Roost (17 page)

“So what kind of cake do you want
for Daddy’s party?”

“Chocolate!” Wes yells from his car seat.

“With sparkles,” Joan adds.

“You mean
sprinkles
,” I correct.

“No, sparkles, you idiot!” she says, slapping her legs.

“Joan?” I say with astonishment. “How many times do I have to tell you this? You do not call your mother an idiot!” I stare at her in the rear-view mirror and she half-rolls her eyes. “For that matter you don’t call anyone an idiot. Do you even know what an idiot is?”

“A stupid idiot.”

“No, an idiot is not a stupid idiot. That doesn’t even make sense. It’s not a nice thing to call someone an idiot. I don’t want to hear you say idiot or stupid.”

“Can we say stupididiot like it’s one big word?”

“Wes,” I say, in warning. “Now I was trying to ask you what kind of cake you want for your father.”

“I already told you chocolate.” He kicks the back of the seat in front of him.

“WHAT KIND OF ICING?” I ask loudly and sternly.

“Poop icing.”

Both kids laugh. I think of my mother when she was the driver and I was in the back seat observing her. Most of the time she had her driving face on: focused and rigid. But the odd time I’d look up and catch her smiling at something I
couldn’t see and though I never found out what it was, it was always comforting.

“Why are you smiling, Mommy?”

“Just because,” I whisper.

Once home, thinking about what to make for dinner, I open the fridge and find the top two shelves stuffed with meat. It looks like a butcher shop. “Dad, do you know why there’s all this meat thawing in here?”

“I thought I’d take something out for dinner,” he says. He’s sitting on the couch, reading.

“Something? There’s enough meat in here to feed an army.”

My dad suddenly looks nervous. He puts his book down and comes into the kitchen. I’ve got the fridge open for Dad to see, and Joan systematically starts emptying the door of its condiments, which includes four different kinds of mustard. I look at the kids as if they’re to blame for the lot of mustard.

“Who bought all this mustard?” I ask.

“I think it was Daddy,” Wes says.

He is of course wrong. Glen hates mustard, but I go with it.

“I think you’re right, Wes. And the syrup too. There are two bottles of syrup and both are open. I think Daddy did that too.”

“He did,” Wes agrees.

What else did Daddy do, I wonder, looking around the house. There is a spot of nail polish on the couch. Glen’s fault. The countertops are peeling. Glen. My jacket’s abandoned on the floor of the front hall. Still Glen. I could do this all day.

“Seriously, Dad, why did you take all this meat out?”

I go to open the freezer. Dad reaches out like he might intervene. His mouth opens but he doesn’t speak.

“What the hell?”

“Sorry,” he apologizes nervously. “It’s just temporary. Just until I can get back into my house.”

“I told Lenny to throw these out!” I remark, counting the stack of casseroles five high and two deep. “Tell me you did NOT take these out of the garbage.”

“They were still in the freezer,” he insists.

“They are
old
.” I close the freezer and survey the farm melting in my fridge. “How are we supposed to eat all of this, Dad? That’s a week’s worth of meat.”

“I’ll cook it,” he promises.

“Keep your shoes on!” I say as Wesley sits down to yank off his
Cars
sneakers. Joan, hearing the order, kicks her Crocs across the front hall.

“Put those back on.”

“You do it,” she says.

“No. You kicked them off, you put them back on.”

She shakes her head defiantly. I walk over and remove some shitty McDonald’s toy from her fingers and toss it in the cupboard above the sink. She shrieks, as I expected she would. I am irritated and hungry.

“Put your shoes back on and you can have it back.”

She jumps around and I ignore her. I grab my iPhone and order
KFC
.

The dinner arrives with a free strawberry cheesecake. I pull it out of the bag and slide it onto the counter. It smells like flavoured massage oil and I hate flavoured massage oil. It’s like spraying rose-scented aerosol on a poop. The resulting smell is rose-poop. Cheesecake on a crotch. Cheesecake-crotch. I messily set the table, dumping the napkins and individually wrapped plastic cutlery into a giant heap. I need to get out of the house.

While we’re eating, I say to the kids, “Let’s do something.
What is something fun that you’d like to do?”

Wes dips a fry in ketchup. “Go to Disney World?”

“Something like that, but a little closer to home.”

“Swimming! Let’s go swimming.”

I check my watch and wonder how late the pool’s open.

“Do you think we have time?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Wes replies affirmatively.

“Joan, do you want to go swimming?”

She picks out a wedgie and nods her head.

“Okay, here’s the deal. If we want to go swimming then everyone needs to cooperate and do what Mommy says. Wes, you go get your swim trunks and put them on — without your underwear underneath — then put your jogging pants and
T
-shirt back on.”

“What about my socks?”

“Skip ’em. Joan, you come with me to get your bathing suit on.” I pause. “Dad, wanna come?”

“No, you go,” he says. “I’ll clean up here.” He gestures to the table, partially stands, but it’s to take another piece of chicken from the tub.

Joan follows me excitedly to her room. I dig out a Little Swimmer from last summer. She fusses a bit but cooperates as I shove her legs through the small holes. Her thighs bulge outward like the limbs of a balloon animal. I put her pajamas on over top and tell her to wait by the door while I round up towels and get myself ready. I tuck my pubic hair into my suit.

By the time both kids are at the door with their Crocs on, Dad’s started cooking the farm for a hundred future meals. I tell him where the Tupperware is. He opens the cupboard releasing a landslide of lids.

“Now, who’s ready to go swimming?”

My kids scream “ME!” simultaneously.

I pile them into the car, one car seat at a time, and though the buckle on Joan’s seat belt has slipped into the crack at the base of the seat and the subsequent retrieval causes me to flatten my finger like a breast in a mammogram, I remain externally calm. When we get to the pool, the parking lot is empty and I revert to internal motherfucker/asshole commentary. I pull up front.

“Wait right here. Mommy will be back in just a sec.”

I leave my door open and head directly for the sign posted on the main door: Close for Mainence. Clearly written by a university professor. I run back to the car and jump inside.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?”

“Mommy just went to the wrong pool by mistake. We have to go to the other pool.”

“The one with the big pirate ship?” Wes asks, hopeful.

“No, not that one. We’ll do that one soon.” Soon meaning when he’s fifteen.

“What other pool is there?”

“I want to go swimming.”

“We are going swimming, Joan. We’re just going to another pool instead.”

I pull into the parking lot of a Quality Inn with a waterslide visible through the glass roof of the hotel pool.

“Wait right here.” I say this again, despite knowing they are trapped between opposing layers of twisted seat belt. They both look at me like
thanks for the suggestion, dumbass
.

I walk into the hotel and go to the front desk, prepared to trade my foot for access to the pool.

“Checking in?”

“Actually no. I’m just wondering, is your pool for public use?”

“It is, as a matter of fact.” She gives me the pricing.

“Perfect. I’ll be right back.”

I haul the kids out of the car and they trudge through the front lobby. Wes drags his Spiderman towel behind.

“Pick that up, hon. It’s dragging.”

He reels it in with a grunt. I pay the clerk and she gives me a key card and points us in the direction of the pool.

“Wait for Mommy,” I say, once we’re at the edge of the pool. I try to remove my clothing at the same speed as my children.

Joan asks, “Can me jump in?”

“No.”

“Can I go down that?” Wes asks, pointing at the giant red slide. He jumps up and down and his voice wavers with excitement.

“Maybe with me, but let’s get in the pool first.”

I carry Joan on my hip and descend the stairs. The temperature is comfortable. Nice after a long day. Joan squeezes my neck and Wesley flaps beside me, barely afloat.

“Stay to this side, Wes, where it’s shallow.”

He flutters back to the shallow end and bravely dunks himself.

“Good job, Wes.”

He rubs his eyes furiously then smiles.

After three minutes of frolicking, which feel more like ten, we approach the winding steps up the slide. I read the sign. It appears I have made an error in judgment. Wes is too small to go on his own. Joan should not go period. But I make the decision to see the sign as a suggestion more than anything, and by the time we’ve ascended the steps, the prospect of taking the stairs in reverse quite frankly frightens me. Panting under Joan’s weight, I sit down at the top of the slide, which is essentially a dark tunnel, with Joan between my legs and tell Wes to come in front.

“Now don’t move Wes. I’m going to wrap my legs around you so that we all go down together.”

But as Wes turns to listen to my instructions his small butt pivots beneath him and he starts down the slide sideways. I grab his arm but instead of stopping his descent the move pulls Joan and me sideways forcing a partial wedgie in my suit. And that is how the ride ensues. I carry the weight of one child and my own body on one dry butt cheek while Wes dangles helplessly from my grasp, absorbing the force of the ride in his knobby spine. Joan is silent for the six seconds of skin chafing, presumably because she is comfortably resting on the fleshy part of my thighs. Wes and I scream. And just when the light from the pool below becomes visible, the asshole speeds up and sends us spinning backwards until we are messily unloaded into the water.

I scramble to the surface dragging both kids with me. Wes howls. Joan rubs at her chlorine-stung eyes. She has a long scratch but is otherwise unscathed. I set her on the pool deck, followed by Wes, who accuses me of pushing him down the slide. I turn him around to inspect his back. It is red but not really bleeding. Wes continues to sob softly while I lay out our clothes to get dressed. Shirts first to cover their goose bumps followed immediately by pants as I have managed to forget to bring underwear for any of us.

“Okay,” I say, feeling defeated. “That wasn’t too much fun, was it?”

Wes shakes his head sadly. It is 8:30 and past their bedtime but I drive fifteen minutes in the hopes Dairy Queen will somehow salvage the night. Two Dilly Bars later the kids are asleep with chocolate on their faces. I put my pajamas on and watch
The Nature of Things
with my dad.

“What are you eating?” I ask him.

“Some of the pork. It’s real tasty. Want me to make you up a plate?”

“Why is it shredded like that?” I ask, leaning in for a closer look.

“I pulled it apart with a fork.”

“No thanks,” I mutter. “Where’s Paul?”

“She’s outside.”

In a moment of pity for Paul, I go out back to check on her. She’s wound her leash around a tree. It takes a few minutes to untangle her. When I do, she brings me a pinecone. I squat down and scratch her neck. Brush bits of bark and debris from her back.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go inside.”

She treads close behind me.

My dad is asleep sitting up on the couch, a half-empty plate on his lap. The pork has gone hard and slides in a mass towards my hand as I carry the plate to the kitchen.

“Dad,” I whisper, returning to the living room. “It’s time to go to bed.”

Saturday is a big day
. My father’s house is ready for him to move back in and it’s his first major bonspiel. Glen picks up the kids and I go watch. There are more young people in the stands than I expected there would be. A few families with children. Some spectators in their twenties. An odd proportion of people are eating fries. There are four sheets of ice in play. One game is already under way. Three others are about to start. I spot my dad second sheet from the end. His broom is different than those of his teammates. I wonder if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I wish he knew I was watching.

He gets set to play, brushing the bottom of the rock and manoeuvring his foot in the hack. For the moment he is the only action in the rink. He pushes away, releasing the rock. It almost looks graceful. Artful. Until it flies through the house and bumps the back of the sheet. My dad scrambles to his feet with a look of horror. His adopted teammates also assume looks of horror. People around me mumble comments. Two teenagers in front of me laugh out loud.

“Did you see that? What a retard.”

“My grandma can curl better than that and she’s in a wheelchair.”

“My balls could curl better.”

They laugh again.

My dad gets a comforting pat on the back from one of his teammates. He wipes his hands on his pants and returns to
the hack for his second shot, preceded by action on the neighbouring sheet. When he gets set to release, all eyes are on him.

The teenagers nudge each other and look in my father’s direction. This time his rock doesn’t make it to the hog line. No rocks for Gerald.

“What a loser!”

“I told you, he’s a retard.”

I start to panic for my dad. I want to tell him it’s okay the way he did when I fell off my bike or failed a spelling test.
It’s only the first end. Refocus. Kill yourself
. But I can’t get to him. I can, however, get to the teenagers in front me. I can wipe my boots on their hoodies for instance.

“That guy is a total pussy.”

“Loser.”

“Excuse me,” I say. The blond one on the left looks up. He has an excessive amount of product in his hair. “Don’t you think it’s a little
uncool
to be watching curling?” I ask him.

He stares up at me bewildered. Unsure what to make of the question. I panic, suddenly worrying his parents may be close by.

“What?” he replies, after exchanging looks with his friend.

“Like, don’t you think it’s a bit loser-ish to be hanging out watching a bunch of old guys throw rocks?” I make an ‘L’ with my right hand, subtly bring it to my forehead, and whisper, “L … o … s … e … r.”

“Fuck you.” He takes a swig of his fountain pop and motions for his friend to leave with him.

“I’m just saying.” I lean back in my chair. Watch momentarily as my dad successfully sweeps a rock into the house.

“My dad’s the provincial champion.”

“My dad’s Kevin Martin,” I reply.

The teenagers stand up. Noticing their row exit is blocked
by some seemingly purposeless caution tape, the pair is forced to climb over their seats. I contemplate sticking my foot out to trip them. Preferably the blond, but I have already stooped to an unconscionable level. They at least were acting their age. He turns around and says, “Cunt!”

No one has ever called me a cunt before. It makes me feel old and dated. Why couldn’t he have called me a pussy?

The arena erupts into cheers and whistles. I clap along observing the time on the giant digital clock. It could be hours before the game’s over. I decide to leave the stands and head to the bar for a drink, hoping to find the happy masses.

I am not disappointed. The rink lounge is exactly as I imagined. The happily unfit drink Moosehead on dated leather-tacked pub chairs, cajoling each other. I order a pint. Sit at the bar and browse through a curling supply catalogue. Glance at the side wall, which is lined with tarnished trophies, photos of foursomes, banners behind glass cases. I could kill hours here. Drinking draught and listening to stories. Periodically I give my two cents. It’s that kind of place. I keep meaning to return to the game to check on my father’s progress, but I feel heady and drunk and everyone’s happy.

A man enters the lounge and orders an orange juice. His peers address him as Tony.

“What’s going on out there, Tony?” they ask.

“Games are all over,” Tony replies.

“Already?”

A few of them check their watches

“Geez, it’s that late already.”

One of them asks if Don is still around.

“I think he’s on his way up,” Tony informs everyone. He gets closer to one table in particular and bends in. “There’s a guy still out on the ice, won’t come off.”

“What? He’s protesting a call or something?”

“No.” Tony’s eyes widen. “He’s just lying on the ice.”

“What a loser!” I offer, slipping partially off my stool.

A few of the men look at me.

Someone asks, “Are you sure he’s not having a heart attack or something?”

“No, no, he just won’t get up off the ice.”

“Oh, you mean he’s actually lying on the ice.” The guy who asks this has a large moustache. He demonstrates the scenario by laying his hands on the table.

“Lying on the ice,” Tony repeats.

“Maybe he needed a nap!” I offer, laughing at my own wit.

I realize with a little alarm that the tail of my shirt has caught on my stool.

Tony takes a sip of his juice, lowers his voice. “Someone said he was crying.”

In a second I am sober and heading down to the ice.

My dad has no expression. If there were tears at one point, they’ve since dried up. I crouch down beside him. “Hey, Dad,” I whisper.

“Claudia?” He lifts his head exposing an ice-pink cheek. Like a blot of colour in a black-and-white film. It is the only youthful thing about him. Everything else declares age. His jellyfish-pale skin, the grey-blue of his veins.

“Claudia,” he says again. “You came to watch?”

“I did.”

The arena is still. Quiet but for the hum of the overhead lights.

“I
just can’t
seem to do it without her. I tried and I just can’t.”

I brush snow from his knee.

“I tried to cook a ham and I put it in the oven with the
plastic wrap still on it and I don’t remember what vitamins to take and when because there’s an order. There are night vitamins and there are morning vitamins and you can’t mix them up because some of them don’t go together and then they don’t work the same so you have to get it right and I
just can’t
get it right.” He talks with his hands in the air.

“You don’t have to do everything the way Mom did. Just because it was her way doesn’t mean it was the right way or the only way, it was just that — it was
her
way. Except for the ham. You don’t cook it in the bag.”

I want to lie down. I have the spins. But my dad is making progress, and I don’t want him to retreat, he’s pushed himself up onto his elbow. He sticks out his hand. I help him to a seated position. He reaches forward, pulls his sock down a little, and scratches around his ankle.

“Your socks are way too tight!” I say, running my finger over the trench left behind from the sock’s elastic. “Why would you wear those?”

“They’re brand new.”

“Are you sure they’re for men?”

He examines his socks. Runs his finger around the perimeter of the opening.

“Well, they were right next to the men’s underwear.”

“Huh,” I say, surprised. “You should take them back.”

My dad manoeuvres himself onto all fours and gradually rises to his feet, eventually pulling me up with him. We stand in the button. A one-foot white circle that feels remarkably like an epicentre. I cling to him, drunk and dizzy.

“Where’s your stuff?”

He motions to a duffel bag, rinkside.

“I need you to drive home.”

“I can see that,” he says, giving me the once-over.

A maintenance person looks relieved to see my father on his feet, but once we’re headed his way he puts his head down and busies himself behind a score table. We exit the building in silence.

It’s a dreary scene outside. Beige cars and cracked asphalt. Shapeless clouds strewn across the sky. Dad opens the passenger door of his Taurus and helps me inside, as though I’ve just given birth or something. For the moment he has purpose. Some responsibility. A job. One that he knows. I crank my seat back to a reclined position as he pulls into reverse. I look over and catch him smiling. And in that moment everything feels light and lifted. Hair blowing in the wind. A song by
ABBA
. Expression has returned to my father’s face and I savour it. Like replacing an overturned rock back on the dented earth from which it came. Concealing once again its secrets. Potato bugs and centipedes. Debris. I close my eyes.