shoppin’ around for a house ain’t exactly my idea of a good time. Or dealin’ with asshole bankers who look at me like I’ve got two heads when I say I want a mortgage. As it is we were lucky to get this, price of real estate and all. The agent said.”
“I believe you.”
“I did the best I could. I really did. I’m sorry. I thought you’d like it. Shit.”
“You know what? It’s fine. It really is. You’re right. It is all we need right now. It just didn’t fit the picture I had in my head, that’s all. I simply have to re-adjust. I mean, I didn’t have much more back on the farm, did I? And the house does have character. It looks like a small frosted cake sitting there.”
“Yeah? You’re sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. Let’s go in and take a closer look.”
“That’s my girl.” They load up with suitcases and bags. “And remember, we both picked out the furniture from the catalogue, so …”
“I’m sure it looks great.”
“Yeah, it does. I mean, I had to re-jig some stuff ‘cause things didn’t quite fit the way we thought, a bit tight and so on. The bed, y’know, is kinda crammed in one corner …” His face and hands work to try and show what he means but Jenny just shoots him a confused look. “Anyway, you’ll see. And we can always change the colours of the walls and whatnot if you don’t like it. Hell, I can get paint at the store at a discount, right? And wallpaper.”
“Stop already, I’m sold,” Jenny says, laughing. “C’mon. Gimme the tour.”
End of September, warm day, clear sky, a man in faded coveralls stands in the yard and tosses a final handful of feed to the chickens. He drops the plastic bucket, walks across the dirt, leans his arms on top of a fence rail. He pulls an apple from a trouser pocket, bounces it in his palm, rolls it in his fingers, makes a clicking sound with his tongue. The horse trots over, takes the apple from the man’s hand. He pats the horse’s neck and nose. His wife joins him. They stand there quietly as the horse chews and flicks its tail at flies.
“You figure we should keep him or what?”
“Doesn’t make a lot of sense, I guess.”
“Probably not, what with Jenny having the twins and such. That’ll occupy her time, I think, pretty much. Tough for her to get back and visit.”
“She’s taken on a load, all right.”
“Sounds like things are fine, though, otherwise. Between the two of them, I mean. And the babies. Everyone healthy and happy.”
“That what she said?”
“Not in so many words. It’s what I gathered. You know what it’s like over the phone, never enough time.”
“Uh-huh. Well, that’s good. I’m glad.”
The woman sniffs and sighs. “Horse’ll just cost us money. And serve as a reminder.”
“Yeah, enough of those around already without payin’ to feed a horse no one’ll ever ride again.”
“Should be easy enough to find him a good home. A family with kids.”
“No doubt.”
“Still a few of those around.”
“Yeah.” He gives the horse a gentle push. “Go on,” he says. “I got nothin’ more for ya.”
“In the meantime, maybe we could plan to make a trip to Toronto ourselves, yeah? See our grandchildren before they grow. They don’t stay babies long. It’d be nice. I’m sure Jenny would love it.”
“Yeah, we should do that. Figure out the best time and all.”
“Sure. Doesn’t need to be right away. Even Jenny said. They’re still in the middle of renovations, as well, so space is tight. You know. We’ll talk about it.”
“Yeah, we will.”
“Good.”
The woman chews the inside of her lip and wipes a tear from the corner of an eye. The man maybe sees her or doesn’t. He breaks from the fence and ambles slowly toward the barn.
Warren winds between furniture and through the general clutter of the living room floor: toys, magazines, dishes, cutlery, plastic food wrappers, grocery store flyers with discount coupons cut out and scattered over sofa cushions and end tables, baby clothing and so on.
“Jenny,” he calls. “Jenny?”
The kitchen is a disaster area, comparable to the living room, maybe worse. The sink is full of dirty dishes that stretch over the entire counter. Scraps of toast, crackers and other foodstuffs litter the floor. Empty soup tins, empty jam jars, empty plastic and Styrofoam containers overflow the blue bin. A garbage can is heaped with disposable diapers. There are baby wipes and tissues. Mops, brooms and dust pans lean uselessly against cupboard doors. The floor is stained and covered in dirt, grime and other miscellaneous filth. Jenny hunches over the table gripping a coffee mug in one hand. Her back heaves sporadically.
“What’s up, babe? Everythin’ OK?”
Jenny slowly raises her head and tilts her face toward him. Her eyes are red, her cheeks stained with tears, her nose chafed and runny, her breathing short, choppy and interrupted by gasps, hiccups and the need to swallow.
“I’m sorry, Warren,” she says. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m not good at it. I’m no good as a mother. I don’t know how.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re doin’ fine. You’re doin’ as well as anyone. Remember what the doctor said: babies don’t come with an instruction manual, you have to work through it on your own. Trial by fire.”
“I’m not workin’ through it, Warren. If anythin’, I’m gettin’ worse. Look around. The place is a total mess. I can’t keep up. I’m a lousy housekeeper. I’m a bad wife. I can’t stop cryin’. Everytime I think I’m goin’ to get somethin’ done, one of the twins howls, then the other. They don’t stop. I play with them. I rock them. I walk them. I feed them. I change them. Then it starts up again. Nothin’ else gets done. Time just disappears.”
“You’re takin’ care of the babies, that’s the main thing. The most important. The rest of it doesn’t matter. Place is a mess, so what? That’s the way it is when you have kids. They take priority. I’d say you’re doin’ a terrific job.”
“You sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“The mess doesn’t bother you?”
“No! Why should it? It’s temporary, yeah? Anyway, what’s the big deal? Like I say, the main thing is the babies. They’re the ones that need you most right now.”
“You’re sweet to say that.” She sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of a hand.
“I’m not just sayin’ it. It’s true.” He leans in, kisses her on the forehead, stands back and regards her closely. “You get your hair cut?”
Jenny squints, as if thinking; as if trying to remember. She lifts one hand and pats at her head. Her hair is coarse and uneven, like it’s been chopped with garden shears.
“Oh yeah. It was getting’ in the way. I couldn’t stand it, so …” She forms her hand into a pair of scissors and makes cutting motions with her fingers.
“Uh-huh. Makes sense. Could use a little, you know, here and there.” He uses his hands as scissors. “Maybe a comb. Otherwise …”
“I was sorta desperate. Didn’t use a mirror, just chop, chop, chop.”
“No, you did fine. It’s just hair, right? Grows back. So, we’re good here? You feel better?”
“Yeah. Better. Oh … I saw a mouse today. Here, in the kitchen. I think it was a mouse. There. In front of the fridge. Then it ducked under.”
“What —one mouse? That’s it? OK, look, I got a couple days off comin’ up, we’ll set aside a few hours, clean the place up. How’s that sound?”
“Might need more than a few hours. Plus a backhoe.” She grins and hiccups.
“Then we’ll get a backhoe.” He grins back at her. “Meantime, I brought home dinner. Chinese.” He holds up a plastic bag. “Hungry?”
“No. Tired. I’m tired. The babies are finally asleep. Who knows for how long? I think I need to crash awhile. If I can get a few hours sleep, y’know?”
“Sure. Do that. You can eat later. No problem. I’ll just hang here. Maybe go downstairs and work on my little project for a while. You haven’t gone down there, have you? And looked?”
“No, of course not. You asked me not to. Though, I am curious.”
“Good. Make sure you don’t. I want it to be a surprise.”
“I know. You’re sweet. Thank you, Warren. Really. I love you. You know that. I do.”
“I know that. And I love you too. Go to bed. You’ll feel better.”
Jenny pushes up from the table and drags herself out of the kitchen. Warren follows her with his eyes and waits to hear her climb the stairs. He steps to the fridge, swings the door, grabs a beer and twists off the cap. He carefully sets the cap between his thumb and pointing finger, aims and flicks the cap across the room. It spins and bounces off a far wall. He smiles and gives a nod of approval. He tips the beer to his lips and drinks. He sits at the table, tears into the knotted plastic bag, crushes it, peels the lid from a container of chicken Chow Mein, uses his teeth to tear open a pouch of Soy sauce, squeezes the brown liquid onto the food, rips the paper wrapper from a pair of bamboo chopsticks.
He piles the waste neatly beside him: wadded plastic bag, plastic lid, plastic pouch, paper wrapper, gives it a hard look and very purposefully, very deliberately, uses his forearm to calmly sweep the mess off the table onto the floor.
He laughs to himself, takes another swig of beer and digs into dinner.
Late morning. The two of them sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee. The aluminum pot stands between them and they take turns topping up their mugs. The golden lab sniffs and snorts at their feet. The couple discuss the usual things: weather, finances, various shopping lists for when they go into town. They add cream and sugar to their mugs.
“You were restless again last night.”
“Yeah.”
“You got up. You were awhile. Where’d you go?”
“For a walk. Outside.”
“Pretty cold for that. And dark.”
“Not so bad. Full moon.”
“Every year around this time. Same thing.”
“I know.”
“It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”
“I know. Doesn’t mean I can forget. Or wish it never happened. Or wish I could change it.”
“It was a long time ago. You can’t go back.”
“I know that too. Still, I keep going over the details. In my mind. I keep thinking if a single thing had been different, either happened or didn’t, a few minutes or even a few seconds either way.”
“You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”
“Was a night like tonight. We heard a noise from outside. I grabbed my rifle.”
“We thought it was a fox after the chickens.”
“I went outside to look around. There was nothing. Chickens settled down. I waited. I came back in. Next morning I noticed the lid closed on that busted ice box. I pried it open, and inside …”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“Warren’s brother, Nathan. Dead. Suffocated. What the hell happened?”
“You know what happened.”
“Yeah. They heard the door, they saw the porch light go on. Nathan twisted the chicken’s neck, sent Warren home with it while he hid so he could steal another hen when I was gone. He got himself locked inside the ice box all night and that was that.”
“That was that. What could you do? What could anyone do?”
“That’s where I’m stuck. That’s when I think, a few seconds either way, they’ve got two hens and they’re gone. Or no hens and they’re gone. Or I catch them, give them a piece of my mind, warn ‘em next time I’ll call the police. Or I hear the slam of the ice box lid. Or I notice it’s shut while I’m there looking around and I find him. Or maybe we got a dog like Boone here at the time and he sniffs ‘em out.”
“You’re going to drive yourself crazy.”
“All because they’re hungry. Why didn’t they just ask? We’d’ve fed ‘em, fer chrissakes. Didn’t they know that? Why didn’t they know that?”
“There was more going on, don’t forget.”
“Yeah.”
“Police went to the house. Their dad, dead, what? Several weeks they figured? Place a mess. Filthy. Bugs everywhere. Rats. Imagine them living like that. In fear. How were you going to fix all that?”
“Doesn’t make it any easier.” He takes a sip from his mug and makes a face. “Coffee’s cold.”
His wife grabs the pot then stops herself. She hangs there until she has her husband’s attention.
“What?”
“I spoke with Jenny this morning.”
“Yeah? And?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Already?”
“Yeah. Doctor said it was unusual so soon, though not unheard of. Jenny joked. Said maybe she was one of those women, y’know? Gets pregnant if a man even looks at her crooked.” She smiles and lowers her eyes.
“Otherwise?”
“Not sure. We still haven’t visited. I think, maybe …”
The man stares down at the floor. A shudder ripples his body.
“You cold?”
“No.” He sighs. “Not cold. It’s something else. Didn’t want to tell you. That boy. That boy. I can’t help it. He scares me. He scares the living Jesus out of me. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Since the time he gave me that look all those years ago, I’ve been scared of him. Not of anything he did. What he might do. What he’s capable of doing.”
“Like what? What are you afraid he’ll do?”
“I don’t know.”
The woman places a hand on his and gently squeezes.
“There, there,” she says. “There, there.”
Jenny’s in the middle of the small bedroom. There’s hardly space to move, enclosed as she is by two cribs, a playpen, a small bed where she often lies down to breast feed the twins, a change table littered with new and used diapers, new and used baby wipes, various creams, ointments and powders, a tipped trash can, a second upright trash can and a laundry basket both filled to bursting. Another table displays several miniature photographs of Jenny and the girls, taken by Warren and mounted in ornate frames. A shelving unit is stuffed with odds and ends. The floor is covered with toys, children’s books, pieces of clothing, sheets and blankets, tins and bottles, either full, partially full or empty. She stares vacantly at the one wall that contains a single square window. A slatted blind is pulled closed. It doesn’t matter. She knows there’s nothing to see except darkness anyway as the sunlight is effectively blocked by the neighbouring brick wall.
Maybe she’s been standing this way for five minutes, maybe five hours, there’s no way to tell for sure.
She wears a man’s checked shirt. It’s food-stained, loose, rolled at the sleeves, untucked with the bottom few buttons undone. Her jeans are baggy with the legs rolled to her ankles. She’s barefoot. Her hair is matted, her eyes are red and teary, her cheeks are flushed, her nose is raw from blowing. Her round bare belly hangs out from the shirt and spills over her belt. She breathes in short jerky gasps. A damp Kleenex twists and shreds between the fingers of one agitated hand.
One of the twins cries from her crib and Jenny’s head snaps alert. A small sound of surprise emits from her throat and the Kleenex drops to the floor. She bends to one side and lifts the baby into the air. The baby stretches her mouth open, squints her eyes and howls.
“It’s OK, baby, I’m here. Mommy’s here. It’s OK. Don’t cry.” She bounces the child gently in her arms. “You’ll wake your sister.” Rather than soothe, the remark seems to incite the child. She takes a deep breath and releases a piercing scream that not only sends a shudder through Jenny’s body, it rouses the sister who thrashes about in her crib and screams to high heaven.
Jenny transfers the first child to one shoulder and uses a practiced move to scoop the second child and support her against the other shoulder. The girls kick and squirm. They howl in unison, one in each of Jenny’s ears.
“There, there,” she says. “Are you hungry? Huh? Is that it? Shall I feed you? You wanna be fed, is that it? OK. OK. Just stop screaming, please. Please, stop screaming. I can’t think when you both scream like that.” She bounces them. They clench their tiny hands. They slap and beat at her chest, neck and face; pull at her hair and ears. They refuse to stop or even slow down. “Do you want the light out, huh? Is it too bright in here? Is that it? You want mommy to turn out the lights?”
Jenny pushes past the furniture, stumbles through debris, inches her way to the door and flips the light switch. The room goes to semi-darkness. The babies don’t flinch. If anything they get louder, more restless.
“OK. OK. Mommy will feed you. Just, please, please, be quiet.” She eases toward the small bed, peels the two off her chest, lays them on the mattress where they continue to flail, kick and howl like a pair of demons.
“Look,” she says. “See? Mommy’s getting ready to feed you.”
Jenny unbuttons her shirt, slips it off and tosses it at the foot of the bed. She does the same with her bra. She cups her breasts with her hands and jiggles her nipples in the girls’ direction.
“Is this what you want, huh?” She looks down at her breasts. “Oh my God.” Her voice trembles. “Is this it? Is this what I’ve become?” She pinches milk from her nipples. “Is this what I am?”
She drops her hands and rubs her belly. She slowly undoes her belt, unzips her jeans, bends at the waist and slides the pants down her thighs. She straightens, lifts one foot then the other and kicks the jeans to one side. She stands naked, as if transfixed. She runs three fingers through her pubic hair, pulls at her labia, parts the lips and feels for her clitoris. She stops, raises her fingers to eye level and rubs the tips together.
Dry, she thinks. Dry.
She claps her hands around her ears to try and drown out the noise of the girls. It’s no good. She clenches her eyes and screws up her face. She takes a deep breath, opens her mouth and screams right along with them. Her knees give way and she crumples to the floor. She sobs and cries. Her screams choke to muffled moans and whimpers. She crawls backward through the clutter, past the cribs until the soles of her feet bump against the playpen. She twists her body, climbs her hands up two wooden bars, grabs the top rail, tips the playpen and pulls it over top of her. She presses her body into one corner of the cage, snatches the edge of a pink blanket, drags it close and buries her head beneath it. Her eyes squeeze shut as she feels the walls close in around her. She continues to gasp and whimper like a trapped, wounded animal. The babies continue to howl in the background.
Warren barely breaks stride as he saunters from the sidewalk onto the paving stones that lead to the front porch. He ascends the three steps, crosses the wooden boards, and enters the house.
“Jenny!” he calls. “Jenny?”
He takes the stairs to the second floor two at a time. When he comes back down, his pace has slowed considerably. He hits each step in turn, flat-footed. There’s a slight smile on his face and he whistles an unrecognizable tune under his breath. He winds his way to the kitchen and sits at the table. He holds two blue ribbons in his hands which he ravels and unravels and tugs and stretches between his fingers. They’re the same two ribbons Jenny had used to tie her hair for their wedding.
He lays the ribbons on the table alongside a pile of newsprint flyers, a pair of scissors, a roll of tape, and goes to the basement. He returns holding an exact smallscale replica of their house, which he’s constructed using cardboard and balsa wood. He drops the model next to the ribbons and searches out a suitable-sized box in the pantry. Finding one, he places it on the table with the rest of the materials. He picks up the model and gazes at it appreciatively. He leans his eye closer to study the second floor master bedroom. In the glass window squares he’s pasted a photo of Jenny in her wedding dress, blankly staring out, smiling, her hair tightly tied with blue ribbons.
Warren places the model gently inside the box and uses wadded newsprint as padding to keep it from getting damaged in transit. He closes the box and tapes down the seams. Using a black magic marker from his shirt pocket, he prints a name and address in the centre of the box: that of Jenny’s parents in Saskatchewan.
Dear mom and dad …, he whispers, and chuckles.
He doesn’t bother to supply a return address. They’ll know who it’s from before they even open it, he reckons.
As insurance, he grabs the ends of the tangled blue ribbons and dangles them in the air. He notices some strands of Jenny’s hair knotted in places and leaves them, for effect. Otherwise, he does his best to flatten the ribbons by dragging them between the tips of his thumb and index finger. Somewhat satisfied, he winds the ribbons taut around the box. He ties a knot at the top and uses the excess length to fashion a pretty bow by curling the ends with the scissor blade’s edge. He lifts the package in front of his face to admire his handiwork.
He checks the time on his cell and figures he can just make it before closing. He hurries outside, heads to the nearest post office, sends the package on its way and returns home. He cracks himself a beer and takes a hard, cold look around.
“What a mess,” he says, more or less to himself. “What a pig sty.”
He empties his beer over the kitchen table and bounces the bottle across the floor. He turns, and goes to the foot of the stairs.
“Jenny,” he calls softly. “Jenny? It’s me.” There’s no response. He taps at the step riser with the toe of his work shoe. “I’m coming up. Jenny? I’m coming up the stairs. Is that OK?”
He grabs the railing and hauls himself upward. Each stair creaks beneath his weight.
The funeral was a small affair, with a handful of friends and relatives returned to the house for refreshments and conversation. Jenny is in close conversation with her mother. Warren stands nearby, within earshot, drinking a Coke.
“I don’t understand, mom. How he could do this. Was anything troubling him? Did you notice anything wrong?”
“Not really, dear. I mean, he’d been quieter recently, more reclusive. If that was even possible. You know your father. He was never much for talking. Or sharing his feelings.”
“Had anything happened recently? Anything that might have upset him?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“And you found him.”
“Yes. His body was hanging from a rope in the barn.”
“It must’ve been horrible for you.”
Jenny’s mother rocks her head and wipes a tear from her eye with the back of a hand.
“And the police didn’t find anything unusual?”
“You mean signs of foul play? No. Though, there was one thing …” She takes a breath and blows her nose in a Kleenex. “It seems he made a small fire in the barn and burned something. The police don’t know what. Apparently he must’ve taken his time, and was very thorough in making sure that, whatever it was, it was completely reduced to ashes.”
“That’s odd,” Jenny says. “I wonder what it was, and why he would do such a thing?”
“Did he leave a note?” Warren asks, over Jenny’s shoulder. “They say suicides often leave a note.”
“No. There was nothing like that.”
“So, nothing he said, no hint, no explanation whatsoever?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s all very mysterious.” She looks from Warren to Jenny. “But, again … your father.”
“Uh-huh. Do you think maybe he was depressed about something? He could’ve been and you wouldn’t even know. I didn’t know.”
“You?”
“Yes. I thought it was because I couldn’t handle being a mother. I couldn’t do anything. I was a wreck, the house was a wreck. And poor Warren …” She takes his hand in her hers and draws him closer. “Then, when we got the news about dad, he decided to take matters into his hands. He pretty much dragged me to the doctor kicking and screaming. Turns out I was going through post-partum depression. Who’d’ve thought?”
“And now?”
“Half the battle is knowing. I’m on medication, and that seems to help. Meanwhile, Warren is my prince. Once we found out, he went through the house like a white tornado. Cleaned and scrubbed every room, top to bottom, so that it’s spotless. Now, he’s planning to put a bed and bathroom in the basement. You’ll be able to come and visit if you want. Or stay, if you like. If you find the farm is too much for you.”
“It sounds lovely. I’ll think about it. I wouldn’t want to impose.” She looks at Warren.
“No problem, we’d like that. Of course, we’re still in the planning stages. And there’ll be the new baby to think about.” Warren puts his arm around Jenny’s shoulder and gives her a squeeze.
“Yes, that’s true. Well, I should see to my other guests. It’s so nice you could come, really. And bring the twins. They’re adorable.” She begins to walk away, and stops. “Oh, I just remembered, there was one other thing that was unusual.”
“What was that?” Warren asks.
“He had a scrap of thin blue ribbon wound around one wrist. I’m sure I don’t know what that was all about, or where he would’ve gotten it. He wasn’t one for wearing that sort of thing. Adornments. Well …” She shrugs and smiles. “Look at the pair of you, so in love. It’s wonderful.”
She leaves to go and mingle with the rest of the group. Jenny slips her arm around Warren’s waist and leans her head on his chest. She places her other hand on her round belly.
“The baby’s kicking,” she says. “Feel.”
The pair gaze into each other’s eyes and smile.