Natural Order (36 page)

The nurse’s head pops into the washroom. “Anything yet?”

I shake my head. I can’t poop on demand. Everything is rush, rush, rush. “You need to give me something. A laxative.”

“I’ll give you some more time,” she says and pulls the door closed.

Everyone is downtown. I expected crowds, but this is overwhelming. Almost frightening. I didn’t think there were this many people in Balsden. Perhaps we should’ve gone to Century Park as Fern suggested. No matter. The bus has dropped John and me off in front of the library. I grab his wrist and begin twisting my way through the crowds along Parker Street. We pass a man selling photographs of the Queen. John asks if we can have one, but I tell him no. His heels dig into the sidewalk.

“But I want one.”

“John, if we don’t get a spot now, we’ll miss seeing the Queen. Now what’s more important to you—a photograph of the Queen or the real thing?”

This puts things into perspective for him and we carry on. Eventually, we find ourselves in front of city hall. This seems to be as good a place as any and there’s a small gap on the curb. I take the blanket from my bag and cover the curb. Then I sit down and pull John onto my lap. The sun is directly overhead and I slip a hat on him, even though he doesn’t like to wear it. He’s holding the letter he received from Buckingham Palace. I know it’s going to be a tattered mess by the end of the day, but he was intent on bringing it. He says he’ll wave it like a flag when the Queen goes by. He also wanted to bring the crown I made for him this morning, but I drew the line. While he was in the bathroom, I threw it into the garbage before piling the leftover pancakes onto it. If he asks me for it, I’ll plead ignorance. If he’s upset, I’ll make him another one. He’s so unpredictable. He’ll forget about some things as though they never existed and other things, he’ll hold on to for dear life. I can’t pretend to figure him out.

“Which way will she be coming?”

“From the right,” I say, pointing. “Keep your eye on the right. They’ll be turning onto Parker Street.”

“Is that the street we’re on now?”

“Yes. It’s the street all the parades go down.”

The day of the big game, Fern and I went downtown. You never saw such a big to-do, but that’s the way it was. Our football team had made it to the finals. Balsden has always been a sports town. What our parade lacked in razzle-dazzle it made up for in spirit. The streets were lined with people. It seemed like all of Balsden was there. And do you know who was leading this parade of parades? I’ll give you one guess.

She’s forgotten about me, the Filipina nurse. I’ve been on the toilet for twenty minutes at least.

“Nurse!” I holler and feel something snap inside of me, a violin string breaking.

“Claire.”

But the name comes out more as a gasp. I close my eyes and see red rapids, surging. No escape. My hands fumble for the pull cord.

“Nurse.”

He turned down that street, all dressed in white, leading the parade. And he had that peculiar hat, perched on his head just so. He was bursting with pride that day. You could see it in his smile, his posture. And when he flung that baton in the air, he caught it every single time.

Bleating in the distance. Sheep. Always those sheep. They never stop. My face is pressed against something flat and cool. It may be the floor. I hear the door slide open.

“Joyce!” He kneels beside me.

“You’re just in time, John.”

“It’s all right. Everything will be okay.”

So this is how it goes
, I think.

I squeeze his hand and see something bright. A fireball turning the corner.

There’s chaos around us. Children running, peering down the street towards the point where the Queen will appear. Some people have flags and wave them. The older ones sit in lawn chairs. One man has a radio. I can make out the squeaking sounds and static.

I wish Charlie were here. Sometimes, he misses out on too much.

A dull roar spreads itself along the line of people until it reaches us and moves on. A ripple of electricity. John runs out into the middle of the street before I can grab him. His neck strains to the left and right.

“John!” I call. “Get back here!”

But he doesn’t.

“John!”

Then he rushes back to me, wrapping his arms around my neck. I can smell the detergent on his striped shirt, maple syrup on his cheek. He turns around and I hold him tight against me. I feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest under my hands. I crane my neck and see a flash at the end of the street.

“Here it comes,” I say and lift my son up.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to Nita Pronovost and the team at Doubleday Canada, Dean Cooke, Ann Ireland, Shaun McCarthy, Patricia Visser and, as always, my partner, Serge, and family.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BRIAN FRANCIS’ first novel,
Fruit
, was a 2009 Canada Reads finalist. It was also named one of NOW Magazine’s Top 10 Books of the Year, picked as a Barnes and Noble “Discover Great New Writers” selection and was an Extended Book Sense Pick. Francis is a recipient of the Writers’ Union of Canada’s Emerging Author Award. He lives in Toronto.