Roost (18 page)

We don’t talk about curling at breakfast the next morning
. My dad wears his hair in a ponytail and eats bread with Chia seeds.

“Can you watch the kids?” I ask my father.

He nods and sips his coffee. “Where are you going?”

“To the paint store.”

“Don’t forget about your car,” he says.

I did forget about my car. It’s at the rink. I text Cathy and ask her to pick me up. She arrives within minutes.

“Invite her in,” my dad says.

“No,” I say. “She has a golf lesson. Besides, she’s coming tonight.”

“We’re having company?”

“Glen’s party.”

“Right,” he says enthusiastically.

“I won’t be long. Wes, Joan, Mommy’s going out!”

Wes calls from his bedroom, “Pick a number between twenty-one and forty-four.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Slap yourself in the face twenty-seven times.”

What the fuck? I take a piece of Chia bread and run out to Cathy’s car. She is wearing a visor and a white golf shirt.

“You called me just in time,” she says.

“Yeah, thanks,” I reply. “I totally forgot about my car. What time’s your lesson?”

“Ten. I was ready sooner than I expected.”

“Since when did you take up golf?”

“One of my clients convinced me. Said with my height and strength I’d probably have a long drive.”

“I can see that.”

“But it’s hard. It hurts my back having to hunch over. Especially putting.”

“Maybe your clubs are too short.”

“That’s what my mom said.”

When we get to the curling club there are no cars in the back parking lot other than mine. Cathy pulls up beside it.

“Are you still doing parkour?”

“No, it finished last week. It was fun though. Want to see something I learned?”

“Sure,” I say.

Cathy backs up and re-parks the car away from mine. She undoes her seat belt. “K, watch this.”

She walks about twenty feet away, stops, turns to face the car and then starts running. She makes fists with her hands and they swing high by her forehead. She gets closer and closer and for a second I crouch as though she is going to dive through her open window and tackle me, but instead she hurdles and cartwheels over the hood. When her feet hit the ground she says “whoo!” and adjusts her golf shirt, which had bunched upwards on her sports bra.

I get out of the car and clap. “
Very
impressive.”

She catches her breath and gives me the kind of light hug exchanged between competitors at the end of a race.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say. “Let me know how your golf lesson goes.”

She says, “Will do,” gets back in her car, and honks her horn twice as she pulls away.

I skip Home Depot in favour of a specialty paint store I’ve
passed from time to time and have always wondered about. Here I hope the person will be forced to smile and act patient through my indecisiveness. I arrive just as the store opens. The guy behind the counter looks up from some paperwork and smiles. His
T
-shirt is faded blue and his hair sticks up and to the side. Kind of preppy, except he has holes the size of quarters in both earlobes. The earrings look as though they might pop out like wine corks.

“Do you need some help?” he offers.

“I want to paint my kitchen.”

He comes around from the desk and wipes his hands on his cargo shorts, which are covered in paint. “Tell me about your kitchen.”

No one has ever asked this before. It seems personal. Like I’m about to get a breast enhancement and we’ve come to the part of the appointment when the doctor carefully opens the gown and examines the breasts and then draws on them with a felt pen.

“It has a fridge,” I say.

“Black, white, stainless steel?”

“Yellow.”

“Yellow? Seriously? Other appliances too?”

“No. Dishwasher and oven are both white. Toaster is stainless steel, microwave is black.”

“Do you have one of those built-in can openers too?”

“Negative.”

“Continue,” he says, playing with his goatee. His eyes are cinnamon brown.

“It used to have a border.”

“Floral?”

“Roosters.”

“Cabinets?”

“Oak.”

“Floor?”

“Beige.”

“Backsplash?”

“White tile.”

“All white or are there some decorative cornucopias thrown in the mix?”

“Some decorative cornucopias.” I say, maintaining eye contact.

“Were you born in the forties?” He smiles.

No, but my roommate was, I think.

“Go on,” he encourages. “Give me details. Like how much time do you spend in it? Do you like to cook? What is the essence of your kitchen?” It is the part of the consult where the doctor is now feeling the breasts.

“I don’t know. I don’t
love
to cook, but I don’t mind cooking when I have time. I can make a cheese ball and tacos and I like drinking wine in the kitchen. I dry my hair in it when I drink my coffee in the morning and I don’t wash the floor as often as I should. I usually wait until something spills and then I use my socks. I like to sit on the counters or on the stove. I once found a grasshopper in my kitchen.”

“Keep going,” he says.

“I don’t know. I have not one but two tracks of brass lighting and there is an unmarked bag of spice in the cupboard that just sits there year after year and I have various metal lids that are missing their jars and scratched-up sippy cups with rubber liners that smell like condoms.”

“Do you ever host parties or do Christmas dinners? Do you like to entertain?”

“Only when forced to.”

“All right,” he says. “I know the perfect colour for your kitchen.”

“Which is …”

“White.”

“White? Seriously? It took you all that to come up with white? Was it the unidentified bag of spice or the sippy cups?”

“No, no. It was white right after you listed your appliances. You have way too much going on in there.”

So you are basically admitting you didn’t need to touch the breasts after you drew all over them. “Fine, then tell me about your kitchen,” I insist.

“It’s a galley. Quite small, really. Walls are grey. Backsplash is made up of mosaic tiles, no border, no cornucopias. Separate dining room. Appliances are stainless steel and bulky. Too big for the space. But there is a window over the sink, which looks out onto the backyard. I do not dry my hair in the kitchen but I’ve played my guitar in it.”

Interesting. I’ve played the skin flute in mine. Another customer enters the store, a middle-aged woman with a pompadour. I fasten my hospital gown.

“The whites are all on that panel over there,” he directs. “You want to go with something warm.”

The other customer has a picture of a room I am not able to see, and mulls it over with the paint guy. I stare at the paint guy’s sculpted calves. They bulge out to the sides like a pair of fists. He must be a runner. The customer sits down at one of the many workstations as the paint guy begins making recommendations. I continue to watch the paint guy with interest, the way a stalker might. He kind of makes me want to paint my whole house. The other customer thinks they are best friends, but I wait patiently for the paint guy to return to my side and my dilemma, in the meantime not paying much attention to the display of white chips in front of me. I can’t tell the warm from the cool. I choose one at random and read the name:
icicle. I jam it back in the slot. Where are the warm colours? Why can’t I find little lamb or Bequia sand. Where is hug?

“So how are we doing?” he asks when the other customer releases him.

“Not good,” I reply. His presence makes me feel giddy.

“Any of these are good choices,” he says, sticking a blue pencil behind his ear. I can faintly smell his deodorant. Gilette, cool wave. We compare samples, breaking when new customers arrive in what seem like ten-minute intervals. I finally settle on a shade, acknowledging even the right white will not change all that is wrong with my kitchen. However its name is fairly disappointing: mayonnaise. Surely the only thing worse than having a yellow kitchen is having a mayonnaise one. Especially mayonnaise that costs fifty dollars a gallon. I debate just spreading Miracle Whip over the walls, but the colour works and it doesn’t contain eggs or taste good on a sandwich and at least it’s going in the kitchen and not the bedroom.

I look over the panels of colour while the paint guy goes to mix the mayonnaise, picking samples at random and reading their names: Flamingo’s Dream, Irish Clover, Dead Salmon.

“Your mayonnaise is ready,” the paint guy says, nodding towards the counter.

I shove a handful of colour swatches into my purse and follow him to the back of the store.

“Thanks for your help,” I say, handing him my Visa. More customers enter the store but he focuses on me. On my ten freckles. The chicken pox scar on my left upper lip, the jagged neck of my most favourite yellow
T
-shirt. And my clavicle, which is so touchable. It is perhaps the world’s most beautiful clavicle, protruding from my chest like a little floating shelf. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s my intact earlobes, pierced only once and as soft as a horse’s face, or my lashes, which
are not particularly long but are curled like a fan of tiny beckoning fingers. I don’t know, but I feel like the only colour in the room: Claudia.

“No problem,” he says. “Listen, if you ever need help replacing the cornucopias, let me know. I’m fairly decent at tiling.”

“Some day,” I reply. “They’re on my hit list.”

He lingers for a moment, and then turns to serve another customer, who can’t wait to talk about paint for the bar in her basement. I haul my mayonnaise to the car and place it on the passenger seat.

I get back from the paint store
feeling renewed and anxious to get started on the kitchen, but, of course, it will have to wait until after the party.

“Hello!” I call, coming in the front door.

I place the mayonnaise down in the front hall, and I walk through the house looking for my family. They’re out on the back deck.

“What are you doing?”

“Gardening.” There is dirt in Dad’s hair, pink in his cheeks. He wipes his nose with his shirt.

“Where did you get plants?

“We went down to Canadian Tire.”

“With the kids?”

“Yes,” he says, proudly.

“Without car seats?” I bite my tongue.

“It’s just down the street.” He disappears around the side of the house and returns seconds later with an obscure-looking bucket.

“What is that?”

“It’s a tomato planter. You hang it up like this and the tomatoes grow downwards. They say they grow bigger this way.”

“Thanks, Dad, but I’ll probably kill it.”

“No, no,” he argues. “It’s really easy. You don’t have to bend down and search for them.”

“Is that what it says on the box?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“It’s true. You can do it all standing up.”

“Oh, Dad.”

“Well I will do it then. I’ll look after them.”

“It’s not that, it’s that you believe everything on the box. Pass it to me. ‘Eliminate back-breaking work.’ That’s actually amusing.”

“One plant produces thirty pounds of tomatoes.”

“It was thoughtful of you to get this. The kids and I will just have to start eating more tomatoes.”

“Think of it,” he says, “We can make sandwiches or salsa or add them to salads or even just eat them on their own.”

“Yes,” I reply. “We can.”

When I go back inside the house I have a full-blown panic attack. The Topsy Turvy tomato plant is not a nice gesture from father to daughter. The Topsy Turvy is a nice gesture from roommate to roommate. It is like the time Glen moved in his toaster oven because he planned to be around for a while. My father plans to be around for a while. He plans to be around to water and pick the tomatoes standing up and he plans on filling the cupboards with baked beans and
Q
-tips and change jars featuring quarters with pictures of hockey players and curlers on them. And while he plans on staying for the long haul, I can’t call Glen on a whim to watch the kids or fix the dryer.

“Look what we got!” Wes says, kicking his Crocs off at the back door. His hands are behind his back. Joan follows him holding her plant sideways. Dad steps in and rights it.

“Hold it up like this, Joanie.” He too is holding a plant.

“What do you have there?”

Wes exclaims, “The Scouts were selling them in front of
Canadian Tire! Grandpa says we can plant them and then eat them later.” Then he adds, “They’re bean plants.”

Of course they are. Each in its own little plastic cup. Each wobbly bean dangling from its own finger-length stem. Green and tiny and full of promise.

A little bit later that afternoon when I dress Joan in fresh clothes, I notice her slide wounds are barely visible, though my tailbone still feels as though it was clubbed. Dad remains in the garden. I take Wes to a friend’s house to play and Joan and I go shopping for Glen’s party. She is more agreeable on her own. We stop at a Tim’s on the way and share a snack pack of Timbits as we grocery shop. I skim over my list, which seems to have ballooned since the night before.

We load up the cart with hummus and pretzels and juice boxes and end up spending almost two hundred dollars, not even including the cake, which I had the foresight to order from a bakery. We pick it up after we’re done at the grocery store. It has real icing and costs forty-five dollars.

I remind myself again why I’m doing this. For Wes, for Joan to a certain degree. You celebrate the success of your ex because it is important to your child in the same way you agree to play three hundred rounds of
Cars
bingo or drive around the city looking for the Wiggles Christmas movie. And it’s important because sometimes things don’t work out, like when you throw your kids down a waterslide or make them eat boiled chicken and Rice Krispies for dinner or you separate from their father.

At home Joan plays with dinosaurs as I put away the groceries. I have an hour to clean before I need to pick up Wes. I chip away at the dried banana on the kitchen floor with a butter knife and clean what’s left with a magic eraser. Then I go around and open the windows to let in some fresh air. I
don’t think I have ever done this before, though it is something my mother practiced religiously and within minutes I understand why. The house feels lighter and renewed, as though it has taken a deep cleansing breath, and somehow I feel lighter and renewed too. Structural yoga.

After I’ve removed clutter and picked up toys and straightened furniture, Joan asks for a snack, so I spread some peanut butter on a banana. I make a cup of tea in my mother’s rooster mug and make a mental list of the only things I still need for the party: a few bottles of wine and a case of beer.

“Put your shoes on, Joan.”

“I’m busy.”

“Too bad. Only a few hours until Daddy’s party.”

“Is it his birthday?”

“No, Daddy’s birthday is in August.”

And then I think, it’s April 15th. It’s been six months since my mother’s birthday party.

Joan looks at me funny.

“We’re having the party to celebrate Daddy’s artwork.”

I wonder if she’ll too expect a party, to celebrate her pictures of cat squirrels she’s brought home from Turtle Grove.

“Should we have a party for you some time?”

She nods.

“Next time.”

I check my watch and tell her to scurry to the car. She obeys and rushes outside. We go the liquor store and then pick up Wes who is no longer wearing socks.

“You must remember where you took them off.”

“I don’t.”

“Just keep them on when you go somewhere to play. Is that so difficult? Which pair were they?”

“The ones with the black toes.”

“Wes! Those are the expensive ones,” I scold him, feeling genuinely disappointed and pathetic that I’m feeling genuinely disappointed. “Keep them on your feet.”

“Is it time for Daddy’s party?”

“Almost. Now I spent a lot of time cleaning up the house. Other than the dinosaurs, which are already out, don’t make a mess.”

Everywhere people are out walking. Getting fresh air. The arms of discarded sweatshirts dangle from their owners’ waists. Dogs prance from the ends of their leashes. Kids drive by on bikes that are two sizes too small. If I was smart I would have done a barbecue.

“I’m hungry.”

“Now? Didn’t you have a snack at Alexander’s?”

“No. His mom said not before dinner.”

“Well, we’ll go to McDonald’s.”

“Can we go in?”

“No, it has to be drive-thru. We have people coming in less than an hour and I’d like to shower and change.”

I pull into the drive-thru and roll down my window in anticipation. Clean the dashboard with my finger.

“That looks like Daddy’s car,” I note, seeing his old car, his summer car, parked in the lot.

“It is!” Wes confirms enthusiastically.

“How can you tell?”

“Because I can see his jacket in the window.”

I shield my eyes from the sun to get a better look. “Would you look at that? You’re right, Wes, it is Daddy’s car. I remember when Daddy bought that jacket.”

“Why?”

“Because I just remember.” After the car in front of us lurches forward, I pull one spot closer to the menu. “Your
father and I had gone snowboarding on a date and he ran into a tree.”

“So did he find the jacket on the tree?”

“No. He ripped his jacket right across the back and that,” I say, pointing to the almost neon orange coat spread across Glen’s rear windshield, “was the only jacket in his size left on the resort.”

“Why are you laughing?”

“I just am.” I pull the car ahead again. “What do you want?”

“Chicken and fries.”

“How about just the fries? We have tons of food at home; this is just a snack.”

“Okay. I’ll have fries and a cheeseburger.”

I shake my head. “Joan, do you want anything?”

“I want a fish.”

“You want a fish?”

“She means a Filet-O-Fish,” Wes corrects.

“You want a Filet-O-Fish?” I say, looking at Joan surprised.

She nods.

“Since when do you like Filet-O-Fish?”

“That’s what Daddy’s friend gets all the time. It’s a square fish.”

“Uncle Teddy?”

“No, Daddy’s friend Sonia.”

“Sonia. Right.”

The speaker squawks, “Welcome to McDonald’s can I take your order please?”

“I’ll have a fish.”

“A fish?”

“A Filet-O-Fish and some fries.”

“Did you want the combo?”

“Sure, whatever.” I turn in my seat and look at Wes. “Does she order it all the time, like, two times, or like
lots
of times?”

“All the time,” Wes stresses. “Like probably ten times.”

“How often does Daddy take you to McDonald’s?”

Wes shrugs.

“What would you like to drink with that?”

Tequila. Purel. Acid. “Coke.”

“Drive through for your total.”

“What again does Daddy’s friend look like?”

“I don’t know.”

It is the same response he gives when I ask what he did at school.

“Well is she tall or short or does she have brown hair or …”

“There she is! See?”

“Where?”

“Over
there
,” he taps at his window.

“Welcome to McDonald’s can I take your order?”

“You already took it.”

I move forward to pay and pick up my square fish, observing with diligence the scene in my rear-view.

“Is that her?” I ask Wes.

He strains his head. “I can’t see anymore.”

“Does she wear braids sometimes?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How old is she?”

“Maybe twenty years old?” Wes guesses. “Same as Daddy.”

“Daddy is thirty-six.”

“Then maybe she’s thirty-six too.”

“Fifty ten hundred.”

“Thanks, Joan, that’s helpful.”

I exchange money for food and drive around the parking
lot, find a spot and turn off the engine to watch from an adequate distance. I dig in the bag and hand the kids each a handful of fries. I lick the salt off my fingers. Sonia opens her door and dumps her purse inside. Glen is standing by her side of the car waiting for something. When she returns to an upright position he kisses her and tugs playfully on her braids. He loves her. My Glen is in love. It changes everything and nothing.

I sink into my seat, restart the car. I feel heavy. Cloaked in emotion. A physical reaction. My shoulders actually slope forward towards the wheel as though I’m wearing one of those protective x-ray vests. I am the guy in the Diet Pepsi ads who wants his old jeans back.

Why would Glen go to McDonald’s before the party? Does he think I wouldn’t have food? It pisses me off.

“Can I have some more fries?”

I hand the entire bag back to Wes. “Go fish. Fill your boots.”

“I didn’t want a Filet-O-Fish.”

He doesn’t know what I mean. I don’t know what I mean.

“Just eat the fries, Wes.”

He opens the bag and starts stuffing food in his mouth. Joan whines. Stretches her arm towards him. He meets her demands and passes her a few. The car goes quiet. Still.

When we stop at a red light I turn on the radio. Release the brake a bit and inch forward. I collapse into the steering wheel. Listen to the Barenaked Ladies lament about popsicles or grade school or something. By the time the light turns green, I’m crying. Tearless, but with really ugly facial expressions. The kids ask what’s wrong and I cover my mouth. Shake my head. Motorists in passing cars notice me. They look over and look over again.

“Wes, undo your seat belt,” I say, wiping my nose as we
pull into the driveway. He obeys. I get out of the car, unbuckle Joan, and gesture them both out the same side of the car.

“Go on up to the door,” I encourage. “I have to get stuff out of the trunk.”

“Can I have my fish?” Joan asks.

“When we get in the house. Go! You’re standing in Mommy’s way.”

We tramp into the house, bags swinging, bottles of wine clinking. Fries drop from the open McDonald’s bag leaving a trail to the front door.

“Are you okay, Mommy?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, honey.” I help Wes off with his shoes.

“Were you thinking about Grandma?”

“Yep. I was. Just thinking about Grandma.”

He hugs me.

“I’m okay,” I reassure him. “Should we put on
Ice Age?
”

Wes and Joan both cheer. Joan takes off her Crocs and biffs them across the room.

“All right, we have a party to get ready for.”

I set the kids up in front of the
TV
, give Joan her fish, and begin loading the table with snacks and finger foods. Pretzels, popcorn, Brothers pepperoni. Out back my father removes dandelions from the lawn. This will devastate Joan. The cake has the kitchen smelling like fudge. It reminds me of baking with my mom when I was still small enough to need a chair. I want my mom. She kept her fingernails short and perfectly rounded. She made happy faces with the cloves whenever she baked a ham. She was not angry or bitter or resentful for getting hit with that damn boat. And then I think about Glen. The way he used to line up said cloves on his plate during Easter dinner. The way he shaved his face with one arm behind his back. The poem he wrote in the sympathy card he gave me. Asshole.

I open a bottle of wine. Chateau Grand Paris. From 2006. I take a glass from the display on the table and fill it three quarters full. I lean against the counter, tip my glass up, take too large a sip. It floods the back of my throat.

There’s no time to shower, really, so instead I stand in the kitchen staring at my cluttered fridge door. It’s a wonder I still know it’s yellow under all the drawings and notices from school and appointment cards. I remove the magnets and decide I at least have time for this. I discard anything expired or irrelevant. A coupon for buy one get one free Kraft peanut butter. Layers of monthly calendars from Turtle Grove. A menu from King of Donair.