GLORY SAVOURS THE SUN ON her face, the warmth on her skin. She loves the feel, can’t understand why people are fretting about this heat wave. How quickly they forget about winter, about the cold, the snow, the ice! No, give her heat and sunshine any day over frigid winter temperatures.
She sinks further into the bleached wooden bench, untucks her shirt, unbuttons it to expose her midriff. She rests her head on the back of the bench, stares into the sun until spots fill her vision. She used to love doing this as a child then Dad said it would blind her and Mom said she wouldn’t be able to read any more. She squeezes her eyes tightly. Spots dance on her eyelids then fade. The noise from the playground filters in. She tracks Becca’s movements, her rubber soles squeaking as she mounts the steps, her denim shorts swishing down the metal slide, her feet thumping on the gravel. The girl can be an elephant sometimes.
Then there is a shadow, solid darkness, but not cooling.
Glory opens one eye, then the other. Lyne.
The older girl slides her cellphone into her knock-off Gucci bag. “You keep staring into the sun, you’ll go blind,” she says after a moment.
And just like that, Glory is five years old again. She closes her eyes. Lyne already thinks she is blind, unaware of things around her, so what does it matter?
“Rick will be here soon.”
And of course. That was why Lyne hung back. To phone the handsy boyfriend.
“Figured if Mom and Dad can have some afternoon fun, I can, too.”
How long will it take Lyne to realize that she is the only one talking?
“I mean, Jesus. What’s wrong with them? They’re screwing all the time.” Lyne nudges her knee. “What’s wrong with you?”
That didn’t take long. Glory mumbles, “Nothing.” God! Why does Lyne have this effect on her? Why can’t she be the confident person she wants to be?
Lyne keeps going, as if she hasn’t heard the answer. She is on a roll. “Doesn’t it bug you? Mom and Dad, going at it all the time?”
But she isn’t on a roll. She isn’t just complaining. There is concern in her voice.
“Well, doesn’t it?” Lyne peers around the playground, stops on Becca. “She’s got to be burning her legs on that slide. Silly girl.”
Glory tries to find the right words. Why can’t she think faster? “I don’t know.”
Lyne snaps. “Of course you don’t. You and your frigging books.” And just like that she is cool again, dismissive. “Well, you might as well be useful.” She reaches behind her back, unclasps her bra, pulls her straps down one at a time through her sleeves. She folds in the underwire cups, passes the bra to Glory. “Stick it in your pocket.”
“Uh, no. Stick it in your bag.”
Lyne heaves a put-out sigh, shoves her bra in her bag.
Glory stands up, blocks the view from the street as Lyne slips her arms out of the sleeves of her tight orange shirt. She rolls the sleeves in under her armpits, rolls the top of her shirt down to reveal cleavage, rolls up the bottom. She creates her own version of a tube top.
When Lyne is finished, Glory sits down, pastes her back against the bench, warms herself again. “Well, it’s not as if you and Rick aren’t doing it.”
“What are you talking about?” Lyne pulls lipstick from her purse, dabs three spots on her bottom lip with the brush, smacks her lips together.
“You’re complaining about Mom and Dad doing it,” she says. “But you’ll be getting some with Rick.”
“No, I won’t,” Lyne says. Her voice softens. “Rick wants to do it, but I won’t let him.”
“Really?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” Once more she hears the change in Lyne’s voice. “I don’t want to be like Mom. But I want to have fun, you know, and what’s wrong with having it with Rick?”
Glory stares. Her stomach clenches and her throat constricts. What if she says the wrong thing? And once more that split second of connection is lost.
“I mean, Jesus. He’s the hottest guy in school. He’s got money and toys. And he wants me. What more is there?”
Is Lyne reassuring herself? That can’t be. Lyne never wavers. She knows what she wants and she always goes for it. But this morning she has been all over the board. And yesterday at school, when Rick dug his fingers into her arms and Glory saw that flicker — what was it? fear? — cross her face.
Before Glory can choose her words, a deep-throated engine fills the void.
Lyne turns in the direction of the red Camaro. Her voice grows hard. “Don’t say anything to Mom.”
This is the sister she knows. This is the sister who gets her back up. “I never tell Mom when you sneak out of the room. Why would I tell her now?”
Rick pulls up, leans across the seat to rest his arm on the opened passenger window. “Coming, babe?”
Glory wants to claw his eyes out. Doesn’t she warrant at least a nod?
Lyne slides into the car, doesn’t look back as Rick peels out.
Glory needs something she can understand. She opens the Steinbeck book she abandoned on the bench. She tunes into a world that is beautiful and tragic, a world that has symmetry.
Matt lucks out at the second door they knock on. A frail, white-haired woman in a faded flower housedress answers. He slips into his used-car-salesman persona. “You have a nice yard. Bet you could use some help keeping it that way, getting it ready for the summer.”
The woman’s eyes move slowly from the Oilers cap on his head down to his well-worn Pumas. He nudges Ben forward. Ben smiles at the old lady. Matt has always joked to Ben — much to the kid’s disgust — that his smile will soon have the girls lining up for him. Matt has a smile that attracts girls, too, but his is slow and sexy and speaks of seduction and good, good times. It is a smile he does not use on moms and grandmas. It is a smile he has seen his father use on married women. Always successfully.
The old woman’s eyes soften, remain on Ben’s face. Matt is thankful Ben has lost his baby fat otherwise this grandma would be pinching his little brother’s cheek. She has that fond, absent look on her face.
“I could certainly use some help, young man.” Her voice is raw. “I’m Mrs. Boychuk.”
She comes out in blue flip-flop slippers, leads them along the narrow footpath to the back of the house. She wrestles with the large door on the metal shed, mutters, “My grandson promised to oil this for me.”
“Here.” He waits for Mrs. Boychuk to drop her hands. He pushes the door in, slides it on the sticky runners.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Boychuk smiles. “Everything you need is in here.” She points to her glistening weed-eater and too-clean lawn mower, battered rubber-grip rake and hoe.
“So,” he says, working his way into the shed, standing amidst the clutter of old garden pots and little rusted steel fences, “because you’re our first customer for the season, we’re offering a special deal. I’ll weed-eat and mow and Ben here will work in the garden, break up the lumps, get it ready for spring seeding.”
“If you boys do a good job, I’ll hire you for the summer. And I have friends who are always in need of dependable young men,” Mrs. Boychuk says, her voice clearer now. “Does fifty dollars for today sound fair?”
Matt places his hand on Ben’s shoulder. The kid is ready to jump out of his battered Nikes. “Sounds fair, Mrs. Boychuk.”
The old woman slip-slaps her way to the back porch.
“Here.” He smacks Ben in the chest with the hoe.
Ben scowls, eyes the lawn mower.
“Next year, Arnold Schwarzenegger, you can mow.”
Ben grins, waltzes away with the hoe.
“Fuck.” Matt shakes his head. He wrestles the lawn mower through the junk in the shed, down the footpath. He yanks the pull cord. It snaps back, bashes his knuckles. “Fuck! Fucking stupid mower. Brand new and no fucking push start!”
He’s careful the second time around and the mower roars to life. It glides along the grass. An iPod would be great right now. He could get lost in Sam Roberts and Our Lady Peace. But an iPod is just one more thing he can’t afford. Fuck it. He breathes out, clears his mind, pushes on.
When he finishes in the front yard, he guides the mower to the back. He leans against the house, watches Ben. The kid is elbow-deep in mounds of dirt piled high in last year’s dead vegetable stalks. The garden is framed by thick railway ties that still smell slightly of creosote.
Mrs. Boychuk comes out. She has traded her dressing gown for pale green polyester slacks, a striped cotton shirt. Her hair is brushed and her cheeks are tinted with pink. She passes each boy a tall plastic glass of lemonade.
“Thanks, Mrs. B.,” Matt says. He is grateful for wayward grandsons. And pissed that Mrs. B.’s grandchildren don’t care enough to help. But he stifles the anger. He needs the money.
She titters, fans herself with an open hand, steps lighter on her way back inside.
He swallows his lemonade in successive gulps. “Remember when you used to bring me drinks, Alfred?”
Ben gulps, too, needs to take a large breath before he answers. “Yeah, you made me think you were dying and I had to bring you lemonade like right now.”
“And you did, dumbass!”
“Yeah, because I really thought you were dying. I was a kid, you know!”
Matt sucks back his reply. Ben is still a kid.
It takes the rest of the afternoon to finish the job. Waiting at the back door to collect their pay and return the glasses, Matt motions to Ben to wipe his forehead. Ben swipes at his face with the bottom of his T-shirt and leaves a streak of dirt.
Mrs. B. answers the door. “Oh. One minute,” she says.
The boys stand on the screened-in porch. Matt nudges Ben, points to the shuffleboard table with the junk piled high.
Mrs. B. returns with two damp face cloths.
“Thanks,” he says, chucks a cloth to Ben. He rubs the soft fabric on his neck and it feels good, but a cold shower right now would be even better. “Maybe next time we can clean out your porch, Mrs. B.”
She nods, presses two twenty-dollar bills and three tens into his hand. He stares, uncertain whether to correct her math or assume she is paying them extra. He says nothing. She counts five loonies into Ben’s hand, each shiny coin causing Ben’s dimples to dig deeper. Then she gives them Häagen-Dazs ice cream bars and Ben’s face glows. Is this what grandmas are all about? Matt remembers his, but only in glimpses.
“Can you come back next Saturday to mow the lawn? Maybe even plant the garden?” Mrs. B. asks.
Matt nods.
“And by then I’ll have a couple of names and phone numbers of people who can use your help,” she says, shows two rows of clean dentures.
He nods again. The relief that floods through him almost takes him to his knees. Having work lined up so quickly rarely happens. Now he doesn’t have to worry about Dad and money. He waves, steers Ben down the sidewalk. They are too busy licking Häagen-Dazs to gloat.
Lyne is up on her knees sucking on Rick’s neck the moment he pulls his Camaro into the stand of trees behind the school.
“So that asshole lives a couple doors down from you, huh?” Rick says, hands still on the steering wheel.
Lyne stops. She has her hand between Rick’s legs and he’s asking about another guy? What the hell? She picks up her pace, works on branding him with a hickey.
“Humphreys,” Rick says. He pulls away, presses his back against the driver’s door.
She slides down into her seat, knees tucked under her. “What are you talking about?”
“Humphreys,” Rick snaps. “He lives near you.”
“I guess,” she says. What does that asshole have to do with any of this? Rick can’t be worried. What happened with Bishop won’t happen again — and not ever with Matt. She is sure she gave Rick the blow job of all blows jobs last night. At least she thinks she did. But she doesn’t want to bring it up. Not after Kennedy with her hands down Rick’s pants. Not after Bishop. What she needs to do is give Rick an instant replay of the good part of last night. She shimmies closer, slides her hand under the hem of his cargo shorts.
He stares at her hand and she stops her exploration. But she won’t pull back. If she pulls away now, it could be over. And they have only been together since April. It took her months to get him to dump Kennedy. She has worked too hard to lose now.
“What does it matter, Rick?” she pleads, inches her fingers up. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Rick remains silent, his gaze travelling to her face. His grey eyes are slate cold. She refuses to flinch. She tucks two fingers inside his boxer briefs. His breath hitches and his eyes blink shut for a second. He still says nothing but she knows she has him. She crawls her fingers up higher.
“Look, I wouldn’t have done Bishop last night. I mean he’s nothing. He’s nothing compared to you, Rick. But he gave me that hit of X,” she says.
Rick’s mouth twists into a mean line. “That’s why I beat the shit out of him.”
He grips her wrist and panic builds in her. He is going to make her stop. He is going to tell her it is over. God, she’ll do anything. Anything. But he doesn’t speak. He shoves her hand further up his leg.
She grasps his balls, breathes softly, licks her lips. “Got no X now, but I don’t need X to be with you.”
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” she says. She uses her free hand to unzip him. His eyes are closed, head resting on the door frame, quick gasps parting his lips. She has him.
Jack works his hands along the worn leather steering wheel. These days steering wheels come heated. Not that he needs more heat in this stifling weather. Air conditioning would be good, though.
He’s parked three cars down from the door of the Delwood bar. He’s not thinking about going in to get a drink. Even if it takes more than a couple of beer to give him the slightest buzz, showing up at work with alcohol on his breath, well, that would be stupid. And that kind of stupid would get him fired. Worse, it would get him Matt’s sharp tongue, bitching him out for having done poorly by Benny.
He twists his hands on the wheel. The squeak from the sweat on his palms is grating.
Every time he moves to a town without a liquor store he tells himself never again. A bottle of tequila in the bar will cost twice as much as it would in the liquor store.
“Goddamnit.”
But that sharp taste on his tongue, that burn in his throat. God, how he needs that.
His boys and their perfect synchronicity. “Goddamnit.”
No place for him in their lives. “Goddamnit.”
How could Miriam leave him with this mess? “Goddamnit.”
His head is too clear. “Goddamnit.”
There is nothing to muffle his thoughts. “Goddamnit.”
He slams his palms on the steering wheel. The thud fills the air around him. “What the fuck?”
Jack shoves himself out of the Beemer, slams the door. Another air-filling thud. He craves the cool, the dark. He craves the need to disappear, if only for an hour or two. The metal handle on the bar entrance burns his hand. He throws the battered door open and the gloom embraces him.