Roost (15 page)

“You’re welcome,” I reply, overwhelmed. “And thank you too.”

“For the pants?”

“The pants, yes.

“Goodbye, Mallory.”

“Goodbye, Claudia.”

I press the off button and hold the phone to my heart. I’m a tiny pink tulip of hope.

I head back down to the conference room
and attend the remainder of Operational Excellence. I make a cup of Red Rose tea with a handful of creamers. Like Mallory, the hotel has no milk. I wonder about Arthur. His birth weight. His middle name. Does he have a grandma?

When the conference finishes, I go back to my room and kneel between my suitcase and Mallory’s, deciding what to keep. I leave behind her personal items, like her makeup and underwear. I fold the pants into a neat stack and place them on the floor. They too will stay in Calgary. I repack the hair dryer, some of the socks, a shirt, and her birthing journal, which I intend to complete with what little information I’ve gained.

It’s just after six and I’m hungry. I wait anxiously for Carl. At ten after he knocks on the door. I feel giddy.

“Hope you like Vietnamese,” he says, supporting a well-packed plastic bag.

“Love it,” I reply.

He walks past me and sets the bag on the table. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I had to go back and get knives and forks.”

“No worries.”

Carl serves up a spread of vermicelli, pho, shredded chicken, pork. It smells of lemongrass and chillis. It is excellent. He pours mineral water into two paper cups. I twist noodles around my fork. Carl’s eyes are magnified behind his glasses. My phone rings.

“That’s probably my kids,” I say, answering the phone with an enthusiastic mom voice. The kind of hello that if edible would be dipped in chocolate and dusted with powdered sugar.

“Holy fuck, Claudia. You’ve got to get the hell home.”

“Dan?” His voice is loud enough for Carl to hear. I turn my back so the volume might be minimized and then move to the bathroom. “What are you talking about? I’m coming home tomorrow. You’re picking me up.”

“I’m at Dad’s.”

“Why are you at Dad’s? Is something wrong? Is he dying?”

“Worse than that.”

“What do you mean
worse than that?
Worse than dying?”

“Claudia, I talked to the exterminator and he’s refusing to do anything. So I came over here tonight to see for myself.”

“Why? Where’s Dad? Allison-Jean said the exterminator was coming tomorrow.”

“Dad’s curling. The exterminator had a cancellation today!”

“What is going on, Dan?”

“There is stuff everywhere.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I have to go.”

I hang up stunned and uncertain. Uncertain why the exterminator won’t do his job and why it’s my problem and whether Dan will still be picking me up from the airport tomorrow.

I return to the table not a tulip. Carl has eaten the pho. The vermicelli and the magic are gone. Dan swallowed it. I stare at my pair of suitcases wanting to go home but not back to my life. Carl pushes the last spring roll in my direction. There is a noodle on his eyebrow. How did it get there? I take the spring roll, dip it in the accompanying sauce, and realize this is the last of Carl. For me, that is. The last of Carl and me, or,
rather, there will be no Carl and me. He wipes his enormous food-slicked face vigorously with a napkin, and I’ve had a one-night stand with a manatee.

I arrive back in Halifax after a long flight
, feeling weary and disoriented. I make my way off the plane unable to remember anything about Operational Excellence other than dripping icicles. My brother paces at the gate.

“What took you so long?” he accuses. “The board said you landed twenty minutes ago.”

Around me people embrace.

“Nice to see you too,” I reply.

“Let’s go,” he demands, turning in the direction of the parking lot.

“I don’t have my bags!” I holler after him.

“You took a suitcase?” he argues. “You were only gone for two days.”

I ignore him and find the right carousel. Dan opens his mouth to say something, but I tell him not to talk to me. He acts disgusted when I pull two bags off the belt and load them onto a luggage cart. We walk to the car in silence. He opens the trunk.

“I’ll do it,” he says, wrangling one of my bags.

I drop my suitcase and wait in the front seat. We exit the airport and drive down the highway. We continue not to talk until we reach the suburbs.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Dad’s.”

“I’m not going to Dad’s. I want to go home!”

“It will only take a minute.”

“I just want to see my kids.”

He drives with intent, eyes fixed on the road in front of him until we pull into the driveway of our parents’ home.

“He’s not even home,” I comment, noting Dad’s car is not in the driveway.

Dan puts the car in park and motions for me to follow him up the front steps. I do so with trepidation. There’s a Canada Post slip on the door. He ignores it. “Plug your nose,” he warns.

I am confused. “What for?” I start to panic.

Dan unlocks the door.

“Holy fuck!” I say, grabbing my nose.

Dan looks at me, crazed. His voice cracks when he says, “See?”

I survey the front hall and what I can see of the living room. “What the fuck!”

“I know!” Dan says.

I gag loudly. Stand in shock at the entrance to the house. “Oh my God.”

Dan turns around, towards the street. “There’s Dad!” He points to our parents’ green Taurus, but Dad stops before coming up the driveway. We make eye contact. But before either Dan or I can react he speeds away, tires squealing.

“Close the door,” I say, crying.

Dan obliges and covers his face. We stand on the front step. “That is why the exterminator refused to do anything.”

I cover my mouth with disbelief. “We’ll have to call those junk people.”

“Junk people? We need an arsonist.”

“Did you go into the bedroom?”

“No, I didn’t make it past the living room.”

I text Glen and tell him I’m delayed. I look at Dan. “We should see what we’re dealing with.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yes, Dan, it’s a little bit fucking obvious, but maybe, just maybe, it’s contained to the front of the house.”

I gather my shirt up around my nose. “You go first,” I order.

“I’m not going first.”

“Geez, Dan, just open the friggin’ door.”

Dan turns the knob and I push by him and step inside. It’s like walking into a dumpster with curtains. Trails, hip-width and head-high, tunnel from the front entry, their walls constructed of boxes, flyers, and unmarked bags. They are graffitied with pieces of my mom’s good china, plastic cutlery, clothing, unopened packages of paper towel, mouse droppings. An inflatable swan pool toy is on top of the piano. And it smells like a garbage strike. Of rotting papaya, chicken wings, and hair products. A warren for Vaudeville spirits, heroin addicts, my father. It is devastating.

Something moves. A mouse or a cat. A Gruffalo. I can’t see it, nor can Dan, but we know we are not alone.

“How did this happen?” I ask. “Don’t you visit him?”

“Don’t you visit him?” Dan spits back.

“I see him, but he always comes over.”

“Why do you think that is? Maybe because our father decided he would collect garbage.”

“It’s not all garbage,” I attempt to rationalize. “See over here? Brand new Doggy Steps. Still in the package. Check this out.” I read the side of the box, “Doggy Steps is essential for pets with hip dysplasia, arthritis, or simply old age, giving your pet freedom from the floor — and more COMPANIONSHIP than ever before!”

“He doesn’t have a dog.”

“Are you sure about that? I mean there easily could be one hiding in here.”

“He does not have a dog.”

“Maybe he bought it for the mice.”

“Claudia!”

We kick our way through the living room into the kitchen. It is also sick. Festering with rotting food, dishes food-stained in shades of grey, empty cans of Coke Zero, beans, and tuna, an unopened package of Bumpits.

“We have to get rid of everything,” Dan proclaims. “Call one of those junk places and get them to clear it out.” He swings his arms wildly. “Like what the fuck is that?” He points to a basket of fur on the kitchen table.

“Beats me. Looks like they were strawberries at one point.”

“Why would he do this?” Dan drops his head.

“He probably has dementia.”

“Dementia is forgetting whether he sent out a birthday card or not knowing how to get to the garage. It is not leaving lasagna under the piano and buying a giant emery board for a cat that doesn’t exist.”

I look around for the giant emery board.

“I’m leaving,” he says. “I will call the junk people. You can meet them here when they come.”

“Whoa, why do I have to meet them here?”

“Bedbugs you said were my gig. Garbage is yours.”

“Yeah, but there are bugs here too,” I argue.

Dan furls his eyebrows. “I’ll call you when they’re coming.”

“Well, what about now? What about Dad?”

“What about him?” Dan hollers. “He can stay here. Apparently he likes it this way.”

“He’s obviously sick.”

“He’s disgusting.”

“Yes, Dan. It is disgusting, but he’s sick. Hoarders are sick.”

“Hoarders should be shot.”

“How can you say that?”

“Look at this place! This was our home. How could he do this to us? To Mom?”

“This isn’t about us! It’s about him. He’s obviously fucked up.”

“Then you stay and sort it out with him. You get him some help.”

Dan storms out, slipping on a stack of flyers. He kicks at them and barrels out the door. I follow and watch from the front window. He goes to pull out of the driveway then slams on the brakes. The trunk pops open and he heaves my bags out and dumps them by the edge of the lawn. He slams the trunk back down, but before returning to the driver’s seat, he runs up on the lawn, picks up one end of the broken swing, and launches it in the air. It swings back at him and hits him hard in the hip. He says something I can’t make out and starts wildly kicking the seat before finally getting back in his car and speeding away.

I look back at the living room. Try to recall moments created here. Those spent lip-syncing to
INXS
or spying on Dan when he had friends over. Opening Christmas presents. They are buried now. Contaminated.

I go back outside into the fresh air, sit in the dark on the step, and wait for Dad to return, but he does not.

Glen calls. “Where are you?”

“I’m at my dad’s.”

“You said you’d be quick. I have to work in the morning.”

“I’m coming.”

I arrive home in a cab. The driver carries my bags to the door. He is polite and I give him a large tip. Inside Glen has his jacket on.

“Your flight landed almost three hours ago. What took you so long?”

“I told you I had to stop at my dad’s.”

I notice the Welcome Ho sign my kids made for Grandma on the table, but now it’s Welcome Home: the “m” and the “e” have been added in blue sparkle gel.

Glen pulls his keys from his pocket. “Well thanks a lot. I agreed to bring them here to save you the trip, but I have work to do. The least you could have done was come straight home.”

“Just go,” I say. “Get out of here.”

“That’s it? No ‘Thanks Glen for watching the kids’?”

“You want me to thank you for watching your own kids? Sorry that was such an inconvenience. Just leave.” I want to hit him.

He walks out and I lock the door behind him. I stumble over my luggage, overwhelmed and tired, and check on the kids from their doorways. I don’t risk waking them. I remove my bra in the hall, unzip Mallory’s suitcase, and pull on her pajamas.

I wake up the next morning
with Joan curled up at the end of my bed. Like a cat squirrel. I slide her up beside me and pull the blanket over her legs, which are cold to the touch. I go to the bathroom, and then check on Wes. He opens his eyes when I enter his room.

“Mommy?” he mumbles, confused.

“It’s me,” I assure him. “I’m back.”

He smiles through a yawn.

I give him a hug. “Miss me?”

“Of course. Can we have pancakes?”

“I have to check if we have syrup. I heard Cathy got to babysit you last night.”

“Uh-huh. And we made cupcakes.”

“YOU got to make cupcakes? I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll show you!” He throws back the covers, runs to the kitchen, and points inside the fridge. “See? We brought some home for you!”

A tray of pint-sized cupcakes takes over the middle shelf. They are covered with lumps of white icing and black sugar.

“Those look spectacular!”

Wes jumps. Joan appears in the hallway, rubbing her eyes. I tell her good morning and she comes into the kitchen. She smiles at the open fridge.

“Cupcakes!” she says.

I pick her up and give her a good squeeze. “But not for breakfast.”

I turn on Treehouse and make pancakes from a box.

“Do we have school today?” Wes asks.

“Yes, but we’re going in a bit late.”

Dan calls. “The junk people are coming this morning.”

“What do you mean this morning? I
just
got home. It’s 8:30 a.m. How did you even call them already?”

“I left a message last night and said it was urgent.”

“When are they coming?”

“At 10.”

“Is Dad going to be there?”

“Don’t know, don’t …”

“Care. I know you don’t. He didn’t even come home last night.”

“He must have because his car was there this morning.”

I hang up.

“Was that Grandpa?” Wes asks.

“No, it wasn’t Grandpa.”

We finish breakfast and I dress the kids for daycare. I throw on paint clothes. Wes asks, “Are you a painter?”

“No, honey. I am not a painter.”

“Then why are you wearing those paint clothes to work?”

“I’m actually going to Grandpa’s to help do some cleaning.”

“How come?”

“Because he needs some help.”

“Can I help?”

“Sorry, bud. It’s a grown-up job.”

“I want to be a grown-up.”

“No you don’t. Not yet, anyway.”

“How come?”

“Because sometimes being a grown-up sucks.”

“But why?”

“It can just suck, Wes. Like you have to go to work and look after people and sometimes you have no one to play with.”

He sighs dramatically.

“Can me come?”

“No, Joan. You can’t come either.”

“Because of the bugs?”

“No.” Yes. “Come on. Put your shoes on. Let’s get to school.”

I drop them off and get back in the car. It occurs to me I might get trench foot wearing my sneakers in Dad’s house, so I go to Zellers and buy a pair of rubber boots. I also find packages of 3
M
face masks and medical gloves in the pharmacy. The cashier observes my purchases curiously. I get to my father’s house fifteen minutes before the junk people are scheduled to arrive. Dad is not home. I text Dan and ask where he is.

Allison-Jean picked him up, he replies. I’m on my way
.

I thought you weren’t coming?
I write back.

He doesn’t respond but arrives several minutes later wearing head-to-toe nylon and rubber gloves.

“Are you wearing a snowsuit?” I ask.

“It’s a tracksuit.”

“Why, are you planning on going for a run in the kitchen?”

“I didn’t want to ruin my good pants.”

“Are your good pants the ones with the pleats?”

“Claudia, grow up. It’s going to be a long day, so can you just close your mouth?”

I open a package of gloves as a large blue truck with JUNK written across its side in white block letters pulls up. A bear-sized man gets out of the driver’s seat. He looks like I expected. Tall, wide, gnarly hair. He extends his hand to Dan first and then to me.

“Should we get started?” he asks.

Dan quietly asks whether he’s been briefed about the circumstances. He smiles affirmatively.

“It happens all the time with old people.”

Sure, when the old people have no kids and live in a shed in rural Montana.

“He’s only sixty-three,” I say. Dan glares at me. The junk man, Lenny, returns to his truck to retrieve his partner and a pair of industrial-looking work gloves.

“Why did you say that?” he whispers. “We could have at least pretended he was ninety.”

“It’s just weird thinking of Dad as old. He’s only sixty-three. If he’s this bad now, can you imagine what he’s going to be like when he’s ninety? You and Allison-Jean will have to build a wheelchair ramp and one of those easy-access bath tubs.”

“Me and Allison-Jean? No, no, no. That is … no, absolutely not. Nope.” He shakes his head.

“Well I could never do it. I could never afford it, and besides there is only one of me and there are two of you.”

Lenny checks the door and finds it still locked. Dan, red-faced, pushes past me with his key. He is so angry he forgets to pull his mask up and gags loudly when he enters the front hall. I put on my mask and rubber boots. Dan yells for me.

“Why would you do that outside for the neighbors to see?”

“Like they don’t see the giant truck with JUNK printed on it?”

“For all they know it could be regular household stuff we’re getting rid of. Building materials, a broken toaster. You make it look like we’re recovering bodies.”

“We probably are!”

He makes his angry teeth and summons me in, gagging
again before having the sense to slide his face mask over his nose.

“Whoa!” Lenny says, surveying the living room and what he can see of the kitchen. “This is probably going to take a few days.”

“A
few
days?”

“We could try for less,” Lenny says, carefully making his way through the house. “If we work around the clock we could be finished tomorrow morning, but that depends on how quickly we are able to get rid of stuff.”

“That should be easy,” Dan butts in. “Most of it’s going.”

“Well not
most
of it,” I argue. “We’re keeping a lot of it.”

“Like what?” Dan asks, pulling his rubber glove securely over the sleeve of his track jacket.

I look around. “Like that curtain rod up there.”

“Fine, we’ll keep the curtain rod.”

“And the Doggy Steps!”

“What the hell for? He doesn’t have a dog.”

“You could use them for Emma. She could use them to get into her crib.”

“She can’t walk.”

“Then I’ll take them.”

“You don’t have a dog.”

Lenny starts loading obvious garbage into an oversized bag. Flyers, a soiled pillow, remnants of a Sobeys roast chicken dinner.

“I might get a dog.”

“So you’d get a dog but you wouldn’t take in your father?”

I grab the Doggy Steps and check the outside packaging for evidence of anything nasty, then carry them outside and place them beside my car. Back inside, Lenny and his partner work aggressively. Trashing and sorting and asking for direction.

“What’s this?” Dan asks, holding up a box with a poodle and a walkie-talkie on the front.

“I don’t know. It looks a like a baby monitor or something. Flip it over.”

Dan does. “The Bark Buster,” he reads.

“The Bark Buster?”

“That’s what it says.”

“What does it do?”

He reads under his breath for a minute then says aloud, “It stops dogs from barking. There’s no way he has a dog … is there?”

I pause to consider this.

“There are feces in the kitchen,” Lenny offers.

He says it in such a nonchalant way that both Dan and I stop and stare at each other.

“Did he just say there were feces in the kitchen?”

“I think so,” I nod.

“I can’t do this,” Dan says shaking his head wildly. “I … I … I …”

“You have to do this,” I interject.

“No. No, I don’t. This is not my responsibility. I can clean up coffee cups and empty bottles and whatever the hell that thing is,” he says, pointing to a cauldron-like pot hanging from the ceiling by a chain. “But I don’t do feces.”

He pushes through the front door and disappears. “I don’t do feces either!” I call after him.

“He’s all yours, Claudia! He’s all yours.”

Lenny gives me a moment before holding up the next item he wants permission to trash.

“Yep,” I nod, without looking. “Get rid of it.”

I think about Dan’s last comment. I want to believe he means Lenny is all mine. That I can pocket Lenny like a piece
of pyrite, bring him home, and show him off in a bowl on my dresser. But it’s clear he means Dad. Dad is all mine. The bugs, the big underwear, the old man breath, the bits of food in his new long hair. My body shakes from the adrenaline.

Lenny takes a sip of his extra large coffee. A pack of cigarettes juts out from his chest pocket. He sees me staring.

“Want one?’

“Yes,” I reply, steadying myself from a wave of nausea.

Lenny draws one from the pack and lights it for me. I flick ash on the floor and realize I’m standing on a picture of my mother. “Oh, Mom,” I say aloud. “You do not want to see this.” I manoeuvre my foot over her eyes like a blindfold. Lenny works away. All in a day’s work.