Algoma (2 page)

Algoma grabbed another towel from the rack and wrapped it around her body. She picked up the note and walked into the kitchen, placing it next to the potted spider plant on the window sill. The coffee pot sputtered with the morning brew, the automatic timer having gone off while she was in the shower. She rinsed out her mug from yesterday—her favourite—and filled it with coffee. Arms tight at her sides to keep her towel from falling, Algoma carried her mug into the bathroom where she placed it precariously on the edge of the sink. She was sure that the mug would fall one day, shatter on the tiles, and cut her legs and feet, but still, every day, she completed this careful balancing act.

The note sat on the kitchen window sill all morning while she cleaned the house. She did not mention it to Gaetan when he kissed her goodbye in the afternoon. He and Ferd were leaving to visit his cousin’s family. Algoma had asked to stay behind. “I just need a night to catch up,” she’d lied.

During the day, the dry heat from the wood stove in the basement rose up through the house, baking the note like a pulpy soufflé until Algoma picked it up and put it into her skirt pocket. She’d tried to put the note out of her mind all day, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the carefully folded message. Whose was it? She cleaned until there was nothing left to be scrubbed or bleached and the sun had gone down.

Early evening. Algoma walked about the main floor of the house. She switched on light after light until the house was lit with a warm yellow glow. She stood in front of a bare-bulbed lamp in the living room, the lamp shade having been destroyed the week before during one of Gaetan and Ferd’s wrestling matches, and warmed her hands. They hadn’t returned home from their day out. She forgave Gaetan’s keeping Ferd out late when it was at Michel’s house. Michel was one of the only family members Gaetan remained in contact with, and he needed family. They were likely on their tenth game of cards—the adults and children all playing at the same table for the same pot of quarters. By the end of the night, the adults’ ability to strategize would be blunted by bottles of red wine and beer and the children’s pockets would be heavy with silver. The adults would mask their bruised egos with parental pride and overly zealous back-slapping.

Crouched down in front of the large wood hutch in the living room, Algoma pulled a bottle of wine out from the bottom cupboard. An inexpensive yet functional Shiraz she’d received as a birthday gift the month before. She was surprised to see that the bottle had lasted that long in her house. Gaetan must be on a white kick, she thought. Or maybe he was giving her the chance to enjoy her present in her own time. She allowed herself the opportunity to be surprised.

The weight of the bottle felt good in her hands. Solid and present. She pulled the cork and poured herself a generous glass. Guiltily, she sat down in her husband’s favourite chair—a well worn oatmeal-coloured recliner that no longer reclined—and propped her feet up onto the coffee table, something she would not let anyone else do. She took a long drink of her wine and pulled the shower note from her pocket. She carefully unfolded the paper, hoping the water hadn’t ruined the message. The ink was blurred and barely readable. It looked like it had been written in marker.

Leo…

Saved… for…

She carefully folded the note back the way she had found it and tucked it back into her pocket. She swirled the wine around in her glass, a small red tornado. The television was on, but muted. The actors slid back and forth across the screen, fluid and seamless. Silent. She poured herself another glass. No, the note wasn’t good at all.

“Algoma. Algoma,” Gaetan whispered, his hands on her shoulders, “go to bed.” His breath was hot on her cheek.

Algoma woke with a start and knocked over a stack of magazines on the coffee table. “What?” she asked. She was agitated, still half asleep. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“No. You just need to go to bed, Allie.” Gaetan replied. His eyes were bloodshot. His shirt half unbuttoned.

Algoma bent down to pick up the magazines. When Gaetan tried to help, she waved him away. “Go. I’ve got it. Where’s Ferd?”

“I don’t know why you read these things anyway,” he said as he picked up one of the magazines. He flipped through the pages. “You could teach them a thing or two. Look at this here.” He tapped at a recipe for a meat pie. “You make something like this and yours is probably better. Hell, I know it’s better.”

Algoma turned away and busied herself folding a throw blanket. Gaetan’s breath smelled like beer and his hair of the American cigarettes his cousin bought. She would have to make space in the freezer for the carton she knew was sitting in the backseat of the car. Gaetan’s attempts to hide his bad habits were lazy at best.

The basement stairs creaked. Ferd. Algoma turned around but he was already at the bottom.

“Goodnight,” she called out.

“G’night,” he replied flatly. He shut the door behind him. A soft click.

Ferd had moved into the basement last summer. Algoma had watched their then eleven-year-old son haul his blankets and pillow down to the pull-out couch downstairs. He lived below them like a rabbit under the porch. If she stood still, she could hear him moving around below, getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth in the laundry basin. She was grateful the house was old, that the stairs creaked, otherwise she might never hear him coming and going. The stairs that led down to the basement were right beside the side door. Three steps up to the kitchen, or ten down to the basement. Always a choice, or an easy escape. At least he wasn’t having nightmares anymore.

“A nightcap before my nightcap.” Gaetan ran a hand through his black hair, pushing it out of his face. He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. “Can I interest you in one, missus? Like old times?” He flicked the beer cap into the sink.

“You can’t be driving like that. Not with Ferd in the car. I’d never forgive you.”

“The kid won ten bucks tonight playing thirty-one,” he said proudly. “I gave him a few tips on the way over. He’s good, like me.”

Algoma sat on the couch and focused on the television, a late-night talk show. Gaetan joined her, tucking his beer between his legs. They rarely watched any show with the sound on since Algoma found the noise irritating. The actress who was being interviewed flashed her bright white canines, arched a perfectly shaped black brow, and flirtatiously placed her hand on the talk show host’s forearm. The host beamed at the camera and straightened his tie, shook his head, and smiled. He said something and pointed to someone in the audience outside the camera frame. The actress laughed and her face faded to commercial.

“I’m going to go say goodnight to the kid,” Gaetan said. He stood up and stretched.

Algoma didn’t take her eyes off the television.“He’s probably already asleep. Let him be.”

Gaetan ignored her and walked toward the basement stairs.

Algoma turned and frowned at his back. “Where are you going? I told you he’s probably sleeping.”

Gaetan looked back over his shoulder at his wife. In the dim light of the living room, she looked softer. Younger. Like the person she’d been before the accident. Now, she looked older than her twenty-nine years. Harder. “I’m going to throw a log on the fire. So he’ll be warm.”

“Oh.” Algoma sucked her teeth and turned back to her show.

He knew she would never argue with something that saved them money since they needed it so badly, and using the wood stove saved them a few dollars on their heating bill each month.

Gaetan thumped down the stairs and opened the door. The basement was dark except for the dancing orange light in front of the wood stove. He could make out Ferd’s shape on the pull-out couch in the middle of the room.

“You sleeping, buddy?” he whispered loudly, his voice lilting at the end. Hopeful.

No response.

Gaetan walked to the wood stove, bent down, and opened the door, a gust of heat burning his face. He stumbled back and pawed at his eyes, thinking that last beer hadn’t been such a good idea. Ferd must have tossed a log on before he’d gone to bed. Once Gaetan realized he was fine, that his eyelashes were intact, he threw another log onto the fire to feel useful. The birch bark crackled and popped as he shut the heavy glass-and-iron door. He looked at the wood bin: close to empty. He’d pick up more wood on the weekend.

The basement was dark, but not so dark that he couldn’t make out the things closest to him. Gaetan stood still and allowed his eyes to further adjust to the semi-darkness, his head almost touching the low ceiling. The edges of the furniture on the far side of the room slowly revealed themselves to him. He’d finished the basement several years ago—a summer project—all wood panelling, sturdy brown carpet, and a new wood stove.

Gaetan walked over to the pull-out couch and sat on the edge, the thin mattress bowing beneath him. He placed a hand on his son’s sleeping body. Warm. Ferd’s face was barely visible under his covers, only part of his forehead and a closed eye peeking out from beneath the comforter. If Gaetan allowed his eyes to go out of focus, he could almost pretend that Ferd was Leo. He imagined that Ferd was upstairs getting a snack, or a glass of water. That his wife was getting ready for bed and waiting for him, not sleeping in the boys’ empty room another night. She only came to him on good nights, and he couldn’t remember when the last one had been.

He blinked. Everything clear again. Sharp.

He stood up. Tomorrow he’d get a piece of plywood to put under Ferd’s mattress to make it firmer, more stable. Gaetan bent down and kissed the top of Ferd’s head and went back upstairs, closing the door softly behind him.

Once he was sure the door was shut and his father was upstairs, Ferd sat up in bed and threw off his blanket. The basement was blazing hot. He peeled off his pyjama shirt, wiped his sweaty chest clean with it, and tossed it on the floor. Sure that his breathing had given him away, Ferd wondered if his father had caught on that he hadn’t been sleeping. How did people breathe when they slept? He’d kept his eyes tightly shut and his breathing so deep and slow it felt like he was suffocating. At least his father hadn’t stayed long.

Ferd was tired of enduring his parents’ sad looks. The longing in their faces that asked him to multiply. Duplicate. Every time his mother or his father didn’t say his name for a few hours, he knew what they were doing, what they were pretending. He wished they believed him. They didn’t need a substitute.

Leo was coming back.

When people spoke about missing someone, they often said they felt hollow. Ferd was the opposite: he felt full. And this is how he knew his brother was still alive. He could feel Leo’s presence as much as he ever could, as if he’d arrive at any moment. All he had to do was wait. If he grieved, it was because he missed his brother’s company. Despite the almost constant fighting between the two in the months prior to his disappearance—the push-pull of Leo’s mostly failed attempts to do things separately from his twin—there was no one Ferd needed more. If Leo was gone, Ferd had no mirror. He did not exist.

______________

5:38 a.m. -21°C. No wind.
Furnace choking out the occasional breath of warm air, wood stove gone cold.

Awake, but unwilling to commit to another day just yet, Algoma remained in bed. Ferd’s old bed. Her bare feet dangled off the end of the short mattress. Even if Ferd hadn’t already moved into the basement, he would have needed a new bed soon. He was getting taller every day, outgrowing most of his clothes. Even the planes of his face were different now. The changes were subtle, like tectonic plates shifting beneath his skin, the transition so gradual she had to remember to notice it.

Algoma turned onto her side and looked at the digital clock. The glowing green numbers read 5:42 a.m. She turned back over, managing to avoid looking at Leo’s empty bed on the other side of the room, stripped of sheets. Empty. She pulled her feet back under the covers and listened to the sound of her neighbour’s car radio blare as he turned on the ignition, the crunch of snow under his tires as he backed out of the driveway. In the next room, she could hear Gaetan tossing and turning, the rustling of his sheets, his grunts. He’d never been a good sleeper, but had become worse lately and nothing seemed to help.

She closed her eyes, but could not fall back to sleep. Night-spell broken, she threw back the blankets and put her feet on the cold floor. Her eyes adjusted to the low light of the room. The light from the streetlight outside illuminated the crack in the window pane she’d been meaning to fix once there was extra money. There was a film of dirt on the glass and the curtains needed to be replaced from where Leo had accidentally torn the checkered fabric. Algoma’s chest heaved. She cried into her hands until there was nothing left.

“Did you remember the tinfoil?” Ferd asked.

Algoma nodded. “Like I always do.”

“Like you always do now.”

Algoma grabbed Ferd’s lunch from the fridge and put it on the counter: one chicken sandwich with a thin spread of mustard (only on the top slice) on brown bread, a cup of coleslaw, one Macintosh apple with the sticker already peeled off, six Saltines, and six pieces of marble cheese coated in a crust of salt and pepper. Everything, except for the apple and the coleslaw, was wrapped in tinfoil.

After the first day of school last year, Ferd had presented her with the sandwich she’d made for him earlier that morning. It was soggy, the edges mashed into a yeasty pulp, watery mustard oozed from the edges.

“Tinfoil won’t make it sweat,” he said, tossing the sandwich into the garbage pail and knocking over the plastic bin.

Now his lunch crinkled when he grabbed it. Algoma worried about lightning.

“Please remember to bring your Tupperware home today.” She pictured a half dozen dirty plastic containers stacked under Ferd’s desk, the leftover food rotting. “Promise?”

Ferd nodded, dodged her kiss, and ran out the door.

Algoma went downstairs to get a load of laundry from the dryer. When she returned upstairs, arms full of warm bedsheets, she saw Ferd’s lunch bag sitting on the counter.