The Journey Prize Stories 21 (18 page)

The seagulls laughed. Ah Sing sputtered, yet the two men ignored him and boarded the steamer. His breath felt scant and thread-like in his lungs. His ears rang, his head thudded.

He plunged his head under. When he surfaced, he squinted at Ge Shou standing on the rocky outcrop of beach, who had picked up his clothes and was waving them, flag-like. Then Ge Shou reached for the kite but stopped short of picking it up.

Ah Sing swam back to shore and clung to a rock. Ge Shou looked down in silence. Ah Sing breathed deeply, filling his
nostrils with salt air and water droplets that burned. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Water remained on his lashless lids and formed prisms, through which he looked at the setting sun. Oystercatchers circled and screeched.

Ge Shou lowered his hand to help Ah Sing onto the boulder. Ah Sing shook his head. He spat over his shoulder and then heaved his body out, panting as he clambered up. There he hunched forward and held himself.

After a while, he stood up and took the hat from the rock; he spun it around on his hand a few times. Holding it aloft, he pulled out the heron feathers. Then he tossed the hat into the ocean.

He reached for the coin. He put it in his mouth. It tasted like oak. His tongue moved it from one side of his mouth to the other and warmed the metal. He spat the coin back out, into his hand. He hurled it toward the ocean. It glinted in the air. When it hit the water, it skimmed like a cormorant before sinking into the grey-green waves.

A breeze dimpled the ocean. Ah Sing picked up the kite frame and offered it to Ge Shou. Ge Shou rubbed his forehead. “Don't be scared, Ge Shou.”

Ge Shou hopped from foot to foot, holding the kite.

“Don't cry, Ge Shou.”

Ah Sing put his arm around Ge Shou's shoulder. He stroked him up and down. He could feel the warmth of his flesh through the damp cotton of his shirt. Ah Sing's arm was covered in goose pimples. Ge Shou's black braid tickled his armpit.

“There's nothing to be afraid of,” he said to Ge Shou. “Do you want to help me fly the kite?”

When he was a boy, Ah Sing's bed had been a strong rush mat, and he had slept on it with his four brothers and sisters, his parents, and their parents, by the great mouth of the Yangtze River where it emptied into the East China Sea.

The sea touched everything with lapping hands, probing fingers, reaching across countries and exploring fjords with whales, bays of volcanic rock, and ancient crevasses. A single drop could circumnavigate the globe in five thousand years.

As a boy, he would float in the warm waters of Chongwu Bay until he felt his body liquefying, his loose limbs pulled by small currents and pushed by gentle swells. He would float as if dead while the sun burned his back. He grew and fished with the older boys. He went to work in the tin mines of Malaysia. He went to the plantations of Borneo. He forgot how to turn into the sea.

The water dripping from his body had formed a puddle at his feet. Ah Sing shook the remaining drops from his limbs and stood on one leg to dry the bottom of his feet with his shirt. Then he used his shirt to towel the top of his head. He stepped into his pants. He pulled his shirt over his neck and the hair that was still wet dripped down his back. The fabric of the shirt stuck to his skin.

The warmth was returning to his body, but the back of his head still ached with cold. He looked out over the water.

“Hey Ge Shou, here's a riddle for you:
How does one stop a drop of water from ever drying out?”

“A riddle.” Ge Shou clapped. “I love riddles.”

T
he mother believes in making healthy dinners for the whole family. She will not be like their babysitter across the street who makes herself steak but gives the kids plastic bowls of Kraft Dinner. Sometimes the orange kind, sometimes the white kind. The son is smart enough not to ask for junk like that at home but the child always looks disappointed with supper after a day spent across the street.

The mother watches her from behind. The child doesn't speak. The clack of plastic and marbles from the one-girl game of Hungry Hungry Hippos becomes such a din it starts to fade. She would close the spare-room door to cut the noise. Keep things manageable until dinner. But if the husband comes home and finds that she shut the child in a room alone, he will yell.

The last time the babysitter watched the kids was Friday. The mother returned from dropping them off to find the husband pulling his Audi into the driveway. He didn't shut off the engine. She tapped the driver's side window.

“We should take the Firefly. It looks better,” she said. They were going to an appointment with the loan manager at the bank. She checked her reflection in his aviators.

“Sheryl, get in.”

The husband wanted to start a new business, wanted to be part of the housing boom he said was coming to Calgary. He had started using words like
capital
. He used to say things like, “You're being eccentric on purpose.” She liked that better.

“I need to get back to work A-sap.” He wrapped and rewrapped his fingers around the steering wheel.

“Is that the Hugo Boss suit?”

“What? Yes. For God's sake,” he said and put the car in reverse.

Things went shrill. “You paid nearly a grand for that suit –” Then he said shut up, said get in.

At the bank, he sat stone-faced while the loan manager went over numbers that didn't add up in their favour. The answer was no. Afterward, she stepped out of the Audi in low heels chosen specifically for the meeting. The husband scraped the undercarriage when he left their driveway.

Back across the street, Wendy the babysitter opened her door, all smiles and sweatpants. The son scooted around the woman's ample backside, skipped down the stairs and trotted home. He had always been quick like that.

“Jenny's sure slow with the talking, eh?” said Wendy. The mother had once corrected Wendy, had told her not to call the child Jenny because that wasn't her name. But it didn't stick. Wendy sometimes said inappropriate things like this. The mother swallowed words. Free babysitting was worth something.

“Yes. She's very shy.” Beyond Wendy, the mother could see the white-blond back of the child's head. She sat on the carpet – unvacuumed from the looks of things – watching the fish tank. The mother squeezed past Wendy, walked into the house. It smelled like cat.

“Come,” she said to the child. Nothing. The mother stepped closer and put a hand solidly around the child's arm. “Come!”

The girl's head popped up. She pointed to the fish tank.

Wendy said, “Jenny, you can come back whenever you like and look at the fishies.”

The mother and the child left the house. The mother called back to Wendy – “Thanks!” – and Wendy waved.

That night, the mother said to the husband, “I'm not letting Wendy take care of the kids anymore.”

“Why not?”

“They have a new cat.”

“She's free.”

“Price over quality, John?”

“We can't afford daycare, you know that.”

“Then you can take our son to the doctor when he gets asthma.”

“You don't get asthma that way. You're overreacting.”

“Better than underreacting.”

While the child slaps around in the spare room at the bottom of the stairs, the mother will make homemade Caesar salad, meatloaf, and open a can of whole tomatoes. The husband went to a naturopath who said his liver wasn't well, said no red meat. Now they only eat beef once every two weeks. He doesn't drink milk anymore either but he understands the
children need it. They used to drink two per cent but now they're down to one. She likes the creamy taste of milk, sometimes sneaks a small carton of homo at work, but she's getting used to the lower fat. As soon as the child hits four, she knows the husband will demand they only drink skim.

Nobody in this neighbourhood knows how to make Caesar salad. All croutons and dressing, they think. When the mother, the father, and the son first moved here, the mother was intent on becoming part of the community. But the potlucks were full of women who talked about their husbands and brought their kids too. She wanted the company of women, but not women like that. What was the point of female company if you only talked about your husband and your kids?

The husband is late. The mother knows she said seven and so, at seven, she puts out dishes for the child, the son, and the husband. She serves the Caesar salad, something she's proud of.

“Where's Dad?” asks the son.

The mother hasn't even had a chance to give him his glass dish of canned tomatoes.

“He's probably late,” she says. But there's no probably about it.

She gives the child a bowl of tomatoes. The child is staring at the wall. Not at the calendar or the phone that hang there, but at some point above the kitchen table. Nothing. The mother grabs a damp cloth from the sink, moves behind the child and wipes the wall. Maybe a food splatter. The child looks away and down at her tomatoes.

They make the child's mouth itch. She likes the taste on the tongue but the corners of the mouth sting after. She doesn't
like canned tomatoes. Meatloaf. Full of onions. She reaches for the ketchup, a tomato paste she can handle, but her brother grabs it first. He is slow about screwing off the cap, slow about the ooze and then the plop plop of the ketchup onto his plate, slow about returning its cap, slow about putting the bottle on the far side of his plate, away from her.

She reaches with her palm out, flaps the fingers in a sideways wave. Gimme. The brother ignores her, goes into his meatloaf. The mother is at the stove. She turns, walks toward the kitchen entrance, is met by the father. They speak. The mother opens her mouth to say more, then shakes her head and returns to the stove. Spoons out the father's meatloaf, puts it on the table, dishes up her own, sits down. The father sits. The family, at the table. She reaches again toward the ketchup. Intent. Pointing. Stretching over her brother. Looking at the mother. The mother goes for the ketchup, but the father raises a hand and speaks. She pulls back her arm, puts her hands in her lap. Looks into the father's face. Waits.

“Use your words,” he says, again.

“Chup, chup,” she says and reaches. Her brother sighs. She feels the outing of air on her arm. She hopes he doesn't hit her.

The mother looks at the father. He turns to her and shakes his head, speaks. She speaks back and rolls her eyes, reaching for the ketchup. She takes off the top, pours a disc of ketchup onto the child's plate, beside meatloaf overflowing onions. A red moon of ketchup on her plate. Its edges round, then stop. She will leave the meatloaf until last. It will take the burn off her mouth from the canned tomatoes.

“We could ask your mom,” the husband says.

“I don't want to ask Mom.”

She reads one of the books she borrowed from the library. Often the second child speaks later. This is because the older child talks enough for two.

“It's a good time.”

“I don't want to ask my mother.” Puts the book on her lap, watches her feet make a point in the covers.

“We fucked up.”

“I didn't fuck up, John.” She says his name to the reflection of him in the mirrored closet doors across from the bed. “You're not going to get me on your side by saying this is our problem.”

“Goddamnit Sheryl, do you have any better suggestions? We need the money.”

“Do we?”

Back to the book. If there is a problem, know that you and your child are not alone. There are resources in place in your community to assist you through this potentially challenging time. His hand on the spine. He presses it down. For the first time all evening, she looks at him.

He says, “This is serious.”

It is, dear John, yes it is.

“We could lose the house.”

Yes we could. She says, “It's just a house.”

The booth man speaks. The child watches his face, watches his mouth. He tells her, “The sound is like this.” A boop, like the
TV
going funny, echoes through the booth. She nods. She understands. “When you hear that, press the button.” He
holds a black plastic stick with a red button at the top. Hold it like this. He mimes with his hand, fingers wrapped around the plastic, the thumb ready to push the button. It's powerful. The man waves his other hand in her face, gets her attention. She watches. He says, “The sound might be loud or quiet. When you hear it, press the button. It might be soft like this.” She waits. Somewhere, there's a sound. Maybe she hears it. She waits for his reaction. It doesn't come. She nods. He smiles. She doesn't want to disappoint. “I'm going to shut these so you aren't distracted.” He pulls the navy drapes across the window. She is surrounded by felt and carpet, dark blue. “If you need me, just speak. I will hear you.” He stands and takes the headphones from the hook on the booth wall. Here. “You wear these headphones. I'm going to close the door. Your mom and me are right outside.” He fits the headphones over her ears. The silence is complete. He smiles, waiting. Yes. She nods. The door shuts without a sound, like it's surrounded by pillows.

The warm room closes in on all sides. The headphones make her feel like a pilot. In control. She holds the stick in her hand, the stick that drives the plane. Push it forward to fly and pull it back to put the nose in the air. Press the button and shoot the guns. The chair is comfy. The chair her father would take in a room, because he always wants the best. The largest. The warmest. Take it. The headphones click. The booth man, on the other side of the window, in his own plane. She can't see him but she knows. He locks into his cockpit. He puts on his headset. In her ears she hears his voice: “We're starting now.” The headphones make everything clear. She nods. Of course.

They start easy. Boop. Button. Boop. Button. Boop boop boop. Button-button-button. He's trying to challenge her. Boop. Softer, in the distance. She gets that one too. She waits. Boop. Behind her, off to the side. Button. She watches the closed door. Her co-pilot fiddles with his instrument panel. He swoops behind her, where she can't see him. She concentrates. Harder. She's on her own. Wait, was that a boop? She's not sure. Maybe she imagined it. Button. Maybe she's wrong. Another two almost-imaginary boops come from somewhere. Maybe they're not even in the headphones. She buttons once, not sure either way. Silence. More silence. Trying to slip her up. Her thumb poised. Button. Shoot. A clear mistake. Relax. Boop. Loud. Obvious. He's giving her a break. She takes it, sits straighter, ready. She can almost find the pattern in the boops, but holds off because she's afraid she'll miss it when it breaks. Boop-boop combos are nothing for her button-button thumb. She dismisses her earlier imaginings and every time she thinks she hears a boop, she hits the button. And then she waits, her eyes on the twists of carpeting on the back of the door. Booth man must be reloading his guns. She got him good that time. Silence. The silence warms her again. The boops have gone. She appreciates the calm her co-pilot gives her. She hopes she passed the test. She wants to fly again.